A Time to Kill (P&R14) Page 3

‘A good choice. That’s an alias, you know. His real name is Bibendum.’

  ‘When will your solicitor get here?’

  ‘Soon. I’m sure.’

  They walked up to the ITU to find that Giselle Hamill was in a deep sleep.

  ‘When will she wake up?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector Blake. It’s Angie Parish – Jed’s wife.’

  ‘Oh yeah! Good morning.’ That’s all she needed, Angie bloody Parish reporting back to her husband and daughter. ‘I need to speak to the woman.’

  ‘I’m afraid she was given a sedative in A&E before she arrived here.’

  ‘Can’t you give her something to wake her up?’

  ‘Yes, I could do that, but I’m not going to.’

  ‘I’m trying to investigate a murder, Mrs Parish.’

  ‘It’s Staff Nurse Parish here, and my only concern is for the patient – not your investigation.’

  Stick moved in front of her. ‘How long do you think we’ll have to wait?’

  Angie smiled. ‘Hello, DS Gilbert. I’d say a couple of hours. Come back then, and we’ll see if she can answer one or two questions for you.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Staff Nurse Parish.’

  He gripped Xena’s elbow and led her into the corridor.

  ‘Will you put me down?’

  ‘I should swap you for an Aunt Sally,’ he said.

  ‘You want to swap me for the wooden head of an old woman that people throw sticks at?’

  ‘I’m sure that a wooden head would cause a lot less trouble, and the sticks might help improve the head’s disposition.’

  ‘I think you’ve forgotten your place in this partnership, DS Gilbert.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ma’am. My place in this partnership is to watch your back, to protect you when things begin going awry. Not just from other people, but from yourself as well.’

  ‘You’ve got a damned nerve, Stickamundo. To apologise – you can buy me lunch while we wait.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not about to argue with a superior officer?’

  ‘I never would.’

  ***

  She decided to leave the building supervisor until last, because she reasoned that if she asked him anything and he said no – she had nowhere else to go. If she didn’t ask, then she could plead ignorance, or anything else for that matter.

  Asking other tenants if they had noticed a smell would at least confirm Illana’s complaint. If Charlie – or one of the newly qualified (NQs) solicitors they’d taken on – was going to pursue the litigation on Illana’s behalf, then proof was first required that there was something to complain about.

  If Jerry decided that Illana had a case, then she would arrange for men to come in and investigate where the smell was coming from.

  She knocked on the apartment above Illana’s – 18/7.

  Nobody answered.

  That was the problem in trying to speak to young high-flyers during the day – they were out flying high.

  She tried the next apartment up – 19/7. There were only twenty floors – not counting the basement and the underground car park – the penthouse suite took up the whole of the top floor, and was occupied by Israel Voss. Or, at least, that was where he lay his weary head when he was in town, which wasn’t very often apparently.

  The door opened.

  An attractive young woman with long dishevelled blonde hair and faraway eyes stood in the doorway smoking what Jerry guessed was a joint. She was barely covered by a knotted sleeveless white tank-top that was at least three sizes too big for her and wasn’t doing any kind of job hiding her small breasts. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘A smell in your apartment.’

  ‘It’s not my apartment. And if someone’s complained about a smell, then it’s not my smell either. It’ll be Jason, because I don’t smell. Yeah, sometimes I wonder what he’s eaten to smell so bad. He says all men smell bad. You look as though you’ve had a few men – do they all smell bad?’

  ‘There’s only been one man in my life, but from my limited knowledge of the subject I’d have to agree with Jason – most men do smell bad.’

  The woman took a drag from the joint. ‘You want a smoke?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Are we done then?’

  ‘I didn’t come about the smell emanating from Jason.’

  ‘So, you do think it’s me?’

  ‘No. What I’m wondering is if there are any other smells in your apartment?’

  ‘Jason isn’t allowed to keep animals. I wanted a puppy, but he says it’s in the contract that he can’t have one. I’m not allowed to get pregnant either. Do you want to make out?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘You don’t like me?’

  ‘I think you’re very beautiful.’

  ‘You still think I smell?’

  ‘No.’

  She lifted up the bottom of the tank-top. ‘I shave down there, and use deodorants. Jason says I have the best pussy he’s ever tasted.’

  This wasn’t going according to plan at all, she thought. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘You do want to make out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you want to come in then? You’re police, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not police. I just want to smell your vents.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Smell my vents! What does that mean exactly? I’ll try anything once, but I’ve never heard of that one before.’

  Jerry laughed. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lottie Musgrove.’

  ‘I’m Jerry Kowalski. The woman two floors beneath you is complaining of a smell . . .’

  ‘I thought smells went up, not down. Maybe I should ring Jason.’

  She obviously wasn’t explaining herself very well. ‘The smell isn’t coming from your apartment, and it’s not coming from her apartment either. It’s coming from somewhere else in the building.’

  ‘Ah! Like the basement you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘I thought I had. So, have you smelt it?’

  ‘The smell from the basement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. Is that where the smell is coming from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I thought you said it was coming from the basement.’

  ‘Can I come in and smell your vents?’

  ‘Oh, you mean the air vents in the wall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lottie giggled. ‘Yeah, you can come in and smell my vents if you want to.’ She shuffled her bare feet sideways on the marble floor to let Jerry in and then shut the door behind her. ‘Are you a building inspector, or something like that?’

  ‘No. I work for a solicitor.’

  ‘You’re not going to sue Jason, are you?’

  ‘No. Jason has nothing to do with anything. The woman downstairs keeps getting a strange smell in her apartment, and I’m just wondering if you’ve noticed it as well.’

  ‘I haven’t smelt anything . . . Well, apart from Jason, that is.’

  ‘Has Jason ever complained of a smell in the apartment?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Do you mind if a smell your vents?’

  Lottie giggled again. ‘Do you know how strange that sounds?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Jerry knelt down and tentatively sniffed the vent in the living room, and then did the same in the bedroom. There were no awful smells, but as Illana made clear – one minute it was there, the next it was gone. The other possibility was that the smell didn’t travel this far up.

  ‘Well?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’m glad, I like it here.’

  ‘Have you been with Jason long?’

  ‘Four months.’

&nbs
p; ‘You don’t work?’

  ‘Work is for other people. I tried it once, but I didn’t like it.’

  ‘What do you do instead?’

  ‘Get high. My parents died and left me everything, so I decided just to fritter my life away.’

  ‘Well, thanks for letting me smell your vents.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to someone saying that.’

  She headed for the door.

  ‘Look after yourself, Lottie.’

  ‘And you.’

  Lottie closed the door behind her. She supposed she needed to sniff the vents of the apartment underneath Illana’s now. If the smell was reaching Illana’s apartment then it had to get there via Apartment 16/7.

  Chapter Three

  Before moving on, Parish called Toadstone out of the crime scene and said, ‘Take the victim’s computer, tablet and mobile phone into custody and interrogate them. Apparently, she was rather active on the social networking sites. Ask your computer people to provide a report by tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I’m sure we can do that.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  They left the house-to-house to the uniforms, but as there were so few apartments in the block, they knocked on each one on their way out, but no one had seen, heard or knew anything.

  ‘What do you think?’ Richards said, as they made their way towards the main entrance.

  ‘I think it’s a simple, run-of-the-mill, everyday murder with no added complications.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’

  ‘Yes you were. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me what I think. It’s your way of telling me what you think.’

  ‘I’m not that devious.’

  ‘You’re exactly that devious, Little Miss Sneaky.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I think then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Because you’re just going to say the same old thing again: “It’s a serial killer, Inspector Parish. I’ve seen the signs in the sky. There are strange goings-on in my water. Mark my words – the tea leaves never lie.” Well, it’s not a serial killer, Richards. Get that out of your head right away. She’ll have been killed by a jealous boyfriend, or maybe the father of the baby is a high-ranking politician and he couldn’t let it get out that he had a pregnant lover, or maybe our Saturday man saw an opportunity to do a spot of raping and pillaging and killed her by mistake. There are a hundred different scenarios to consider and investigate before we get to a serial killer stopping by on the off-chance that Catrina Golding might just match his victim profile.’

  ‘It’s the jewellery. Why was it laid out on the bed?’

  ‘It was a robbery gone wrong. Stop making more out of it than is good for you.’

  When they opened the doors to the building, they found the press – three layers deep – waiting for them outside like competitors limbering up at the start of a race.

  ‘Inspector Parish – can you tell us what’s going on?’

  ‘Do you have any details for us?’

  ‘We heard it was something to do with a religious sect.’

  He held up his hands for quiet.

  ‘Good morning. A young woman has been murdered . . .’

  ‘Becky Terrell from the Hailey Harangue, Inspector. Can you give us the name of the murdered woman?’

  He knew very well that they’d be able to find out Catrina Golding’s name from the electoral register, or no doubt Cathie Prosser would sell her story to the highest bidder, but he needed a window of opportunity before that to notify the parents. ‘You know I need to speak to the victim’s relatives first. There’ll be a press briefing at four o’clock this afternoon – I’ll give you a name then.’

  Clare Ainsworth from Five News. ‘Do you have any suspects yet, Inspector?’

  ‘A man – in his thirties – wearing faded jeans, a dark-blue quilted coat and a grey hoodie was seen leaving the building on Saturday afternoon around four-thirty. We’d very much like him to make himself known to us, so that he can be eliminated from our enquiries.’

  ‘Roger Manku from the Mission Daily. Do you have any idea about the motive for the murder yet, Inspector?’

  ‘That has yet to be determined, Mr Manku.’

  ‘Mike Thompson from the Thurrock Sentinel. Do you think that the residents of Hailey, or for that matter in the wider community, should be concerned at this senseless death?’

  ‘No, Mr Thompson. I’m sure that as long as people take the normal security precautions, they’ll be just fine.’ He held up a hand again to interrupt the stream of questions. ‘As I said, there will be a press briefing at four o’clock this afternoon. I hope to be able to give you more information then.’

  ‘You didn’t mention my theory,’ Richards said when they were sitting in the car.

  ‘And create a panic? No. Of all the theories in the theory bucket, yours is wedged between two slats at the bottom.’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Where do the parents live?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘That’s what I have a detective constable for.’

  ‘A dogsbody, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t see anything incompatible between the two.’

  ‘Just you wait. My report will be submitted to the Court of Human Rights soon.’

  ‘I look forward to the opportunity of defending myself against your outlandish allegations and explaining to the court the difference between effort and bone idleness.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Shush.’ She had the phone pressed to her ear. ‘Thank you, Mildred.’ She ended the call. ‘Number 73 Silverfield in Broxbourne.’

  ‘Get going then.’

  Greg and Maureen Golding lived in a three-bed end-of-terrace house with a ground-floor extension to the side that shifted the front door along and permitted internal modifications, which significantly enlarged the available living space.

  ‘Do you want me to?’ Richards asked him.

  He nodded. ‘You’re much better at it than me.’

  The door eventually opened. A small woman with grey curly hair, freckles and a flushed face said, ‘Sorry. We’re out in the back garden doing a spot of re-potting. I had to take off my wellies and gardening gloves. What can I do for you?’

  Richards showed her warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Richards, and this is Detective Inspector Parish. Can we . . . ?’

  The woman went white and crumpled like tin foil.

  Richards caught her.

  Parish stepped in to help.

  Together, they guided Mrs Golding inside.

  ‘You’re here about Catrina, aren’t you?’ she said as they deposited her on the living room sofa.

  A man came into the room. He was balding, overweight with three wobbling chins and dressed in a pair of dark blue overalls with swathes of white and yellow paint on them as if he was a piece of living abstract art. ‘What’s going on?’

  Parish stood up wielding his warrant card. ‘We’re from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘It’s Catrina, isn’t it?’

  ‘Let’s all sit down, shall we,’ Parish said. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this . . .’

  ‘No . . .’ Mrs Golding said.

  ‘. . . Your daughter Catrina was found dead earlier this morning.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Mrs Golding sobbed into Richards’ top.

  Greg Golding nodded at Richards and moved between them, putting his arm round his wife’s shoulders and saying, ‘Okay, Maureen.’

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ Richards said.

  ‘We’ve run out of milk,’ Greg apologised. ‘Maureen planned to go shopping later. There’s coffee with the powder . . .’

  ‘I’ll make that, shall I?’

  Greg nodded.

  Richards disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ Greg said. ‘Catrina was such a beautiful woman . . .
We had an idea something was wrong though.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Golding?

  ‘We hadn’t heard from Catrina all week. Her and Maureen are always on the phone to each other. Maureen kept ringing, but got no response. We were going to drive up there over the weekend if we still hadn’t heard from her.’

  ‘What about the baby?’ Maureen asked.

  Parish shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Catrina was our only child. Now we’ll never be . . .’ Mrs Golding broke down again.

  Richards returned with a tray containing four cups of coffee on saucers, a bowl of sugar and another bowl of coffee whitener.

  Parish shifted a book and some magazines along the coffee table, so that Richards could put the tray down.

  ‘How . . . ?’ Greg Golding asked, but didn’t finish.

  ‘We think Catrina was killed sometime on Saturday, but that’s still to be confirmed.’

  Greg put two heaps of coffee whitener and one heap of sugar into a cup, stirred it and passed the cup on its saucer to his wife. ‘Here, drink this, Mo.’

  She sat up properly, took the cup and saucer from her husband, and said, ‘She’s been dead in her apartment all week?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parish confirmed.

  ‘How is that possible? What about her friends? What about Jimmy? What about . . . ?’ She reached forward and put the cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘We think that your daughter was killed by an intruder, but we’ve yet to piece together exactly what did happen. I know it’s a difficult . . .’

  ‘Killed?’ Greg said. ‘Killed how?’

  ‘She was strangled.’

  Maureen stared at Parish with her red puffy eyes and said, ‘Was she . . . ?’

  Richards moved back onto the sofa, sat on the other side of Mrs Golding and took her hand. ‘We don’t know anything for sure yet. Let’s wait until after the post mortem, shall we?’

  Parish shuffled forward on the chair. ‘I’m sorry, but we need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Are you going to catch her killer?’ Greg said.

  ‘We’ll do everything possible to catch whoever killed your daughter, Mr Golding.’ He knew from past experience that there was never a good time to ask the questions that needed to be asked, so he just began. ‘When did you last see Catrina?’