by Tim Ellis
‘Yes, and it’s in an oblong glass coffin.’
Stick nudged her.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t say anything, Ma’am.’
‘Not you, Pecker. DS Gilbert is being obnoxious as usual.’
She turned her head to stare at Stick. ‘Well?’
‘Ask him what the body has been painted as.’
‘It’s on loudspeaker, numpty. Did you hear that, Pecker?’
‘Yes. The body has been painted to resemble an angel on the right side and a demon on the left side.’
Stick smiled and nodded. ‘I thought so.’
‘You thought what?’
‘Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome.’
‘Stop rambling.’ She turned back to the phone. ‘Have you called Doc Paine yet, Pecker?’
‘I was just about to.’
‘Well, when you do, ask her to send me a photograph of the first dead woman as she would have normally looked without the body modifications – we need it for identification purposes.’
‘Understood, Ma’am.’
‘And if there are any problems in doing that she’s to ring me.’
‘I’ll let her know.’
‘Although I’m devastated about Heffernan’s suicide, in the furore you seem to have forgotten about the search for DNA and fingerprint evidence on the house phone, Pecker.’
‘Ah no! I did forget, but it was only to tell you that the phone had been wiped clean – no DNA and no fingerprints.’
‘I’ll put it down to you being a newby, but don’t forget again.’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘We’re on our way to question the owners of the house where the first corpse was discovered, so we’ll be with you in about an hour.’
‘We’ll be waiting for you, Ma’am.’
‘Eagerly?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Will you be waiting eagerly for me, Pecker?’
‘Well . . . we’ll just be waiting, carrying out a fingertip-search, taking swabs and searching for fingerprints . . . you know.’
‘Goodbye, Pecker.’
She ended the call.
‘You have a new arrival to torment?’ Stick said.
‘Torment! Me? I think you’re confusing me with my ugly and horrible twin – Cruella DeVille. I’m the beautiful good-natured one. So, what’s this waffle about Jekyll and Hyde?’
‘You know about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?’
‘I know I’m not as well-read as you Professor, but I’ve been known to watch an old movie every now and again.’
‘The split personality – or dissociative identity disorder – is sometimes called the Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome, because one of the themes in Robert Louis Stevenson’s book is the duality of human nature – the inner struggle between good and evil . . .’
‘So you’re a practising psychologist now?’
‘I’ve been doing some research.’
‘You’ll be telling me next that you understood what you were reading.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but some of the words were familiar to me. Think about it. The first corpse was painted as two halves of a clown – good and evil. This new body follows the same theme – an angel and a demon, or good and evil.’
‘So, how does knowing this help us, Sigmundo?’
‘The killer is two separate people.’
‘You’re suggesting there’s two of them?’
‘No – one person with two identities.’
She grinned. ‘Someone who doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going?’
‘More or less. DID is a mental disorder characterised by the appearance of at least two distinct and relatively enduring identities that alternately control a person’s behaviour.’
‘Let’s say that I’m stupid enough to believe a quarter of the quackery you’re peddling – how does it help us?’
‘I don’t think the collector exists . . . Well, not in the true sense of the word. The body-painter is the collector, but neither the collector nor the body-painter knows the other exists within the same body.’
‘They’re one and the same person?’
‘That’s my theory. The connecting thread between the two separate identities is the commission by the collector for the body painter to create a series of one-off works of art.’
‘You need to get your head examined.’
‘Andrei Markov is both the collector and the body-painter, which also makes him the killer.’
Xena stared out of the window at the passing Essex countryside. Could Stick be right? Were they really looking for someone with dissociate identity disorder? Did the right half not know what the left half was doing – killing women and turning them into one-off works of art? Was Andrei Markov both the collector and the body-painter?
‘You’ve warned him we’re onto him,’ she said.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It depends which identity gets the message. Not only that, all I did was ask him to contact me.’
‘That’s true.’
She took out her phone and called North Woolwich Police Station on Albert Road.
‘This is North . . .’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Xena Blake from Hoddesdon Police Station. Who’s in charge there?’
‘Sergeant Vanessa Wapshott, Ma’am.’
‘Is she there?’
‘One moment . . .’
‘Hello, Sergeant Wapshott here. How can I be of service?’
‘I want a possible murderer taken into custody, Sergeant.’
‘We’re a nine-to-five station here, Ma’am.’
‘It’s not even two o’clock yet.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant there’s only three of us.’
‘And three of you can’t arrest one person?’
‘If we did, we’d have nowhere to put him. It’s just a drop-in centre now.’
‘I see. So, you call yourself police, but you’re more like social workers?’
‘That about describes what I do, Ma’am.’
‘Then who do I contact to have this man taken into custody?’
‘Greenwich, Ma’am.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
‘You could tell them that I’d love to arrest a murderer if they have no one else.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell them.’
She ended the call and rang Greenwich Police Station.
‘Sergeant Scammell?’
She went through the story again.
‘You need to speak to DI Dave Pittman, Ma’am.’
There was a click and then the dialling tone.
‘DI Pittman?’
She told him the story.
‘And he’s murdered two women?’
‘It’s a working hypothesis, but I’d rather be wrong than let him kill another woman.’
‘Of course. I don’t see a problem in scooping him up off the streets and depositing him in a cell until you arrive to question him. In the interests of inter-force co-operation, of course.’
‘Thanks.’ She wrenched Stick’s notebook out of his jacket pocket and gave DI Pittman Markov’s address. ‘You’ll call me when you have him?’
‘I have nothing better to do. You can buy me a drink when you come up here.’
‘Mmmm! That’s stretching inter-force co-operation a bit far. I’ll see if there’s any wiggle room in my entertainment budget.’
‘Very kind.’
The call ended.
Xena’s phone pinged. Doc Paine had sent the photograph of the cleaned-up face belonging to the first corpse.
‘Is that the photograph?’
‘Yes.’
Stick leaned over to look. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Are you trying to kill us? You’re driving. Keep your mind on what you’re doing.’
‘Just a quick glance.’
She held the phone in front of him for point-five of a second and then whipped it away.
‘Probably sl
ightly longer than that would help.’
‘Some people are so ungrateful.’ She held it up for three seconds.
‘Thanks. A shame – she was very attractive.’
‘Oh, so now you’re a connoisseur of female beauty?’
‘I know nothing about beauty . . . or women, for that matter.’
‘That’s true. Do you think I’m attractive?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good job as well.’
They picked up Mrs Valerie Tyndall and her mother from Roydon train station and took them back to the Tyndall house.
‘Can we stay here?’ Mrs Tyndall asked.
Xena shrugged. ‘If you want to. Forensics have finished with the house.’
‘And they’ve cleaned everything . . . You know, where the woman was murdered?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t clean your house after a murder, Mrs Tyndall.’
‘You don’t. Well, who does then?’
‘You do.’
‘You’ve seen my condition, haven’t you?’ she said, sticking out her inflated stomach.
‘A cleaning company.’
‘Are you sure you don’t do it? I saw something about a crime scene cleaner in the movies once.’
‘An American film,’ Stick said. ‘And he was a private contractor who was tricked into destroying evidence.’
‘Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to get people in.’
‘That would be the way to go,’ Xena said. ’Now, have you seen this woman?’ She held her phone in front of Mrs Tyndall with the corpse’s photograph displayed.
‘Well yes.’
‘Oh?’
‘Her name is Bethany Long. She’s an interior designer. My husband and I paid her to design the baby’s room about six weeks ago. Come on, I’ll show you.’
They followed Valerie Tyndall upstairs.
‘Do you know the sex of the baby?’ Stick said.
‘I do, but my husband doesn’t. You won’t tell him, will you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘It’s a girl.’
‘So the room is pink?’
‘No! We’re not bothered about that sort of thing.’ She reached the room and opened the door. ‘We kept it neutral.’
Stick and Xena had both seen the room briefly before, but because Di Heffernan had said that the killer had limited himself to the main bedroom and the kitchen they hadn’t really taken any notice of it.
The room was beige. A deep-pile beige carpet, beige walls, a beige upholstered rocking chair, two beige teddy bears sitting on a beige shelf . . . everything was beige.
Xena squinted her eyes. ‘It’s very . . .’
‘. . . Beige?’ Mrs Tyndall said.
‘Exactly.’
‘We just love it. Can you imagine sitting in that rocking chair breast-feeding your baby? It’s so calming . . .’
A shadow passed across Xena’s face.
Stick said, ‘It’s a lovely room. Should we go back downstairs? We have a couple more questions for you and then we’ll leave you alone.’
They went back into the large hallway.
‘How long was Bethany Long here working on the room?’ Stick said.
‘A week. Monday to Friday, from January 4.’
‘Was she aware that you and your husband were going away and leaving the house empty?’
‘Yes. I remember talking about my husband’s trip. She asked me if I liked being on my own, and I told her that I’d be going to stay with my mother. So yes, she knew we wouldn’t be here.’
‘Did anyone else come with her?’
‘On one of the days she had a man helping her paint, or so my husband said. He took the day off work to pack for his trip, and I went to London with my mother to look at maternity clothes.’
‘Did you ever go out and leave Miss Long here on her own?’
‘Well, yes. A couple of times I had to go to the supermarket and probably the dry-cleaners.’
‘I think that’s all the questions we have.’ He looked at Xena.
She nodded.
‘So the dead woman is Bethany?’
‘Yes. And it looks as though the man who came and helped her took the spare key, and familiarised himself with your CCTV system.’
‘And there’s no record of him on the computer, is there?’
‘No, he made sure of that. Well, thanks for your help, Mrs Tyndall.’
‘I’m just sorry about Bethany, she was a lovely woman.’
As they walked down the path back to the car Stick said, ‘My offer of a womb still holds for as long as you need it.’
‘So now you’re a peddler of wombs?’
‘I’m just a concerned friend.’
‘What would I do with a womb, Stick?’
‘Have a baby.’
‘Whose baby? Do you see any men beating down my door eager to hand over their sperm? No! Wombs are for women who need them. I don’t need a womb, I don’t need a baby and I definitely don’t need a man.’
‘I saw your face when she was talking about breastfeeding her baby in that rocking chair. It was as if a Siberian winter had frozen your heart.’
‘I could breastfeed you, if you’d like? That might warm my cockles.’
Stick’s face crumpled up. ‘I think I’ll pass on that.’
‘You don’t think I’ve got nice breasts?’
‘That’s not a conversation I’m going to have with you.’
‘Well, shut the fuck up about wombs and babies then. We have a body waiting for us at the River Blackwater – get going.’
Chapter Twenty
The Dog and Duck in Stanstead Abbotts was a real country pub. A log fire roared in the hearth; there were paintings hanging on the walls depicting hunting scenes, prize cows and pigs; a copper horn and bellows hung over the fireplace, a black Labrador called Ollie welcomed them with wagging tail when they walked in the door; and they could hear a gaggle of noisy ducks who had taken up residence in a pond beyond the back door.
‘What’ll it be?’ the bald man with a ginger beard and a checked shirt behind the bar said.
‘Richards?’
‘Lime cordial, please.’
‘And half a lager shandy.’
A man with a widow’s peak, grey sideburns and watery eyes waved them over. Age had established a foothold in his face and the ravages of time were beginning to spread to the rest of his body.
‘Go and check it’s Frank Graham,’ Parish said. ‘And ask him if he wants another drink.’
Richards walked over there, spoke to the man and then came back and said, ‘Yes and no.’
Parish carried the drinks over, slid into the booth opposite Frank Graham and introduced himself. ‘DI Jed Parish and this is my partner DC Mary Richards.’
They shook hands.
‘Allison didn’t say you had a partner in tow.’
‘You can trust her. She’s my step-daughter as well.’
‘I’m surprised they allow that.’
‘It works, so they’re not going to fix something that isn’t broken.’
‘So, what do you want to know?’
‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder of ten year-old Adam Weeks?’
‘Yes.’
‘And CI Frayne must have told you about the DNA match that’s been sealed on the database?’
‘That’s why you’re here.’
‘What I didn’t tell Allison Frayne was that Adam Weeks has a three-link tattoo under his top lip, and incorporated within that tattoo is a bar code with the number: 701342159863.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You don’t seem surprised?’
‘That’s because I know how the story ends.’
‘You’re not the only one who keeps a monster in a locked box at the back of the memory store, you know. My monster is called Beech Tree Orphanage. So, do you want to tell us what you know?’
Frank Graham nodded, took a drink from his pint of beer and said, ‘Allison has told you about Larch Guest House
?’
‘Yes.’
‘That I was one of the boys they passed around?’
‘Yes.’
‘MI5 offered the Soviets something that would have got them executed in Russia – children. The 1960s, 70s and 80s were the years of free love, over-indulgence and decadence. London was a place full of parties, drugs and sex. Whatever you wanted could be obtained for a price. In contrast, the Soviet Union was a grey, brutal and austere place to live.’
He took another swallow of beer.
‘It didn’t start with the Soviets though – they simply joined the party when it was in full swing. And, to be truthful, it didn’t start with MI5 either, they saw an opportunity to turn the Soviets into double-agents and exploited the situation. It was at the height of the Cold War – communism against capitalism. It’s not those people I’m after though. Larch Guest House was owned by Mr and Mrs Walters – Jenny and Michael. He liked young children of both sexes – the younger the better. Jenny was into group sex – the more the merrier. In the early days it was just the two of them with a few friends, but then word began to spread. Soon, they were holding parties, which included a number of high-profile figures. A closely-guarded secret was that, if you had a particular predilection, all you had to do was ask . . . and pay, of course, and it would be provided.’
Graham threw back the rest of his pint.
‘Another one?’ Parish said.
‘Very kind. A pint of Chocolate Marble. It’s thirsty work talking to someone about what I’ve been keeping to myself for all these years.’
Parish went up to the bar, ordered another beer and carried it back to the table.
Graham took a long swallow before he continued. ‘And then the Soviets realised that they also had particular predilections and began frequenting the Larch Guest House parties. MI5 saw an opportunity to use the situation to their advantage. Of course, it was cleared at the highest level. Officially, the operation didn’t have a codename. Unofficially, it was called Operation Larix, which is the Latin name for the larch. And something you might not know, is that the larch is the dominant tree in the boreal forests of Siberia, so the Soviets felt right at home. Anyway, the children were simply viewed as collateral damage. Winning the Cold War was seen as far more important than a few lost children from orphanages, which in a way, you could understand to a certain extent. The children were sacrificial lambs, martyrs to the cause, pawns in a global chess game. There would always be more children, but the security of the UK was paramount.’