Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Did Kylie ever go up there?’

  ‘Of course. Sometimes, she’d come round for a rest, go upstairs and sleep in that rocking chair. As much as we both loved those twins, they could be like Satan’s little helpers. I used to look after them down here, and Kylie would go upstairs to re-charge her batteries.’

  ‘You were like Kylie’s mum,’ Perry said.

  Diana smiled. ‘And I warned her about him like any mother would, but just like a daughter – she wouldn’t listen. Who would ever have thought he could have killed that beautiful young woman and her children? It makes you not want to live in a world where a man can do something like that.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the police ever went up to the bedroom?’ Parish asked.

  ‘No. They never knew about it. And I didn’t think it was important. I remember the officer who came round to speak to me. Younger than you he was,’ she said, nodding in Parish’s direction. ‘As soon as he came in, he was eager to leave. Just wanted to know if I’d seen anything. Well, of course, I hadn’t. Not a thing. Then he was out of the door like a ferret up a drainpipe.’

  ‘Sounds like Toby Mullins,’ Perry said to Parish.

  ‘Mullins. Aye, that sounds like him,’ Diana said.

  Sounding defensive Perry said to the woman, ‘But you could have volunteered the information to us.’

  ‘As I said, love. I didn’t think it was important.’

  ‘That was for us to decide.’

  ‘Then you should have sent someone to talk to me who knew what they were doing, like this young man you’ve brought with you today.’ She threw Parish a half a smile.

  Parish interrupted. ‘Would you mind if we went upstairs and looked in the bedroom?’

  ‘No, I don’t mind.’

  ‘And searched it?’ he added.

  ‘As long as you put everything back as you found it, and you tell me if you want to take anything away. I’ve seen those television programmes . . .’

  ‘Of course. We’ll leave everything as we find it.’

  ‘Sure – go on up. Second door on the left. The little girl’s room is first on the right if you’re desperate. I’ll be here if you need me.’

  Parish stood up. ‘Thank you.’

  There were more framed prints on the wall going up the stairs: Dali’s The Persistence of Memory, Picasso’s The Dream, Monet’s Corner of the Garden at Montgeron, Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party, Klimt’s The Kiss, and Cezanne’s Rideau, Cruchon et Compotier.

  ‘I’ll go and powder my nose,’ Perry said.

  Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘Do women still do that?’

  ‘What are you asking me for?’

  ‘You’re a woman.’

  ‘Not according to some. Anyway, I’m not going to stand here on the landing debating the merits of nose-powdering when my bladder is about to burst.’

  ‘Oh yeah – sorry.’

  He let her go into the little girl’s room while he went into the twins’ room.

  The right-hand wall behind the door was decorated with a hand-painted jungle theme. There were lions, tigers, giraffes, monkeys in a tree, zebras, a hippopotamus in a lake, flowers and birds. A child’s pine bed stood in front of it with a pillow at either end and a quilt with a predominantly red, green and yellow animal patchwork cover. There was a pine rocking chair covered in a red throw with two cushions that matched the quilt cover. Against the far wall was a pine chest of drawers with two small drawers at the top and three full-width drawers underneath them. On the top was a pine oval mirror, a jewellery box and some knick-knacks. The left-hand wall had a window with nets and drapes that overlooked the road, and to the left of the door was a fitted wardrobe.

  ‘Makes me want to have babies,’ Perry said behind him.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Have you got plastic gloves?’

  ‘Of course, but I’d be surprised if we find anything in here after four and a half years.’

  ‘This room has been in suspended animation since the murders. If there was anything here then, it’ll still be here now.’

  She passed a pair of gloves to him. ‘Why would there be anything in here?’

  ‘Kylie used this room as a bolthole,’ he said, wriggling his fingers into the gloves. ‘Why, when she had her own house next door? Now, it might be that she came up here to re-charge her batteries as Diana said, but she could have gone home to do that. Call it a hunch, but I think she came up here to get away from Mottram.’

  ‘But he would have been working.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Work your way round from the left. I’ll start from the right, and we’ll meet in the middle.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And check on top, underneath and behind.’

  ‘I think I have a fair idea how to carry out a search.’

  ‘There’ll be no confusion then, will there?’

  ‘Not on my part, Sir.’

  The middle happened to be the chest of drawers, and Perry found the cardboard box on the floor when she removed the bottom drawer to check underneath and behind. It was a pink Ralph Lauren Romance perfume box with a black spiral design on the top and sides, which measured approximately twelve inches long, eight inches wide and three inches deep.

  Parish slid the top off the box while Perry held it with both hands.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘How did it go?’ Stick asked her when she walked into the squad room.

  ‘How do you think it went?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘Shite – that’s how it went. Anyway, never mind about me. Go and make me a coffee, and then you can tell me what the mouse got up to while the cat was working her fingers to the bone.’

  He came back shortly afterwards with the mug he’d given her as a present last Christmas. It was white with: “Vote for Xena” in red letters on the side. She told him at the time he was a numpty, but inside she felt warm and slushy.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I went to see Jodi Grammatke in Missing Persons . . .’

  ‘Jodi! Is that even a name?’

  ‘She was telling me that it means: From Judea.’

  ‘Is she from Judea?’

  ‘No – Canada. Well, her parents are.’

  ‘So she’s not Jewish, but she’s the offspring of a long line of transported criminals?’

  ‘No, she’s not Jewish, and I think you’ll find that criminals were transported to Australia.’

  ‘Canada’s an inhospitable place. Surely we sent some there as well, didn’t we?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but then I’m no expert on transported criminals.’

  ‘Or anything for that matter. So, what did Constable Grammatke tell you?’

  ‘Three women who disappeared about four months ago are still missing and could fit the description.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard. I would imagine thirty percent of the country are female and between the ages of twenty and thirty.’

  ‘I was thinking of using my initiative, while you were briefing the press.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘How can you use something you don’t possess?’

  ‘I’ve been growing it.’

  ‘In a Petri dish like a scientist?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Go on then – surprise me?’

  He smiled and leaned forward. ‘I thought the easiest way to find out if any of the three missing women were our corpse might be to match their DNA.’

  ‘I’m vaguely impressed you would even think of that.’

  ‘So, instead of us wasting our time collecting information we might never use, we could ask Di to send one of her people to collect a DNA sample from each address instead. She could then produce DNA profiles and match them against the cor
pse’s profile.’

  ‘With a couple of uniforms accompanying the person she sent to each address?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s a stupid idea. Your initiative hasn’t improved with age. Keep growing it in that Petri dish.’

  ‘Why is it stupid?’

  ‘We’re the detectives, not Hefferbitch’s people. They’re civilians. We get paid for taking risks. A pittance, I’ll grant you, but there it is. Pretty soon, if you have any input, we’ll be replaced by assembly-line robots . . . Well, you will be anyway.’

  ‘So, you’re not keen on the idea?’

  ‘In a word – no.’

  ‘Okay. Oh! We won’t be able to brief the Chief either – he’s out on a case.’

  ‘A case?’

  ‘An old woman was murdered in her bed last night in Woodford Green.’

  ‘And the Chief has taken the case for himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He could have given it to us.’

  ‘Did you want another case?’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  ‘Is it? I suppose that he thought because you’re below par . . .’

  ‘Below par! What does that mean?’

  ‘Less than normal. Par is used in this context as an average.’

  ‘An average! So, let me get this right. As I understand it, what you’re saying is that when I’m operating at normal capacity I’m average, but at the moment my performance is below average – is that a summary of your thoughts on the matter?’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘You’re right, numpty. You don’t think at all. You focus on you, and leave me to me, or you’ll be in serious trouble.’

  ‘That sounds like a good plan.’

  ‘What about APEX?’

  ‘Should we go into the incident room, so I can write the information on the board?’

  ‘You carry my coffee.’

  ‘Certainly. Would you like me to . . . ?’

  ‘Stop being a pervert and just bring the coffee.’

  Stick picked up her coffee mug, a stack of files and papers, and led the way along the corridor. He waited and held the door open for her.

  Xena shuffled in and sat down opposite the incident board. ‘Right, let’s get down to it. You’ve wasted enough time this morning.’

  He placed her coffee down on the table in front of her and wrote the three names and addresses on the board:

  Jessica Hogan

  44 Pulham Avenue, Broxbourne

  Celia Howland

  17 Gosse Close, Hailey

  Kimberley Bannister

  3 Bakery Close, Roydon

  ‘You’ve checked them all out on CrimInt?’

  ‘No entries.’ He stuck the three photographs on the board next to their names, and passed Xena the completed Missing Persons’ reports.

  ‘What about the people who reported them missing?’

  ‘No entries.’

  She quickly glanced down the one-sided form to the last section that described the clothes the missing person was wearing when they disappeared. Only one had “Unknown” written in it – Kimberley Bannister. The other two listed specific clothes. ‘No pink lace-edged nightdress.’

  ‘No, but the relatives who reported Hogan and Howland missing might be mistaken in what the women were wearing.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go along with that, but we should check Kimberley Bannister out first.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  She picked up Bannister’s Missing Person report. ‘She was reported missing by her husband.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he at this time of day?’

  ‘Work I should imagine.’

  ‘Call him – tell him to meet us at his home address.’

  Stick called Gary Bannister at his work and said they’d be there at about eleven o’clock.

  ‘Make sure you bring a selection of evidence containers with you for collecting the DNA samples,’ Xena said.

  ‘It would be easier . . .’

  ‘You’re not arguing with me, are you?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Forensics have enough to do without following us around to do something that is just about within your capabilities.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What about APEX?’

  He wrote on the board as he spoke. ‘Arctic Polar Experimentation (APEX) . . .’

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘The Arctic is at the top . . .’

  ‘You mean north?’

  ‘That’s the top, isn’t it? And the Antarctic is at the bottom. The Arctic is the polar region surrounding the geographical North Pole, which includes the Arctic Ocean, Alaska, Canada, Finland, Greenland, Iceland, Norway, Russia and Sweden . . . and one other thing you ought to know about the Arctic before you decide we should go there . . .’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘It’s extremely cold.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. What were they experimenting on?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I thought you said you were doing research.’

  ‘I was, but I couldn’t find out anything.’

  ‘That’s unusual.’

  ‘Probably Top Secret.’

  ‘I thought you had clearance.’

  ‘Withdrawn when I left Special Ops.’

  ‘What about the people involved?’

  ‘I found one person who might know something.’

  ‘One person?’

  ‘But whether they’ll tell us, or not . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘Official Secrets Act?’

  ‘Probably, but we can ask. Her name is Freda Robinson. She’s seventy years old and lives in a retirement home called Coppice Court on Glenmire Terrace in Stanstead Abbotts. I phoned the person in charge and told them we’ll be there about two o’clock.’

  ‘After lunch?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Which you’re paying for?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Dr Nathan Wapshott.’

  ‘You’re making these names up, aren’t you?’

  He laughed. ‘Di found him. He has a PhD in Zoology.’

  ‘What’s a person who works in a zoo going to be able to tell us about our crime scene?’

  ‘Zoology encompasses a lot more than zoology. Apparently, he’s in charge of the RSPCA’s wildlife conservation programme in Essex, and he’s also a senior lecturer on the BSc in Animal Welfare, Behaviour & Ethics degree at the Royal Veterinary College, University of London.’

  ‘But does he know anything about badgers?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I should think by the end of the day.’

  ‘Is that a guess? Or, do you know for sure?’

  ‘It’s a guess for sure.’

  ‘You’re a numpty.’

  ***

  The original analysis of the Epping questionnaire had been carried out by someone called Runnel Took. She didn’t know who he was, but he was sitting somewhere in the room.

  She glanced around, but it was just a sea of faces. She spotted the man with the hairy mole on his top lip called Leslie Carr, but thankfully he didn’t see her looking.

  ‘Anyone you fancy?’ Sally asked, when she saw her surveying the room.

  ‘No thank you. I was just thinking about all the brainpower being generated in this room. Maybe we should plug ourselves into the National Grid.’

  Sally gave a laugh. ‘I’m quite sure there’s a few megawatts being generated on this desk, but as for the rest of the room . . .’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve seen more brainpower in a crèche.’

  ‘Some of the men do look a bit gormless, don’t they?’

  ‘Gormless is a good word. Some of the women aren’t much better either.’

  As far as she could see, Runnel Took hadn’t done a very good job with his analysis
. Making notes as she went, she followed the format she’d become familiar with and focused on the victim first – although it wasn’t simply one victim in this case – there were three women and five children.

  She looked down the victimology criteria, and produced a profile of her own: Most of the criteria weren’t relevant. The killer wanted females who were young, attractive with one or two children. It was an unusual and specific profile. The press had called him The Family Man because he wanted a ready-made family. He didn’t care that the women had been married, just as long as they were either divorced, separated or single, had one or two children and lived in their own house.

  Next, she examined the other aspects of the murders:

  The offender (if known): He was between twenty-five and forty, and had first appeared in Newcastle where he killed Kylie Woodhouse and her twins – Donna and Dolly. Then, he had moved to Grimsby and killed Pippa Frayne and her son – Peter. Finally, and the reason she had the file open in front of her, was that he had killed Carrie Holden and her two children. She laid the E-fit pictures of him laid out side by side – none of them were of the same person, and yet they were. He was a master of disguise. Was there some way face recognition software could strip away the outer layers of his disguise to arrive at a consensus between the three pictures? Then there were the names – where had he obtained them from? Grant Mottram’s name had come from the gravestone of a seven year-old boy in a graveyard of the Methodist Chapel at Heptonstall in Halifax. Living for that long as one person must have required documents – birth certificate, passport, driving license and so forth. Where had he got them from? He took a great deal of trouble in creating a new identity, and as much trouble in destroying it.

  The modus operandi (MO): He followed the same pattern each time by meeting the woman at a club or bar, dating her and making her feel special until she asked him to move in with her. At first, everything appeared to be fine. He’d become part of the family, but eventually things would sour and lead him to murder the very thing he craved – a family.