by Ellis, Tim
A forensic officer pointed over his shoulder. ‘They’re sitting in their truck waiting for us to finish.’
Parish stuck his head out of the tent and saw the sewage truck parked half-on the pavement. ‘Come on, let’s go and talk to them while we’re waiting,’ he said.
‘But...’
He shielded his head against the wind and snow with his arms and banged on the passenger door of their truck.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is there enough room up there for two more.’
‘It’ll be a bit of a squeeze, but climb up anyway,’ a wrinkled old man said opening the door, and then shuffling across the seat to make room.
Parish pulled Richards in front of him and shouted, ‘Climb up.’
She shook her head.
He put his hands either side of her waist and pushed her up, then transferred them to her backside.
She batted his hands away, and climbed in herself.
He followed, and shut the door behind him.
The wrinkled man was right, it was a tight squeeze.
‘You didn’t have to push me by my backside.’
‘Just being helpful.’
‘Huh.’
There wasn’t enough room on the passenger seat for three of them, so he shifted round and perched on the dashboard. ‘That’s better.’
He turned his attention to the two sewage workers. After introducing himself and Richards he said, ‘So, who are you two?’
‘We’re the poor buggers who’ve found two headless bodies in as many days,’ the driver said. ‘And they say lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice. What the bloody hell do they know?’
‘Names?’
‘I’m Alan Wrack,’ the wrinkled man said. ‘And he’s Bill Carrigan.’
‘Swig?’ Bill Carrigan said proffering a silver hip flask at them. ‘Irish whiskey.’
Alan Wrack took it from him. ‘Don’t be daft Bill, they’re on duty.’ He tipped the flask to his mouth. ‘Don’t you watch TV? Everyone knows coppers can’t drink on duty.’ He helped himself to another swallow of the whiskey, and passed the flask back. ‘Takes the edge off what we do,’ he said for explanation.
‘Do you find a lot of bodies in the sewers?’ Richards asked.
‘Depends what you mean by a lot,’ Wrack threw back at her. ‘This year I reckon we’ve found upwards of ten bodies, but that includes body parts. We find all sorts down in these sewers.’ He laughed. ‘There was one time we had to find a man’s dentures. Oh, we found them all right, and he said that after a good cleaning he was going to carry on using them.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ Richards said.
Alan Wrack chipped in. ‘Oh, we get a lot of turtles and fish. We’ve had a canoe, pieces of telephone poles, Christmas trees, you name it, and we get it down in the sewers – mattresses, dead dogs. We got a live dog once.’
Richards’ eyes opened wide. ‘No?’
‘Yeah. Nobody claimed him, so...’
‘No, don’t tell me,’ Richards said putting her hands over her ears. ‘Na, na, na, na, na, na...’
Parish pulled a hand away. ‘Stop being a baby, Richards.’
‘We named him “Lucky” and one of the guys took him home.’
‘I thought...’
‘Well, thanks for your time,’ Parish said. ‘Try not to find any more bodies though – I might get suspicious if it’s always you two.’
‘If there’s more bodies down there, we’ll probably be the two that discovers them. We’re both on duty over Christmas.’
They returned to the tent. The body had been brought up. Di Heffernan said that Doc Riley wasn’t going to make it. Parish put on gloves and a mask, squatted and examined the body himself. As far as he could determine, it was the same killer.
‘Has she recently given birth, do you think?’
Di squeezed a nipple. ‘Even in death the breasts lactate. Also, you can see the stretch marks on the stomach.’ She opened the victim’s legs and spread the labia majora with her thumb and forefinger. ‘Here you can see evidence of a recent episiotomy. They cut the vaginal wall to enlarge the opening for the baby to squeeze through, and to prevent tearing.’
He pulled a face. ‘I’m glad I’m a man.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are.’
‘I need a break, Di.’
‘You could be in luck,’ she said, and pulled the body towards her. On the victim’s right shoulder was a livid patch of flesh about four inches in diameter. ‘The killer has sliced off the skin, but we still might be able to detect what was underneath.’
‘A tattoo?’
Di shrugged. ‘A birthmark, a scar, or something else that someone would recognise.’
‘Excellent. I needn’t tell you...’
‘I think you should leave now while you still can.’
He stood up. ‘I think we’ve outstayed our welcome again, Richards.’
***
Kowalski pulled into the car park at the Frog & Rhubarb in Flamstead End. There weren’t many cars there, but he wasn’t surprised. It was probably a good job that motorists had heeded the warnings to stay at home. Only desperate people – like him – ventured out on days like today.
After he’d had his heart attack, he had to attend classes. The nursing staff made him exercise, took his blood pressure and pulse regularly, and explained to him about good and bad food, and a load of other stuff to guide him towards a healthier lifestyle. The bottom line was that he couldn’t eat the food that he enjoyed.
He ordered an orange juice and a Greek salad with feta cheese. He’d often thought of cheating, and asking for the steak and chips with a pint of lager. No one would ever know – but in the end, who was he really cheating? The fall guy was always himself. So, he decided to change the way he lived his life. If he wanted to see his kids grow up and live to a ripe old age with Jerry, then he had no choice.
As for the case, what did he have? A dead woman – correction – a beautiful dead woman, a dead flower – a white rose that meant rejected love – and a killer who had turned her beauty into ugliness. He’d based his investigation on the idea that the motive for the murder was revenge, and it was to do with her penchant for taking married men up to her rooms for sex, but up to now the suspects had not been cold-blooded killers.
He was beginning to think there was more to the murder than simple revenge. Although the wounds to the head appeared as if they were the result of a frenzied attack – it was a controlled frenzy. The killer had the presence of mind to come prepared, to leave no forensic evidence, to leave a message in the form of a withered white rose – rejected love. He’d pursued the idea that the killer was someone Lisa Taverner had rejected, but – although the suspects weren’t particularly nice people – they weren’t psychopathic killers.
Now, he had another lead – a bouquet of white roses delivered by local flower sellers once a week – everlasting love. I love you, J. Was “J” Jeremy Kincaid? Was he the killer? Was it that simple? A sales rep for Carn Galver Brewery certainly would have met Lisa Taverner. Did he fall for her? Did she reject him? Is that why he killed her? Why isn’t he in work today? Has he gone on the run? Why carry out the perfect murder, and then run for it? It didn’t make sense. The white roses and card would obviously lead back to him. Why didn’t he pay by cash? The dead white rose was certainly a significant clue when linked to the bouquet of white roses – what began as everlasting love ended as rejected love.
There were still too many unanswered questions. He was still missing vital pieces of the jigsaw puzzle to formulate a picture in his mind of what had actually happened.
***
At quarter to one Parish said, ‘Stay here. I’ll walk over the bridge. Maybe she misunderstood.’
He pulled his collar up. Catherine hadn’t misunderstood. He’d been quite clear. Park in the car park at St Margarets railway station. Buy a one-way ticket to London. Walk over the bridge and through the gate.
A train came into the sta
tion as he trudged across the bridge. The only footsteps in the snow were his. No one had walked over the bridge in the last twenty minutes. He carried on through the station and into the car. Her car was there, still warm. The driver’s door was open, but the keys were gone. Apart from litter, the car was empty.
He wasn’t in the mood for ceremony, and forced open the boot. It was also empty, and in a way he was relieved.
‘Her car’s here, but she’s not,’ he said when he returned to the pool car. ‘Try ringing her.’
Richard found Catherine in her address book and pressed the call button.
She ended the call. ‘It went to voicemail. What are we going to do now?’
Parish shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’
***
The snowploughs had been busy while he’d been in the Frog & Rhubarb. There were still abandoned cars on the side of the road, but he seemed to be okay for the time being. Tomorrow would be a nightmare if – as predicted – it was going to freeze overnight. How could he run an investigation if he couldn’t move from place to place? Maybe he should put in a request for the huskies and sled.
There appeared to be no one at home at 31 Churchfields Lane in Broxbourne. He looked through the letterbox, walked round the back of the house and peered through the windows, but there was no evidence – inside or outside – that anyone was home.
He knocked at number 33.
A girl of about seven years old opened the door. ‘Yes?’
‘Is your mum in?’
‘Why?’
‘Can I speak to your mum?’
‘What for?’
‘What’s your name, honey?’
‘Are you one of those perverts?’
‘Can you go inside and get your mum?’
The girl shut the door.
He waited. Stamped his feet. Pulled his collar up. Knocked again.
The same girl answered. ‘Yes?’
‘Hello?’ he shouted through the open door. ‘Police. Is there anybody there?’
‘Mum, it’s that pervert again.’
A woman in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a Star Wars T-shirt, with shoulder-length brown hair that clearly hadn’t been brushed, droopy eyes, and bad teeth arrived to rescue him.
‘I’m trying to watch Oprah. What the fuck do you want?’
He held his warrant card up. ‘What can you tell me about Mr Kincaid who lives next door?’
‘Fuck all. Is that it?’
‘Have you seen him in the last day or two?’
‘No. I’m going in now. Don’t knock again.’
‘I could send round Social Services.’
‘They’ve been. I’ve got a fucking certificate to say I’m a fit and proper parent, so fuck off.’
The door shut.
He sighed. Sometimes, he hated the way society had turned out. Progress should have meant that things got better, not worse. As far as he could see, society was moving backwards at a fairly hefty rate of knots.
He knocked on number 29.
Thankfully, a woman in her late twenties or early thirties wearing a pair of jeans and a purple bra answered the knock. She had long black hair with a fringe, porcelain skin, and was a bit podgy around the midriff.
‘Yes?’
He showed his warrant card again. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I wonder what you can tell me about Mr Kincaid who lives next door?’
‘You’d better come in. I don’t want all the neighbours ogling my tits.’
If that was the case, he wondered why she’d answered the door in her bra.
‘What do you think then?’ she asked him.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My figure?’
‘Very nice.’
‘Nice enough to shag?’
‘I’m here to ask you what you know...’
‘So, let me get this right – you think I’m “Very nice”, she used her hands to double quote, ‘but you’re not prepared to shag me?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘So you do want to shag me?’
‘I didn’t say that either.’
She took her bra off to reveal pendulous breasts with dark brown areolae, suggesting that she’d given birth in the past. ‘Come on then. My husband won’t be back from the pub for a while.’
‘I’d better leave.’
‘Yeah, that’s right run away. You say I’m beautiful, but you don’t really mean it. First chance you get, you’re down the pub feeling up that new bar maid...’
As he shut the door, he heard her burst into tears. Bloody hell, this was turning into a right fiasco. He stood next to the car wondering whether to call it a day. He hadn’t found out anything about Jeremy Kincaid. If he wasn’t here, where was he? He looked up and down Churchfields Lane. There were a few children building snowmen, and some having a snowball fight. The houses were semi-detached concrete monstrosities from the 60s, with metal window frames, and pebbledash walls. He decided to give it one last go, and walked across the road to number 64.
‘I’m the lucky one then?’ An old woman with a light green scarf on her head said. She had a heavily wrinkled neck, yellow teeth, and wore a flowered apron.
‘That depends,’ he said, wondering what she meant.
‘You’d better come in. I’ve been watching you go from 31 to 33, and then to 29.’
He followed her into the living room and sat in a worn floral easy chair.
She laughed. ‘Don’t tell me. At number 33 she wouldn’t give you the time of day, and at number 29 she wanted to give you a lot more than the time of day?’
He smiled. ‘You seem to be familiar with the comings and goings of your neighbours.’
‘The whole estate is an asylum. An experiment set up by the government to see how many lunatics they can cram into one place.’
‘What about you?’
‘I think I’m sane, but so do half the crazy people in the world. Do you want a hot drink?’
‘Tea?’
‘What about Marmite?’
‘I haven’t had that in years - just a pinch of salt. They tell me salt isn’t good for my heart.’
‘My husband went that way a couple of years ago. Mind you, it was either that or the drink that was gonna do for him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be, good riddance to bad rubbish. Bastard used to piss all our money against the wall, and then blame me that there was no food in the house to eat. He was lucky he went when he did, because I was planning to murder the evil bastard.’
She was gone for a couple of minutes, and then came back with two steaming mugs.
‘Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge. I’m happy with my pension and my own company now. The kids and grandkids visit once a month, and that’s enough thank you all the same. The rest of the time, I sit here and watch the inmates.’ She waved her arm at the front window.
He showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon.’ He took a sip of Marmite.
‘I’m Ann Edwards, but everyone calls me Annie. You want to know about the Kincaids, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘At number 33 you met Claire Brimacombe, and her daughter Pascal. She’s got seven children, all by different men, and there’s a drug- and drink-fuelled party in her house most nights. On the other side at number 29 is the beautiful Sylvia McArthur. Social Services took away her baby about six months ago because the man she was living with was on the child sex offenders’ register, and she refused to give him up. Since then she’s been as nutty as a fruitcake. You didn’t have sex with her, did you?’
‘I’m a policeman for God’s sake.’
‘That doesn’t mean much. I won’t tell you about the local plods who pop in there on a regular basis to keep warm. She probably mentioned her husband...’
‘She said he was at the pub.’
‘Long since. She married the filthy bastard, and then he left her for a barmaid at the local. They live together down the road at
number 149.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in hospital, or...?’
‘You’ve heard of care in the community, haven’t you?’
‘Well yes, but...’
‘A psychiatric nurse – a man – from the health centre comes round once a week to give her an injection – if you know what I mean?’
Kowalski shook his head. ‘And the Kincaids?’
‘He’s a sales rep for a brewery. Brings samples home and shares them out. Always gets invited to Claire Brimacombe’s parties. Haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks though.’
‘And his wife?’
‘Karen.’ She took a drink of her Marmite. ‘That okay for you?’
‘Lovely – brings back some memories. You were saying?’
‘Where to start? Poor cow had a miscarriage about six weeks ago. One minute she was six months pregnant and the next – gone. It was a girl, or so I heard at the club.’
‘Do you know where she is now?’
‘I saw her briefly yesterday. She was putting a suitcase in the boot of her car. Haven’t seen her today at all. And there were no lights on in the house last night. I think she’s gone away for a couple of days.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘Do you think I go over there and read their mail?’
He smiled. ‘I have the feeling you would if you thought you could get away with it.’
She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Five minutes you’ve been here and you know me already. No, I haven’t the faintest idea where she’s gone, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that he’s left her. Maybe she’s gone home to her parents.’
He finished the Marmite and stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, most welcome. I have a warm glow now.’ He passed her his card. ‘If either of the Kincaids turn up, could you ring me?’
‘I always wanted to be a police informer. Do I get paid?’
‘Unfortunately, that was the first thing the government cut as part of their austerity programme.’
‘That Labour government should all be lined up and shot. I bet they didn’t look after their own money like they looked after ours – bunch of criminals the lot of them.’