House of Mourning (9781301227112) Read online

‘As you can see, a woman’s body was discovered dumped in a waste bin at about eight-thirty yesterday morning. It’s not the site of the murder. We have yet to determine where that might be. The woman’s name is Fannie Binetti, she was single, thirty-three years old and lived at 97 Perrysfield Road in Turnford. Her handbag - including her keys, purse and mobile phone – was found with the body.’

  Parish took a swallow of coffee. His eyelids were feeling heavy and he wondered how much longer Richards was going to be.

  ‘As far as we know, she was not sexually assaulted, but we’ll be seeing Doc Riley later to have that confirmed or not. The Doc did tell us that – although the woman was single – she had given birth sometime in the past. The cause of death was a stab wound to the heart. However, before she died the killer carved a broken heart on her abdomen, which was pierced with an arrow. At each end of the arrow were a set of initials – FB and GH. We’ve surmised that FB is Fannie Binetti, and that GH may very well be her killer.’

  A picture of Fannie Binetti’s bloody abdomen appeared on the wall.

  ‘This is good stuff, Richards,’ the Chief said. ‘I think I might get all my detectives to brief me like this.’

  Parish grunted. ‘Now look what you’ve done, Richards.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. So, DI Parish and I went to Miss Binetti’s house. We were working on the assumption that the killer might very well be a boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, but all we found was a faded picture of a baby.’

  Throughout, photographs appeared on the wall.

  Parish had to admit, Richards had done a good job. It was a superb presentation. She must have contacted Toadstone late last night or early this morning and got him to send her all the photographs he had, and she’d picked the best ones.

  ‘We then went to the younger sister’s house – Mrs Anne Slater – where we found out that the two women had been estranged since the death of their mother two years previously. We did find out that Fannie Binetti was raped when she was thirteen years old and had a baby, which we now know was taken from her and adopted. There was five years between the sisters and Mrs Slater knew very little about the baby, or who the father was. I contacted the legal department and asked them to obtain a court order so that we can access the adoption records at Redbridge Social Services . . .’

  ‘You’re not actually planning on going there, are you?’ the Chief asked. ‘The havoc you caused the last time you were there still reverberates around the corridors of power. I don’t want any repetition of that on my watch.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Chief. I’ll keep DI Parish under control.’

  ‘Make sure you do, Richards. Make sure you do. I already have misgivings, and in my condition misgivings are not good.’

  ‘Next, we went to see her best friend – Jane Cole. She told us that Fannie was a good-time girl. All she seemed to care about was going out at nights and jetting off on holidays. I’ve thought about it and I think being raped and having the baby taken away destroyed her life, but I have no evidence for that.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ the Chief said.

  ‘Anyway, Jane Cole didn’t know anything about the baby or the baby’s father. What she did know though, was all of Fannie’s boyfriends by name for the previous ten years, but none of them had the initials GH.’

  ‘You’re still going to check them out though?’

  ‘Of course, Chief. She’s already emailed me the list.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She did give us the name of a man who was stalking her about a year ago – Gareth Hayes – who’s from her place of work.’

  ‘A solid lead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Richards switched the projector off and shut down her laptop.

  ‘Excellent briefing, Constable Richards. You’ve come a long way since we used to meet in the broom cupboard.’

  ‘I never went in that broom cupboard with you, Sir.’

  ‘Mmmm! Must be thinking of someone else. Still, a good presentation all the same. I probably know more about the case now than DI Parish.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard, Chief.’

  ‘Thanks for your hard work, Richards. I need a private word with DI Parish now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  Richards packed everything up and left.

  ‘I need a favour, Parish.’

  ‘You’ve done me enough in the past.’

  ‘So I have. Well, Jerry’s refusing to . . . you know.’

  ‘That’s not like Jerry.’

  ‘Don’t even get me started on the new Jerry. Since she began that law course I’m lower than a snake’s belly. Last night in bed I was just about to climb into the saddle and lead the charge into the valley of death when she wanted to bargain with me . . .’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She’s helping a woman who says that someone has tried to kill her twice.’

  ‘Tried . . . In what way?’

  ‘A sabotaged gas cooker and a cut brake pipe, but apart from her say-so there’s no evidence.’

  ‘And she wanted you to look into it?’

  ‘She wanted me to allocate resources.’

  ‘I see, and that’s where the favour comes in?’

  ‘I couldn’t justify the allocation of resources. If anyone found out that Jerry was involved, well . . . I needn’t tell you what would happen. If you could just go and question the woman, make a gut call, check that Jerry isn’t being taken for a ride.’

  ‘No problem. Give me the details.’

  Kowalski wrote a name and address down on a piece of paper and passed it to him. ‘Thanks, Parish. I owe you one.’

  ‘No you don’t. I’m still paying you back for the favours you’ve done me.’ He stood up and headed for the door. ‘Take things easy. I’ll let you know if it amounts to anything.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Are you feeling better this morning, Sarge?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor, but I have a pain just here.’ She pointed to her backside.

  ‘I was only asking.’

  ‘And how are you feeling?’

  ‘I feel fine.’

  ‘Did you get a good night’s sleep?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Did Jennifer sleep well?’

  His lip curled up. ‘Jennifer who?’

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  ‘What about briefing the Chief?’

  Xena started off towards the stairs. ‘Some of us have been here since seven-thirty.’

  Stick hurried to catch her up. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in early.’

  ‘Are we married?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then I don’t have to tell you what I’m doing or where I’m going.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Does Jennifer tell you everything?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who?’

  ‘We’re going to talk to Julia Cook at “In the Buff”. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘What did the Chief say?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the progress we made yesterday?’

  ‘What do you think he said?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘He was quite pleased with the progress I’d made, but he wanted to know what you’d been doing all day.’

  ‘I see, and what did you tell him?’

  ‘Put it this way, if I’d told him the truth, you’d be queuing up outside the job centre right now asking people for loose change as they passed.’

  ‘So, you lied to the Chief?’

  ‘Of course. What else could I do? You’re my partner, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Which you’ll demonstrate when it gets to lunch time.’

  ‘The least I can do.’

  ‘The very least. I might have a pudding today.’

  ‘You’re sweet enough as it is, Sarge.’

  ‘I know, but I still mi
ght have a pudding.’

  ‘I’ve had some ideas?’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You think we should ask in the newsagents about who takes the Jewish Chronicle, that we find a tattoo parlour and see if those bits of the tattoo make any sense to them, and then we should go back to the station and pop into missing persons?’

  ‘That’s really spooky how you can read my mind like that.’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult, especially when they were the only ideas in there.’

  The bell tinkled as they entered the nail shop. They stood at the counter and waited, but nobody came to see what they wanted.

  Xena raised her voice. ‘Is that a marijuana plant in the corner, Stick? I think we should get the drug squad to raid this place. Maybe the fraud squad should interrogate the accounts, as well.’

  Staff and clients turned to stare at them.

  A thin woman in her mid-thirties with bright red bobbed hair approached them. She wore a white t-shirt with, “Nail Artists add polish to life” stencilled on the front in pink and silver. ‘I’m sorry, we’re rather busy this morning.’

  Xena thrust her head forward like a bulldog. ‘And we’re not?’

  Startled, the woman jerked backwards. ‘I don’t know whether you are or not. All I can say is that we are. I’m the owner – Julia Cook. What do you want?’

  Stick nudged Xena to one side and showed his warrant card. ‘We’d be very grateful if you could take a look at this photograph and let us know whether the artwork was done here.’ He held the picture out towards her.

  ‘Possibly. Do you know when?’

  ‘Last Thursday or Friday.’

  ‘Ah! I wasn’t here last Thursday. Just a minute.’

  ‘Another min . . .’

  Stick elbowed her.

  Julia Cook returned with a slightly younger but plumper woman who had a droopy left eyelid. ‘The is Margaret Kemp. She was in charge last Thursday. Show her the picture.’

  Stick passed it to the new woman.

  ‘Yes, I painted those,’ she said.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions,’ Stick said. ‘Is there somewhere more private we can go?’

  Julia Cook shook her head. ‘No, there’s nowhere in here. Why don’t you take them to the Blue Moose Cafe, Maggie?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘Yeah, that’d be better. We can relax in there.’

  ‘Who’s paying?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Stick said. ‘I’ll pay.’

  On the way out of the shop Maggie Kemp wrote down the woman’s details from the appointment book and passed it to Stick.

  ‘Ethel le Neve,’ he read. ‘That doesn’t sound very Jewish.’

  ‘Is she Jewish?’ Kemp asked.

  ‘Was,’ Xena corrected her. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Oh!’

  In the cafe they sat at a table and ordered coffee. Xena asked for toast as well.

  ‘No breakfast, Sarge?’

  ‘What do you think the toast is?’ She pulled the paper out of her jacket pocket. ‘Is this a mobile number on here?’

  Kemp nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you saw her at four-fifteen on Thursday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long does a nail session take?’

  Kemp scrutinised Xena’s nails.

  Xena curled her hands into fists, and then put them on her lap under the table. ‘You people are psychotic about my nails.’

  ‘We like to see a well-cared for hand. You don’t spend much time looking after your nails, do you?’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about my nails.’

  ‘A session normally takes about fifty minutes. If you were to come to me I’d say about three hours for your first session.’

  ‘Three hours! You’re crazy. Who the hell’s got three hours to lie around while someone fiddles with their finger nails?’

  ‘Toe nails as well. Women like to be pampered.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m not a woman?’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort, but . . . you’d feel more of a woman with lovely nails.’

  The waitress brought their coffees and Xena’s toast.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ Stick said. He glanced at Kemp. ‘Can you tell us what this woman was like?’

  ‘After a long day they all blur into one.’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation,’ Xena said, spitting crumbs across the table.

  ‘What did she talk about?’ Stick coaxed her.

  Kemp thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that was it. She was going to a do at the town hall on Saturday night, that was why she was having her nails done.’

  ‘Did she say what type of do?’

  Kemp shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but she mentioned she’d be sitting at the top table with the Mayoress.’

  Stick smiled. ‘That narrows it down, thanks. What did she look like?’

  ‘Expensive.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You can tell a lot about a person from their hands.’ She glanced at Xena’s hands.

  Xena’s eyes creased to slits and she growled under her breath.

  Kemp scooped one of Stick’s hands up in hers. ‘Take your hands, for instance. I can see that you’re a skilled craftsman, a sensitive man who enjoys poetry and literature, a man who knows how to look after a woman . . .’

  ‘Will you stop talking rubbish?’ Xena said, pulling Stick’s hand out of Kemp’s. ‘He’s also a copper who’ll arrest you for wasting police time. Tell us about the woman. We haven’t bought you a coffee in return for a palm-reading session.’

  ‘You didn’t buy the coffee anyway,’ Kemp snapped.

  ‘The woman,’ Xena prodded.

  ‘I could tell that her hands weren’t used to work. There was no damage to the cuticles, and no scars or indentations in the skin – it was like newly-spun silk. On the index finger of her right hand was a gold ring with Arabic writing . . . Ah! Yes, it could have been Jewish writing. I wouldn’t know the difference between the two. Is there a difference?’

  Xena finished her toast and burped. ‘What about her face? We don’t do photofits of people’s hands.’

  ‘She had dark hair . . .’

  ‘We know that already. What else?’

  ‘Her hair went about three inches past her shoulders, and was parted just left of middle. There were no split-ends. It was shiny and lustrous – she looked after it. Her skin was soft and white – she wasn’t the type of woman to use a tanning studio. There was a pearl necklace around her neck and I think they were real pearls. I didn’t see an ounce of fat on her. She wasn’t skinny, just . . . Well, I wish I looked like she did, that’s all I can say.’

  Stick squeezed her arm. ‘Keep going. You’re doing brilliantly.’

  ‘Her face was thin and angular. The skin was unblemished. She had perfectly shaped eyebrows, high cheek bones, dark brown eyes and a lovely smile with straight, even teeth. Her coat was mustard-coloured. Underneath she wore a wrap-around multicoloured zigzag patterned dress with a low neckline. I couldn’t help but notice her breasts, and I remember thinking that maybe she’d had them surgically enhanced . . . People do, don’t they? Well, those that can afford it. I’ve often thought about getting my eyelid done, and then maybe breast implants, liposuction . . . It’s amazing what they can do these days.’

  Xena leaned forward. ‘Yes, but they can’t do anything about personalities, dear.’

  Stick nudged her.

  ‘We’d like you to go to the station sometime this morning to work with one of our forensic artists . . .’

  ‘I have back-to-back appointments all day . . .’

  ‘This is a murder investigation,’ Xena said. ‘How would it be if we arrested you?’

  ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual, lady. Just get your arse down to the station and then we won’t hassle you anymore.’

  ‘I suppose I could . . .’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,
Maggie,’ Stick said getting up. ‘We’ll let you get back to work now.’ He passed her his card and walked with her to the door. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call us.’

  ‘I won’t. You want to get yourself another partner, one who appreciates you as a person.’

  He shut the door behind her and returned to the table.

  Xena began mimicking her. ‘. . . one who appreciates you as a person.’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll request a partner who doesn’t rub everybody up the wrong way all the time.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’ She pulled out her phone and told Judy – the clerical assistant in the squad room – to find out what the function at the Town Hall on Saturday night had been, to get the records for the number of the mobile, to put out an alert at the local hospitals for a woman with a severed left hand, and to inform the duty forensic artist that Maggie Kemp was due in and to have a face for them by lunchtime.

  ‘She was very helpful. At least now we can put a name to the hand, and with the information she gave us about the woman sitting on the top table it won’t be long before we put this case on the “solved” pile.’

  ‘Sometimes I despair of you, numpty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ***

  He’d slept fitfully. Troubled sleep wasn’t something he normally suffered from, but the idea of Rosibel lying naked in the next room had made him hot and uncomfortable. He could almost hear her breathing, hear her heart beating, hear her call his name in her sleep. All he could think about was leaping over the low wall separating the two balconies, sliding through the open door and slipping into bed with her.

  She would welcome him with open arms – kiss his lips, his body. They would consummate their love throughout the night. Of course, it was all fantasy. She hated him. He was the evil one. The very epitome of the devil himself. And who could blame her? He had threatened to kill her whole family if she didn’t help him. It was hardly the way to win the heart of the woman he had loved nearly his whole life, but what else could he do?

  After his shower he put on a pair of beige linen slacks and a loose short-sleeved shirt and then sat on the balcony with a glass of water. He knew why he was there. Instead of being the second in command to a ruthless Colombian drug lord, she had turned him into a voyeur – a peeping Oscar. Mother Teresa and all the angels in heaven! She didn’t disappoint him. It was as if she knew he was sitting there watching her. As if she took delight in torturing him with her naked beauty.