Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Because I’ve been standing here for ages.’

  ‘You have a strange view of the world, Richards. Did anybody offer you money?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ‘You started it. If you were that worried you could have gone inside and started the ball rolling.’

  ‘If I’d done that you would have moaned.’

  ‘Surely you’re confusing me with somebody else. It’s well known throughout the English-speaking world that I have an easy-going and pleasant disposition. I bet you can’t even remember the last time I had a good moan?’

  ‘This morning you moaned at those nice people from the press, then you moaned at Paul and Doc Riley, at lunchtime you moaned about the old aged pensioners in the hospital restaurant, this afternoon you moaned . . .’

  He elbowed her. ‘Shush.’

  The building looked nothing like a Tudor Inn inside. It had been completely gutted and turned into a very tasteful base for a firm of solicitors and barristers. He knew most of the legal people around Hoddesdon except those who had no interest in criminal law – Hornby’s was one such firm. He’d heard of them, of course, but he didn’t know any of their people, nor had any dealings with them.

  ‘Hello, how can I help you?’ the receptionist said with a smile. Her name badge stated that she was Valerie Lawson (Mrs). Her long dark hair had been pulled back and plaited like a horse’s mane, her teeth should have been on a poster advertising organic toothpaste and she’d fashioned her eyebrows so that they gave her face a permanent expression of amazement.

  Parish showed her his warrant card. ‘We’d like to see the person in charge, please.’

  ‘Old Mr Hornby doesn’t come in on Tuesdays.’

  ‘Who’s in charge today then?’

  ‘Mrs Benton.’

  ‘She’ll do.’

  ‘Unfortunately, she has a client with her for the next hour.’

  ‘Interrupt her.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Mr Rattinger has been found dead.’

  Her jaw dropped open.

  He noticed a piece of green cabbage wedged between two of her bottom teeth.

  ‘Just one moment, Sir.’ She disappeared through a doorway behind her.

  While he was waiting, he picked up a Hornby brochure and skimmed through the pages. They dealt with three main areas of the law: family law, civil litigation and prison law – no criminal law. Family law covered civil partnerships; matrimonial law; financial settlements; divorce law; pre-nuptial and post-nuptial agreements; child issues such as abduction; care proceedings and adoption; and probate, trusts and wills. Civil litigation encompassed property law; personal injury; professional negligence; partnership and employment disputes; and injunctions. Finally, prison law covered parole applications; sentence planning; disciplinary adjudications; licence recalls; re-categorisation; judicial review; and appeals and tariff reviews.

  He wondered which area of the law Henry Rattinger was specialised in, and why the barrister’s tongue had been sent to him.

  A tired-looking middle-aged woman with grey hair appeared. She was wearing a loose-fitting cream blouse through which he could see a plain white bra, and a pin-striped skirt stretched over a bloated abdomen. She thrust out a slim hand towards him. ‘I’m Michelle Benton.’

  He shook the proffered hand and introduced Richards.

  ‘What’s this about old Henry being found dead? And why are the police involved?’

  Parish looked around the reception – it was empty. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered!’ A veil of white descended over her face. ‘Please come through to the conference room.’

  She led them through another doorway and along a short corridor to a corner room boasting a large oval table, ten upholstered chairs and at least fifty cardboard boxes stacked against the wall to their right.

  They sat down.

  ‘I don’t understand. Henry was taking a couple of weeks off.’

  ‘He was found early this morning in a derelict farm building next to the A10, and we’re of the opinion that the killer hasn’t finished yet.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘We need to know about Mr Rattinger’s cases for the past six months . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’

  He held up a hand. ‘What I’m about to tell you is confidential.’

  Michelle Benton nodded.

  ‘Henry’s tongue had been cut out and sent to me in a box. He’d been left to bleed to death and on his forehead had been carved the words: SPEAK NO EVIL. We don’t need to know the details of any attorney-client communication, but we do need the details of each case, and the names of the people involved.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s something to do with one of his cases?’

  ‘We’re not sure of anything yet. We’ll certainly be looking closely at his private life, but SPEAK NO EVIL on a barrister’s forehead is, we think, self-explanatory.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

  ‘Also, that monkey doesn’t sit there on his own, does he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ve speculated that HEAR NO EVIL might be the judge . . .’

  ‘. . . Or magistrate.’

  ‘Yes . . . Which area of the law did Mr Rattinger specialise in?’

  ‘Family law mainly – specifically child issues, but he also picked up a few prison cases.’

  Parish nodded. ‘SEE NO EVIL could be a police officer, and DO NO EVIL the jury. So, we’re in a bit of a rush, not least because the police officer might be me. Although I don’t see how, because I’ve never had any dealings with Mr Rattinger.’

  She said, ‘I’ll ask one of our juniors – Lauren Parry – to get you everything you need.’

  ‘Parish stood up. ‘I have a press briefing at four o’clock . . .’ He checked his watch – it was twelve minutes to four. ‘I’m going to leave Constable Richards here, she knows what we need.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said, and left.

  He turned to Richards. ‘Be back at the station by five for the briefing.’

  ‘Can I order a taxi when I’ve finished?’

  ‘Have you got a mouth and some money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I think you’ll be able to do that then.’

  ‘I might ask about the European Court of Human Rights while I’m here.’

  ‘Yes, you definitely need to learn about the different articles of the convention.’

  ‘That not what I meant.’

  ‘I know.’

  ***

  He jogged back to the station, but was out of breath and sweating by the time he got there, which was two minutes to four. He didn’t even have time to visit the little boys’ room.

  Chief Bonnard – looking like a mannequin stolen from a Harrods window display – was waiting for him.

  ‘I don’t mean to rush you, Inspector, but . . .’

  He bent over and put his hands on his thighs. ’Just give me a minute to catch my breath, Sir.’

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be in training?’

  ‘Not for the sprint.’

  He gradually got his breathing back under control. His heart rate slowed to a hop, skip and a jump. ‘Okay, Sir. Shall we?’

  Chief Bonnard led.

  As soon as he stepped into the press briefing room he was blinded by the lights. He hoped the television cameras didn’t zoom in on him. In comparison with the Chief, he looked as though he’d been living rough for at least a week. Beads of perspiration were still popping on his forehead, and his four o’clock shadow was in danger of becoming a full beard.

  As he sat down in one of the two chairs at the table, he noticed that the backdrop behind him had changed. Instead of the boring police badge and message: “Working Together for a Safer Hoddesdon”, it had transmogrified into Hoddesdon’s red, white and silver heraldic coat of arms with the Latin motto: COR UNUM VIA UNA – One heart, one way. It was a definite improvement.

  ‘Very nice,
’ he whispered to the Chief.

  Chief Bonnard smiled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for attending. As you are fully aware, we’re investigating the death of a child, and I urge anyone with information that could assist us in our enquiries into this terrible crime to come forward. I will now hand you over to Detective Inspector Parish who will give you an update on our progress, and let me assure everyone that we have our best people leading this investigation.’

  He was glad the Chief had introduced him, it had given him time to calm down and collect his thoughts, but he’d have to ad lib because he hadn’t had time to prepare anything.

  ‘As you all know, eight year old Sally Bowker’s body was discovered in Hangman’s Wood in Little Thurrock yesterday morning, following her abduction on Friday, March 30, from Wells-Next-The-Sea in Norfolk. During Sally’s abduction, her parents – Andrew and Jemima Bowker – were also killed. As yet, we have no clues about where Sally might have been for the sixteen days she was missing, but we do have a number of leads that are being vigorously pursued.’ He wasn’t a poker player, but he enough not to reveal all his cards, so he refrained from telling them anything about the Green X-registration Range Rover, the rope and knots, or the mud from Tilbury Power Station discovered between Sally’s toes.

  The questions began in an orderly fashion. Maybe journalists were human after all.

  ‘Annie Hartley from the Mission Daily.’ She had removed the obscene covering of dark hair from her face since yesterday morning and now looked almost normal. ‘I asked you yesterday whether you thought you were looking for one or two killers. Do you have an answer today?’

  ‘Yes I do, Miss Hartley. We’re looking for two killers. I can also tell you that we’d urgently like to talk to a person who refers to himself as: “The Removal Man”.’ He didn’t mention anything about the business card, or the eternity symbol being used as a method of communication between paedophiles.

  ‘Chloé Tulino from the Tilbury Herald. Has the post mortem on Sally been carried out yet?’

  ‘Yes it has, Miss Tulino, and I can tell you that Sally had been sexually assaulted during those missing sixteen days.’

  Angry muttering filled the room.

  ‘Kathleen White from the Redbridge Camera. You attended the crime scene of an abducted child earlier. Does that mean you’ve linked Sally’s abduction to those of other children taken from across the southeast of England over the past three months?’

  ‘Yes it does. We are investigating a link between a number of child abductions across the southeast.’ He wasn’t going to list the children’s names, or the fact that Mathew Lee’s mother – Cora – had also been killed during his abduction. Nor was he going to tell them about the modelling agency link and the online shopping idea, which had yet to be confirmed.’

  ‘Patricia Holland from the Thurrock Sentinel. It’s another one of those paedophile rings, isn’t it, Inspector?’

  ‘We think so, Miss Holland.’

  More angry muttering.

  ‘Zoe Lloyd from the Chigwell Herald. Is there anything you can tell us about Henry Rattinger from Hornby’s Solicitors and severed tongue?’

  People turned to stare at her.

  How the hell was she getting her information? They must have a leak at the station. Yesterday she had asked about the Removal Man, and today Henry Rattinger. Nothing had been released about Rattinger yet, so she must have a mole inside the station.

  ‘We’re only here to discuss the death of Sally Bowker, Miss Lloyd.’

  She sat down, but he saw the shadow of a smile and a glint in her eye.

  ‘Rhona Hannah from the Norfolk Post. Can you tell us how many other children have been abducted?’

  ‘Including Sally Bowker – nine.’

  ‘Natalie McMullen from the Estuary Telegraph. Does that include the boy who was taken in the early hours of this morning from Witham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jimmy Fleming from Five News. Where’s Constable Richards? Is she all right?’

  He stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming this afternoon. There’ll be another briefing tomorrow afternoon at the same time.’

  The Chief stopped him from leaving. ‘Photo session, Inspector.’

  They stood side by side in front of the backdrop looking suitably serious while a dozen photographers took their picture.

  Afterwards the Chief said, ‘Good job, Inspector, but if it’s okay with you, I’d like you here at least fifteen minutes before a press briefing so that we can discuss strategy.’

  ‘That was my plan, but then Henry Rattinger got himself killed.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, but that happened this morning, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but we didn’t get to the crime scene until late this afternoon, and then Richards had the idea that the killer’s next victim might be a judge . . .’

  ‘And we don’t want any of those dying on our watch.’

  ‘Exactly, so I had to make a detour to Hornby’s to find out what cases he’d been working on. I left Richards there to collect the information and then ran back, which is why I was sweating like a pot-bellied pig when I got here.’

  ‘All in the past. Five o’clock in the incident room?’

  He looked at his watch – ten to five. ‘Five o’clock, Sir. Hopefully, Richards will have got herself back here by then.’ He headed for the little boys’ room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was five o’clock when he arrived at 15 Victoria Crescent in Henley-on-Thames. Lizzie Bradford’s semi-detached bungalow had a two year-old red Citroen C2 parked on the drive.

  The M40 had been relatively clear, but the traffic was beginning to build up as the going-home crowd surged from their places of work and headed towards the sanctuary of suburbia.

  He pressed the bell, but couldn’t hear anything, so he knocked as well.

  The door flew open.

  ‘Why do people knock after they’ve rung the bell?’

  ‘You can’t hear if the bell has rung from out here,’ he said to the slim red-haired woman standing before him.

  ‘That’s no excuse. Are you ADC Cambatta?’

  ‘DCI Kowalski.’

  She screwed up her face. ‘I was close. Got some ID?’

  He showed his warrant card.

  ‘Okay, you can come in.’

  She led him into a small kitchen with a tiled floor, white fitted units, and a round table and four chairs stashed against the left wall, which was where she directed him.

  ‘Drink?’

  He hadn’t stopped during the journey, so he was in need of a caffeine fill-up. ‘Coffee, please.’

  The back door led into a conservatory housing a three-piece rattan suite and a coffee table. Beyond that there was a garden waiting for some attention.

  ‘I take it you’re Bambi’s sister?’ he said.

  ‘Yes – her younger sister by a couple of years. Our parents died in a house fire on the night Bambi disappeared. You were a bit vague on the phone. What’s it all about?’

  He told her the story of Rose Needle, her journey to Henley-on-Thames, and then showed her the newspaper article as he described the events leading up to Jerry’s disappearance.

  ‘I saw that article, but I didn’t realise it was connected to Bambi.’

  She put a mug of coffee in front of him.

  ‘Help yourself to sugar and milk.’ She emptied a packet of Jaffa cakes onto a plate.

  He put one sugar and a drop of milk in his coffee, helped himself to one Jaffa cake and moved the plate out of reach.

  She gave him a curious look as she sat down opposite him.

  ‘They’re my favourites.’

  She moved them back. ‘Mine as well. I have another packet in a secure place.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ He slid another whole one into his mouth. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘It was just before I went to university in October 2010. I was on holiday in Ibiza with friends. The nig
ht before I came back there was a fire. Everybody thought that Bambi was in the house with my parents, but when the fire brigade were finally able to get inside to investigate they only found the remains of my parents’ bodies. Their final report said that the fire had been started deliberately, and the police concluded that Bambi must have done it before she ran away.’

  ‘It’s more than likely that Bambi is dead.’

  ‘Yes. After all this time, I guessed she would be. We weren’t close to be honest. Bambi was a bit of a troublemaker. Well . . . a lot of a troublemaker really. I can see why everybody might have thought she’d started the fire. She was always in trouble with the police for one thing or another – drugs, alcohol, burglary to pay for her addiction, prostitution . . . Yeah, she ran our mum and dad ragged. They were at the end of their rope, and I think they were getting ready to throw her out of the house, so it wasn’t hard to believe she could have started the fire.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t think she did. I think Rose Needle set fire to the house.’

  ‘It’s no consolation really. I have no family now. Shortly after my parents’ funeral I went to university . . .’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Psychology. I’ve only come back for a short time to put the bungalow up for sale. This isn’t my home anymore. I bought this place with the insurance money thinking that I still had ties here, but I don’t. I’m going back to university to do my PhD, and I’ll live wherever I happen to get a job.’

  ‘Which university?’

  ‘St Andrews in Fife. It’s lovely up there.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Scotland.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. The weather leaves a lot to be desired, but the people are wonderful and the views are stunning.’

  ‘One day . . . maybe.’ He thought he’d like to take Jerry there after this was all over. ‘Do you have a picture of Bambi?’

  ‘You’re lucky. Everything went up in the fire, but I found one in my camera that she posed for before I went on holiday. It was printed with my holiday snaps.’ She left him in the kitchen and went back up the hallway and into another room on the left.