Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15) Read online

  Deceit is in the Heart

  (Parish & Richards 15)

  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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  Deceit is in the heart of them that imagine evil: but to the counsellors of peace is joy.

  Proverbs (12:20)

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  Chapter One

  Friday, August 29

  Richards put her balled fists on her hips and puffed out her chest. ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are.’

  ‘You can’t make me.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

  ‘I have free will.’

  ‘No such thing.’

  ‘I’ll resign.’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘You’re a pig.’ She waved the copy of the letter she’d just received at him. It was from Dame Margaret Peabody – the Direct-General of the National Crime Agency – and had her signature at the bottom. ‘You authorised this two weeks ago, and you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Didn’t I? It must have slipped my mind.’

  ‘And why aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘Too old. Too set in my ways. They want young talent, not shrivelled-up has-beens.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to go.’

  ‘You were meant to say that I’m not a shrivelled-up has-been.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Aren’t you a tiny bit flattered that they’ve asked for you?’

  ‘No.’

  He crossed his feet and put them on the desk, took a swig of coffee and said, ‘You’re the worst liar in the world.’

  ‘Well, maybe a smidgen.’ She emphasised the miniscule size of a smidgen by squeezing the thumb and forefinger of her left hand together.

  ‘On a scale from one to ten, how flattered are you?’

  ‘Point five.’

  ‘I think we’ll add a twelve to that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  They were tying up loose ends, finalising written reports, updating CrimInt, dealing with internal and external mail, emails, inter-office requests, holiday and course applications . . . the list of administrative tasks was endless. If he thought about the paper and time it swallowed up on a daily basis, he’d never get out of bed in the mornings.

  She flopped into her chair. ‘But we’re partners.’

  ‘I don’t know what they’ll have you doing, but they’ll more than likely give you another partner.’

  ‘I don’t want another partner.’

  ‘With all the moaning, whingeing and complaining you’ve been doing lately, I thought that was exactly what you wanted.’

  ‘Changing partners is a bit extreme. I would have settled for you going on a behaviour modification course to make you into a nicer person.’

  ‘Your mother already thinks I’m a nicer person.’

  ‘Your wife is deluded by love.’

  ‘And how would you like my behaviour modified?’

  ‘Treating your workers much better for one.’

  ‘You mean – you?’

  ‘Yes – treating me better would be a massive leap in the right direction.’

  ‘You’re moving up.’

  ‘I’m moving to Bramshill in Hampshire for three months.’

  ‘Hampshire is where it all happens.’

  ‘I like Hoddesdon. And what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’ll get a new partner.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You needn’t sound so happy about it.’

  ‘Happy is probably the wrong word. Ecstatic is a much better description of how I feel. Euphoric that I’ll get someone who will listen to me, who won’t give me loads of grief and backchat, who might appreciate my sense of humour, who will make every effort to understand that a man . . .’

  ‘You’re a pig.’

  ‘Need I say more?’

  ‘You won’t want me as your partner when I come back.’

  ‘Probably not, but maybe that will be for the better.’

  ‘No it won’t.’

  ‘I’m only joking. Of course I’ll want you as my partner. I think the question will be whether you’ll still want me. You’ll be an expert when you return.’

  ‘That’s a very good point. It could be my opportunity to make a few changes . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. For instance . . .’

  ‘When you say “a few”, do you mean a long list, because I have things to do?’

  ‘No, you carry on. I was going to give you advance warning of some of the changes that might be forthcoming, but if you’re not interested . . .’

  ‘I think I have a good idea of some of the changes you’ll make. So, you’re happy to go now?’

  ‘I’m warming to the idea. I can see the advantages of being an expert.’

  ‘And just think of the gene pool you’ll have available to you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Boyfriends.’

  ‘You think I’ll have time to meet men.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Surely it can’t be all work and no play.’

  ‘And you’ll be happy for me to meet men?’

  ‘There’s not a lot I can do about it really, is there? As you’ve said, you’re an adult now. As such, you’re responsible for your own decisions, and the consequences that naturally follow on from those decisions.’

  ‘But I can still ring you up?’

  ‘Before not after.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, you can ring me up for advice before you take your clothes off, but don’t go ringing me after you’ve already made a fool of yourself – that’s your mother’s department. Rule No.1 is not to make a fool of yourself in the first place. If you’re confused about Rule No.1, then Rule No.2 is to refer to Rule No.1.’

  ‘Very helpful.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  ***

  Monday, September 1

  Assistant Chief Constable Erica Hewitt stared out of the window at a small group of deer grazing on the edge of a line of trees. She was dressed in her uniform, had her hands interlocked behind her substantial rear end and blocked out a lot of the morning sunshine trying to filter into her office. ‘The bigger picture, Detective Constable Richards . . . Can you see the bigger picture?’

  She’d travelled up by train to the Police Staff College in Bramshill House at Bramshill, Hampshire. Jed and her mum had offered to drive her all the way. It would only have taken them an hour and a half, but then they would have had to have driven back to Chigwell, and it wouldn’t have been much fun if she’d been wedged
in the back seat with Jack, Melody and Digby. Instead, it had taken her three hours by rail from Cheshunt to Blackwater via Liverpool Street, Waterloo and Guildford. She also had to take a taxi from Blackwater station to Bramshill House, which was another twenty-five minutes out of her day and had cost her twenty pounds – seventeen for the journey and a three pound tip.

  During the journey she’d wondered what a newly qualified Detective Constable – barely out of training and fast-tracked into the bargain – thought she was doing. What did she know? Nothing – nothing at all.

  They’d put her in a room in one of the purpose-built buildings to accommodate staff and trainees. It was like a hotel room with a double bed, en-suite bathroom and a fifty-inch television screen hung on the wall. She’d switched the television on last night, and couldn’t believe that the Police Staff College didn’t have the Crime Channel.

  ‘I think so, Ma’am,’ Richards responded to the question, but she was unnerved that she was speaking to the back of the ACC’s head. She liked to be able to look into people’s eyes when she was talking to them, to pick up on their eye signals, gauge their true feelings from the facial expressions they unwittingly made, and watch the movement of their mouth as they spoke.

  ‘We’ll see. Not everyone can. Most people get bogged down with minutiae and can’t climb out of the quagmire. You’ve been brought here because you’ve shown a particular aptitude for catching serial killers. I don’t know whether that’s a reflection on your childhood or not, because they say it takes a psychopath to catch a psychopath . . . Are you a psychopath, DC Richards?’

  ‘Absolutely . . .’

  ‘Anyway, we’ll no doubt find out in due course. For the most part you’ll be in the Serious Crime Analysis Section, or SCAS for short. SCAS is a national service, which supports ongoing investigations into society’s gravest crimes. We analyse the most serious sexual attacks, and stranger killings in the UK. Of particular interest to you is the fact that we identify the potential emergence of serial killers and serial rapists at the earliest stage of their offending . . .’

  ‘I’m familiar . . .’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m in full-flow, Constable.’

  ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘We also manage the national database that holds the details of serious sexual attacks by strangers and unknown motive murders committed in the UK; the collection of this data is unique. Additionally, we receive relevant case files from detectives across the UK, analyse the information to identify matching patterns of behaviour and other features, and provide those detectives with potential lines of enquiry and suspects.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ She knew exactly what SCAS did, because she and DI Parish had begun to use their services – not least because it now formed part of the case management protocol.

  ‘We work mostly in the shadows, so don’t think this is a holiday and you’re here to party. We take our work and our secrecy very seriously. If you’re not here to give us three hundred and fifty percent – say so now. We’ll send you back to Hoddesdon and say no more about it. Although your fast-tracking will come to a premature end and you’ll more than likely be pounding the beat in some God-forsaken backwater for the rest of your career.’

  ‘I’m here to work, Ma’am.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ve heard a lot about you, DC Richards. You’re young – many would say too young. You’re female, and in the words of a largely male-dominated police force, they believe that a young woman should be having babies, cooking, ironing and homemaking instead of slopping about in the filth of society looking for serial killers – that’s man’s work. What do you have to say to those people, Richards?’

  ‘It’s unprintable what I’d like to say to them, Ma’am. But I’m as good as any man, and I think my record proves that.’

  ‘What about DI Parish? He’s been training you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He’s the best trainer and the best boss in the world, Ma’am.’

  ‘But you would say that, wouldn’t you? Having partners who are related is frowned upon, you know?’

  ‘I know, Ma’am. But we’re only loosely related. He married my mum, and adopted me. It doesn’t in any way affect our working relationship. In fact, I’d say it makes it stronger.’

  ‘An interesting hypothesis, Detective. And you live under the same roof, don’t you?’

  ‘I do have my own house that I’m renting out, but I like living with my family. I don’t want to live on my own.’

  ‘Merely an observation. Have you settled into your room?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘All right, I think it’s time you began work.’ She pressed a button on the intercom system sitting on her desk.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

  ‘Send in Mr Hadfield, please.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  The door opened. A ginger-haired man with freckles, brown-tinted glasses and an open-necked short-sleeved linen shirt appeared. His hair was wavy and fairly long. He had it swept back, which made his forehead appear unnaturally large. Richards guessed he was in his late forties, and she wasn’t keen on his hairy arms as she shook his hand either.

  ‘This is Frank Hadfield – the Head of Section. He’ll take you to where you’re working. If you have any problems – as long as they’re not female-related – he’ll be your first point-of-contact. All the people who work in SCAS are civilians, so you’re not expected to wear your uniform – smart, but casual is the dress code – much like you do as a detective.’ She looked at Hadfield. ‘Take her away, Frank.’

  ‘Follow me, DC Richards.’

  ‘Thank you for the opportunity, Ma’am,’ she said to the ACC over her shoulder.

  ‘Thank me at the end of your secondment, Richards. After we’ve sucked you in, chewed you up and spat you out.’

  ‘I will, Ma’am.’

  The Serious Crime Analysis Section (SCAS) was based in Foxley Hall, which was located in the 260-acre grounds of Bramshill and was affectionately called the “Sunken Pizza Hut” because of its unusual sloping roofs, and the fact that it had an entrance and concrete walkway leading to it, half-way up the building.

  She followed Frank Hadfield down a set of concrete stairs to the basement of Foxley Hall, along a winding corridor – where she noticed the blinking red lights of movement-activated surveillance cameras at every turn – until eventually they reached a door with SCAS etched into a red plastic sign and stuck on the steel at eye-level. Hadfield moved to block her view, and keyed a security code into the keypad.

  ‘You’ll be provided with your own access code soon. Each person’s code is unique, so that entry can be individually monitored. Don’t give your code to anyone.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘There’s also the camera . . .’ He pointed to a camera screwed high up on the wall, which was pointing sideways down at the door.

  She couldn’t help but look into the camera lens, and then when she did she felt the need to smile.

  ‘When you’re ready, detective.’

  Jones was holding the door open for her.

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’ She followed him into a large windowless room. In the background she could hear the air-conditioning humming. Desks were grouped in pods containing three desks, and there were eight pods with analysts sitting at each desk – except one.

  He led her to the empty desk. ‘You’ll be sitting here during your secondment.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Hey everyone . . .’

  The analysts stared at here like an exhibit on display in the Natural History Museum.

  ‘. . . This is Detective Constable Mary Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station in Essex.’

  ‘There were waves and mumbled “hellos”.

  She could feel her face burning up as she smiled weakly and said, ‘Hello.’

  One woman, at the desk next to hers in the pod, stood up and offered her hand. She had short blonde hair, lips that seemed too small for her wide face and pointed e
ars like an elf.

  ‘This is Sally Prentice, one of our senior analysts,’ Hadfield said. ‘She’s going to be looking after you.’

  Richards took the hand and shook it. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Sally smiled. ‘Likewise, I’m sure.’

  ‘Good to have you here, Mary . . . Oh! We’re all on a first-name basis in here, by the way. Working on top of each other all day and night doesn’t lend itself to formality. Right, I’ll leave you in Sally’s capable hands.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank.’

  Hadfield left the way they’d come.

  Mary looked around the large basement room. Every desk was filled with people reading, working on keyboards, or on the telephone and she wondered if this type of work was for her. At least it was only for three months and she hadn’t committed to it for life.

  Beyond the desk – in the far left-hand corner of the room – was the computer system holding the details of 16,000 sexual assaults and murder in a database system called the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System (ViCLAS), which was developed in Canada by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP).

  ‘I see you’ve spotted our monster . . .’

  ‘Monster?’

  ‘Oh yes! We’re like animal feeders at the zoo. The only difference is that we feed an insatiable monster called a computer. Here’s what we do: We receive a criminal case file from a police force in our in- tray, code the information and input it into the database – we feed the monster. It’s important not to lose sight of what you’re meant to be doing as well, which is assist an investigation. Some analysts think that the information is an end in itself – it’s not. You have to produce a timely report, which will identify if there are grounds to believe that the offender has previously been identified; a breakdown of the behaviour exhibited in the offence; identifying good practice – or what works, which might direct the officer to a specific line of enquiry not yet considered. It’s also possible that you might have to appear in court as a specialist for the prosecution.’