by Tim Ellis
‘Marwick definitely said she was the manager.’
‘No – definitely Bishop.’
‘Do you know Mr Bishop?’
‘Of course. We get involved with a lot of fostering and adoption cases at Sycamore. Also . . .’
‘You don’t happen to know what colour car he drives, do you?’
‘A red one, I think.’
‘Thanks for your help, Debbie.’ To Lake he said, ‘Come on, I think we have justification to get into Sycamore Children’s Home now.’
Debbie threw the file onto the shelf and ran after them, ‘Wait for me.’
***
1847 hours
‘Yes.’
‘DI Dark and DC Lake again.’
‘Didn’t I make myself sufficiently clear this morning, Inspector.’
‘You certainly did, but this time I’d like to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not the manager, Kenneth Bishop is.’
‘Was. He resigned on Christmas Eve and I was appointed manager in his stead.’
‘Please let us in.’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary for you to come inside.’
‘I could hold a press conference out here if you wish.’
The door clicked open.
‘Wait . . .’
They barged in and continued along the corridor.
Agatha Marwick met them coming the other way. ‘I thought I said . . .’
‘I want you to tell me where I can find Kenneth Bishop.’
‘I’m sure . . .’
‘Look, Miss Marwick. If you want to stay as manager I suggest that you co-operate with me. If you continue to create obstacles in my path I’ll obtain a search warrant and tear this place apart, and then I’ll inform the board of governors that it was because you were so unhelpful. Well . . . what’s it to be?’
‘Follow me.’
She took them to her office. ‘What do you need?’
‘A cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss . . . and some biscuits.’
She narrowed her eyes as she stared at him, picked up the phone and made an internal call. ‘Could you bring a tray of tea and coffee to my office, Mrs Drinkwater and . . . three custard creams.’
She waited for him to speak.
‘Tell us about Mr Bishop.’
‘It is my understanding that he spent his whole life here at Sycamore.’
‘His whole life?’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
A woman shuffled in carrying a tray.
‘Thank you, Mrs Drinkwater.’
‘Will that be all, Miss Marwick?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The woman shuffled out and pulled the door closed as she went.
Marwick poured a tea for Lake and added milk and sugar to Dark’s coffee. ‘Help yourself to a biscuit.’
Lake declined her biscuit, so Dark took two.
‘What do you know about Mr Bishop?’ Marwick asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, spitting crumbs on the parquet floor. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘He was brought to Sycamore for adoption, but he was never adopted.’
‘Why?’
‘He contracted a childhood illness called mulluscum contagiosum when he was just six months old. It’s a viral infection of the skin, which is sometimes called water warts. If the condition had been treated it would have cleared up fairly quickly with minimal after-effects, but it wasn’t treated. He was kept isolated from the other children, and the virus went untreated until it subsided of its own volition when he was four years old. As a result, he was left with pox-like scarring all over his face and body.’
‘Was it bad?’ Lake asked.
‘Yes. That’s largely why he stayed here at Sycamore his whole life. In a sense, he was deformed. The older children were frightened of him. They thought he was a monster.’
Dark’s brow furrowed. ‘Then why did he resign?’
Marwick shook her head. ‘I have no idea. Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There was a woman. She came here about three months ago making enquiries about adopting a child . . . his behaviour changed after that her visit.’
‘Did he live here at Sycamore, or . . . ?’
‘He had a small room, which he vacated when he left, but he also rented a house in Knutsford.’
‘Do you have the address?’
She opened a drawer, pulled out an address book and copied the address down on a post-it note. ‘I think that concludes our business, Inspector.’
‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it, Miss Marwick?’
‘You think Mr Bishop is involved in what you’re investigating?’
‘I think he’s central to it.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any way you can keep Sycamore out of it all?’
‘No.’
***
1949 hours
Kenneth Bishop lived at 29 Gough’s Lane. The house was a semi-detached two-bedroom bungalow with a large cherry laurel hedge along the front that hadn’t been trimmed for some time..
All the curtains were drawn.
They each took a torch with them.
A red Volvo V40 was sitting on the driveway.
‘Should we call for back-up?’ Lake asked.
‘Or we could simply knock on the door like normal people.’ He opened the gate, strode up the flag-stoned path and banged on the door. ‘Police! Open up, Mr Bishop.’
‘That’s hardly what normal people do,’ Lake whispered.
There was no answer.
‘Have a look through the letter box,’ he said to Lake.
‘I think it’s your turn to do that.’
His lip curled up.
They walked round the back.
Kenneth Bishop was hanging from a hook in the ceiling of the kitchen dressed in a Santa suit.
Dark forced an entry into the bungalow through an old-style patio sliding door.
On the dining table was a suicide note explaining how, when Cynthia Ford arrived to discuss her application for adoption, he had realised part-way through their discussion that she was his mother. That night, he had visited her house to tell her he was her son, but it hadn’t turned out that way.
She wasn’t his mother, never had been and never would be. Cynthia Ford was the woman who had left him in that place to endure a lifetime of suffering.
He wanted revenge, and once she had told him who his father was, he had killed her. The following day he killed Joseph Kibble – his biological father, and then stored both bodies in the chest freezer until he’d decided how he was going to end his terrible existence.
All he’d ever wanted was to be adopted, to be part of a real family, but nobody had ever wanted a grotesque pox-scarred monstrosity such as him. They took one look at him and recoiled in horror.
The families came to Sycamore and picked the good-looking, well-behaved children – nobody wanted the ugly ones. He snapped, and those last five families were simply unlucky. Although ultimately it was about taking revenge on his biological parents, he also needed to be remembered for something more than his hideous appearance, and he wanted people to realise that ugly children needed love as well.
‘Call forensics,’ he said to Lake.
‘What about the keys?’
‘What keys?’
‘The ones he used to get into the houses.’
He shrugged. ‘The families came to see him to discuss the adoptions – he must have manipulated things so that he could help himself to either a key or made a copy. It wouldn’t have been difficult.’
‘That’s it then.’
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m going home. You wait here for forensics to arrive and let them know what’s been going on.’
‘You’re going to leave me here?’
‘Is that a problem, Constable?’
‘My car’s at the station.’
‘You can get a lift back in the forensic truck.’
‘They’ll be here for hours.’
‘Get a taxi then.’
‘It’s Boxing Day.’
‘I’ll see you at eight-thirty in the morning, and try not to be late tomorrow.’
‘I think I’ll ask for a transfer.’
‘Feel free.’
***
0830 hours
Friday, December 27
‘You decided not to ask the Chief for a transfer then?’
‘I’ll write my report first.’
‘Good. I’d hate to have dragged you back to fill out a few forms.’
‘You would have done as well, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘In a way I hate you, but in another way I respect you.’
‘You’re still going to ask for a transfer though, aren’t you?’
‘You know what – I don’t think I will. You’ve been trying to force me into that position since the Chief made you take me on as your partner, but I don’t give in so easily.’
‘If you’re staying you can make me a coffee.’
‘When you didn’t make me one yesterday?’
‘You know where the stairs are.’
She stomped over to the coffee area.
He didn’t often smile, but his face made a weak attempt.
***
1607 hours
Saturday, December 28
He’d leased a grey Ford Kuga because his black Rav-4 had a personalised number plate – DARK 01 – that Ellie had bought him for his fortieth birthday.
It took him an hour and twenty minutes along the M61 and M6 to reach Kendal in Cumbria.
He was sitting hunched down in the Kuga on the opposite side of the street outside 17 Underbarrow Road – a three-bedroom stone cottage with Georgian windows and a drive large enough for two cars.
The cold was beginning to gnaw at his feet and legs. He’d been there for over two hours, and he was giving up hope of seeing Ellie or the girls. He had the idea that they were in the house because the lights were on and the cars were still on the drive, so he was surprised when he saw them outside. The girls were running along the pavement towards him, scooping up snow and throwing snowballs at each other. Ellie and Henchel were behind them, arm-in-arm, laughing and joking.
They crossed over and went inside the house.
Tears jumped into his eyes.
It looked for all the world as if Ellie was another man’s wife, and Coco and Cleo were another man’s daughters.
What had gone wrong?
What should he do?
Indecision turned him to stone until three in the morning when he drove home, but he knew it wasn’t over yet.
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About the Author
Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, grew up in Cheadle, Cheshire, and now lives in Essex with his wife and four Shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then he has worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write fiction full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.
Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com/
Warrior: Path of Destiny
Warrior: Scourge of the Steppe
The Knowledge of Time: Second Civilisation
Orc Quest Book I: Prophecy
Solomon’s Key
Jacob’s Ladder
Raga Man (Short Story)
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap (Novella)
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 Twelve Murders of Christmas (Novella)
Body 13
The Graves at Angel Brook
The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf
Footprints of the Dead
The Terror at Grisly Park
The House of Mourning
The Gordian Knot
Through a Glass Darkly
A Lamb to the Slaughter
Dark Christmas (Novella)
Collected Short Stories/Poetry/Anthologies/Non-fiction
Untended Treasures
Where do you want to go today?
Winter of my Heart (Poetry)
With Love Project – The Occupier
The Killing Sands (Anthology)
The Writer’s A-Z of Body Language (Non-fiction)
Summer of my Soul (Poetry)
First Shots (Anthology)
Also planned for 2013/2014:
The Mystery of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg 6)
The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (Novella) (Quigg 7)
Mortis Obscura: Scavenger of Souls (Farthing & Trask 1)
The Timekeeper's Apprentice
Silent in the Grave (Parish & Richards 12)
Orc Quest Book II: The Last Human
Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel 2)
The Sword of Damocles (Stone & Randall 3)
The Song of Solomon (Harte & KP 2)
Dark Matter (Josiah Dark 2)