Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  And it ended on Friday February 15, 2010 – two days before Kylie Woodhouse and her twins – Donna and Dolly – were found in the bedroom with their throats cut:

  I’m so scared. I never thought it would come to this, but I’ve asked Martin to leave. He said he’ll be gone by Monday. I shouldn’t say it, but I think he’s crazy. He wanted me to become a devout Methodist like he is, but I don’t even believe in God. If I’d known he was a religious nut I never would have gone out with him. What happened? He wasn’t like this in the beginning.

  He says that my babies are totally depraved and dead in sin – he calls them children of wrath – and that I’m the only one who can save them through prayer, helping the poor and justifying my life through faith. He says it’s the only way to God’s love. He reads the bible all the time now, because he thinks that I’ve passed my depravity onto Dolly and Donna. He keeps telling me that: “Deceit is in the heart of them that imagine evil.” I’ll be so glad when he packs his bags and leaves.

  ‘DI McIntyre and his team are going to look like a bunch of useless idiots when news of this comes out,’ Perry said.

  Parish shrugged. ‘It’s not about them.’

  They laid the keepsakes out on a white sheet on top of the bed. There was a silver necklace with half a heart and MR engraved on it – presumably it stood for Martin Rollins, a gold bracelet with an assortment of gold Victorian wax seal fobs, a white feather, a gold musical quaver, a smoky grey pearl, an amber stone with a fern inside, a strip of photographs of Mottram and Kylie from a photo booth in happier times, a menu from the Saturday Diner on the Quayside overlooking the River Tyne, and a pressed red rose.

  ‘These need to be processed for DNA and fingerprints,’ Parish said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I only mention it because of your last comment. The Newcastle powers that be aren’t going to conveniently sweep this discovery under the carpet, are they?’

  ‘Certainly not . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘This new evidence will reflect badly on Clifford Street and the Newcastle Upon Tyne Police Force.’

  ‘I know. Maybe if we tell the press . . . ?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to do that. If the press find out, Mottram will find out. If he thinks he’s in danger of being discovered, he might kill whoever he’s with now and disappear for good.’

  ‘The press will find out that we’ve discovered the journal eventually though, won’t they?’

  ‘Unless someone wants to re-write history by covering it up. The trouble with that is, you and I both know, and Mrs Hardy will know as soon as we tell her.’

  ‘We don’t have to tell her.’

  ‘Yes we do. I promised her that we’d let her know if we took anything from the bedroom. I’ll give her a written receipt.’

  ‘But this belonged to Kylie – it’s evidence.’

  He sat down in the rocking chair. ‘I’m worried that if I let you take everything that’s in this box into Clifford Street Police Station, it’ll disappear and we’ll never get to the truth.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe you could take the box back to Essex.’

  The investigation – if the illegal one-man crusade he was running could be called that – was being coordinated from his armchair in Chigwell, so it would make sense to take this new evidence back to Hoddesdon and get Toadstone to carry out the analysis. He thought about the ramifications of doing such a thing. There would be no chain of evidence. They wouldn’t be able to use anything they’d found here in a court of law, and it might be the only evidence they were ever likely to get. Sooner or later it would leak out that new evidence had been found, but hopefully not until after they’d locked up Mottram.

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  But then he thought about afterwards and shook his head. ‘You’d get the sack if you let me take this back to Essex, and your bosses found out. If you said I took it without authorisation, I’d get the sack.’

  Perry sat on the bed.

  They were quiet for a handful of minutes.

  ‘We have to get forensics in here, don’t we?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. But we need to keep it low key, so that the press and Mottram don’t find out. Two forensic officers in a car, they put the paper suits on in the house, do what they need to do in here, and leave again – no fuss. While you’re organising that, I’ll take photographs of everything with my phone. It’s not ideal, but at least I’ll have a record of what we found if anything does go missing through accident or design. I can give the copies to my forensic people for analysis.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  First of all, he took a video of the chest of drawers with the bottom drawer out, then the box, all the keepsakes and the journal spread out on the bed. After that, he took individual photographs of the box, every keepsake and every page in the journal. His phone died before he’d finished and he had to borrow DS Perry’s phone to photograph the last three pages and send himself copies, which he’d pick up later after he’d re-charged his own phone.

  They left everything on the bed and went downstairs to speak to Mrs Hardy. Parish explained what they’d found and gave her a written receipt for the box and its contents.

  ‘Well, I never. And it was hidden under the bottom drawer all this time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The little minx. So, that’s what she was doing in the bedroom. Did she write anything about me in the journal?’ Of all the questions she could have asked, she asked that.

  ‘We’ve not read through it yet, but it’s important that you don’t say anything to anyone – especially the press. If Martin Rollins – or whatever he’s calling himself now – discovers what we’ve found he might disappear for good, and then he’ll never be brought to justice. Kylie and the twins deserve better than that.’

  ‘Yes, they do . . . After this is all over, will the box of things and the journal belong to me?’

  ‘It can’t do any harm to make a written request,’ Perry said. ‘I don’t know whether Kylie’s family will have a claim on it though.’ She gave Diana the original Crime Reference Number. ‘Make sure you use that number if you do make a claim.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Eventually the two forensic officers arrived. Parish made it clear what was expected of them, and they disappeared into the bedroom.

  He’d spent much longer than he intended to in Newcastle, and knew that he ought to be getting back to the hotel and then onto the airport. He’d promised Angie he’d be home tonight, and he didn’t like breaking promises.

  He drove DS Lauren Perry back to Clifford Street Police Station, thanked her for the help she’d provided and said that he’d be in contact.

  Things were beginning to get out of hand. He knew he’d have to call Ray soon, and let him know what he was doing before he found out from someone else. On his way back to the hotel, he called in at a local “odds ‘n ends” shop and bought a charger for his phone that he could plug into the car’s cigarette lighter. He had one at home, but it was no good there.

  Could the journal and the keepsakes be the breakthrough they needed to catch The Family Man? The journal certainly appeared to be a rich source of information. Already, Mottram’s motive was clear – he thought he was preventing the hereditary spread of depravity. If the woman refused to embrace Methodism, then he thought he had no choice but to murder her and her children.

  And Kylie had also given him a clue. A blue Ford Focus with a registration memory tag of YD, which – if he wasn’t mistaken – was Leeds, and Heptonstall in Halifax came under Leeds. He’d delayed long enough. Tomorrow, he’d have to drive up there.

  ***

  Gary Bannister was sitting on the doorstep of 3 Bakery Close in Roydon staring at the ground when they arrived. He wore a suit and tie, but that was as far as his attempt at being smart went. The suit was creased, the collar of the sky-blue shirt frayed and dirty, his socks were different colours,
and his shoes hadn’t glimpsed polish since the animals had disembarked from the ark. His thick black hair was overgrown and greasy, and he had one of those faces that required shaving at least five times a day.

  ‘Mr Bannister?’ Stick asked.

  A brief look of hope appeared in his eyes. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Should we go inside?’

  ‘It’s not very clean and tidy in there. That’s why I’m sitting out here.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  He shrugged, stood up and opened the front door. ‘Come in then.’

  Stick went first.

  Holding her hand over her nose and mouth, Xena followed. ‘Why does it stink so bad in here?’

  ‘Kim used to clean the place.’

  ‘And you don’t know where she kept the vacuum, mop, bucket and cleaning liquid?’

  ‘I know all right, but what’s the point? What’s the point of anything anymore?’

  The living room was a pigsty. There were dirty clothes; food cartons; bags; and metal trays from an assortment of Indian, Chinese, and other takeaways strewn about the floor and on the furniture.

  ‘Sit down if you can find somewhere,’ he said.

  Neither bothered.

  Bannister swept a heap of rubbish off the sofa onto the floor and flopped down into the space he’d created. ‘You haven’t found her, have you?’

  ‘Does your wife own a pink lace-edged nightdress?’ Xena asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We both used to sleep naked.’

  ‘Every night?’

  A shadow of a smile crossed his lips. ‘Yeah, more or less. We were like rabbits . . . although the two weeks prior to her disappearance I got the feeling there was something wrong.’

  ‘Like she’d found someone else?’ Xena suggested.

  He shook his head. ‘She knew better than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. And anyway, she didn’t take one thing with her.’

  ‘Surely she took her handbag, mobile phone, purse . . . ?’

  ‘No – nothing.’

  ‘I came home from work late one night four months ago and she’d gone. She’d been home . . .’

  ‘She worked?’

  ‘Yes – at Quaker’s Estate Agents on the High Street. She was half-way through her National Federation of Property Professionals (NFoPP) Level 4 Certificate in Sales of Residential Property. I mean, why would she leave of her own free will?’

  ‘And where do you work?’

  ‘I’m a Food Safety Officer with Epping Forest District Council. It’s located on the High Street in Epping.’

  ‘That’s a long way to go,’ Stick said.

  ‘Not really. On a good day I can do it in half an hour. If there’s an accident on the Epping Road, it can take up to two hours. Most of the time though – it’s an easy run there and back.’

  Xena interrupted and took charge of the interview. ‘So, you came home from work at about what time?’

  ‘Eight, eight-thirty.’

  ‘And your wife was gone?’

  ‘I told the police officer at the station . . .’

  ‘Yes, but now tell us.’

  ‘The front door was wide open. Her coat was still hanging up in the cupboard. Her handbag was in the kitchen with her phone, purse and identity documents inside. There was a cold half-finished mug of coffee on the worktop, and it looked as though she’d been preparing to make a stew for the evening meal . . .’

  ‘And she was gone?’

  ‘That’s right – gone, disappeared, vanished.’

  ‘You checked . . . ?’

  He raised his voice. ‘I checked with everyone, but no one had seen her since she left work at five-thirty . . . Sorry.’

  ‘What was your relationship with your wife like?’

  ‘Rock solid. We’d only been married for eighteen months. We were trying for a baby.’

  ‘And there was no reason that you can think of for her to have left you?’

  ‘No. None whatsoever’

  ‘Do you have a theory about what happened to her?’

  ‘I think she was taken. Everything points to that.’

  ‘Taken by whom?’

  ‘If I knew that I’d go and get her.’

  ‘Do you have any enemies?’

  ‘Everybody has enemies, but none who would kidnap my wife.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘No. I’m just waiting for her to come home.’

  Xena’s face creased up. ‘I suggest that while you’re waiting, you might want to give this place a good clean. If your wife did walk through that door, she’d turn right round and leave again when she saw this filth.’

  ‘I don’t clean, that’s women’s work.’

  ‘It’s up to you. It’s your house.’

  ‘That’s right – it is. So, why have you come here asking all these stupid questions?’

  ‘We’ve found a body.’

  His face drained of colour. ‘And you think it might be Kim?’

  ‘We don’t think anything at the moment, Mr Bannister. We’re still making our enquiries.’

  ‘But surely . . . Of course! There was something in the paper about a headless corpse, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think . . . ?’

  ‘Is there anything further you can tell us about your wife?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything you didn’t include in the Missing Persons’ Report?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Does the acronym APEX mean anything to you?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so. Isn’t it something to do with computer programming?’

  ‘No, but thanks very much for the suggestion,’ Xena said. ‘One last thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did your wife have a hairbrush?’

  ‘On the dressing table upstairs in the bedroom.’

  Stick held up an evidence bag like a fruit seller on the market. ‘All right if I go up and take it for DNA comparison?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stick hurried up the stairs and came back down again with a yellow plastic hairbrush, which had been sealed in the evidence bag and documented.

  ‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ Xena said, and began edging her way back into the hallway and towards the front door.

  Stick followed her.

  Bannister brought up the rear. ‘You’ll let me know if you find anything?’

  ‘Of course,’ Xena said.

  They climbed into the car.

  Stick started the engine and pulled away.

  Bannister stood in the doorway of his house and watched them leave.

  ‘What do you think?’ Stick asked her.

  ‘I think you should stop torturing those moths in your wallet and pull into the nearest pub for lunch.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  He’d wanted a full English, but she wouldn’t let him.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Jerry said, and pointed to the glass display cabinet. ‘I see a salad in there with your name on it.’

  ‘You’re taking your revenge, aren’t you?’

  ‘Prove it, DCI Kowalski.’

  ‘After all I’ve done for you.’

  ‘The past is irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is that you won’t let me come with you down those stairs.’

  ‘Coffee,’ he said to the waitress.

  She shook her head. ‘Cross that out and write “still water” instead. I’ll have the same.’

  ‘Water? You know I never drink water.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time you started.’

  ‘You’ll end your days as a bitter and twisted old crone,’ he said.

  ‘That might very well be true, but it won’t change the fact that I’m not going down those stairs.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I find.’

  ‘You think that’s going to satisfy my curiosity? What about a copy
of the forensic recording?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. It’ll be classified as evidence.’

  ‘I’m never going to see what’s down those stairs, am I?’

  ‘Never is a long time. Maybe sometime in the future they’ll run guided tours down there like they do for Jack the Ripper crime scenes. Or, there’ll be a documentary on the Crime Channel . . .’

  ‘Maybe sometime in the future you and I will have sex again.’

  ‘Darling . . .’ he pleaded.

  She ignored him.

  The squad car arrived shortly afterwards and took her back to The Boulevard in Woodford Green to collect her car.

  He’d see her later. She’d be fine. He’d turn on the old Kowalski charm – she couldn’t resist that. He stared at the untouched salad on his plate and called over the waitress.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Take this rubbish away and bring me the Big Breakfast. No hash browns, but a double helping of sausages and bacon, and a jumbo mug of coffee.’

  ‘Fried bread?’

  ‘Most definitely. And toast. I have in mind a condemned man’s last meal.’

  She smiled. ‘Having met your wife, I should imagine that would be a good picture to hang onto.’

  When he got back to the lock-up it was full of Toady’s forensic people videoing, photographing, recording, bagging and dusting. The place resembled The Old Curiosity Shop. He knew it would take some time before anything was moved out in bags and taken back to the station for analysis.

  ‘Any news on PCSO Turtledove, Toady?’

  ‘She’s on her way, Sir. About twenty minutes, I’d say.’

  ‘Okay. I’m going down those stairs now.’

  ‘Before you go, Sir. We’ve managed to open the safe.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘A ledger.’

  ‘Really?’

  Toadstone passed him a pair of plastic gloves and a mask. ‘You’d better take a look.’

  He pushed his hands into the gloves, hooked the elastic either side of the mask round his ears, and followed Toadstone to the worktop where a well-thumbed book approximately twelve inches wide, eighteen inches in height and an inch and a half thick lay on the Formica surface. It had a brown leather spine and dark blue pitted covers. ‘What am I looking at, Toady?’