by Tim Ellis
He completed the five request forms for two birth certificates, a marriage certificate, and two death certificates with varying degrees of difficulty at a total cost of £300. If they could find what he wanted, he hoped to get them either tomorrow or the next day. Thinking about the information that would be on the certificates, he became excited. It would be enough to start a small family tree, and he could branch out from there. He smiled at the notion of branching out. Yes, he had his own little seed growing. His son would have some family history.
‘What are you smiling at, Sir?’
‘Have you got nothing else better to do than watch my face, Richards?’
‘I’ve got lots to do. My boss is a slave driver.’
‘Get on with it then, and stop poking your nose in other people’s business.’
‘Huh.’
He rang the duty number.
‘Sergeant Jackson?’
‘Lunch at twelve-thirty in the canteen – on me?’
‘I’ve got a black sequinned number that would be perfect.’
‘I’ll look forward to seeing you in that.’
‘Yeah, in your dreams. I’m going to have everything on the menu, you know.’
He laughed as he put the phone down and saw Richards looking at him. ‘Have you got something to say?’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Good. You can eat rabbit food on your own today.’
‘Huh.’
‘Right, I’m going up to forensics to see if Toadstone’s entomologist has got anything for us. I’ll also ask about the satellite map of Galleyhill Wood, and talk to the computer tec’s about hacking into Masterson’s email. Cross those three things off your list and write Masterson’s email on a piece of paper.’
‘No wonder I can’t get any work done when you keep interrupting me.’ She handed him the slip of paper with the email address on.
As he headed towards the stairs, his parting words were, ‘Keep your nose to the grindstone, and don’t talk to Kowalski.’
‘Huh.’
***
Rick Murcer had short white hair and a matching beard with tinges of grey. The beard had been neatly shaped around the neck, cheeks, and mouth, and matched the iron grey in his eyes. Parish estimated the forensic entomologist was in his early fifties, but he looked a distinguished ten years younger. Parish also took an instant dislike to him.
If someone had asked him to put his finger on the specific reason why he didn’t like Rick Murcer, he would have struggled with that request. There was something in the cold eyes, something about the superior attitude, something in the firm handshake. None of it was rational or objective, but Parish knew about people. He could pick a good one out of a barrel containing a thousand bad ones, and Murcer was a rotten one at the bottom.
‘Mr Murcer…’
‘It’s Doctor actually.’
Parish smiled. ‘Sorry. Have you completed your analysis?’
‘Of the first gravesite, the others will take a day or so.’
Parish had been directed along a corridor that he hadn’t walked along before to a lab he’d never seen. The floor, cupboards, walls and ceiling were all grey, and it occurred to Parish that if Murcer didn’t have on his white lab coat he’d be invisible. The room was spotless, and the illumination from the square fluorescent ceiling lights reflected off all the surfaces creating a lot of glare. There were no windows, but Parish could hear the slight hum of air-conditioning and saw a grill high up on the wall. Although it was a state-of-the-art laboratory, Parish was glad he didn’t have to work in such sterile conditions.
He sat on the corner of a desk and said, ‘I’m making the assumption that what we find in the first grave will be mirrored in the other two.’
‘I understand your reasoning behind that with five bodies one on top of the other in each grave,’ Murcer said, ‘but it might not necessarily follow.’
The longer he was in Murcer’s company, the more annoyed he became. ‘Just tell me what you discovered and I can get on with my investigation.’
‘Ah yes, your investigation. It’s all about you, as if no one else contributes anything else. You get the credit, and the rest of us are forgotten.’
Parish was becoming exasperated. ‘Look, I can see you have issues, which I suggest you take up with Mr Toadstone…’
‘He’s a Doctor as well, I bet you didn’t know that, did you?’
He didn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell Murcer that. ‘Listen Doctor Murcer,’ he emphasised the title. ‘Either you tell me what you’ve found or I’ll lock you up for obstructing a police investigation – how would that be?’
‘That would be much in line with what I expect from you, Inspector.’ He picked up a stapled report and thrust it at Parish. ‘I found no puparia, larvae, or any other evidence of Diptera Calliphoridae the blow fly, or Diptera Phoridae the coffin fly, which is attracted by remains that have passed into a more advanced stage of decomposition, so I can’t extrapolate a time of death.’
Parish was conscious of his mouth being open as he looked down at the stapled report in his hands and back up at Murcer. ‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that the skeletons were stripped clean of flesh before they were buried.’
‘What… no flesh at all?’ Parish was finding it difficult to grasp the meaning of Murcer’s findings.
‘Nothing. No skin, brain, muscles, heart stomach… nothing. Had there been, I would have found evidence of the blow fly and coffin fly, but I found nothing in the samples of soil I collected… And no, I didn’t miss anything or make a mistake. Only the skeletons of the children were buried.’
Murcer turned away and began looking through a microscope.
Parish assumed he’d been dismissed. He could have said, “Thank you,” and under normal circumstances he would have done, but this situation was anything but normal. He turned and walked towards the door.
Murcer called after him as the door eased shut, ‘You’re welcome.’
He wanted to go back into the laboratory and smash Murcer’s superior face in. It had been a long time since he’d felt so angry. In fact, so long he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had these feelings. Well, Murcer could have the last word for now, but he’d speak to Toadstone. There was no room for someone so obnoxious on the team.
He checked his watch. Murcer had made him late. It was twenty-five to one, and he still hadn’t spoken to the computer technicians about Masterson’s email account, or found out about the satellite map. He’d have to do it after lunch. The one thing he didn’t want to do was stand up Sergeant Jackson. What he’d discovered a long time ago was that without favours from people in key positions like Kristina Jackson, the job was impossible. He and Richards were cogs in the machine, but without grease and oil – the favours – cogs soon rusted and seized up.
***
‘You’re late?’
Kristina had already commandeered a table in a corner by the wall.
‘Should we?’ Parish said pulling her chair out as she stood up. He thought she smelled nice, but then he knew nothing about perfume. The smell reminded him of apples. It dawned on him then that she’d just sprayed some on herself, and he hoped he wasn’t sending out the wrong message by having lunch with her. Before they finished, he’d have to make it clear that the lunch was merely a thank you and nothing more.
There was quite a queue and Parish could have sworn he saw Richards in his peripheral vision, but when he turned to look she wasn’t there. He was a good head taller than Kristina was; she had blonde hair scooped back into a fish tail, the effect spoiled by a plethora of hair clips. Six months ago – when he’d been searching for someone – she’d been involved with a Sergeant from Cheshunt. Now, it was too late.
Kristina chose the seafood salad, and he had the lasagne with garlic bread and paid. Old Nancy gave him a disapproving look.
‘I thought you were planning to have everything on the menu?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, then I co
uld do an impression of a beach ball. I already hate the size of my backside. If I had the money that’s the first piece of me I’d let the cosmetic surgeon redesign.’
She wore blue slacks, and a white shirt that showed the pattern of her bra.
Once they were sat down eating he said, ‘It’s the trousers, they don’t do anything for you.’
‘Thanks a lot. Is that your chat-up line?’
‘I…’ He grinned like a teenager. ‘You know I’m involved with someone?’
‘Don’t worry, Jed, I know this is just lunch, and anyway your partner is circling like a protective lioness.’
He looked around. ‘Where?’
‘Behind the pillar.’
Then he saw the top of Richards’ head pop out from behind the pillar and quickly looked away. ‘It’s her mother I’m seeing.’
‘You like older women then?’
‘She’s not that much older than me, she had Richards when she was young.’
‘I thought that shit from Cheshunt was the real deal, but he cheated on me with a barmaid.’
‘A man with no brains, there’s a few of them about.’
Once she’d finished her meal she stood up. ‘I’ve got to go, but thanks for lunch.’ She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Something for your partner to moan about.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks for all the favours.’
As he drank the last of his tea Richards appeared beside him. ‘Oh hello, Sir, I just popped in for some water. Did Sergeant Jackson not turn up?’
‘You know very well that she’s just left, Richards.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Chapter Eight
‘We have to go to Vauxhall Bridge Road in London,’ Richards said. ‘We can catch the tube and get off at Pimlico Station.’
‘And why is that?’
They were in the incident room updating each other on the morning’s work.
‘I rang CEOPS and they said we had to go down there. They were very nice about it, but they don’t talk about cases on the telephone. I spoke to an Inspector Martin Deavers who was very polite, and he said he’d heard about the case and to go down and see him.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘They’ll tell us about the trafficking of children and organs in the UK as well.’
‘There’ll be no shopping or goes on the London Eye.’
Richards busied herself shuffling the paper on the table in front of her. ‘I know.’
‘Why can’t they send someone here?’
‘I asked that, but they said they’re running some big international operations and haven’t got anybody spare.’
‘What about the guy in forensics… I think his name is…’
‘Rufus Jones… I went up there and they said he’s been seconded to CEOPS to work on one of their cases.’
‘When did you go up to forensics?’
‘I went to see if you were still there, but you’d gone. It wasn’t a wasted journey though.’
‘Oh?’
‘I met that lovely Rick Murcer. He’s taking me out for dinner tonight.’
‘I forbid it.’
Richards laughed. ‘You can’t forbid it. I’m twenty-one, and anyway you’re not my dad yet.’
‘Do you trust my judgement, Mary?’
She looked at him. ‘You’ve never called me Mary before.’
‘That’s an indication of how strongly I feel about you going out with a man who’s over twice your age, and who I’ve taken a violent dislike to.’
‘It’s only one meal, Sir.’
‘It’ll end in disaster.’
‘It’s one meal.’
‘You’ll wish you’d listened to me. I don’t trust Murcer one little bit.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’
‘And what about Toadstone? You told him you don’t go out with colleagues, and yet here you are planning to do exactly that.’
‘Will you stop interfering in my private life.’
‘Oh, now I’m interfering!’ Parish shook his head. What could he do? Richards was an adult, she could make her own decisions. Even if those decisions were wrong, all he could do was give her his opinion and then let her decide. Well, she’d decided wrong. Maybe he should go up to reception and give Murcer the gypsy’s warning. If he did he knew what type of reception he’d get. Best leave well alone and let it play out. If it started to get serious he’d have to intervene.
He noticed that Richards had put the pictures she’d taken of the park in Crooked Way up on Amy Linton’s incident board.
‘What did Rick say about when the children died?’ she said.
‘Murcer didn’t say anything. He said his samples contained no bugs, so he couldn’t work out the time of death.’
Richards pulled at her ponytail, and twisted it round and round the index finger of her left hand absentmindedly. ‘What does that mean, Sir?’
‘He thinks that only the skeletons were buried.’
She pulled a face. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’ll talk to Toadstone, see if he can make some sense of it. Murcer wasn’t very pleasant anyway, so I didn’t hang about chatting to him.’
‘I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding, Sir.’
‘It wasn’t, but we’ll see.’
‘Did the computer technicians manage to get into Masterson’s email account?’
‘They’re working on it,’ he lied. If he told her he hadn’t spoken to the technician yet she’d offer to go up there, and he wanted to keep her away from Murcer as much as possible.
‘What about the satellite map?’
‘They’re waiting for the satellite to shift into position before it can take the picture.’ Another lie.
‘I thought they already had satellite maps, and all we had to do was mark the gravesites on them?’
‘Just shows how much you know, Richards. What about the Centre for Missing and Exploited Children?’ He’d have to go back up to forensics after the press briefing and follow-up on those two things.
‘I rang them, and they can’t do anything without photographs, biological details such as hair colour, height, weight, identifying marks, and so forth, and the details of when and where the children went missing.’
‘None of which we’ve got?’
‘We did have a photograph of Amy Linton, and the details they wanted, but they already had her in their database. They weren’t much help, Sir. They rely on reported sightings from the public, and as far as we know all the sightings of Amy Linton that were reported by the public were investigated.’
‘It appears as though we’re not getting very far, Richards. We need to find out who the other children are. While I’m briefing the press, you ring Doc Michelin and ask him what’s happening at his end. We want the post mortem reports for Amy Linton and Masterson, we also need the findings from the toxicology analysis for both bodies. Also, ask him about the other children, and whether he’s organising someone to come in and create their faces. Tell him it’s urgent, and if he can get them to me by yesterday that will be fine. If he asks who’s paying, tell him the Chief is.’
Richards wrote his instructions down in her notebook. ‘Anything else, Sir?’
‘We’ve got a long list of people to interview. This afternoon we’ll go and see the ones who were in the park when Amy Linton disappeared. Tomorrow we’re in London, so on Thursday we want to see all of Amy Linton’s relatives. Go down and speak to Sergeant Jackson and arrange for them to either come in under their own steam, or be brought in. Plan an interview schedule with half-an-hour for each interview…’
‘That will take us all day, Sir?’
‘Have you got something better you’d rather be doing?’
‘Well, no…’
‘Good. Make sure you book an interview room. After I’ve done the first two and you’ve got the hang of it, you can do the res
t under my supervision.’
‘Will that be one of the Occupational Standards, Sir?’
‘It certainly will. I’ll be able to sign you off on that if you do a good job.’
‘Okay.’
He checked his watch. It was seven minutes to two. ‘Right, I’ve got to go.’
‘If you want, I could come with you to the press briefing?’
‘If I want?’ He grunted. ‘You mean, you want to come with me and pose for the photographers? You should get yourself an agent, get a portfolio done, pose naked for Playboy…’
‘Sirrrr!’
‘Well, stop trying to get in front of the cameras, Richards. I know exactly what your game is.’
‘I’m not that type of girl.’
‘You’re exactly that type of girl.’
***
John Linton stood at the bar drinking his orange juice until he got the nod from the Russian. He felt and looked a lot better than he had yesterday. Last night he hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor, and he’d had a full night’s sleep for the first time in eight years. This morning his bed had been dry. He’d forgotten what it had felt like not to wake up in a piss-drenched bed. He got up early, did some exercises on the bedroom floor until the sweat stung his eyes and he ached all over, and took a shower. After a breakfast of cereal with skimmed milk and no sugar, he drove to Hoddesdon and bought some new clothes that fitted him. Now, standing at the bar, he felt as though he was alive again instead of a squatter inhabiting Death’s waiting room.