House of Mourning (9781301227112) Read online

  ‘And there’s no problems?’

  ‘We’re in the middle of a recession, so they tell me. Although, it’s always a recession when you’re living on handouts. I’ve argued for a long time that the government should pay us more. We have needs just like normal people.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Have you checked out the owners, the directors and anyone else that works there?’

  ‘It’s your money.’

  ‘Well, someone’s trying to kill her.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity. You hear about people being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Can you ring me when you’ve checked them out?’

  ‘And if I find nothing, which is probably what I will find?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She ended the call. She didn’t mind working for Charlie Baxter, but now she seemed to be working for Jerry Kowalski. How did that happen? The sooner she became a multimillionaire and didn’t have to kowtow to anyone, the better.

  ***

  ‘What we’ve got here,’ Toadstone said. ‘Is a very dead thirty-three year old woman called Fannie Binetti. Her handbag was in the bin with her.’

  They donned paper suits, boots, gloves and masks, and entered the blue and white forensic tent.

  The corpse had been removed from the Chinese restaurant’s waste bin, and placed on plastic sheeting.

  Parish shook his head and wondered – not for first or last time – how anyone could do this to another human being. The woman’s eyes were still open. In life she must have been pretty. Her clothes had been cut to reveal the torso, and her jeans and knickers pulled down to mid-thigh. There was what appeared to be a knife wound in the skin above her heart, and her abdomen was a bloody mess.

  Richards squeezed her nose through the mask. ‘Chinese takeaways. I feel like being sick.’

  ‘Don’t be sick in here, Mary,’ Toadstone said, concern clouding his eyes.

  ‘I won’t. Don’t worry, Paul.’

  Parish squatted down to try and make out what had been carved on her abdomen, but couldn’t. ‘Have you identified what this is yet?’ he said pointing.

  Toadstone nodded. ‘A broken heart with an arrow through it. At the tip of the arrow are the initials FB. At the other end – GH.’

  Richards said, ‘If FB is Fannie Binetti, then GH must be the killer.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Toadstone agreed.

  ‘That’s why I’m the detective inspector and you two donuts work for me. Do you really think the killer is going to leave his initials on the body?’

  Richards grunted. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘So we go and find out the names of . . . Is she married?’

  Toadstone shook his head. ‘No, but there’s evidence that she’s had a child.’

  ‘We find out the names of all the men she’s been with, arrest the one that has the initials GH, go home and watch football on the television. I’d kill for a case as easy as that.’

  ‘Killers make mistakes,’ Richards said.

  ‘We’ll see. Make yourself useful and write down her details.

  ‘Huh!’

  Dr Megan Riley arrived. Parish popped his head out of the tent. ‘Hi, Doc. Good to see you.’

  ‘Inspector Parish.’ She smiled. ‘I hear your trip to America went well.’

  ‘The less said about that the better.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Doc,’ Richards interrupted. ‘The FBI are just fed up because I found their serial killer for them.’

  ‘She’s put back Anglo-American relations fifty years.’

  ‘It’s good to see nothing has changed then. I saw your wife in her uniform at the hospital. I’m glad she’s all right.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. She’s getting there.’

  ‘So, what have we got here?’

  ‘Toadstone! Don’t just stand there with your mouth agape pretending to be a black hole, tell Doc Riley what we’ve got here.’

  While Toadstone and Doc Riley discussed the corpse, Parish spoke to Richards.

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘97 Perrysfield Road, Turnford.’

  ‘Not far then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘While I’m talking to the Doc, check her mobile phone and see who she’s got in her phonebook. Take down some names and numbers, especially people who live locally. We’ll get a head start by talking to her family and friends. Also, help yourself to her keys, we’ll need them to get into her house I expect.’

  ‘What do you think, Sir?’

  ‘It’s hard not to jump to the conclusion that Fannie Binetti broke the killer’s heart. If that’s the case, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find her killer.’

  ‘So, you now think that GH might be the killer’s initials?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that, but even if those aren’t his initials we should be able to find him.’

  ‘What if he’s not an ex-lover or boyfriend?’

  ‘Then we’ll have to get our hands dirty and do some work. Well . . . you will, anyway. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets and supervise.’

  ‘So, what’s new?’

  ‘What’s new is that there are some competencies you need to get signed off on, and if I’m not a monkey’s uncle you still haven’t taken the lead on an investigation.’

  She squealed and clapped her hands together. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re just the best boss, Sir.’

  He made a raspberry sound with his lips. ‘That’s not what you were thinking earlier.’

  ‘I could have been.’

  ‘But you weren’t.’

  Doc Riley stood up and removed her gloves. ‘Subject to confirmation by post mortem, cause of death looks suspiciously like a knife through the heart.’

  ‘With the amount of blood on her abdomen,’ Parish said. ‘I would say the killer did that while she was still alive.’

  Doc Riley nodded her head. ‘Yes, the heart was still pumping blood around the body when he made his mark.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘No rigor mortis. Dumped in the waste bin in the early hours of the morning. I would estimate between ten last night and two this morning.’

  ‘Sexual assault?’

  ‘Nothing obvious. It could be that the killer pulled her jeans and knickers down to give himself unrestricted access to her abdomen. That little carving must have taken a while. Also, the dark brown areolae suggests that she’s given birth in the past.’

  ‘Mmmm. Not married, but has a child. Anything else?’

  ‘Not that I can see. Post mortem tomorrow morning. I’m available for lunch if you’re buying? It’s been some time.’

  ‘Richards, check my diary. Are we available for lunch tomorrow?’

  ‘Post mortem results?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have to eat, I suppose. And we can pop in and see mum and Jack as well.’

  ‘I give her an inch and she takes a mile. We’ll see you at twelve-thirty tomorrow, Doc. Right, come on, Richards. Toadstone obviously hasn’t got anything for us. It’ll be at least a month before he tells us he didn’t find anything useful, so we may as well try and find the killer on our own.’

  She turned to Toadstone. ‘He doesn’t mean it, Paul.’

  ‘Oh yes I do. One of these days he’s going to earn a day’s pay.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Well, what did she have to say for herself?’

  They were in the squad room, and considering it was Monday morning there weren’t many people about.

  Stick pulled out his notebook and sat on the opposite side of the desk.

  ‘You had to write it down?’ Xena rubbed her hands together like Fagin. ‘I’m looking forward to this.’

  ‘The hand was wrapped in pages from the Jewish Chronicle newspaper dated Thursday, March 28.’

  ‘Is that when . . . ?’

  Stick held up his hand. ‘Can you wait until the end of m
y presentation to ask questions, please?’

  ‘Get on with it, numpty.’

  ‘The owner of the hand is female and between twenty and thirty years old. Under the middle fingernail she discovered human blood and skin. No DNA match was found, but . . .’

  ‘Is this going to take long? Only I have a colonic irrigation in half an hour.’

  ‘Did you know that the Victorians thought we should go three times a day.’

  ‘You’ll be going much more than that if I stick my boot up your arse.’

  Stick continued. ‘The blood and skin come from a person who suffers from a rare blood disorder called Ornithinaemia. They have high levels of the amino acid ornithine . . .’

  ‘I feel like poking a sharpened pencil through my eyeball and wiggling it about in my brain until all feeling has gone.’

  ‘People with this disorder could suffer from psychomotor retardation and epileptic episodes.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a wheelchair-bound slow-witted Jew who has epileptic fits?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  ‘I would say so,’ she mimicked. ‘What I need to know numpty, is whether the hand comes from a dead or a living person. Just because we’re the proud owners of a hand does not mean there’s been a murder. All this information is riveting stuff, but if there’s been no murder it’s of no interest.’

  ‘The hand was sent to Dr Paine at the hospital.’

  ‘I suppose that now we’ve got to waste more time going to the hospital?’

  ‘We could have lunch there if you’d like?’

  ‘You’re paying.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘No, there’s more.’

  Xena leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms. ‘They’ll be serving midnight snacks if you don’t get a move on.’

  ‘The nails had been painted using nail art.’ He passed her a photograph of an enlarged painted nail. ‘That’s the design.’

  It was a flower in different shades of crimson red and pink.

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Di seems to think . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s “Di” now, is it? You’ll be telling me next that . . .’

  ‘I don’t think we need to climb into the sewers, Sarge.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’d be if you went with that heifer. Sloshing about up to your neck in . . .’

  ‘So Di seems to think that the woman had a manicure either the same day that her hand was amputated, or the day before.’

  ‘Okay, that’s a reasonable lead. We could hawk this photograph round the local nail-painting shops and see what we come up with. That is, of course, if she’s local.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’

  ‘Well, it could be that someone from Manchester dumped the hand outside the fish and chip shop on Friday.’

  ‘Why Manchester?’

  ‘Or Lincoln, or Newcastle, or Burton-on-the-Hole, or Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.’

  Stick laughed. ‘You never said you knew how to say that.’

  ‘You never asked, and the opportunity to speak it out loud has never presented itself before. Carry on, muttonhead.’

  ‘There was also a bit of a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.’

  ‘How much of a bit?’

  ‘A little bit.’

  ‘Enough to identify what it was?’

  ‘No, but Di seems to think . . .’

  ‘That bitch does far too much thinking for my liking. Next time you see her, tell her we’re the thinkers . . . Well, I am at least . . . and she’s a gormless gobshite.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll say anything of the sort. Anyway, she seems to think that it’s either a name or a word.’ He passed her another photograph, and began pointing at the ink marks. ‘See here and here . . .’

  Xena snatched the photograph away. ‘I’m not a complete moron, you know.’ After examining the picture she said, ‘Next.’

  ‘The hand was sawn off using a high-powered saw.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Are you hiding more pictures in your grubby paws?’

  He passed a stack of about ten photographs to her.

  She examined them one by one until she found what she was looking for. ‘Here,’ she said holding up one of the photographs. ‘What does that tell you?’

  He took the picture back off her and peered at it more closely. ‘No, I’m not getting it.’

  She sighed. ‘Look at the cut.’

  After a while he said, ‘Ah! There’s no jagged edges. It’s a straight cut.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If the woman had been conscious . . . or alive . . . it would probably have ragged edges.’

  ‘Your head’s not completely empty then.’

  He grinned. ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of Hollywood?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I hear zombies are big out there at the moment.’

  ‘No, I like working with you.’

  Xena snorted. ‘You’ve escaped from the psychiatric hospital, haven’t you?’

  ‘Di found one last thing – a gold ring. There’s a picture of it.’

  She found the photograph. ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘It’s a Jewish wedding ring, but it wasn’t on the marriage finger, it was on the index finger. The writing means: Matsati et sheahava nafshi.’

  ‘Zombies aren’t meant to be funny.’

  ‘Which in English means: I have found the one my soul loves.’

  ‘Sentimental garbage.’

  ‘You don’t believe in soul mates?’

  ‘I don’t believe in love – period.’

  ‘They say there’s someone for everyone, you know.’

  ‘Who appointed you the station’s agony aunt? And keep your dirty hands out of my knickers drawer. Right, are we done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She took a swallow of her lukewarm coffee. ‘So we’re looking for a Jewess aged between twenty and thirty years old with her left hand missing. She had her nails manicured and painted last Thursday or Friday; has a tattoo on the inside of her wrist that could be either a name or a word; and she wore a gold wedding ring on her index finger engraved with Hebrew writing.’

  ‘That’s a lot to go on.’

  ‘She wore a wedding ring, but was she married?’

  Stick checked his notes. ‘I would say not. The wedding ring is on the wrong finger, it’s also more likely that a single woman would pay to have a manicure and her nails painted . . .’

  ‘Or a rich woman.’

  ‘Yes, one of those too.’

  ‘The tattoo?’

  ‘It used to be that only prostitutes or such-like had tattoos, but now it’s a fashionable accessory.’

  Xena leaned forward, put her elbows on the desk and placed her chin in the palms of her hands. ‘You seem to know a lot about prostitutes.’

  ‘I know nothing about prostitutes.’

  ‘The guilty always say that.’

  Stick scratched his head. ‘I was thinking about the high-powered saw.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, where would someone find one of those?’

  Xena shrugged. ‘A woodwork shop? What I know about high-powered saws you could write on the back of a Penny Black.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a saying.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Doc Paine might have some idea about what type of high-powered saw was used.’

  Stick smiled. ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘I’m full of them.’

  ‘Then there’s the killer with the blood disorder who reads the Jewish Chronicle.’

  Xena pulled a face. ‘The person with the blood disorder might not be the killer, and there no evidence that he reads the Jewish Chronicle.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘He could simply have used it to wrap the hand in – li
ke they do with fish and chips.’

  Stick squinted. ‘I can’t imagine the Jewish Chronicle has a wide readership.’

  ‘How many Jews live in Hoddesdon?’

  ‘I don’t know?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exactly what?’

  ‘Exactly you don’t know whether the Chronicle has a wide readership or not.’

  ‘It’s a minority newspaper.’

  ‘Says you. Everybody in Hoddesdon except you could read the Jewish Chronicle.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t read it?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve let you wind me up long enough now. Get your coat and let’s make a move. You’re driving.’

  ***

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lorna, it’s Jerry Kowalski.’

  She’d had her shower. Her mum was out shopping, and her dad was pottering about in the garden trying to make some sense out of what they’d planted out there. She still had on her flimsy dressing gown with just a pair of lace knickers on underneath, and really ought to have got dressed before she made the phone call, but she was comfortable and there was no one else about.

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. It’s not the Ritz, but at least I’m safe.’

  Jerry wondered whether Lorna had ever stayed in the Ritz. Based on what she’d seen and heard about the woman, she doubted it. ‘You’ve not told anyone where you are?’

  ‘No. I said I wouldn’t.’

  ‘I’m just checking.’

  ‘Has that Cookie found out anything?’

  ‘No, not yet. Her first search turned up nothing.’ She didn’t want to say that “nothing” was actually another word for “boring”. ‘She’s now checking the people you work with, Winton’s owners and its directors.’

  ‘I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘They won’t know that Cookie is investigating them.’

  ‘I hope not. Surely, no one at Winton’s would want to kill me.’

  ‘That’s what we’re going to find out. You’re the office manager, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  She laughed. ‘Manage the office.’

  Jerry laughed as well. ‘How many people are in the office?’

  ‘Five. There’s the accounts’ clerk – Suzanne Thompson; her part-time assistant – Elaine Allan; and the two clerical staff – Joanna Penn and Vicki Norfolk.’