A Time to Kill (P&R14) Read online

  A Time to Kill

  (Parish & Richards 14)

  Tim Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2014 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Smashwords 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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  To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill . . .

  Ecclesiastes (ch. III, v. 1-8)

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  Chapter One

  Wednesday, August 6

  ‘The wine of life keeps oozing drop by drop, and the leaves of life keep falling one by one, Toadstone.’

  They had been called to Apartment 8, 34 Plomer Avenue in Hailey – not far from Hoddesdon Cemetery as the crow flies. The brick and glass building was reasonably new, and had won awards for its innovative design and reduced environmental footprint. It had alternative energy sources for electricity, low flow and duel flush toilets, solar panels to heat the water, and eight floors with two apartments on each floor.

  A neighbour – Mrs Cathie Prosser in Apartment 7 – had seen bluebottles crawling under the door into Apartment 8, and noticed a pungent stench seeping out into the corridor, so she felt it was only right and proper to call the police.

  White-suited forensic officers moved about like resident ghosts taking photographs and digital recordings of the crime scene. Evidence was bagged, fingerprints lifted, measurements documented and swabs appropriated.

  ‘Hello, Sir,’ Toadstone said as he stood up. ‘Edward Fitzgerald, if I’m not too much mistaken. Those particular lines are from Rubaiyat 6-9 of the fifth translated edition of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.’

  Richards stared at Parish’s eyes, the only part of him that was visible in the forensic paper suit. ‘Is he too much mistaken, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, he is, Richards.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Paul is always right.’

  Parish’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘That’s a heinous accusation against a senior officer, Detective.’

  Crow’s feet appeared at the corner of her eyes.

  ‘He’s talking about the fact that Fitzgerald was his mother’s maiden name, but he was actually born a Purcell.’

  Parish looked down at the body of an attractive dark-haired young woman lying skew-whiff on the floor in front of the sofa and said, ‘It looks as though the Bird of Time has flown away, Toadstone.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sir.’

  ‘Doing my job again, Dr Toadstone,’ Doc Riley said as she came into the room carrying her bag of tricks.

  A lanky male assistant followed her like a shadow.

  ‘It’s so much more interesting than my job, Doctor.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. Well, if everyone moves out of the way, I’ll give you the benefit of my vast experience.’

  The three of them shuffled sideways to allow Doc Riley access to the body.

  ‘The young woman’s name is Catrina Golding,’ Toadstone said. ‘She’s twenty five years old and worked as a child-care assistant at the Bunny Hop Playgroup on Dymokes Way.’

  ‘I don’t suppose anybody missed her at work,’ Richards said. ‘The playgroup will be closed for the summer.’

  Doc Riley began her initial examination of the corpse by speaking into a hand-held Dictaphone. ‘The body is that of a young woman – Catrina Golding – aged twenty-five. She is lying on her back on the floor of Apartment 8, 34 Plomer Avenue in Hailey with her right leg twisted outwards unnaturally – possibly dislocated at the hip joint. There is dark bruising around her neck, which suggests the cause of death is strangulation . . .’

  Her lanky assistant was taking photographs of the corpse and specific aspects of the body as she spoke.

  ‘. . . Blowflies have laid eggs in the corners of the mouth and eyes, inside the nose and around the labia of the vaginal opening. Estimated time of death is anywhere between seven and four days ago. A more accurate assessment will be carried out by the entomologist. The body is flaccid, which suggests that rigor mortis has come and gone. Livor mortis indicates that the victim has not been moved since death occurred . . .’

  She leaned backwards as her assistant took a series of photographs.

  ‘. . . The right leg of the woman’s jeans has been removed and the panties are torn. Initial observation of the bruising around the genitalia and on the inside of the thighs suggests that she might have been sexually assaulted – to be confirmed. Also, I’d say she was about sixteen weeks’ pregnant.’ She looked up at Parish. ‘That’s it. I’ll carry out the post mortem tomorrow morning at ten. Lunch at twelve-thirty okay with you?’

  ‘Richards, whose turn is it to pay? And . . . think about your future career in the police force before you answer.’

  ‘In that case, I think it’s probably Doc Riley’s turn to pay.’

  ‘Does your wife know what a cheapskate you are, Parish?’

  ‘She has first-hand experience of it.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to pay then, but I’d like to register my displeasure.’

  ‘See you at twelve-thirty tomorrow, Doc.’

  He turned to Toadstone. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you have nothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. Remind me again why we have a forensic department?’

  ‘Take no notice of him, Paul.’

  ‘Stop cheerleading, Richards.’

  ‘My team have obviously collected fingerprints, hair, fibres and so forth – the results of which you’ll receive once the comparative analysis has been carried out.’

  ‘Which will be when?’

  ‘Possibly tomorrow.’

  ‘Possibly?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Was entry forced?’ Richards asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, she knew her attacker.’

  ‘That’s only one possible explanation, Richards. The Boston Strangler used to pose as a police officer to gain access to his victims’ homes.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then stop jumping to conclusions if you know so much. Make a note for the uniforms to ask about repair men, meter readers or Jehovah’s Witnesses during the house-to-house. Anything else, Toadstone?’

  ‘Her jewellery has been spread out on the bed.’

  ‘A trophy-taker.’ Richards said.

  ‘Or another inappropriate conclusion based on no factual evidence whatsoever.’

  ‘You’re in a right mood today.’

  ‘I don’t have moods . . .’

  Richards was right though. Carrie’s death, and those of her two children – Sarah and Howard – weighed heavily on his conscience. He’d done the minimum check, but he knew he could have done more. He’d inputted G
rant Mottram’s name into the CrimInt database for any previous convictions. Not just for Carrie, but also for his own daughter – Melody – who had been living in the same house as Mottram. He’d accepted what came out of the database as a given. The name Grant Mottram had been taken from a gravestone of a seven year-old boy in Halifax, but he didn’t know – nobody knew. That was just the point – the background check hadn’t worked effectively, and there were no clues about who the killer really was.

  The media had given him the name: The Family Man. As well as Carrie and her two children, he had killed two other families – one in Grimsby going by the name of Lewis Jones, and the other in Newcastle upon Tyne posing as Martin Rollins. Parish had printed off the two E-fit pictures and they looked nothing like Grant Mottram. The Family Man was clearly a master of disguise.

  There was no DNA, no fingerprints – nothing. Before he walked out and disappeared from the three family homes the killer bleached each place forensically clean.

  His promise to Carrie to find her killer now seemed to be an empty promise. He had nothing to hang an investigation on – no starting point, no leads, no direction.

  ‘. . . What I do have is a shiny new detective who keeps jumping on the first bus that comes along regardless of where it’s going. Can you tell us whether any items of jewellery were taken, Toadstone?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘See, Richards.’

  ‘Then why did the killer lay it all out on the bed?’

  ‘Maybe Catrina laid her own jewellery out on the bed. Maybe it was a burglary that went fatally wrong when the victim came in and caught the killer stealing her family heirlooms of silver, gold and precious stones . . .’

  ‘If that was the case,’ Toadstone said. ‘He left some behind.’

  ‘Thank you, Paul.’

  ‘Now you’re making an assumption the killer was male, Toadstone. Do you know something we don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’ve made that patently obvious. Right, come on Richards, let’s go and talk to the nosey neighbour.’

  ‘Thanks, Paul.’

  ‘Don’t thank him,’ Parish said, shoving her towards the door. ‘He’ll think he deserves paying for doing nothing all day.’

  ‘You can be really . . .’

  ‘. . . Fair-minded, even-handed, honest and above board?’

  ‘I was thinking . . .’

  ‘That’s just the point – you weren’t thinking. Knock on the woman’s door and stop blathering.’

  ***

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘What are you doing in here, numpty?’ she called from the cubicle.

  ‘The Chief wants to see us.’

  ‘And is he that desperate to see us that I have to run down the corridor with my knickers round my ankles?’

  ‘It smells in here.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve. I’ve been in the men’s toilet and it stinks like rotten ostrich eggs in there.’

  ‘Are you doing a number one or a number two?’

  ‘Will you get the fuck out of the ladies toilet?’

  ‘I’m just wondering how long I have to wait.’

  ‘You’ll be waiting outside the gates of hell if you don’t leave now.’

  ‘Should I tell the Chief . . .’

  ‘GET OUT.’

  She finished what she was doing, washed her hands and went into the corridor.

  Stick was shuffling his feet waiting for her.

  ‘If you come into the ladies toilets while I’m in there again, I’ll cut off your testicles and feed them to the station cat.’

  ‘Does it always smell that bad in there?’

  ‘Are you tired of living?’

  ‘I was just curious. It’s the first time I’ve been in the little girl’s room.’

  ‘What does the Chief want to see us about?’

  ‘I think he has a case for us.’

  ‘About time. Any idea what?’

  ‘No.’

  They nodded at Lydia O’Brien – the secretary who Human Resources had acquired from the temping agency until a permanent replacement for Carrie could be found.

  Stick knocked on the Chief’s office door.

  ‘Come.’

  They walked in.

  ‘You two took your time,’ Chief Kowalski said.

  ‘The Inspector was in the toilet, Sir.’

  ‘I want a new partner, Chief. One that doesn’t hang about in the ladies toilets taking samples of the air quality.’

  ‘Is that true, Sergeant?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You’d be well advised to stay out of the ladies toilets, Gilbert. I have it on good authority that strange goings-on occur in there.’

  ‘I understand, Sir.’

  ‘Sit.’

  They sat in the easy chairs around the coffee table, but weren’t offered coffee.

  ‘I want you to go over to the A&E at King George Hospital. There’s a young woman there who’s in shock. She was found earlier this morning wandering along the A10 near Cheshunt.’

  Xena pulled a face. ‘Why are you sending us to investigate if she’s not dead?’

  ‘She says she killed her boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My understanding is that someone made her commit the murder.’

  ‘Someone made her do it? I see.’

  ‘What about the boyfriend’s body?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Let me explain how this works, Sergeant. I give you the case, you get off your arse and start following the clues. What you don’t do is sit here in my office with your feet up on my coffee table asking me stupid questions as if you were a player in a game of Cluedo.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. I was confused for a minute.’

  ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘Absolutely not, Sir.’

  They made their way out.

  ‘You’re having a good day today, numpty.’

  ‘I am, aren’t I?’

  ‘And it’s still only Wednesday.’

  ‘It’s going to be a long week, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s for sure.’

  ***

  School was out.

  Or, to be more accurate – the Law School at King’s College London had shut down for the summer. Not that she – or any of the other students for that matter – had been left to contemplate their navels. As well as working Monday to Friday, she was also busy reading everything she could lay her hands on, and making relevant notes to complete her 20,000-word assignment: Child Protection and Laws Governing the Authority of the State to Intervene, which was something close to her heart after Social Workers had unlawfully taken her children away.

  The perfect property that she’d found for Baxter, Kowalski & Associates on the corner of Manor Road and Oak View Avenue, just along from Grange Hill tube station and opposite the cemetery of St Winifred’s Church, didn’t have a name.

  She’d discussed the lack of a name with Charlie.

  ‘Does it need to have a name?’

  ‘Of course. All the top solicitors have their offices in buildings with names.’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘I’ve done my research. There’s McMullans in the Shrubberies . . .’

  ‘That’s a strange name for a building.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why we have to give it a sensible name. There’s Stones in Pickwick House . . .’

  ‘That’s not bad. It has an olde world feel about it.’

  ‘True. Then there’s Stapleys in Snake’s Priory . . .’

  ‘Not keen on that. Makes you think that solicitors are snakes.’

  Jerry gave him a mischievous smile. ‘Which wouldn’t be far from the truth in my experience.’

  ‘Present company excluded?’

  ‘Of course. So, I narrowed down a list of five names for this building.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She read them out. ‘The Cairn, Skara Brae, Balkerne, Manor House or The Baxter Building.’

 
‘Interesting. I’m torn between two.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Manor House, because we’re on the corner of Manor Road, and The Baxter Building.’

  ‘Mmmm! I thought you might like The Baxter Building.’

  ‘It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Should we call it that?’

  ‘The inference people will make is that it’s my building.’

  ‘Which is good. We can’t be held accountable for other people’s inferences.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Haven’t you learned anything yet, Charlie Baxter? Jerry Kowalski is always right.’

  ‘A Freudian slip on my part obviously.’

  That was a week ago. She’d ordered a sign, and had it screwed to the wall to the left of the double glass doors. It was the cherry on the top of the cake and made the new premises look just like a real solicitors’ office.

  Now, she was on her way to Hart Crescent, just over the border into Hainault, to see a woman – Illana Fraser – who wanted to sue the owner of Butterfield Spire, because of the terrible smell in her apartment.

  ‘It’s no good me simply describing what it smells like,’ Illana had said to her yesterday when she’d come into the offices. ‘You’ll have to come and experience it for yourself.’

  ‘Really?’ She wasn’t that keen on sniffing other people’s dirty apartment blocks, but they couldn’t afford to be choosy – business was slow in picking up during the soul-destroying recession. It would get better she was sure, but they needed to establish themselves in the community first. And she had an idea that forcing a landlord to care about the welfare of his tenants and making him pay to clean up the block was just the way to earn some free publicity in that endeavour. If the smell was as bad as Illana had indicated, then she’d get the press involved.