by Tim Ellis
PC Richards opened up her notebook. ‘Mr Gregory Taylor, aged forty-nine, lived at 33, Ralston Drive.’ She turned and pointed – like the tour guide of a famous murder site – to a house with all its lights on. ‘Just there, Sir.’
He liked being called ‘Sir.’ There were clearly advantages to being the boss.
‘Okay, carry on.’
‘He was walking home from Chigwell train station,’ she pointed down the hill.
‘You don’t need to point to everything, Constable. I know where the train station is.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
Yes, he could get used to being a ‘Sir’. He’d just have to make sure he solved the case, and quickly.
‘It was approximately six thirty-seven when he reached here.’ She pointed at the dead man. ‘Sorry…’ The hint of a smile touched her lips and her cheeks reddened. ‘A hooded teenager, or man, stabbed him in the chest.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘A hooded teenager or man? What does that mean?’
‘There’s a witness.’ She turned and pointed across the road. ‘ Mr Harold Mayhew who lives at number 32, but he’s not sure whether the killer was a teenager or a man.’
It might be a robbery, or a gang initiation, he thought. God, what was the world coming to when a life could be traded for a couple of pounds, or entry into a teenage street gang?
He slipped on a pair of latex gloves that he kept in one of the pockets of his Rannoch weatherproof coat and knelt down to check the dead man’s inside pocket, left wrist and ring finger. The wallet, gold-plated Seiko wristwatch and gold wedding ring were still there, which probably ruled out robbery. He’d have to get the man’s wife to check if there was anything else missing.
He stood up and took off the gloves. ‘Good. You’re doing well so far, Constable Richards. Carry on.’
‘There’s no murder weapon. The killer must have taken it with him.’
‘The killer was male then?’
‘Well… the witness said it was a male.’
‘Let’s not close any doors until we’re sure. Anything else?’
‘He… Mr Taylor. . . was a history teacher at Chigwell Secondary School… He used to be my teacher.’
A teacher! The killer could be one of his students - three possibilities now.
‘Did he? What about the family?’
‘They’re in the house.’
‘Have you interviewed them?’
‘No, I thought…’
‘It’s all right, Constable, but… you’re not going off-duty, or out on a date with that paramedic are you?’
She flushed and looked at her wristwatch. ‘No, Sir… I finish at eight thirty. I’ve got another hour and fifteen minutes before my shift ends.’
‘Good. You can accompany me when I go and see the family.’
‘Okay.’
An idea jumped into his mind. ‘Which station are you from?’
‘Cheshunt.’
‘Waltham Cross?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Do you think they’d miss you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I need someone I can trust to work with me.’
Her eyes widened as if Parish had told her she’d won the lottery. ‘I’ve only been a constable for three weeks. They won’t even know I’m not there.’
‘Do you want to come and work for me?’
Her face lit up like a flare in the night sky. ‘Oh, yes please, Sir.’
‘You’ll have to wear civilian clothes.’
‘Like a real detective?’
‘Yes, Constable, like a real detective. Ring your duty sergeant and ask him if it’ll be all right.’
It was obvious that Mary Richards could hardly contain her excitement as she took out her mobile phone. ‘Yes, Sir.’
He turned to the SOCO, a thin-faced man with unusually bushy eyebrows, a twisted nose and yellow teeth who was kneeling by the side of the body. ‘Name?’
‘Gregory Taylor.’
‘Your name, you idiot.’
‘Sorry. Paul Toadstone, Sir.’
‘Well, Mr Toadstone… unusual name?’
‘It’s derived from mythology. People believed…’
‘All right, Toadstone. I’m not writing a book about it. Can the paramedic take the body away before rigor mortis sets in?’
‘Rigor mortis is caused by a chemical change in the muscles. Cold merely slows it down.’
‘Don’t be a smart arse, Toadstone. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I’ve finished with the body. A post-mortem needs to be done now.’
‘Sir?’ It was PC Richards.
‘Yes?’
She thrust her mobile phone towards him. ‘The duty sergeant wants to talk to you.’
He took the phone. ‘Hello, Jed Parish here.’
‘Tony Pollack. Are you sure you want Constable Richards on a murder case? She can’t even make a decent cup of tea.’
‘We’ve got no one available at Hoddesdon and she’s performed well so far.’ He smiled at Richards’ eager face looking up at him. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll show her the ropes.’
‘How long for?’
‘Let’s say a couple of weeks,’ Parish said, but he hoped he was going to have the case solved in less than a week.
‘You’ll take care of her?’
‘As if she were my daughter.’
‘Okay, I’ll clear it with my inspector. We’ll call it on-the-job training.’
‘Thanks, Tony. I owe you one.’
‘Yes, you do.’
The line went dead and he passed the phone back. That’s two of us doing on-the-job training, he thought.
‘Is it all right, Sir?’
‘Yes, Richards. For the next two weeks you belong to me.’
She grinned like the Cheshire cat on cocaine and clapped her hands together.
He peered at her. ‘Did you give that paramedic your number?’
Richards reddened again and shuffled her feet like a young girl on her first date. ‘I… I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I’m a detective, Richards - I notice things. Do you want me to ask the paramedic myself?’
She stared at him with shock etched on her face. ‘No, Sir. Yes, I’ve given him my number.’
‘Good. Go and tell him he can move the body. King George Hospital, I presume?’
‘Yes, that’s what he said.’
‘Good. It helps to know where they’re going to do the post-mortem. Well, off you go then.’
Parish turned back to Toadstone. ‘Have you found anything I can use?’
‘I won’t know for sure until I carry out my analysis, but I’m not hopeful. There might be something on the clothes, but I won’t get those until after the PM.’
‘Okay, thanks, Toadstone.’ He passed the SOCO one of his cards. ‘Give me a ring if you do find anything of value.’
Toadstone glanced at the card. ‘Yes… Sergeant.’
It was nice while it lasted he thought.
Richards came back.
‘All sorted?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Right, let’s go and see the family.’
Parish walked the short distance up Ralston Drive and opened the gate of number 33. With PC Richards following, he trudged along the concrete path and knocked on the door. A skinny boy of about twelve years old with a pale face opened it.
‘Is your mum in?’
‘Yeah.’
Just then, the door opened wider. A woman with a black-streaked face and copious amounts of congealed blood on her cotton top was standing before him. He wondered why she hadn’t changed her top.
‘Mrs Taylor?’
The woman nodded.
He showed his warrant card and introduced himself and PC Richards. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions. Would it be all right if we came in?’
She nodded again and shuffled along the hall to the kitchen. He left PC Richards
to shut the door after them.
A young girl of about seventeen with bright pink rollers in her hair was sitting at the kitchen table staring into space. The boy was standing against a cabinet watching him.
‘Please sit down,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Would you like tea?’
Parish could smell stew or something and realised he was starving. He hadn’t eaten since the cheese and onion roll from the canteen at ten this morning. ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ he said. He knew that keeping busy was a common method of coping with bereavement.
She didn’t reply, but occupied herself filling the kettle, laying out cups and saucers and putting tea bags in a plain white teapot.
He thought he’d ask his questions while she was distracted. He didn’t really want to spend any longer in the house than was necessary. ‘Do you know if your husband had any enemies?’ he asked.
‘Enemies?’ she repeated, glaring at him as if he were the enemy. ‘He was a teacher, for God’s sake.’
Parish expected that was a “no”. ‘What about hobbies or clubs outside school?’
‘He read a lot, liked historical fiction and westerns, watched Arsenal play on the television.’
‘Have you seen anyone strange in the neighbourhood?’
‘No.’
‘I saw him, you know.’ It was the girl who spoke.
Parish looked at the girl sitting at the end of the wooden table. She was ghostly pale, like the boy, and her eyes were red and vacant. He didn’t know much about shock, but wondered whether the paramedic was still outside. ‘Who did you see?’
‘The man who killed my dad; I saw him when he passed our gate.’
‘Where were you when you saw him?’
‘I was looking out of my bedroom window.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘No, but Mr Mayhew said it was a teenager. It wasn’t - it was a man.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I just know.’
‘Definitely a man, not a woman?’
‘It was a man.’
Mrs Taylor put a cup of tea in front of him. ‘Help yourself to sugar,’ she said.
He usually had four sugars in his tea, but took only two lumps from the sugar pot.’
‘Where will they take my dad?’ the girl asked.
‘King George Hospital,’ he said.
‘Are they going to cut him open?’
He didn’t see any point in lying to her. ‘They have to carry out a post-mortem; it’s the law. I’m sorry.’
The girl began to cry.
Parish felt awkward all of a sudden, took a sip of tea and looked down at the table. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to formally identify your husband’s body in the next couple of days, Mrs Taylor. Someone will call to arrange it.’
She nodded.
‘Do you happen to know whether he was carrying anything of value?’
Mrs Taylor rounded on him again. ‘He was a teacher, not a diamond smuggler, just an ordinary teacher with a family. The only thing of value he was carrying, besides his life, was probably some money in his wallet. Have you checked his wallet?’
‘Yes, it wasn’t taken.’ He took a card from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. ‘If there’s anything, anything at all that you think of which might help, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll do everything in my power to find the person responsible.’
‘You won’t catch him,’ the girl said.
He opened his mouth to reassure her, but knew it was pointless. The only response was to find the murdering bastard. He stood up and then remembered something.
‘Have you got a victim support leaflet in your car, Constable?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Go and get one and bring it back, will you?’
Richards nodded and made her way towards the front door.
‘The leaflet will explain what victim support is,’ he said. ‘There are people who can help you come to terms with your loss.’
He hated intruding on people’s grief, but it was a necessary part of the job. He’d attended training sessions, but until you actually did it in real life, you had no idea what it was really like.
He walked towards the front door. The boy followed him out.
Richards came back with the leaflet. He took it and passed it to the boy. ‘Give that to your mother.’
The door closed behind them.
‘It’s horrible isn’t it, Sir?’
‘What is?’
‘All of it. I was about that girl’s age when the police came to our house to tell my mum and me that my dad had been killed in a petrol station robbery. And now I’ve been on the other side of it.’
‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said.
‘It was a long time ago. It’s what made me want to join the police.’
‘Did they catch the killer?’
‘Yes. There were two of them.’
‘I’m glad.’
They made their way across the road to number 32, Ralston Drive. Parish was about to knock on the door when it swung open. A squat man with grey hair and a paunch was standing before him.
‘Mr Mayhew?’
‘Yes.’
Parish showed his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Parish, and I believe you already know PC Richards.’
‘Yes, please come in.’ Mr Mayhew moved to one side and closed the door behind them. ‘Come through,’ he said and ushered them into the front room. ‘Can my wife get you anything to drink?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Mayhew. We’re fine,’ Parish said as he and Richards sat down next to each other on the green floral sofa.
Harold Mayhew sat in one of the two matching armchairs opposite. Mrs Mayhew was nowhere to be seen.
‘Can you tell me what you saw?’ Parish asked the old man.
‘Didn’t the constable tell you what I told her?’
‘Yes, she did, but I’d like to hear it first hand and clarify some points.’
Mr Mayhew sighed. ‘It was shortly after six thirty. I know because the six o’clock news had just finished. I went out to close my gate because it was banging in the wind. I happened to look up and saw Greg… Mr Taylor. . . walking past number 29. A hooded teenager was coming from the opposite direction. Greg turned to let him pass, but the stranger seemed to stop in front of Greg. When the teenager did walk past him, Greg was slumped on the ground against the wall.’
‘You say a teenager. Could it have been a man?’
‘Yes… I just got the impression it was a teenager.’
‘What about a female?’
Mr Mayhew looked at PC Richards, as if seeking support. ‘Well, I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t think it was. You can tell by the way a person moves, even from a distance, whether they’re male or female.’
‘How tall was this person?’
‘As tall as Greg Taylor. Maybe slightly taller.’
Parish realised that he had no idea how tall the victim was. He’d have to get that information from the pathologist tomorrow morning.
‘What about build? Was he thin, medium or fat?’
‘It was difficult to say in the dark, but he looked average.’
‘So the person wore dark clothes with a hood, was of average build and was as tall as Mr Taylor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what happened? Did the person run away?’
‘No, that’s what was strange. He simply walked away as if he didn’t have a care in the world.’
‘And did you shout out or go and see what had happened to Mr Taylor?’
‘Well no, I didn’t shout out because I was in shock. And, as I explained to the constable, I don’t know anything about first aid, so I went to get Greg’s wife, Debbie, and then called the emergency services.’
Parish didn’t understand why Mayhew hadn’t raised the alarm by shouting out and then gone over to see if his neighbour was still alive, but he didn’t read anything sinister into it. He knew it took all types to make the
world go round. Standing up, he offered his hand and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Mayhew. I’d be grateful if you could come to Hoddesdon Police Station tomorrow morning and make a formal statement.’
‘Certainly,’ he said and showed them out.
Chapter Three
‘Right, Richards,’ Parish said as they left 32, Ralston Drive. ‘Before your shift ends, let’s go and sit in my car out of the cold and see what we’ve got.’
They walked across the road and climbed into the Mondeo. Parish switched on the ignition, the heater and the interior roof light. The digital clock on the dashboard showed seven fifty-five.
‘Write my ramblings down in your notebook,’ Parish said once they were settled. ‘In no particular order, we’ve got three possible motives. The first is robbery, although if it was robbery we have no idea what was taken, because the victim’s wallet, wristwatch and wedding ring weren’t removed. Second, gang initiation – which will be difficult to prove or to identify a killer because the victims are usually chosen at random. Third, the killer had a grudge against Mr Taylor - possibly one of his pupils.’
‘I can’t believe a pupil would kill Mr Taylor.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, he was a good teacher. When I was at school, everyone liked him. He made history interesting.’
‘That was then and this is now, Richards. Times have changed. Every week somebody becomes a victim of a knife crime in London. In America they shoot you; here they knife you.’
‘Will we have to go to the school?’
‘Why, do you have a problem going back to your secondary school?’
‘No. It’ll just be weird, that’s all.’
‘You don’t mind if we carry on do you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘As far as we know, Mr Taylor had no enemies who would resort to murder. The killer was either a male teenager or a man. So yes, we’ll have to go to Chigwell Secondary School and see if there are any likely suspects there. I’ll also contact my informers and see if there’s any word on recent gang initiations. Then, we’ll have to see if Mrs Taylor can spot anything missing from her husband’s effects. Anything else you can think of?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’re now half of the Parish-Richards duo, so you need to contribute your share of the ideas.’
A worried expression spread over her face. ‘If you say so.’