A Life for a Life: (Parish & Richards #1)

by Tim Ellis

  Although he had been to the hospital on numerous occasions, Parish hadn’t noticed before that the mortuary was not identified on the main display board as a department. He imagined that the Board of Directors didn’t really want to advertise that there was a whole department which specialised in death.

  He knew the way to the mortuary anyway. Richards followed him through the main reception area where he bought a paper. He then took a right past the fracture clinic and the outpatients departments, then another right past Beech and Ash Wards to the end of the corridor. The mortuary was in block 1, opposite the catering stores.

  Chapter Four

  The completely bald sixty-one year old Doctor Maurice Michelin was five foot ten with brown eyes and a grey goatee beard. Apart from the wrinkles of time, his skin was blemish-free and it was clear that he played sport to keep in shape. He had nearly finished the post-mortem of Greg Taylor and looked up when DS Jed Parish and PC Mary Richards arrived at the mortuary.

  The cadaver lay on the stainless steel table with its torso open from throat to groin like the gateway to hell. Doc Michelin was rummaging around inside as if he were searching for a childhood keepsake that had been mislaid many years before.

  Parish glanced at Richards as she put her hand up to her mouth and turned a ghostly white.

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’ She moved back to the door. ‘I’ll wait for you over here.’

  Parish stepped up to the table and peered into the empty cavern of Greg Taylor. It had been a long time since dead bodies had affected him. With all the organs removed and sitting in jars on the side for analysis, he could see the spinal cord glinting in the light.

  ‘No DI with you this morning, Sergeant Parish?’

  ‘I’m the DI today, Doc.’

  ‘Are congratulations in order?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve just been given the dirty end of the stick: no rank and no pay, just the work.’ He introduced PC Richards.

  ‘You’ll be all right with Sergeant Parish, Constable. He’s one of the good ones.’ Michelin stood up straight and massaged his lower back with his left hand. ‘Well, hopefully I’ve got some good news for you, Sergeant.’

  ‘You found a DNA match and you know who the killer is?’

  Michelin gave a snort. ‘Not that good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go on then - make my day.’

  ‘Two things. First, the victim was stabbed in the heart. Death would have occurred almost immediately. The wound, however, is not your usual knife wound.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s round instead of oblong.’ He went over to a small whiteboard fixed to the wall behind him and drew the shape of a normal knife wound. ‘This is your common or garden knife wound, which is usually bevelled towards the cutting edge, but most definitely oblong.’ He drew a circle next to it. ‘This is Mr Taylor’s wound.’

  ‘A knitting needle?’ Parish suggested.

  ‘Larger than a knitting needle and tapered.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘A marlinspike.’

  ‘Never heard of one.’

  Michelin went back to his computer and brought up the picture of a metal spike with a piece of string attached to it. ‘That’s what I think was your murder weapon.’

  Richards edged closer, but kept a perfumed handkerchief over her nose and mouth. ‘Looks like a tent peg,’ she said when she saw the picture.

  ‘Unlike the tent peg, Constable, which is hollow and a uniform diameter along its length, the marlinspike is solid and tapered.’

  Parish scratched his head. ‘What’s it for? Fishing?’

  ‘In a way, yes. It’s a tool used in rope work apparently.’

  ‘So, we might be looking for a sailor or a fisherman?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, Parish. What I’m saying is that Taylor was killed with a marlinspike. It might be that the killer found it in a charity shop and is simply using it as his murder weapon, but he has no idea what it is.’

  Parish could see that knowing the murder weapon was a marlinspike wasn’t going to be of much help unless they caught the killer. Then it would probably condemn the bastard to life imprisonment. ‘Okay, thanks, Doc. What’s the second thing?’

  Michelin stood up. With his rubber wellingtons flopping on the floor, he walked over to where Mr Taylor’s organs were sitting in clear glass jars of formaldehyde. He slid a small evidence bag towards him off the top next to the spleen and passed it to Parish. ‘This little trinket was in the corpse’s mouth.’

  Parish looked at the small round metal coin with the number 27 stamped on it. He turned it over, but the obverse was blank. He looked enquiringly at Doc Michelin.

  ‘Yes, you may well wonder what it is, Parish. You don’t see them anymore, but they used to be produced in all shapes and sizes. This one looks as though it’s made from copper, but they were also made from brass, pewter, aluminium and tin.’

  Parish passed the bag to Richards and said, ‘It looks like a coin.’

  ‘In a way it was,’ Michelin agreed. ‘It’s a token and might very well have been used as currency when it was produced.’

  ‘Might?’

  ‘Usually, the currency tokens had the value and the issuing authority stamped on them.’

  ‘Doesn’t the twenty-seven indicate a value?’

  ‘Possibly, but possibly not. There’s no issuing authority and the twenty-seven has no denomination such as pence or cents.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s not a currency token?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort; stop putting words into my mouth, Parish. Next you’ll be wanting me to sign a confession which says I did the dastardly deed.’

  Parish smiled. ‘So what are you saying, Doc?’

  ‘It might be a currency token, but it’s more than likely not.’

  ‘What other types of token are there?’

  ‘There are railway tokens, but it’s not one of those. There are telephone tokens, but it’s not one of those either. There are barter and trade tokens, but, again, they usually had a value and issuing authority on them. More recently there are slot-machine tokens, but they have the casino stamped on them. There are variations on the theme, but I would say that this is not any of those.’

  ‘Now that you’ve told me what it’s not. . .’ Parish said, feeling exasperated, ‘. . .what is it?’

  ‘I have no idea, Sergeant. My suggestion would be to find someone who knows something about tokens.’

  ‘The way you’ve been going on about them, I thought you were the resident expert.’

  ‘No. I did a bit of research out of curiosity when I found the token in the victim’s mouth, but I’ve exhausted my knowledge now.’

  ‘Okay. Did you take a picture of the token before you put it in the bag, so that I can show it around?’

  ‘We’re not complete amateurs in the suburbs you know.’ Doc Michelin went to the printer and produced a 12” x 8” photograph incorporating blow-ups of both sides of the token and passed it to Parish. He also gave him a memory stick. ‘That photograph, as well as others, is on there as a Jpeg.’

  ‘You’re a genius, Doc,’ Parish said.

  ‘It has been said on many occasions. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to get on. I’ll send over the full report tomorrow morning, but you already know the important details.’

  ‘One last thing: how tall was the victim?’

  Doc Michelin referred to a clipboard with the outline of a human on a chart. ‘One point seven eight metres.’

  ‘And in old money?’

  ‘Ah, you’re one of those fossils, are you? Five feet ten inches.’

  ‘Someone’s got to keep the flag flying, Doc.’ Parish turned towards the door. ‘Have a good one, and thanks.’

  ***

  In the car outside, Parish stared at the photograph and wondered about the significance of putting the token in the victim’s mouth. He then looked at the paper to see what had bee
n said about the stabbing.

  Police have launched a murder inquiry after a man died of a stab wound in Chigwell, Essex.

  Officers received reports of a man with stab wounds at 6.40pm on Tuesday night in Ralston Drive, Chigwell. Although paramedics rushed the man to hospital, he was pronounced dead at 8pm. Forensic officers cordoned-off the area to conduct a search. No arrests have been made. The victim has not been identified and police have not released details of his age, though he is believed to be an adult. Chief Superintendent Walter Day of Hoddesdon Police Station said his murder team have begun an investigation and will release further details later. The number of recorded violent crimes has increased by 3% in Chigwell from 2008 to 2009. The figure is twice the national average according to the British Crime Survey.

  Parish’s lips curled into a wry smile. …His murder team… If the press only knew, he thought.

  ‘It’s freezing in here,’ Richards said.

  It was freezing. He recalled the female weather forecaster at the end of the morning news saying that temperatures were unlikely to go above –5oC, and that more snow was expected. It wasn’t snowing yet, but, from the look of the gunmetal sky, it looked as though there was a bucketful to come.

  The engine was running and the heater was set to three. ‘It’ll soon get warm,’ he said, passing the photograph to Richards. ‘What do you think this means then?’

  She took off her gloves and blew on her hands. ‘If the killer put the token in Mr Taylor’s mouth…’

  ‘I think we can take that as read. The victim was hardly sucking on it like a lozenge before he was murdered.’

  ‘But Mr Taylor could have put it in his own mouth as a message to us.’

  He hadn’t thought of that. ‘That’s a damned good observation, Richards. Well done, but I think we’ll stick with the killer putting it in there. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.’

  ‘Okay.’ Richards stared at the photograph as if the solution was hidden somewhere on the paper like a magic eye illusion. ‘Well, if the killer put it in there, then he was telling us something.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Also, I don’t think it was a random killing. Mr Taylor was probably the target.’

  ‘Not necessarily. A gang member might be using the token as a tag.’

  ‘What, you mean like a signature?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Richards didn’t say anything.

  ‘I know it sounds far-fetched, but it’s early in the investigation and we shouldn’t rule out an avenue of inquiry so soon.’

  ‘It’s not that, Sir. I was thinking about someone using a token as a signature. It might not be a gang member. It could be someone else.’

  ‘Slow down, Richards. We don’t want to start travelling down that road.’

  ‘Sorry. It just came into my mind, and with the marlinspike thing… well. I was watching a programme about the signatures of serial killers on the Crime Channel last night, and I started to think…’

  ‘This is Chigwell in Essex. Let’s keep it real shall we? And stop using the Crime Channel as a substitute for proper police training.’

  Richards reddened. ‘Sorry. I suppose I am getting a bit carried away, but…’

  ‘No buts. This will be an isolated murder with a logical explanation. We just have to keep collecting the jigsaw pieces until we find some that fit together and the picture starts to make sense. The last I heard, Anthony Hopkins was writing a cookbook somewhere in South America. He’s not visiting Chigwell.’

  Smiling, Richards said, ‘What next, Sir?’

  ‘Chigwell High Street.’

  As they pulled out of the car park the day became night and the snow fell from the sky like confetti at a wedding. Richards needed the lights on main beam and the windscreen wipers on ultra fast so that she could see where she was going.

  When they reached Chigwell High Street, Parish didn’t bother getting out of the car but signalled to a couple of youths huddled in a doorway to come over. Yes, they’d heard about the murder. No, neither of them knew anything about it being gang-related. He told them to keep their ears open and contact him if they did hear something.

  ‘They weren’t much help.’

  ‘No.’ Parish looked at his watch. It was quarter to twelve. ‘What about lunch?’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, but I have to watch my weight.’

  ‘It wasn’t an invitation. I have to eat to keep going. Drive down the road and park at the Chigwell Arms. You can watch me stuff my face with burger and chips, and feel good about yourself.’

  ***

  The date of 1805 had been affixed to the outside of the pub. Inside, the crooked ceilings were designed for people of below average height, and Parish kept banging his head on the beams as he made his way to the bar.

  They were sitting at a small round table with a beer mat under one leg. Parish had a pint of extra cold Guinness, Richards a diet coke.

  ‘This snow isn’t helping us, is it, Sir?’ Richards said, absentmindedly.

  ‘If necessary we’ll walk,’ Parish said. ‘Okay, in the light of the two jigsaw pieces Doc Michelin has kindly given us, let’s consider the motives for the murder again.’

  Richards pulled her notebook and pen out. ‘Robbery was the first one.’

  ‘Do you think it was robbery?’

  ‘No. I think that the token in Mr Taylor’s mouth means something. If we find out what that is, we’ll be able to solve the case.’

  ‘I see. So, you don’t think a robber or a gang initiate left the token as a signature?’

  ‘No. A robber wouldn’t leave something so he could be identified and, as far as we know, nothing of Mr Taylor’s was stolen. I think we can forget about robbery as a motive.’

  An unshaven man in a striped apron and hat brought Parish’s burger and chips with the instruction to ‘enjoy.’ After liberally sprinkling the condiments over his plate, he began to eat. With his mouth half-full, he said, ‘Okay, I agree with you. Cross robbery off our list of motives. Now, what about a gang initiation?’

  ‘The marlinspike and the token make that unlikely. Gang members carry knives. The marlinspike looked a bit effeminate to me, like a large sewing needle. I don’t think someone in a gang would be seen dead with one of those.’

  ‘What about the token?’ Parish said, before stuffing a quarter of the burger in his mouth.

  ‘Gang members use graffiti tags, not tokens. Not only that, the token was old. Where would a gang member get an old brass token from? I don’t think they would be bothered with them.’

  ‘So, should we cross off gang initiation then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do it. That just leaves Mr Taylor as the target. And you said he was so nice that no one in their right mind could possibly harm him.’

  ‘I know, but maybe whoever did murder Mr Taylor wasn’t in their right mind.’

  ‘I think we can safely assume that was the case. Murder is hardly a rational behaviour.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Well, all we’ve got left is Mr Taylor. You’ve eliminated everything else apart from the marlinspike, which I don’t think is going to be much use until we catch the killer. I agree with you that the token is an important piece of the jigsaw, so we need to find out everything we can about it. We also need to dig around in Mr Taylor’s life to find out why someone would want to kill him. Is that okay with you, Richards?’

  Mary Richards smiled. ‘We make a good team, don’t we, Sir.’

  ‘We certainly do. Did that paramedic ring you last night?’

  Richards looked towards the bar as if something had caught her eye. ‘No.’

  Parish ate the last of his burger and drank the dregs of his Guinness. ‘Richards, you’re dealing with a professional here. I know when people are lying to me. When have you agreed to see him?’

  Richards looked at her feet. ‘Saturday night.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You might be working.’

>   ‘Then I won’t see him. He knows I’m on an important case.’

  ‘You’d better tell him that Hoddesdon Police Station was built over the remains of a medieval castle. When contractors were doing repairs to the boilers last year they found a set of stairs beneath the cellar. Those stairs led to one of the castle’s dungeons, which is in excellent condition. Implements of torture covered in dried blood were found inside that dungeon, and from time to time we take suspects down there, away from the tape recorders, the video cameras and the two-way mirrors to extract confessions.’

  Richards was sitting opposite him with her mouth open. ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  She laughed. ‘You tell a good story. You had me going.’

  ‘What I’m saying is, tell him he’d better look after you, or he’ll find himself in that metaphorical dungeon.’

  Mary Richards put her hand on his. ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘Right,’ Parish said, getting up and putting on his coat and scarf. ‘Enough of this touchy-feely crap. Let’s go and do the drop at Ralston Drive. After that, we’ll visit Chigwell Secondary School and see if we can identify any likely suspects. Then, before we call it a day, we’ll go and find someone who knows something about tokens.’

  The leaflet drop took them less than half an hour because Richards turned it into a competition. As soon as Parish realised that he was in a race he was already two houses behind her, and although he put on a spurt he couldn’t make up the ground he’d lost.

  Richards crossed the road to meet him as he came out of the last house. ‘You lost, Sir.’

  They began to walk back up the road towards where Richards had parked the car.

  Once Parish had brought his breathing under control, he said, ‘I didn’t even realise we were racing.’

  She turned to stare at him. ‘I think I can spot when people are telling me lies as well, you know.’