The Fragments That Remain Read online

  ‘You’re going to look foolish if the killer is a woman, you know.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A man would have carried the body inside.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Not all men can carry thirteen stone of dead weight.’

  ‘Less the blood.’

  ‘All right, let’s say twelve stone. You couldn’t lift it.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  ‘I could, but I’d probably do a fireman’s lift, which would run the risk of transferring contact DNA. No, it’d be a lot simpler and safer to drag the body from the back door to where it was suspended in the middle of the hall. In fact, there should be forensic evidence to support my theory. Ring Toadstone and tell him to check.’

  She did as he asked. ‘He said he was already doing it.’

  ‘Of course he was.’

  ‘Are you picking on Paul because we’re seeing each other?’

  ‘I’m not picking on him at all.’

  ‘It seems that way to me.’

  The dishevelled looking barman brought their food over. ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Richards said.

  ‘You’re just over-sensitive because you’re romantically involved with him. If you recall, I’m the one who suggested Toadstone as a likely candidate for your affections all along.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  She picked at her salad. ‘Are we going back to the Village Hall after this?’

  ‘Unless you have somewhere else to go? We have no next-of-kin for the victim, no friends, no workplace, no suspects, no leads – nothing.’

  ‘I’ll ring traffic, shall I?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  She called traffic, explained where they were and what they needed, and ended the call. ‘They’ll ring me back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When they’ve done a search.’

  ‘Which will be when?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  ‘You should have asked.’

  ‘Did you get out of the wrong side of bed this morning?’

  ‘Did you hear your mother complaining?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That I climbed over her to get out of the wrong side of the bed.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I try.’

  After lunch they returned to the Village Hall and donned new forensic suits, overshoes, gloves and masks. A scaffold tower had been erected in the middle of the hall. White-suited forensic officers were still systematically collecting, tagging, logging and packaging potential evidence, so that it remained intact on the way to the laboratory. Others were taking photographs, video recordings and sketches to freeze-frame the crime scene before anything else was moved.

  ‘Everything is theoretically impossible, until it’s done, Toadstone.’

  ‘It was good of you to invite me to lunch.’

  ‘Would you have come if we had?’

  ‘No, but I would have liked the chance to decline.’

  ‘Sorry, Toadstone. Lunch for us is always a working lunch. It’s when Richards and I discuss the case . . . and you, of course.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aren’t you glad that we find you interesting enough to talk about?’

  ‘It depends what you’re saying about me.’

  ‘Nothing good. As you very well know, no good deed goes unpunished.’

  ‘You’re full of quotes today, Sir. That particular one is a derivative of a saying from John Milton’s Paradise Lost, and the earlier quote is by the science fiction author Robert A Heinlein.’

  Richards stared at him. ‘You’re never going to find a saying he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Never is a long time, Richards.’

  ‘Keep them coming, Sir,’ Toadstone said. ‘That’s a song by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.’

  Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of Richards’ eyes. ‘It’ll be a long time for you.’

  ‘Anyway, enough verbal sparring and cheerleading. What have you discovered, Toadstone?’

  Toadstone walked them to the back door and – like a tour guide – began his commentary from there. ‘The killer picked the lock and entered the building through the back door, locking it after them using the spare key kept in the drawer next to the door. He – or she – then opened the fire door on the right, dragging the body across the threshold and into the middle of the hall . . .’

  ‘You found evidence of drag marks?’ Parish asked.

  ‘Yes. Also, we found shoeprints that matched the trajectory of the corpse being dragged.’ He showed them a still photograph of a shoeprint that had been made visible with special white spray paint. Next to the print was a twelve-inch ruler, which indicated that the print was a size 6.

  ‘A woman,’ Richards said, as if she’d won the lottery.

  ‘You don’t know that, Richards.’

  ‘Ah!’ Toadstone mumbled.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel like you two are ganging up on me. Why are you saying that, Toadstone?’

  ‘The pattern of the shoeprint is unusual.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Did you know that there’s an experimental shoeprint database?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It allows us to submit a photograph of a shoeprint. If there is a match, the database will tell us the likely gender, size and brand of that shoeprint.’

  ‘Likely?’

  ‘It’s better than the intuition and gut instinct we had previously.’

  ‘So, how is this shoeprint unusual?’

  ‘Apart from it being one of the most expensive at £300, it’s the tread of a female indoor climbing shoe, size 6, made by an Italian company called Scalata. The model is a Rosa Amento and is only sold in three shops in the UK that are all owned by Vista Climbing.’

  ‘What about purchases on the internet?’

  ‘All internet orders are filled by the nearest of the three shops.’

  ‘So, in theory, we should be able to go to any of those shops and find out who’s bought a pair of size 6 Rosa Amento climbing shoes in the past six months?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was beginning to despair of the value of forensics, Toadstone. Thankfully, you’ve renewed my faith in its scientific viability and usefulness. Where’s the nearest Vista Climbing shop?’

  He passed Richards a piece of paper. ‘The address is on there – it’s in Ilford.’

  ‘Thanks, Toadstone. Right, are you ready . . .’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Carry on then, and stop dilly-dallying.’

  ‘We didn’t find any fingerprints on the beam or the ceiling, which suggests that the killer used climbing gloves. They must have tied the rope around the corpse’s ankle, scaled the beam with the rope from the floor to the apex like a monkey, pulled up the body using a pulley – We found scratch marks suggesting that a small climbing pulley was used to haul up the body. They then tied the rope off and either descended down the rope or along the beam.’

  ‘So,’ Richards said. ‘We’re looking for an extremely agile female, with size 6 feet who is an experienced climber?’

  ‘I would say so,’ Toadstone agreed with her.

  ‘Anything else?’ Parish said.

  ‘The usual hair, fibres and detritus, but it’ll be some time before we process them.’

  ‘Sometime? Is that something you’ve just invented?’

  ‘It’s another word for Wednesday.’

  ‘Wednesday morning first thing?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Also, while your girlfriend and I are doing all the work, I want you to liaise with Doc Riley and find out who the victim is. Run his fingerprints, DNA and check the missing person reports. I need answers, Toadstone.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’

  ‘Good. Come on, Richards. It’s a long drive to Ilford.’

  ‘See you later, Paul.’r />
  ***

  Bob Stanton lived at 15 Well Green in Bramfield. It was a cottage, but run down and neglected. A lick of paint and some minor repairs would have given it back some respect.

  Stick knocked on the rotting blue door, but nobody answered.

  Xena edged round the right-hand side of the house.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Who says I’m going anywhere?’ she said, but carried on moving down the side passage towards the rear of the house.

  ‘It’s called trespassing, you know.’

  ‘I knew it had a name, but for the life of me I couldn’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘Now that you do know what it’s called, why are you still moving?’

  She opened the side gate and walked through onto the crazy-paving patio. There was a rockery on the far left overflowing with yellow, red, white and purple flowers. Dirty white plastic patio furniture stood in front of a pair of open patio doors. On the table was a half-read book, a folded newspaper with a partially-completed crossword and a half-full glass of flat beer.

  ‘That’s why,’ she said, pointing to a man in a pair of jeans, a roll-neck jumper and a Fedora hat at the bottom of the long winding garden. ‘Call him.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You don’t expect me – a lady – to bellow like a bear, do you?’

  ‘We could sit at the table and wait for him to notice us.’

  ‘Call him.’

  ‘HELLO?’

  The man looked up, waved and started making his way back up the garden towards them.

  They sat down at the table.

  Stick picked up the paper, took out his pen and began filling in the crossword.

  ‘A man’s crossword is his castle,’ Xena said.

  ‘It’s an obsession I have.’

  ‘Filling out other men’s crosswords?’

  ‘Anybody’s crosswords. If I see an unfinished crossword – I have to complete it.’

  ‘You should see a therapist.’

  ‘I know.’

  He filled the empty clues in, corrected one mistake, and then folded the newspaper to another page as if he’d simply been reading it.

  Xena stared at him. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  His lip curled up. ‘I am.’

  The man reached them. He had long straggly washed-out brown hair, and when he removed the Fedora to wipe the sweat from his forehead, they could see a middle parting that was expanding with each passing day.

  ‘Mr Robert Stanton?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Bob. Only my mother called me Robert . . . Well, that’s not strictly true. I’ve two ex-wives, and both of those insisted on calling me Robert as well. That’s probably why they’re ex-wives. Although, that’s not strictly true either – I cheated on both of them. Anyway, why are you sitting on my patio, reading my paper and . . . Would you like a beer?’

  ‘No thanks, Mr Stanton.’

  He drank the last of his own beer and said, ‘Are you sure? I’m getting one for me anyway. They’re ice-cold, highly recommended, thirst quenchers extraordinaire.’

  ‘You’ve persuaded me,’ Stick said.

  Xena pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to be the odd one out, so I suppose you’d better bring me one as well.’

  ‘Glasses, or as they come?’

  ‘As they come.’

  He stopped and looked at them. ‘Who are you, by the way?’

  Xena showed her warrant card. ‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert.’

  ‘Here about Pete?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll get the beers.’

  He disappeared into the cottage.

  ‘What do you think?’ Xena asked him.

  ‘About Mr Stanton?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Stick pulled a face. ‘I don’t think anything.’

  ‘Is he our killer?’

  ‘I thought we were looking for a woman?’

  ‘It occurred to me that a spurned lover could be a male as well.’

  ‘Interesting. I hadn’t thought of that. No, I don’t think he’s our killer.’

  Bob Stanton returned with three clinking green bottles of beer. As promised, they were ice-cold with drips of condensation running down the sides. He sat down, took a long swallow and said, ‘Well, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Tell us about Mr Lloyd’s infidelities,’ Xena said.

  ‘You saw his wife, didn’t you?’

  ‘She wasn’t looking her best when we saw her.’

  ‘Well, Rachel Caruthers was the prettiest girl in the school. Don’t ask me how Pete got her, but he did. All the boys were after her – including me, but Pete got her. He must have made a pact with the Devil, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Are you saying he never went with another woman?’ Stick pressed him.

  ‘Wouldn’t even consider the possibility.’

  ‘The rest of us would go out screwing around at the drop of a hat, but Pete would stay at home making babies . . . I was going to say: I couldn’t blame him, but that wouldn’t be right. I think if Rachel had been my wife I’d have still screwed around. It’s the man I am. And Pete was the man he was. He loved Rachel and those two kids. Didn’t look at other women. Even if Miss World had offered it to him on a plate he’d have thanked her, but declined the offer. He wasn’t the cheating sort – unlike me. Now, I’d sleep with any woman who came along, but I have to say that those women are getting fewer and fewer. In fact, I can’t remember the last time . . . And then, of course, there’s my ex-wives. Bled me dry, they did. I’m lucky to still have this cottage, but it’s falling down around my ears. If I sold it I’d get next to nothing for it, because of its condition. The trouble is, I can’t afford to do any repairs or modifications to it. A Catch-22 I think they call that.’

  Stick finished his beer. ‘So, you can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Peter Lloyd and his wife Rachel?’

  ‘Pete was a bit of a wet blanket when it came to enjoying himself, but he was a stand-up guy, do anything for you.’

  ‘No enemies?’

  ‘If he did have enemies, I wasn’t aware of them.’

  ‘Have you any idea why he was £7,500 in debt?’

  ‘He was paying for a modular Masters degree in electrical engineering at Surrey University. What for? I had no idea. He didn’t need to. He was already a Director of Minster Electronics, but that was Pete for you. And what was worse, he could have got the company to pay for it, but he didn’t.’ Bob shook his head. ‘He was the worst bass player in the world. We could have been as big as Pink Floyd if it hadn’t been for Pete, but I’m going to miss him all the same.’

  ‘What about the other band members – will they tell us anything different?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was Pete’s best mate. If I didn’t know, they wouldn’t know.’

  Xena and Stick stood up.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, Mr Stanton.’

  ‘Honesty is my middle name – that’s why I’ve got no wife and no money.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Stick said once they were sitting in the car.

  ‘I think Peter Lloyd should be canonised. He was a saint in name and deed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t cheat on Jenifer.’

  ‘Saint Stick. That has a certain ring to it as well. Saint Stick of Hoddesdon.’

  ‘I’d prefer Saint Rowley.’

  ‘You don’t get to choose, numpty.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ***

  She was glad that she’d made it up with Jerry Kowalski. The longer the phone didn’t ring, the more difficult it was to repair the damage. She’d learned a valuable lesson – don’t bite the hand that pays you.

  Now she was back on the grid . . . Well, more under the grid than on it. And she was feeling nearly human again. Although the surgeons had removed her womb – she was philosophical about it. What did she need a womb for? It was a liability in her line of work and with her erratic social life. Now, she didn’t need to take the pil
l, had no monthly periods of feeling like death warmed up, could screw whoever she wanted whenever it took her fancy without worrying about getting pregnant. Pregnancy was for other women – not for her. It never had been an option for her. She would never get married, never have babies – that was just the way it was. Bronwyn against the world, as it had always been, and always would be.

  She hadn’t realised it when she’d been sitting curled up in that abandoned underground tunnel, but the bullet had passed right through her. No wonder she’d lost so much blood, the exit wound in her lower back had been the shape and size of a crater on the Moon. She’d been lucky – if she could tempt fate and call herself that. The bullet had taken a diagonal trajectory – from left to right – through her body, and messed up her uterus as it went on its merry way. No other major organs or vessels had been damaged, and thankfully it had left her spine intact. Her skin was another matter though – she needed plastic surgery to sort out the mess the entry and exit wounds had created, and had booked an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon in a week’s time to discuss her options. Just because she wasn’t having babies didn’t mean that she wanted to look like the Elephant Man. She still wanted sex – lots of sex. And maybe she’d get the scars on her back – that her father had left her with – repaired as well.

  So, now she had a new job – a bank job. She smiled at the thought, as she began her research. She found nothing more nor less than what Jerry had told her.

  It was a mystery all right.

  And she liked nothing better than a good old-fashioned mystery to get her teeth into, and the Baker Street Robbery was certainly a good old-fashioned mystery.

  Why did the police lie about a D-Notice being issued? The amateur radio-operator, who had overheard the robbers’ radio communications and then reported it, argued that it was to hide police incompetence for not responding, or was there some other darker motive for the lie? Besides the cash and valuables, what else had been in those 260 safe-deposit boxes? Rumour had it that there were revealing photographs of a member of the royal family, and that the robbery had been instigated by MI5 to retrieve them, but she didn’t believe that. What had happened to the four robbers? Why had there never been anything on record from them? Had they been warned off? If so, by whom? And where were they now?