Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18)
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Evidence of Things Not Seen
(Parish & Richards #18)
Previously:
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Breath of Life
The Dead Know Not
Be Not Afraid
The House of Mourning
Through a Glass Darkly
A Lamb to the Slaughter
Silent in the Grave
In the Twinkling of an Eye
A Time to Kill
Deceit is in the Heart
The Fragments That Remain
The Kisses of an Enemy
Evidence of Things Not Seen
Coming later in 2016:
Dominion of Darkness
Tim Ellis
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Kindle Edition
Copyright 2016 Timothy Stephen Ellis
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Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.
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To Pam, with love as always
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A big thank you to proofreader James Godber
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Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
Hebrews (11:1)
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Chapter One
Sunday, February 14
Ten year-old Billy Hunter snuck out of his bedroom at nine-fifteen and ran all the way to Hoddesdon town centre in the dark. It was pretty chilly, so he’d put on his woolly vest, jacket and scarf to make sure he didn’t get a cold. His mum would kill him if he made himself ill. For weeks, he’d seen the signs plastered all over the town – on the lampposts, on the display boards, on the walls of houses, in shop windows, at the bus stops . . . A strange-looking skeletal man with hollow eyes that Billy was sure could turn him to stone had even pushed a leaflet through his mum and dad’s letterbox:
THE
MUMA PADURII TRAVELLING CARNIVAL
IS COMING TO TOWN
ON SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7
FOR ONE WEEK ONLY
ARE YOU READY?
He was ready. He was more than ready. He was double-triple chocolate-chip cookie ready. He knew every one of the acts and was completely, absolutely, totally ready. Yes, he was ready to see the lions, the tigers, the seals, the trapeze artists, the bearded lady – no way, Jose! – the fantastic elastic man, the fire-eaters, the sword-swallowers, the tumblers and acrobats, the scary clowns . . . He shivered. He loved and hated those scary clowns at the same time. In fact, before he’d become a grown-up, there’d been a clown living in his bedroom closet. How scary was that, Jack Spratt? He hadn’t seen the clown for a while, so guessed he didn’t live there anymore.
There was the mermaid, the lobster boy, the three-legged woman, the two-faced man, the great regurgitator – yuk, the Chinese giant, Susie the elephant girl, the magicians and illusionists, the hypnotists, the jugglers . . .
There were the Bumper cars, the Fun-house, the Orbiter ride, the Chair-of-Planes ride, the Carousel, the Zipper ride, the Helter-Skelter, the Ferris wheel and the Tilt-a-Whirl . . .
There were people, noises, colours and smells all around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so excited. The people were pressed up against the steel barriers watching the band march by with the trumpeters trumpeting, the drummers drumming, and the cymbals crashing. Sounding like trombones the elephants were joining in the hullabaloo as well, and then came the trucks with cages full of monkeys, horses, camels, zebras and penguins . . .
‘Hi, fella.’
Billy looked up. The man was tall, with curly ginger hair above his ears like Bonzo the Clown. He had a long nose, bright eyes and hands that could fill a whole pocket. ‘Hi.’
‘You’re here for the travelling carnival, are you?’
‘You bet.’
‘I know people who know carnival people.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. I can get you a front row seat on any given night. I can get you in to meet all the performers. I can get you pictures, autographs, keepsakes, mementos . . . I can even get you an audition if you’re interested in joining the carnival.’
‘Oh boy!’
‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Billy . . . Billy Hunter. I live . . .’
‘You got any particular skills, Billy Hunter?’
‘I do magic tricks.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I’ve been practising – a lot.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘I’m ready, Mister.’
‘You can call me Jinx.’
‘That’s a cool name.’
‘Thanks, Billy. Your name ain’t so shabby either. So, you wanna meet and greet with the carnival people? Maybe get a chance to show ‘em what you got up your magic sleeves? Are you ready to grab the opportunity with both hands and hang on for the ride?’
‘You bet! I’ve been ready my whole life for tonight.’
‘Let’s go then.’ Jinx offered a massive hand.
‘I don’t know. My mum says . . .’
‘And your mum’s one hundred percent spot-on right, Billy boy. But we ain’t strangers anymore, are we? I mean, you know my name, I know your name . . . It’s like we been properly introduced already. S’truth! I’ve nearly got you a magic career in the carnival.’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘You suppose right, my boy.’ He put an elephant-sized hand on Billy’s shoulder. ‘You ready?’
This was his chance. Jinx knew people who knew carnival people. He’d heard his dad say that you had to grab your chance when it came around, because those chances didn’t come around more than once in a lifetime. ‘I’m ready, Jinx.’
‘That’s, my boy.’
With Jinx’s monstrous hand gripping him round the shoulder, he followed the carnival through Hoddesdon Town to wherever it was going to take him.
***
Monday, February 15
‘I’ve been doing some research,’ Stick said as they set off towards the station.
‘Does Jenifer know?’
‘She helped me.’
‘You’ve been looking for another job, and you’ve decided that your non-existent skillset is better suited to puffin whispering on Puffin Island rather than policing in Essex?’
‘There’s a clinic in Sweden that has had major success with womb transplants. Nine women so far. A seventy-eight per cent success rate, but it’s not without its problems.’
Xena stared at him. ‘Are you my gynaecologist now?’
‘I’ve discussed it with Jenifer . . .’
‘You’ve discussed my fucking womb with Jenifer! What type of pervert are you?’
‘And I’ll pay for everything if you want to go ahead.’
‘You’ve got your hands in
my knickers again.’
‘I have not.’
‘Metaphorically speaking. There are fingerprints, DNA and hand-hair everywhere. I can’t say I’m best-pleased, Stickyfingers. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I’m livid.’
‘Well, the offer is there.’
‘Do you think I’m the type of person who would buy a second-hand womb?’
‘You bought a second-hand car.’
‘That’s totally different.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Just keep your bony little fingers out of my knickers.’
‘Do you know the new DCI?’
‘Met him on a training course in Birmingham sixth months ago.’
‘And?’
‘He’s a pussy.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘It depends on whether you want any kind of leadership or not.’
‘Leadership would be good, I suppose.’
‘Then you’re out of luck.’
***
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ Richards said.
‘Well, you’d better believe it and get used to it. We have a new boss from today.’
They were in Parish’s new Mazda 3 hatchback heading along the A10 towards Hoddesdon. According to his new digital dashboard clock it was seven forty-seven. His Ford Focus had been showing its age, so he’d decided to buy a new car. Well, new in the sense that it wasn’t as old as the Ford Focus. He’d fancied something a little different, so he searched around and took a shine to the Mazda 3. The design was eye-catching, it handled well and the make also had a reputation for reliability.
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I knew it. He’s going to break us up, isn’t he? He’ll transfer me to Traffic, make me wear my uniform and promote one of his cronies . . .’
‘You always think the worst of people.’
‘I do not.’
‘Once he gets to know you he could promote you to Detective Sergeant and put you forward for the Queen’s Police Medal.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a pig . . . Sir.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t forgotten your lowly place in the scheme of things.’
‘There’s no chance of that, Herr Gruppenführer Rasputin. So, what aren’t you telling me?’
‘Lots of things.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll find out about those. But what about DCI Nigel Nibley? You know, he sounds like a serial killer to me.’
‘Everybody sounds like a serial killer to you.’
‘That’s because most of them are.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘It’s true – I do have vivid dreams. Well, what have you heard about him?’
‘He’s been promoted above his level of incompetence.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s old school. He thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen and the bedroom . . .’
‘Nooo?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You’re having me on?’
‘I wish I were.’
‘Can’t you speak to the Chief Constable?’
‘And say what?’
‘Get Nibley replaced with someone more acceptable.’
‘Acceptable to whom?’
‘To me.’
‘Do you think I have any say in the allocation of DCIs?’
‘Well you should.’
He found an empty parking space in the car park. ‘And when you get out don’t put your greasy hands on the dashboard.’
‘I haven’t touched your hair this morning, so I don’t have greasy hands. And I wish you thought as much of me as you do about this stupid car.’
‘Stupid! I’ll have you know it has an intelligence module, which is something you probably need to work on.’
‘Huh!’
DCI Nigel Nibley was waiting for them in the squad room. ‘Think of a whole number between one and ten.’
‘Okay,’ Parish said.
Nibley had sloping shoulders, no neck to speak of, red ears that looked as though they were the depository for at least six pints of the available eight pints of the man’s blood, and the widest gap between nose and mouth Parish had ever seen.
‘Multiply the number by two.’
‘Yep.’
‘Multiply the new number by five.’
‘Done.’
‘Divide that number by the original number you thought of.’
‘Right.’
‘Subtract seven.’
‘Okay.’
‘The number you originally thought of was three, which is the very number on this piece of paper?’
‘Hey!’ Richards said. ‘How did you do that, Sir?’
‘I’m a DCI, Detective. Need I say any more?’ He passed Parish the slip of paper he held in his hand. ‘The booby prize, I’m afraid. Blake and Gilbert beat you in here by seconds and have the painted lady. You’ve got the ten year-old boy . . .’
Richards looked over at DI Blake. ‘Isn’t it your turn to take the child case, Ma’am?’
Blake was sitting on the edge of her desk smiling like an assassin. ‘You think this is a board game where we all take turns, Richards? If you’d wanted your pick of the murders on offer you should have got here earlier.’
She looked at Parish. ‘Tell her, Sir.’
‘DI Blake is quite right, Richards. Because you were dawdling in the bathroom we were late.’
DCI Nibley spread his arms in disbelief. ‘Well, what are you all waiting for? I’d love to give you some words of encouragement, but I’m all out of encouraging words this morning.’
‘Come on, Richards,’ Parish said, grabbing her by the elbow. ‘You heard the Chief – we have a murder to solve.’
***
‘Do you believe that bitch?’
‘She was probably right – it was our turn.’
Xena rolled her eyes. ‘You’re as lame as her, numpty.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, what’s your first impression of Nibbles Nibley?’
‘Is that what they call him?’
‘It’s what I call him?’
‘You shouldn’t have told me that. Now, every time I look at him I’ll want to call him Chief Nibbles.’
Xena laughed. ‘I should arrest you, lock you in a cell and swallow the key.’
‘You have no evidence.’
‘You’re the evidence, stupid.’
‘I am?’
‘Come on, start the car and let’s go.’
It took them thirty-five minutes to reach 167 Hamlet Hill in Roydon Hamlet, which was a spacious four-bedroom detached property with brown uPVC window frames, leadlight glass and an arched front entrance.
‘It’s a bit isolated,’ Stick said.
There was a mixture of high privet, laurel and holly hedges with tall leylandi and monkey puzzle trees blocking any view of the house from the road.
The white forensic truck indicated that Di Heffernan and her crew were already there, as were the press and a mobile cafe selling egg banjos, sausage butties and weak steaming hot tea.
‘Mmmm! Something smells nice,’ Stick said.
‘Maybe on the way out I’ll let you buy me a BLT sandwich.’
‘Okay.’
‘DI Blake?’ someone called as the press surged forward with microphones, cameras and Dictaphones.
She held up a hand. ‘You do it every time. At the moment I know absolutely nothing. After I’ve visited the crime scene – maybe you’ll get a sound bite or two, but maybe you won’t.’
They walked up the path and wriggled into the paper suits, gloves, masks and plastic boots at the doorway.’
‘Is the pathologist here?’ Xena asked the uniformed officer on guard at the front entrance.
He looked down the list of people who had signed in on the sheet of paper attached to the plastic clipboard. ‘Yes, Ma’am. She arrived about fifteen
minutes ago.’
‘Why are we always the last to know, Stickleback? There must be something wrong with a system where the most important people are the last to know what’s going on.’
‘I wouldn’t say we were the last to know. Maybe . . .’
Di Heffernan was giving her people instructions in the hallway.
‘Well, what’s the news from the cesspit they call forensics?’ Xena said.
‘DI Blake! My day isn’t complete until I’ve had more than enough of you.’
Xena nodded. ‘I’m a popular person, so I can well believe that.’
‘We’re thinking it’s a home invasion.’
‘Meaning?’
‘As far as we can ascertain, there’s no evidence of a burglary. The perpetrator entered the property with the sole intention of murdering the victim and painting her.’
‘Painting her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sure you’d like me to do your job for you.’
‘It’d make a welcome change for you to do anybody’s job, especially your own.’
‘Ladies!’ Stick intervened. ‘Can we stay focussed on why we’re here, please?’
‘Only one victim?’ Xena said.
‘Yes – Mrs Valerie Tyndall.’
‘What about the husband?’
‘Doctor Harry Tyndall – he has a PhD in geology. There’s an article about him in last month’s Glacier Monthly, a copy of which was lying on the kitchen table. He’s a Professor in the Department of Climate Change at King’s College London. Apparently, he has a theory, and to back up that theory he’s gone on a fieldtrip to take temperature and salinity measurements on the Petermann glacier in northwest Greenland.’