Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I know someone.’

  ‘I’m very pleased for you.’

  She smiled.

  He thought she looked much prettier when she smiled.

  ‘She’s not employed as a criminal profiler by the police, but she’s a qualified criminal psychologist and could do a profile for us.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I think she’d do it as a favour for me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you think you see, but you don’t. I’m not a lesbian, although because I can break their arms, and dislocate their shoulder and elbow joints, people here would like you to believe I was – it makes them feel better about themselves if I’m a lesbian. Her name is Gilli Allen, and she’s about sixty-five years old. She was a guest lecturer on a course I attended a couple of years ago, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since.’

  ‘It would certainly fill a gap in our knowledge, and the profile might even provide me with a lead.’

  She stood up. ‘Okay, we should get a move on if you’re flying south for the winter this afternoon.’

  ‘And they said Geordies have no sense of humour.’

  ‘They don’t. I’m from Margate in Kent.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ Xena said in the friendliest voice she could muster. She forced a smile as she sat down next to the press officer – Jenny Weber. ‘Good morning.’

  There was a ripple of “good mornings” back.

  Even with the windows open and two fans humming in the far corners, the press briefing room was like a sauna.

  She poured herself a glass of ice-cold natural spring water that had been bottled near Hvammstangi in Northern Iceland and took a swallow.

  ‘The body of a female – aged between twenty and thirty years old – was discovered by a member of the public on waste ground near Rye House train station yesterday morning. The woman was between five-foot-five and five-foot-seven in height and possibly had dark-brown hair. She was murdered, her body was concealed by undergrowth and she had been there for approximately four months . . .’ Xena ignored the hands being thrown up. ‘And she was wearing a pink lace-edged nightdress purchased from Primark. I’d like to appeal to the public for their assistance in identifying this woman. Somebody must know her. Somebody must be missing a wife, a lover, a daughter.’

  That’s all she had.

  She’d arrived at eight-thirty. Stick was already at his desk.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘I called Di and Doc Paine last night. Still nothing on the whereabouts of the head. I asked them whether it could have been taken by an animal, or not. They both agreed that, as it had already been separated from the body, it was a possibility. Di said she’d find someone who could tell us one way or the other.’

  ‘About time she did something useful.’

  ‘Doc Paine said she’d carry out a pattern analysis of the nightdress.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Two days. But she said that last night, so it should be tomorrow.’

  Xena rolled her eyes. ‘You say that as though it’ll be less than two days now that you’ve had a sleepover.’

  ‘Today and maybe half of tomorrow is only a day and a half.’

  ‘Was she starting the pattern analysis as soon as she finished on the phone with you?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘So you don’t really know when we’re going to get the results, do you?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so – No.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Phone her up. Tell her to be more specific. In fact, if I left it up to you, the tail would be wagging the dog. Tell her we want the results by the end of today – no excuses. Explain to her that a woman has been murdered . . .’

  ‘I’ll call her.’

  ‘Good. So, is that it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, go on then. Are you waiting for a drum roll?’

  ‘Doc Paine said the woman was between five-foot-five and five-foot-seven, and that according to her pubic hair she probably had dark-brown hair.’

  ‘Some useful information at last. Is that it?’

  ‘No. The Doc also found evidence that the woman was wrapped in the brown sheet, which she’s sent for analysis . . .’

  ‘Okay. How does that help us?’

  ‘Stencilled on the other side of the sheet were four-inch letters that spelt APEX in silver . . .’

  ‘That’s a word.’

  ‘It’s also an acronym for Arctic Polar Experimentation.’

  ‘Surely that can’t be the only acronym?’

  ‘It’s not. There are about fifty acronyms of APEX, but only one particular company that purchased six brown plastic sheets with APEX stencilled on them – it’s actually called a poly tarpaulin by the way – made by a company in Scotland called: Arctic Fabrics.’

  ‘Case solved then. We find out . . .’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘APEX went bust in 1974.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Everyone who was connected to the company is either dead or missing, and we have no way of finding out where those six tarpaulins ended up?’

  ‘Something along those lines, but I’m still doing research.’

  ‘Okay. Good work, Stick.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s reassuring to know that you’re not completely useless.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Stick stood up. ‘No. I’m just about to go down to Missing Persons . . .’

  ‘Tell them . . .’

  ‘Haven’t you got a press briefing to attend?’

  She checked her watch. ‘Fuck’s sake! It’s your fault for keeping me talking.’

  ‘I thought it might be.’

  Now . . . she aimed the index finger of her left hand at an attractive Muslim woman in the front row wearing a purple hijab around her head that hid her hair and neck. On the right side, a gold and emerald palm tree pin held the folds of the material together. ‘You.’

  ‘Yasmin Ahmad from the Estuary Telegraph. Can you please tell us how this young woman died?’

  ‘I’ve already said that she was murdered, haven’t I?’

  Looking like the spectre of death, a woman in her mid-twenties with unnaturally black hair, black eye shadow and black lipstick stood up. ‘Amanda Topping from the Hoddesdon Harbinger. Is there no photo-fit of the woman that you can give us? A picture is worth a million words.’

  ‘No . . . and it’s a thousand words.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A picture.’

  ‘A picture of what?’

  ‘Would you like me to ask the police doctor to come in here and take a urine sample from you?’

  Amanda Topping sat down and didn’t say anything further.

  A bald-headed man in his fifties wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a frayed collar and a pink and black polka-dot tie spoke next. ‘Jon Holloway from the Thurrock Sentinel. Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ She wondered if she were trapped in a time loop.

  ‘Why is somebody not handing out photo-fits of the dead woman?’

  This wasn’t going in the direction she wanted it to. ‘The body is badly decomposed and forensics were unable to . . ..’

  ‘But surely . . .’ Holloway persisted.

  It didn’t look as though she was going to get away without telling them about the head. ‘The woman’s head is missing.’

  A young black woman with a barbed-wire tattoo around her neck and stars on her earlobes stood up. ‘Carmen Merchant from Five News. You mean . . . ? In fact, what do you mean by that?’

  ‘The head was not with the body when it was discovered. As such, we’re pursuing two lines of inquiry. It’s either been disposed of elsewhere to prevent identification. Or, it was removed by animals or persons unknown.’

  ‘Jamie Sheridan from the Mission Daily,�
�� a tall thin man with a hooked nose and crooked teeth said. ‘What type of animals are you referring to?’

  ‘I’m certainly no animal expert, Mr Sheridan, but badgers and wild dogs have been known to eat human flesh, or so I’ve been reliably informed.’

  ‘Karen Goodyear from the Broxbourne Beagle, Inspector,’ a woman in a green hippie-style maternity top with braids in her long brown hair said. ‘Can we return to the subject of the head? Was the woman decapitated?’

  She tried to think of another explanation, but nothing came to mind. ‘Yes. And that was probably the cause of death.’

  ‘Sandra Gill from the Identity Channel,’ a ginger-haired woman said. She wore an enormous pair of tinted glasses that made her eyes look twice their normal size. ‘Do you know what the murder weapon was?’

  ‘An axe.’ That was it. All she had left up her sleeve was the brown poly tarpaulin with APEX stencilled on it, and she wasn’t parting with that for all the tea in China. ‘So, if you could run that appeal we’d be very grateful.’ She stood up. ‘Jenny Weber will provide you with the number the public should call if they have any information that could be helpful. Thank you.’

  She made her way back upstairs to the squad room.

  ***

  She hadn’t woken up bright and bushy-tailed. In fact, if the truth be known, she felt like a zombie with a hangover. All through the night she’d been tossing and turning. At one point, she’d jerked upright, sweat dripping down her face onto her naked breasts, eyes staring into the darkness like a mouse in a field with the deafening noise of flapping owl wings overhead. The only thing she could remember about the nightmare was a faceless man chasing her through a thick forest with a machete.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Sally Prentice said to her as she sat down at her desk.

  ‘I knew there was a reason why I liked you.’

  ‘Did you go out on the town last night, after all?’

  ‘No. I had an early night, but I didn’t sleep very well.’

  ‘It took me a while to get used to sleeping in a hotel room as well. I’ve got my own house in Cheshire that I’m renting out.’

  ‘The rooms are like hotel rooms, aren’t they?’

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be okay once I get going.’ She didn’t want to tell Sally that the reason she’d had the night from Hell was that her boss had asked her to look into The Family Man murders.

  And there was no time like the present to turn into a criminal. If she stopped to think about it anymore, she knew she’d never do it.

  Her heart began thrashing about.

  She picked up the Holborn file and headed to the archives next door. At “E”, she turned the handle to open up a gap in the mobile filing system. There were only forty-four police stations beginning with “E” – from Ealing to Eynsham. Epping was in the middle, and she quickly found the file incorporating the questionnaire from DI Dawn French.

  When she’d been getting dressed earlier, she’d purposely worn a baggy top. Now, she slipped the Epping file into the front of her jeans and pulled the top down to cover it.

  Then, she moved to “H”, wound the handle anti-clockwise to open up a walkway, put the Holborn file in its place and returned to the SCAS room.

  ‘No problem?’ Sally asked.

  ‘No, no problem. That archive system is easy.’

  ‘It should be, they spent enough money on it.’

  ‘I’m surprised there’s no CCTV in there.’

  ‘Oh there is.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘I didn’t notice the cameras.’

  ‘You’re not meant to,’ Sally said, but she didn’t expand.

  Richards swallowed with difficulty, and glanced at the door. Security would be here soon. She listened for the rattle of chains in the corridor and the thump of jackboots on the concrete. They’d drag her away to a room without windows. They’d question her for hours until she confessed to things she hadn’t done. She’d be in the newspapers, on the television and on the Yahoo News carousel. Her life would lie in tatters. She’d be lucky to get a shelf stackers job at the local supermarket.

  But nobody came for her, and there were no telephone calls asking her to go and see ACC Erica Hewitt in her office. Gradually, her heart returned to normal, but she wondered if she was lulling herself into a false sense of security.

  When Sally went to speak to someone on the other side of the room, Richards was able to slip the Epping file out of the front of her jeans and onto the desk in front of her. Once there, it was hidden in plain sight, and she could work on it without fear of discovery.

  ***

  Jerry pulled up outside the primrose yellow bungalow at 12 The Boulevard in Woodford Green, where the ninety-one year-old Mrs Margaret Birmingham lived.

  Crime scene tape had been stretched right across the road on either side of the bungalow. Reporters, photographers and television news crews were there. A small group of rubberneckers had formed on the opposite pavement, and had brought collapsible chairs, flasks, sandwiches and binoculars with them. A blue plastic tent had been tagged onto the front of the bungalow and now formed a barrier between the open front door and the onlookers. There were two police cars parked skew whiff across the road as if they were forming a road block, the white forensics truck was taking up most of the opposite side of the cul de sac, and white-suited forensic officers were moving between the bungalow and the aluminium steps at the back of the truck. She thought it all looked very surreal and resembled a scene from the film: Outbreak. But what drew her attention most of all was Ray’s Ford Kuga, which was parked in front of hers.

  She looked around, but Bronwyn was nowhere in sight. She gave a wry smile. Bronwyn would have run for the hills when she saw all the police outside the bungalow. She took out her phone and called her number. The call went directly to voicemail: ‘Hey, it’s me. Where are you? Give me a ring.’

  Seb Kirby – Mrs Birmingham’s gardener – saw her, waved and threaded his way through the increasing numbers of press to reach her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Kowalski.’

  ‘Hello, Seb. Do you know what’s going on?’

  ‘I certainly do. I was the one who found her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Found her?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘I arrived at six-thirty as I normally do . . . I like to get an early start on the day. Especially in the summer. The winter’s a bit different. It’s hard getting out of a warm cosy bed in the winter, but on days like today . . . Anyway, the front door was open. I mean, at six-thirty in the morning you don’t expect somebody’s front door to be wide open in these troubled times – Well, ajar at least. Don’t get me wrong, Margaret was an early riser as well, but she didn’t leave her front door open at that time of the morning. At seven, she’d normally give me a shout. I’d go in then and make us both a cup of tea . . .’

  ‘But this morning the door was ajar?’

  ‘That’s right. I knocked. I stuck my head in and called her name – nothing. Now, I didn’t know whether to call the police there and then. I mean, I’m not getting any younger. Anyway, I decided I’d make sure there was something to call the police about first, rather than make a damned fool of myself.’

  ‘So you went inside?’

  ‘Warily. I mean, you never know, do you? There’s people who prey on the old, you know. Beat them, torture them, rob them of pennies. What type of people do things like that? So anyway, I kept calling her name as I made my way inside, but she didn’t answer. I checked every room, knocked on the doors before I went in . . .’

  ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘Unfortunately – yes. Still in bed. Only it wasn’t a primrose yellow bed anymore – it was a sea of red.’

  ‘Red?’

  ‘Somebody had beaten her to death. There was blood everywhere. I mean, Margaret was ninety-one years old for goodness sake. There was no need f
or anybody to have done that to her. Her head and face was a bloody pulp. I didn’t recognise her, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And you don’t know who did it?’

  ‘The police asked me the same thing . . . didn’t see anyone. I gave them a statement, of course. And what was strange was that there was no evidence of a robbery that I could see.’

  Her immediate thought was whether Margaret’s murder had anything to do with what she’d found in the lock-up. She needed to talk to Ray.

  ‘Remember I said my husband was a police officer.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Yes, you did.’

  She pointed to the grey Kuga. ‘That’s his car. He must be inside. Thanks for talking to me, Seb. I have to go and speak to my husband now.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Well, good luck. It was nice talking to you as well.’

  She made her way to the crime scene tape and spoke to a uniformed officer keeping the plebs back. ‘My husband – DCI Kowalski – is inside. Could you ask him to come out and talk to me, please.’

  ‘Can I see some form of ID, lady?’

  She was glad she now carried her passport around with her, and took it out of her bag to show him.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Kowalski. You can’t imagine what those reporters and rubberneckers will do to get past me. If you wait here, I’ll go and tell someone.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, that’s a nice photograph of you, but don’t tell your husband I said so.’

  She blushed. ‘Thank you, officer. I won’t.’

  After a couple of minutes Ray appeared.

  ‘Are you stalking me?’ he asked her.

  ‘Let’s sit in the Kuga, so that nobody can overhear us?’

  His face creased up. ‘I’m worried now.’

  ‘No need to be. It’s about the dead woman inside the bungalow.’

  They clambered into the SUV and closed the doors.

  ‘What’s going on, Jerry?’