Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Give it to Powell.’ Powell was the techie. He’d be able to put Humpty’s SIM card back together again. By this time tomorrow they’d know every number that had passed through that card. ‘Good job, Hell.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Chapter Five

  He tried to get out of the car, but it was impossible. They’d surged forward and were pressing up against the doors.

  He turned the electrics back on, pushed down on the horn and kept his hand there.

  Eventually, two uniforms appeared and moved the press back.

  As soon as he stepped out of the car they bombarded him with questions.

  He stood there looking at their slavering faces but said nothing, and then he held up a hand for quiet.

  The noise died down enough for him to speak. ‘You want to take a serious look at yourselves. You’re like a pack of wild animals and don’t deserve the time of day. There’ll be no briefing until you learn to act like human beings.’

  He pushed his way through the mob and ducked under the crime scene tape.

  DI Lily Gold was in her late forties with dark brown hair that should have had some grey in it but didn’t, dark-rimmed glasses and three necklace-like deep creases across the front of her neck.

  ‘You’ve made a unilateral decision not to do a press briefing then?’

  He smiled and offered his hand.

  They shook.

  ‘Jed Parish. They need to learn some manners. I thought I was in the middle of the Bradford Riots again.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Yes. They sent contingents from different forces to help out.’

  ‘I remember. I gave a hand in Tottenham a couple of years ago.’

  ‘That was scary.’

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘You’ve met hopalong?’

  ‘PC Richards?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘A bit young and inexperienced for something like this, isn’t she?’

  ‘At first sight – yes, but when you’ve read her résumé, you realise she has more experience in solving murders than some twenty-year detectives.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  ‘I hope that’s not the way this partnership is going to go, with you misinterpreting everything I say.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit sensitive at the moment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Maybe another time. Should we?’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  It wasn’t far to the hanging tree, which had been surrounded by a six-foot high fabric wall by forensics to prevent the press and others from taking photographs and video recordings with a telephoto lens.

  They donned the paper suits, plastic boots, masks and gloves, and slipped through the overlapping gap in the wall onto the aluminium walkway that had been laid down over the crispy spring leaves.

  Thankfully, Di Heffernan had cut the naked Sally Bowker down and placed her body in a child body bag inside a tent, which had been erected to one side of the tree. He could hear a generator humming in the background.

  ‘Hi, Di,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Sir. I cut her down. You can discipline . . .’

  ‘No, you did the right thing. You took photographs?’

  ‘Yes. I did everything I had to do, and then I cut her down. I’ve been on some cases, but this is the worst by a long stretch. How could . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t start asking “How could?”, Di. You know that if it’s even possible for human beings to do it – they will. Evil is a monster of our own making.’

  ‘A bit cynical,’ Gold said.

  He shrugged. ‘If telling the truth is cynical, then that’s the way of it. Okay Di, what have we got?’

  ‘Doc Riley is on her way, and the woman who found the child is coming back with her dog at two o’clock. Her name is Angela Dear.’

  He had to pull down the blue plastic glove on his left hand and roll up the white paper sleeve to look at his watch. It was one thirty-five. ‘That’s fine. Go on.’

  ‘The child had been hung by the neck from that branch.’ She pointed to a four-inch thick branch – about twelve foot from the forest floor – protruding at a slight upwards angle from the tree.

  ‘Any idea what type of tree it is?’ Gold asked.

  ‘A beech tree, I think,’ Di Heffernan said.

  ‘Do you think the type of tree is important, Ma’am?’ Richards asked.

  Gold shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so, but when you get back to the station and the Chief asks you what type of tree the victim was hanging from – it doesn’t look very professional if you don’t know.’

  ‘Mmmm. I hadn’t thought of that.’ She wrote it down in her notebook.

  Heffernan continued. ‘I’ll leave the Doc to tell you whether that’s what killed her. All I can say is that she was naked and dirty. Do you want to see her?’

  He looked at Gold, but she didn’t say anything. ‘What about you, Richards?’

  ‘I don’t want to look.’

  ‘It’s our job.’ They moved into the tent and he signalled for Di to unzip the body bag.

  She switched two tripod lamps on, opened the body bag and turned away.

  Child killings were the worst aspect of being a murder detective. Psychologically, they could cope with most murders, but children really got to everybody. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for what lay inside the open plastic bag before them.

  He squatted.

  ‘What do you see, Richards?’

  She was standing in the doorway with her back to him. ‘A tree.’

  ‘Turn round.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that question.’

  She shuffled round on her plastic boot.

  ‘I see a dead girl.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Her body is discoloured and dirty. She has shoulder-length blonde hair.’

  ‘Is she fat or thin?’

  ‘Thin.’

  ‘Underweight?’

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘Are there any marks on her body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not looking.’

  ‘There’s the rope marks around her neck.’

  ‘Okay. Anything else?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘During the telephone call – the man hit her.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He turned Sally’s head slightly so they could look at the symmetry of her face. She had been a pretty girl with freckles and an upturned nose. ‘Well?’

  ‘Her left cheek and the side of her mouth are swollen.’

  ‘And what should we do about that?’

  ‘Think about it?’

  ‘And once we’ve done that?’

  ‘Take some pictures?’

  ‘And?’

  Di Heffernan wiggled a swab in her hand.

  ‘Take swabs?’

  ‘That’s like cheating in an exam,’ he said.

  ‘No . . . She just jogged my memory. I would have got there in the end.’

  ‘Why would we take swabs?’

  ‘Mmmm. Because . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  Lily Gold swung a hand back and forth in front of her own body.

  ‘Of course! He could have hit her with his bare hand and we might be able to get a DNA sample.’

  ‘You’re a cheat, Richards.’

  ‘It’s hardly my fault that people do things which jogs my memory.’

  ‘I might have to report you to the examination board.’

  ‘Do your worst, DI Parish. I have witnesses who saw and heard nothing.’

  ‘Where else should swabs be taken from?’

  ‘Her mouth?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She might have bitten him.’

  ‘Possible, but unlikely. What else?’

  ‘Oh God! I hope you’re not thinking . . . ?’

  ‘If we don’t think the unthinkable – who will?’

 
‘You can think that, but I don’t want to.’

  ‘You don’t want to be a detective anymore then?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘No, it’s not is it? Well?’

  ‘All right – that as well.’

  ‘Where else might we take swabs from?’

  ‘Her . . . down there.’

  ‘Front and back?’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘I think we all agree on that. Anywhere else?’

  ‘Under her nails? In fact, shouldn’t she have plastic bags over her hands.’

  ‘Good. Yes she should.’ He looked up at Di. ‘I know you’re waiting for Doc Riley to arrive, but I think we need to safeguard any evidence. Put bags over her head, her hands and her feet.’

  ‘Why her feet?’ Richards asked.

  ‘You tell me?’

  ‘I hate how you do that.’

  ‘That’s why I do it. Well?’

  ‘She might have something on her feet that could place her in his car or at his house.’

  ‘See . . . You pretend you don’t know, but you do really. You need to start thinking for yourself and stop relying on me. At the next crime scene I’m going to let you take charge.’

  ‘I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Mmmm. How does that feel?’

  ‘But you’ll be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What if I make a mistake?’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘But what if I do?’

  ‘Then I’ll have put an advert in the Police Gazette for another partner – one who doesn’t make mistakes.’

  ‘You’re a pig.’

  ‘Anything you want to add, DI Gold?’ he said glancing up at her.

  ‘Open one of her eyes.’

  He slid the eyelid open.

  ‘What do you see, Constable Richards?’

  ‘You two are in cahoots. It’s a conspiracy.’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Parish said.

  Richards leaned down to get a closer look. ‘A blue eye.’

  ‘You never said she was this good,’ Gold said.

  Richards screwed up her face. ‘You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?’

  Gold’s eyes creased up. ‘Do you see anything other than the obvious?’

  ‘She has pinpoint pupils.’

  ‘What do you think that means?’

  ‘She was drugged before the killer hung her on the tree.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not a lost cause after all, Parish.’

  Parish stood up. His knees creaked like an octogenarian’s. He’d begun his training regime for the London Marathon earlier – it had nearly killed him. He’d only run three miles, and had to stop to catch his breath four times. Digby had looked at him as if he’d been crazy. ‘Close her up, Di. Anything else?’

  ‘I have the rope for analysis. I cut through the rope to keep the knots intact because they looked unusual.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She shrugged and produced a large plastic evidence bag with a coil of rope inside. ‘I’m not an expert on ropes or knots, but we’ll find someone who is. Also, we’ve taken plastercasts of a tyre on the track and the imprint from a trainer near the tree. Whether either belong to the killer is anybody’s guess, but if they do we’ll be able to place him at the scene when you find him.’

  Gold took the plastic bag with the rope inside. ‘My father was a herring fisherman in King’s Lynn, until the European Union’s fishing quotas destroyed the fleet, that is. I was an unofficial trainee fisherman until the boys started saying I smelled like a dead fish – that certainly killed any desire I had to be a fisherman. The rope is an old three-strand right-hand manila rope. Even after the synthetic ropes were introduced, older fishermen preferred the manila rope because of its strength and the fact that it wasn’t affected by the heat. The knot used to hang the girl is clearly a hangman’s knot – it doesn’t take much to learn how to tie one of those. The other knot, which was used to secure the two ropes together, is a double fisherman’s knot.’

  ‘Are you saying the killer is a fisherman?’ Richards asked.

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to be careful what I say around you, Constable. The killer being a fisherman is certainly one possibility, but that’s not the only one, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘What other explanations could there be?’

  ‘He might just like knots, or – like you – his father could have been a fisherman.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Started without me, I see,’ Doc Riley said coming into the tent.

  ‘Were you on holiday in Alaska?’ Parish asked.

  ‘The M25 is the road to hell – avoid it at all costs.’

  He introduced DI Lily Gold. ‘Joint task force consisting of two DIs and a hopalong.’

  ‘Hey!’ Richards said pulling a face beneath her mask.

  ‘So, what have we got here?’

  Di Heffernan explained.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it, Doc,’ Parish said. ‘Any idea when you might get to the post mortem?’

  ‘You don’t want to watch me eviscerate a little girl, do you?’

  ‘No, we don’t want to watch that,’ Richards said. ‘Do we, Sir?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the hospital cafeteria at twelve,’ Doc Riley said. ‘If I’m not mistaken, it’s your turn to buy.’

  ‘I think you’re taking advantage of an old man with a failing memory.’

  ‘Damned right.’

  They walked outside.

  A uniformed constable signalled to them.

  They walked towards him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A Miss Dear is here with her dog.’

  ‘Excellent. Bring her inside the tape.’

  ‘What about her dog?’

  ‘Has she got it on a lead?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You can let it in.’ The dog and its owner had no doubt already traipsed all over the crime scene anyway.

  They slipped out through the gap in the fence, stripped off the forensic suits and put them in a plastic bin.

  Angela Dear was a country type wearing green corduroy trousers tucked into green wellies and a waxed green Barbour jacket. He guessed she was pro-fox hunting, and was surprised that he could still see her against the green foliage.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Dear,’ he said offering his hand.

  She ignored it. ‘It’s Ms Angela Dear actually. I hate men.’

  ‘Oh! Well that’s put me in my place. This is DI Gold and Constable Richards.’

  She shook their hands.

  ‘Could you tell us how you came upon the dead child?’ he said.

  ‘It’s bound to be a filthy man who did that to the little girl. I was here with Tilly at six-fifteen as I am every morning.’ She stroked the Labrador’s head who wagged its tail in gratitude. ‘Tilly began barking. I shouted for her to come, but she wouldn’t. I went to see what all the commotion was about, and that’s when I found the girl hanging there. I used to be a nurse with Médecins Sans Frontières, so I checked for a pulse at the femoral artery, but there was nothing – even though the body was still slightly warm. I had a mind to take her down, but I guessed it was a crime scene and as she was dead . . .’ she shrugged. ‘I decided not to.’

  ‘A wise decision.’

  ‘Did you see anyone about?’ DI Gold asked.

  ‘Not then, but earlier I’d noticed a dark green Range Rover leaving the wood.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw the driver or wrote down the number plate?’

  ‘You don’t suppose right . . . although I have a vague recollection of the number plate beginning with an “X”.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Gold said.

  ‘I hope you catch the evil bastard,’ Angela Dear said over her shoulder as Tilly dragged her towards the depths of Hangman’s Wood.

  ‘Phone the local constabulary, Richards,’ Par
ish said. ‘We want all the local paedophiles rounded up and interviewed. Tell them what we’re looking for.’ To DI Gold he asked, ‘Do you want to lead on the press briefing?’

  ‘Hate them. You lead – I’ll follow.’ She grinned, and ten years seemed to disappear from her face. ‘Anyway, you already seem to have established a good rapport with the ladies and gentlemen of the British press.’

  The corner of his mouth creased up.

  They walked towards the gathering of reporters and television crews. There was an expectant hush. A man towards the back began to shout out a question, but somebody shut him up.

  ‘Sally Bowker was abducted from 16 Lonely Crescent, Wells, Next-The-Sea in Norfolk on Friday, March 30. Her body was discovered at six-fifteen this morning in Hangman’s Wood, Little Thurrock in Essex.’

  An overweight woman with frizzy hair waved her arm. ‘Patricia Holland from the Thurrock Sentinel. Is it true she was found hanging from a tree?’

  ‘Yes.’ He didn’t see any point in denying it. Someone had obviously got to Ms Dear.

  A thin attractive dark-haired woman shouldered her way to the front. ‘Chloé Tulino from the Tilbury Herald. Is there any evidence that she was sexually assaulted?’

  ‘It’s too early to provide you with details like that, Miss Tulino. We’ll know more once the post mortem has been carried out tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Rhona Hannah from the Norfolk Post,’ said a pale ginger-haired woman with a ring in her nose. ‘Have you any idea where Sally has been for the past sixteen days?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  A strange-looking woman with long straight grey hair and slim rimless glasses perched on the end of her nose said, ‘Zoe Lloyd from the Chigwell Herald. What can you tell us about someone called “The Removal Man”?’

  There was always one, he thought. Where the hell had she obtained her information from? ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about a removal man, Miss Lloyd. I suggest you look in the Yellow Pages if you require assistance in any planned house-moving project.’

  There was a smattering of sniggers.