Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Emergencies come in all shapes and sizes, Nurse Li Yifu.’

  ‘Bit like fortune cookies?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘I’d like to know which ward a woman is on.’

  ‘Any woman? Or specific woman?’

  ‘Specific woman.’

  ‘You sure? Li Yifu know man who supply women who do things you never dream of.’

  ‘Very kind, but a specific woman.’

  ‘You think I general dogsbody?’

  ‘Did I mention I was with Immigration Control?’

  ‘You very persuasive man. Got clue to woman?’

  ‘Her name is Bronwyn, but she might not be admitted under that name. She’s about twenty years old, and was brought into the A&E around five o’clock today with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. No doubt she’s been into the theatre to have the bullet removed and the wound repaired.’

  ‘Sound like she on Intensive Care Unit. What you want when I find her?’

  ‘You find her. Find out if she’s awake. Make sure she has her phone available. Tell her to phone me.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘We all right with immigration?’

  ‘You can stay here for as long as you want.’

  Nurse Li Yifu slid out through the door opening.

  His eyes closed of their own free will and he began to dream of singing steel workers; sparks flying as hammers shaped molten hot iron fresh from the forges; and men in welding masks with gas bottles strapped to their backs doing strange things with scrap metal, nuts, bolts and spanners.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He caught the bus to the short-stay car park, picked up his car and headed home. He had to get everything he needed in Heptonstall tomorrow and then decide what he was going to do with the case. He couldn’t continue running an illegal investigation if he was acting up.

  Acting up! They’d be making him Commissioner of the Met next. It wasn’t five minutes ago that he was a Sergeant. Just wait until he told Richards. She’d have something to moan about then. He’d have to give Ray a ring when he got home. No wonder he hadn’t been answering his phone if he was in hospital.

  It took him an hour and a half to reach Chigwell. It was the tail-end of the rush hour, but the traffic kept moving apace on the M25. Angie wasn’t home from work when he arrived, so he decided to take Digby out before the dog barked himself hoarse.

  ‘I’ve only been gone a day, Digby.’ He crouched down so that the dog could welcome him back and lick the stubble off his face. ‘You want to know what happened, old boy? Well, I’ll tell you. I flew to Newcastle and . . .’ He could see the dog was more interested in getting out of the house than listening to the exciting details of his journey and subsequent exploits.

  ‘That dog’s been driving me nuts,’ Angie said when he returned from walking Digby. Next time you go away, take him with you.’

  ‘Ray’s in hospital.’

  ‘I’ve been there all day. Why didn’t I know?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I . . .’

  She’d already picked up the phone, called Jerry and was sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘Really . . . ?’

  He knew very well what those two were like when they got jabbering. So, after giving Digby his dentistix and refreshing the dog’s water bowl, he went through into the living room to do what he needed to do.

  After logging onto his laptop, he checked his emails first, and found the criminal profile from the psychologist – Gilli Allen. He connected the computer to the printer, printed off a hard-copy and read it:

  Psychological profile of the serial killer known as The Family Man for DS Lauren Perry of Clifton Street Police Station in Jedson, Newcastle; and DI Jed Parish of Hoddesdon Police Station in Essex.

  He would have been sexually, physically, emotionally and/or psychologically abused as a child, isolated by (a) controlling parent(s), performed abhorrent behaviours such as cruelty to siblings or animals, an obsession with death, bed-wetting beyond ten years of age, and/or arson. He would have quickly learnt to blend into the background by being neat and always putting things away after him.

  It is doubtful that he had a relationship with his father who might have been abusive and possibly dependent on alcoholic or drugs, but would have strived to please him. He would have been expected to behave at all times, to excel at school even though he was of average intelligence, and to uphold the faith of the church.

  He would have been protected from his father by a controlling mother. The practice of reading the bible each night would have begun with his mother, who would not have allowed him to go out and play with other children of the same age, and would not have permitted him to have girlfriends. He would have been smothered by his mother’s love.

  The common traits among his victims are that they are young, female and single mothers who were vulnerable and eager to have a man in their lives who would take care of them and take away some of the responsibilities of parenthood. While the killer’s charm will endear him to the females, he is incapable of feeling love and will show extreme egocentric and narcissistic behaviour. It is suggested that these women represent his mother.

  He might struggle to hold down a permanent job, but could do so behind a mask of sanity – which would have provided a facade of normality to work colleagues. Nevertheless, he fails to follow any real life plan. However, unlike many who suffer from psychopathy, he does not delight in the suffering of his victims, but sees their deaths as a means to an end. Saving his victims appears to be the motivating factor for his actions.

  The fact that he leaves little or no evidence behind suggests he is a methodical killer. The manner in which the families were killed indicate that his distorted beliefs about religion, family, and right and wrong dominate his life. By cutting their throats, he is offering up a sacrifice to God, much in the same way as a sacrificial lamb, for the forgiveness of sin.

  He is characterised by a cluster of behaviours that can be described as psychopathic and compulsive in nature. They include – but are not limited to – perfectionism, orderliness, workaholic tendencies, an inability to make commitments or to trust others and a fear of having his flaws exposed. Deep down, he is terrified of being seen as vulnerable and is unable to control outbursts of anger or hostility. He believes he can protect himself by staying in control of every aspect of his life – including his relationships. He is riddled with anxiety, fear, insecurity and anger. He is very critical of himself, his lover and his friends.

  He thinks he is smarter than everyone else, believes that he can outwit all other people, and can commit any crime without ever being charged or convicted. He believes that, even if he is caught, he can talk himself out of trouble.

  There was in him a vital scorn of all:

  As if the worst had fall'n which could befall,

  He stood a stranger in this breathing world,

  An erring spirit from another hurled;

  A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped

  By choice the perils he by chance escaped;

  from "Lara" by Lord Byron.

  G Allen

  BSc, MSc, PhD, CPsychol, CSci, AFBPsS

  Although this was a speculative psychological profile, he was always surprised at how much the parents featured in the creation of Frankenstein’s monster. Were they to blame? The difference between a psychopath and a sociopath was the difference between determining a psychological or an environmental basis for the psychopathy. Was there a difference? He doubted it. Didn’t one feed off the other? Neither could be thought of in isolation. For the environment to be influential, there needed to be a psychological weakness in the killer.

  It made him think of Jack and Melody, and to a certain extent – Richards. Thank goodness they were being brought up in a loving family environment. And then his mind jumped to the Epsilon Experiments – particularly Epsilon 5 – and what he’d found out about Zara and Zachary, and Orv
il Lorenz’s genetic research into good and evil. Did evil have a genetic basis? Was it really all down to genes? He was glad that he’d told Günter Kappel to destroy what the Enigma machine had discovered, and had decided to forget all about his past – it was probably the best decision he’d ever made.

  He sent a “Thank you” back to Gilli Allen. She certainly appeared to be well qualified. Did the profile help him? It wasn’t evidence as such, but it did provide him with a deeper insight into who The Family Man might be, and it would probably prove invaluable in Heptonstall.

  After connecting up his mobile phone to his laptop’s USB port, the photographs downloaded automatically. He made himself a coffee while he waited.

  Angie was still on the phone.

  He interrupted her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Chief Constable has asked me to act up.’

  ‘Never?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Did you hear that? It’s exactly what I was thinking. One door closes and another opens . . . Or, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush . . .’ She laughed.

  He carried his coffee into the living room.

  The download of photographs had finished. He composed an email to Doc Riley and sent the photographs as attachments.

  He phoned Lauren Perry and Toadstone, but both calls were diverted to voicemail – he didn’t leave either a message. After finishing his coffee, he took his bag upstairs, unpacked, stripped off his clothes and climbed in the shower.

  ‘I’ve never had sex with a DCI before,’ Angie said when she joined him.

  ‘I should hope not. It’s only a temporary appointment for three months until Ray recovers.’

  ‘With pay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mmmm! And Mary’s away as well. I have a whole DCI to myself.’

  ‘I’m shocked. I didn’t know rank turned you on.’

  ‘There’s a lot you still don’t know about me, Jed Parish.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ***

  ‘Kowalski,’ he said into his mobile.

  ‘You pigs have no consideration for law-abiding citizens.’

  Nurse Li Yifu had returned from her fact-finding mission and informed him that Bronwyn was recovering from her operation and had been admitted to the Intensive Care Unit under the name of Jessie Gibbs. He knew Bronwyn was her online name, and Jessie Gibbs probably wasn’t anywhere near her real name, but he didn’t care. Normally, associating with criminals was a fast track to the job centre, but he’d found it strangely liberating having someone he could call on in emergencies who existed in the shadows.

  ‘You – a law-abiding citizen? Ha! Anyone in their right mind would be well within their rights to throw you in a cell, lock the door and drop the key into the nearest cesspit.’

  ‘I see your customer-oriented focus hasn’t improved much.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘The only thing that makes me realise I’m still alive is the excruciating pain. What about you?’

  ‘My leg has so much metal in it, I’m thinking of auditioning for the part of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body-double in the new Terminator film.’

  Her voice was weak. ‘So, why am I ringing you when the Grim Reaper thinks I should be entertaining him and his lackeys?’

  ‘I have a cunning plan.’

  ‘They’re the best type of plans. Well, it’s been great talking to you again . . .’

  ‘Did I tell you about the conspiracy?’

  ‘Fucking hell, Kowalski. You know very well I can’t resist a good conspiracy.’

  ‘My head of forensics opened the safe.’

  ‘And you’ve kept it from me? The doctors say I need rest, not conspiracies.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time to rest when you’re dead.’

  ‘Which I will be if I don’t get some rest.’

  He told her about the ledger, the high-powered men identified in it, the children from the Local Authority Orphanages listed and paid for by the men, and the total approximate amount of money accounted for by Mr Birmingham’s ledger.

  ‘Fucking hell! And the graves?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to work that one out for yourself.’

  ‘So, where’s the . . . Jesus! They’re going to bury it, aren’t they?’

  He told her about calling the Chief Constable, about the Chief Constable briefing the Commissioner, and about Special Advisor Fagin. ‘That’s where you come in.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I have a photograph of every page in that ledger.’

  ‘And you want me to make them widely available for interested parties on the internet?’

  ‘It’s always a joy talking to someone who’s so intelligent.’

  ‘You’re a smarmy bastard, Kowalski. Have you got a tablet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know how to use one?’

  ‘I’m sure it can’t be that difficult.’

  ‘I’ve found that men and technology are incompatible.’

  ‘You’ll have to talk me through it. I’ll get Jerry to buy one and bring it in first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Tell her to buy an Apple iPad Air 2 with a 128GB of memory and Wifi Gold.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well, if I was my normal self I could probably get one for a couple of hundred . . .’

  ‘Pesetas?’

  ‘. . . But I’m not, so it’ll probably cost you about £650.’

  ‘It’s made of gold and encrusted with diamonds, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you want the best . . . And I’m sure you can write it off to expenses.’

  ‘That’s an idea. Okay, I’ll let you get some rest now.’

  ‘Very generous.’

  ‘And don’t die overnight.’

  ‘Your gushing concern makes me feel all warm and cuddly inside.’

  ‘That’ll be the damage from the bullet. It crushes and forces the tissues apart leaving a temporary cavity and . . .’

  ‘Goodnight, Kowalski.’

  The call ended.

  He phoned Jerry and made her write down what Bronwyn had told him to get.

  ‘Six hundred and fifty pounds!’

  ‘Call it my birthday present.’

  ‘It’ll be spread over six birthdays and a Christmas.’

  ‘I’m worth it.’

  ‘An old wives tale.’

  He grunted. ‘Well you shouldn’t go round telling tales about me.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, my love.’

  He ended the call.

  So, he had a plan. Of course, they’d know it was him who had let the cat out of the bag, but proving it would be another matter. It would stall his career, probably stop it dead in its tracks. Did he want to be the Chief Constable? It would kill him – in more ways than one. The additional stress would give him a third heart attack, and the boredom would calcify his brain. The one thing he’d learnt from the investigation – apart from how pathetically fragile his physical body had become – was that he was a detective at heart and a damned good one – not a desk jockey. Promotion was all well-and-good, the money was certainly an attractive incentive, but if it took him so far away from what he loved to do – what was the point? The Chief Constable had mentioned demotion in jest, but maybe it wasn’t such a funny idea after all.

  Wednesday, September 3

  September was meant to be cold, or at least – cooler than August. Instead, she felt like a lobster in a cooking pot. She stared at her digital alarm clock on the bedside cabinet – it was quarter past four in the morning, and she’d been tossing and turning for hours.

  She’d started off wearing a gold silk camisole top with matching French Knickers, but they were on the floor underneath the quilt. The mattress was like a length of hardboard, and the pillow resembled a slab of concrete. She wanted her own bed, and she wanted it now.

  If she didn’t get a decent night’s sleep soon she’d begin to look like a hau
nted insomniac with black rings around her bloodshot eyes. She’d end up drinking gallons of coffee, and staring wide-eyed through all-night cafe windows at the prostitutes looking for punters, long-distant truckers searching for a destination and vampires in need of bloody sustenance.

  As the sun stuck its head over the eastern horizon, a knife blade of light stabbed through the gap in the curtains. It was no good, she was never going to get back to sleep. And she’d been delaying having a pee in the hope that sleep might come like a visitation from the Angel Gabriel, but it didn’t. She was about to slide off the mattress, and head for the toilet and the shower when she saw an eye blink.

  Her eyes opened as wide as they could go, and then she blinked rapidly herself.

  An eye blink!

  She stared at the ceiling.

  There was nothing there.

  She reached up, flicked the switch for the bedside light and stared upwards – nothing. There was no gap or opening in the false ceiling tiles.

  Her brain was trying to fob her off with, “You were seeing things, Mary”. She saw an eye blink and her brain was rationalising what she’d seen without asking her if it was all right to do so. It couldn’t have been a blinking eye because there were no openings or gaps in the false ceiling. It couldn’t have been a blinking eye because a false ceiling framework is only held up by thin wires on fragile hooks and wouldn’t take the weight of a human being. It couldn’t have been . . .

  Stop it!

  It was a blinking eye. What she’d seen was what she’d seen.

  Maybe, maybe not.

  Why would she make something like that up?

  Why indeed, Mary Richards?

  This time of the morning is called . . .