House of Mourning (9781301227112) Read online

  The House of Mourning

  Tim Ellis

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  Copyright 2013 Timothy Stephen Ellis

  Smashwords Edition

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  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 Smashwords 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

  To Mick & Anne Bustin

  Nothing warms the heart like old friends

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  A big thank you to proofreaders James Godber and Steve Jones

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Aftermath

  About the Author

  The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure

  Ecclesiastes 7:4

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  Chapter One

  Sunday, April 7

  He’d heard about murderers being able to get hold of drugs, syringes, guns and all the other paraphernalia that was needed to be a proper murderer, but he didn’t have any of it. He liked to watch the programmes on the television, and often wondered where they’d got all the stuff that they used to make killing a work of art. Of course, most of the television and films were American, and a murderer could get almost anything they wanted over there. He was just an average guy who had decided to start killing. There’d been no plan, no detailed notes with diagrams in a folder, no voices in his head or messages from God – he was just the guy next door.

  The woman woke up and began gagging and squirming on his kitchen table. He’d used an old oily rag from the garage to tie around her mouth, fashioned a hefty knot in the rag, so that it would fit between her teeth and stop her from screaming – or talking. The last thing he wanted was for her to talk to him.

  Next, he had to run upstairs to get a yellowing sheet from the airing cupboard, rip it into strips and then use the strips to tie her wrists and ankles to the legs of the table.

  He was making it up as he went along. He’d never been one for planning ahead. All he had was a vague idea lurking in a dark recess of his mind about what he wanted to do.

  ‘You must have an idea of where you’re going,’ his mum had once said to him when she’d still been alive.

  ‘Nah, I just take it as it comes.’

  ‘You’re going to walk into a whole heap of trouble with an outlook like that,’ she’d thrown back at him. ‘You’re just like your father, and look where he is now.’

  He’d shrugged, wandered out of the front door and strolled down the street with no particular idea of where he’d been going. His father had died a long time ago. He hadn’t really known him. The pictures that had been on the mantelpiece didn’t nudge any memories in his mind.

  Well, his mum had been right. Here he was, in a whole heap of trouble, but he didn’t mind. Things needed to be taken care of before he could get on with his life.

  She stopped struggling as he stood over her.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.

  For a moment she stared in his eyes, and then shook her head.

  ‘You soon will.’

  He opened the cutlery drawer, took out the kitchen scissors and began to cut through her jumper and the chiffon top underneath.

  She wriggled like a rat in a sack.

  When he reached her white lace bra he cut through the strip that connected the cups as well. He didn’t need to, but he’d always wondered what Fannie Binetti looked like underneath her expensive clothes. Now he knew – not very nice with her flat breasts and rolls of fat.

  He undid the button on her jeans and yanked them half-way down her thighs.

  Tears filled her wide open eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Your virginity is safe with me.’ It had been years since she’d been a virgin, and even then he wondered if she really had been. He pulled her plain white cotton knickers down and nodded his head at her crotch. ‘You could do with a trim down there as well.’

  She made a long grunting sound and wriggled some more.

  He put the scissors back in the drawer and took out the small sharp knife he used for chopping vegetables, meat and cheese. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said holding up the knife. ‘This is the best I can do. I’ll sharpen it, of course, but it’s not a scalpel by any stretch of the imagination. So, I think it’s going to hurt a bit.’

  After running the small blade up and down the sharpener on the wall he turned to Fannie.

  ‘It’s time.’

  Using a thin marker pen, he found in the odds and ends drawer, he drew two halves of a large broken heart on her midriff and inserted an arrow through the two halves.

  ‘It’s not a Michelangelo, but it’s not too bad.’

  He picked up the knife and began removing a thin strip of skin, following the line of the drawing.

  After less than a minute she slid into unconsciousness from the pain.

  It took him forty-five minutes to complete the task. He was surprised at the lack of blood. What little there was, he soaked up with a piece of the yellowing sheet.

  Finally, at the feather end of the arrow, he cut out his initials – GH, and then carved her initials – FB – at the arrow point. He wondered whether there was any significance to which end the initials went, but he suspected – after all was said and done – that it didn’t really matter.

  He stood back and admired his work.

  Although blowing his own trumpet wasn’t any form of recommendation, he thought he’d done a reasonably good job after all.

  While he waited for her to wake up he washed the knife and put it back in the cutlery drawer, put the unwanted strips of Fannie’s skin in the little green compostable rubbish bin he kept between the sink and the microwave and made himself a coffee.

  She began to stir.

  Standing over her with the last of his coffee he waited until she opened her eyes and then said, ‘Do you remember me now?’

  She began sobbing, and then nodded slowly.

  ‘I thought that might jog your memory.’

  He walked to the sink, put his coffee mug in the bowl and took a long carving knife out of the cutlery drawer.

  As he pushed the knife through a gap in her ribs and into her heart, he watched the light die in he
r eyes. ‘It’s important that you remembered, Fannie.’

  Now it was simply a question of tidying up. He removed the knife, washed it and put it back in the drawer.

  He was lucky that he had a door, which led from the kitchen into the back of the garage. Although, because of all the rubbish he stored in there, his Citroen Berlingo van wouldn’t actually fit in. He opened the garage door from inside, reversed the van as far as he could up to the front of the garage and opened the rear doors. The van was emptied at the end of the working day.

  Next, he returned to the kitchen. After untying the strips of sheet at Fannie’s wrists and ankles, he carried her through into the garage, tossed her into the back of the van and closed the doors.

  His breathing rate had increased. He didn’t know whether it was the exertion or the nerves. Was he nervous? He didn’t think so, but the work he did kept him fit. He returned to the kitchen, locked the connecting door, tidied up any tell-tale signs and stood for a moment to make sure he’d thought of everything.

  The corner of his mouth went up. It wasn’t a smile, simply an acknowledgement that even without a plan it had gone well. Now, all he had to do was dispose of the body and then think about Rene Hollitt.

  ***

  Monday, April 8

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Kowalski,’ Parish said when he saw the Chief sitting in the Chief’s chair. ‘But aren’t you meant to be on sick leave for another two weeks?’

  He’d spent five minutes outside talking to Carrie about their beautiful daughter Melody. Since he’d been back from America he’d seen Melody three times, and had even taken her home to meet Angie, Richards and Jack.

  ‘I’m still Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski to you, Parish.’

  ‘You’re mistaken, Mr Kowalski. If I recall my sick leave rules correctly, a person who is still on sick leave is classified as a civilian with no police powers whatsoever.’

  ‘That might be true if I was still on sick leave, but I’m not.’

  He helped himself to a mug of coffee from the percolator. ‘So, you’ve ignored the advice of the best cardiologists Essex has to offer and returned to work?’

  Kowalski put his head in his hands. ‘You don’t know what it’s been like, Parish.’

  ‘I think I have a reasonable idea of what a couple of weeks’ of sick leave looks like.’

  ‘Not with my mother-in-law, you don’t. Jerry hasn’t had much time for me . . .’

  ‘How’s her law degree going, by the way?’

  ‘What in God’s name possessed a woman of indeterminate age with four kids and a hunk of a husband to go back to school, I’ll never know.’

  ‘You’re not in favour of her becoming a barrister then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. She should be looking after me, but instead she’s created a barrier of law books between the two of us. Do you know when I last had sex?

  ‘No, and I don’t think I want to either.’

  ‘Her mother is like Genghis Khan’s older sister. . .’

  ‘I didn’t know Genghis Khan had an older sister.’

  ‘That’s not important. What is important is that I’ve been deserted by my own wife, the mother of my four children, and Genghis Khan’s older sister has come to stay.’

  ‘What about your father-in-law?’

  ‘Bert is a eunuch. He has testicles the size of shrivelled melon seeds.’

  ‘What about the police doctors?’

  ‘When I explained that the stress of being in the same house as my mother-in-law was going to kill me sooner rather than later, they said I could come back to work on light duties.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, but light duties as a DCI is a lot easier than light duties as a DI. In fact, being a DCI is like being on light duties all the time anyway.’

  ‘I always thought that.’

  ‘Where’s Richards?’

  ‘She didn’t like DCI Miranda Colville who stood in for you while you were on the run from the police, so she left the briefings to me. I’m sure that if she’d known you were back . . .’

  There was a knock on the door. It opened. Richards’ head curled round the wood with a smile.

  ‘Welcome back, Chief.’

  ‘Thanks, Richards.’

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ Parish said.

  ‘I thought my ears were burning. Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t sit down,’ Kowalski said.

  Parish raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You have a murder to investigate. It is, after all, why you come to work.’

  ‘Is it a nice gory one?’ Richards asked, rubbing her hands and licking her lips.

  ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you, Richards,’ Parish said.

  ‘If there is, it’s your fault.’

  ‘My fault? I’ve done everything to . . .’

  The Chief cleared his throat. ‘Can we get on, please? I’m meant to be taking things easy in a dimly-lit room with a couple of young ladies doing the dance of the seven veils to lower my blood pressure.’

  Richards laughed. ‘As if.’

  ‘A woman’s body was found dumped in a waste bin at about eight-thirty this morning in Crabtree Alley, off Windmill Lane in Cheshunt. Toady has not long set off there with a team of forensic bods.’

  ‘Your old stomping ground, Richards,’ Parish said.

  ‘Yeah. The alley is behind a row of shops. I hope she wasn’t thrown in the waste bin belonging to the Chinese takeaway.’

  The Chief’s brow furrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I hate the smell of Chinese takeaways.’

  ‘Get her out Parish, before I have a relapse.’

  ‘Come on, Richards. Isn’t it enough that you drive me up the wall without starting on the Chief?’

  Kowalski opened the top drawer of his desk, swivelled sideways and put his feet on it. ‘Oh, and by the way, someone has carved something on this woman’s torso.’

  ‘What?’ Parish asked.

  ‘Remember the young ladies that are arriving imminently to perform the dance of the seven veils for me?’

  Richards grinned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, they’ve got my crystal ball as well.’

  ***

  Villa de Bocata

  Municipality of Medellín, Columbia

  3:10am

  ‘Who took my money?’ Esteben Garcia asked, his voice resembling the hiss of a cobra.

  There were three other men in the room. One was standing by the door, another was by the window. Both were carrying Uzi sub-machine guns. The third man – an accountant called Victor Miranda – was tied into a hard-backed chair.

  ‘Please, Mr Garcia. I don’t know. I only have a numbered account at the First Caribbean International Bank in the Cayman Islands, and they won’t tell me who the account belongs to.’

  ‘That really isn’t an intelligent answer.’ He ran the Glock 22 around Miranda’s sweat-streaked and blood-splattered face and then jammed the muzzle into his mouth – cracking two teeth in the process. ‘Last chance.’ He yanked the barrel out of the accountant’s mouth. ‘The next time I put this in your mouth I pull the trigger.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew? I’ll find out, trust me.’

  ‘I did trust you, Victor. That trust was clearly misplaced, because there’s 140,000 pesos of my money missing, and you refuse to tell me who has it.’

  He smashed the muzzle of the gun through Miranda’s teeth again, but this time he pulled the trigger. Blood and brains splattered on the floor and wall behind the corpse.

  ‘Find someone who can get me my money back,’ he said to the man standing by the door. ‘If that money hasn’t been returned to my bank account by the end of the month, a lot of people are going to die.’

  Oscar Gamboa nodded as if he knew who to go to, but he really had no idea. What he did know was that his life expectancy had just reduced significantly. ‘I’ll find someone, boss.’

  ‘Don’t come back until you
have – you understand?’

  Gamboa nodded.

  ***

  Stick leant over Xena’s desk and said, ‘We’re in trouble.’

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I thought I sent you up to forensics, I don’t recall saying anything about circumnavigating the globe on a skateboard.’

  ‘I forgot what I went up there for.’

  ‘Can you do anything right?’

  ‘I overheard Constable Richards telling Dr Toadstone about her and Parish’s trip to America . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard the story.’

  ‘Not all of it.’

  ‘It was boring the first time round.’

  ‘Parish was given an envelope that was found in a dead man’s hotel room safe. Guess what was written on the envelope.’

  ‘A name and address?’

  ‘Parish’s name – yes, but something else.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I’m going to pull your tongue out with a pair of pliers as far as it will go, and then push a wooden stake through it.’

  ‘Epsilon 5.’

  Xena shrugged. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The files in the box . . .’

  ‘I also have no knowledge of any files in a box, and nor do you.’

  ‘The box in . . .’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, I know of no box anywhere that either of us know anything about.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘All right, let’s briefly discuss this idea you have that there might be four files inside a box in evidence lock-up under the name of Smith . . .’

  ‘Yes, that one . . .’

  ‘And what about it? You’re not suggesting for one microsecond that we tell someone about it, are you?’

  ‘We could . . .’

  ‘We could keep our stupid mouths shut – especially you, numpty. Let’s play a little game, shall we? You tell Parish there’s a box down in evidence lock-up with four files inside that relate to the Epsilon experiments, he is overjoyed and thanks you profusely. What does he do next?’

  ‘He goes and gets the box.’

  ‘He signs the very same box out of evidence lock-up and discovers that it was you who signed it in there in the first place. Then what?’

  Stick hesitated. ‘He reads the files?’