House of Mourning (9781301227112) Page 6

  For reply she said, ‘That stinks.’

  ‘Yes, Jen . . . Yes, I know it does.’

  Xena raised an eyebrow. ‘Jen? Who’s Jen?’

  ‘A slip of the tongue.’

  ‘I’m a detective, you know. I’m putting all the clues together and coming up with fifty-three . . .’

  ‘Fifty-three?’

  ‘Or any other number divisible by strange happenings and slips of the tongue.’

  ‘I see.’ He took a swallow of water.

  ‘First, there was the fluttering curtain in the bedroom of your house a while ago, then there’s all the text messages you receive and the fact that your phone is password protected, and . . .’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘There are many things I know that you don’t.’

  ‘You’ve been trying to get into my phone, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s a serious accusation to aim at your superior officer, Stickamundo.’

  Stick gave half a laugh. ‘You’d never guess the password anyway.’

  ‘I think you’ve got yourself a little whore called Jennifer.’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do. When am I going to meet her?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Oh, so there is someone?’

  ‘No. And if there was such a person, which there isn’t, you’re the last person in the universe I’d let her meet.’

  ‘In the universe?’

  ‘In the universe.’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘It’s all beginning to make sense now.’

  ‘No it’s not. Nothing makes sense. You’re sitting in a boat in the middle of the lake with a broken fishing rod.’

  ‘What’s she like in bed then?’

  ‘You always have to be disgusting, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s a valid question.’

  ‘It’s time we went down to the mortuary.’

  ‘Jennifer! I have her name now, Stick. Are there any mitigating circumstances you’d like to share with me before I pass sentence?’

  He ignored her, stood up and began walking towards the exit.

  She followed behind. ‘I think Jennifer and I would get on well together. I could tell her what you’re like at work, and she could tell me . . .’

  ‘You can stop now. I’m quite sure there are things in your knickers drawer that you don’t want people to know about, such as DI Tom Dougall . . .’

  ‘I think you should keep your dirty mouth shut, Stick.’ How in hell did he know about Dougall?

  ‘Ah, you don’t like it when the boot’s on the other foot.’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Unlike you, I know everything.’

  He didn’t know anything – did he? How could he possibly know?

  They walked the rest of the way down to the mortuary in silence.

  ‘Ah, DS Blake and DC Gilbert,’ Doc Paine welcomed them. ‘And how are you this fine Monday afternoon?’

  Stick smiled. ‘We’re very good, thank you. I believe you have our hand?’

  ‘I certainly do, and a fine hand it is too.’

  ‘Can we stop all this false joviality and get to the gory details of why we’re here.’ She was in a bad mood now. Besides Stick’s revelation about Tom Dougall, which had smacked her in the side of the head from behind, her period was due any time. She could feel her body changing, and the migraine working up a head of steam.

  ‘I see we’ve caught you in a good mood again, DS Blake.’

  ‘I’m always in a good mood. Stick will testify under oath to that.’

  Stick grinned like an inmate. ‘Oh yes! You’d be hard pressed to find a happier person than Sergeant Blake.’

  Xena pulled a face. ‘Can we get to it, Doc?’

  ‘Of course. Pardon me for engaging you in conversation, but the people we get down here don’t talk much. Okay, as you already know the hand belongs to a young woman. I can narrow the age range down to between twenty-five and thirty.’

  ‘How does that help us?’ Xena said.

  ‘I’ll leave you to decide that, DS Blake. More helpful, I’m sure, is the fact that the woman was probably dead when her hand was cut off.’

  ‘So it is a murder,’ Stick said. He glanced at Xena. ‘See, we’ve not been wasting our time after all.’

  Xena’s lip curled up. ‘Probably? What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m nearly sure.’

  ‘Nearly? That’s a scientific word of inexactness I’m not familiar with.’

  ‘Eighty-five percent,’ Doc Paine said.

  ‘What about the other fifteen percent?’

  ‘A mixture of cleaning agents, I’m afraid. If the woman had been alive when the hand had been cut off there would have been a considerable amount of blood pumping from the arteries and veins of the arm onto the hand, but the hand has been cleaned. If you’d have brought me the arm, I might have had a different answer because the arteries and veins close naturally when the person is still alive. With the hand, however, as soon as it was severed it died.’

  ‘I feel much better now.’

  Doc Paine continued. ‘The owner of the hand has dark hair . . .’

  ‘Long or short?’ Xena asked.

  ‘You should have your own television show on Saturday nights.’

  ‘I know. What about the saw used to cut the hand from the body?’

  ‘Yes! Di Heffernan has told you that it was a high-powered saw – she’s right. One of my technicians carried out a small non-scientific field experiment with a human leg we had lying around. He tested hand-held and industrial saws and compared the cut against that of the hand. There are two things to consider – the speed of the blade and the blade itself. The only saw that came close was a Hobart 6614-1 126 inch vertical meat saw with a blade that had four teeth per inch, which is used for frozen meat and runs at three horse-power. I can only be about ninety-five percent sure, and it probably wouldn’t stand up in a court of law.’

  ‘No, that’s great,’ Stick said. ‘Just what we were looking for. Wasn’t it, Sarge?’

  Xena made a sound with her lips. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where did your technician find the meat saw?’ Stick asked.

  She turned, picked up a file from the worktop behind her and rifled through the pages. ‘A meat cutting plant in Harlow called Carrington Country Foods.’

  ‘Is there a lot of meat cutting plants about?’

  ‘Quite a few.’

  ‘Other places would have them as well, I suppose,’ Xena said.

  Stick pursed his lips. ‘What type of places?’

  Doc Paine tapped her finger on the file. ‘We’re not amateurs here, you know. Abattoirs, food processing plants, some local butchers, the larger supermarkets and some farms. That’s not an exhaustive list, but it gives you an idea of what you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Stick said. ‘We need to find out who the woman was, that will probably tell us where to look.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the blood disorder?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Ornithinaemia is pretty rare – one in seven hundred thousand.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s a list or . . . ?’

  ‘No. I used a special query on the DNA database – nothing. If he’s your murderer it’s either his first time, or he’s never left any biological evidence at a crime scene before.’

  Stick smiled. ‘Thanks, Doc. You’ve been really helpful. Hasn’t Doc Paine been really helpful, Sarge?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s nice to be appreciated, DS Blake.’

  ‘I’m glad I could bring joy to your otherwise miserable existence, Doc. Come on Stick, we have work to do.’

  As they were walking back to the car Stick opened his mouth as if to speak.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to say anything I might not like,’ Xena said before he could get a word out.

  ‘I wouldn’t know how, Sarge.’

  ‘Good, because I’m horm
onally-challenged at the moment.’

  ‘I know a shop that sells . . .’

  ‘. . . Body bags?’

  ***

  They stopped off at the Quiet Woman in Flamstead End for lunch.

  Richards stood beneath the sign staring up at the picture. ‘Why’s it called the “Quiet Woman?” She’s carrying her severed head.’

  ‘I can’t imagine she says a lot.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘You could learn a lot from her.’

  ‘You think I should cut off my head?’

  ‘That’s not really what I had in mind.’

  Inside, Parish had a half of Guinness and a mature cheddar and pickle baguette. Richards ordered a water and a ratatouille with rice, but declined the garlic bread.

  After the waitress had brought their meals and left he said, ‘Ratatouille isn’t made with horsemeat, is it?’

  Richards licked her lips. ‘Horsemeat is my favourite.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘That’s because ratatouille is a vegetarian meal.’

  ‘I just thought I’d check. With the way things are, you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘I bet you’ve already eaten horsemeat without realising it.’

  He washed a mouthful of baguette down with a swallow of Guinness. ‘I was wondering why I kept getting this urge to eat hay from a nosebag.’

  ‘Maybe we should enter you for the Grand National.’

  He laughed and nearly choked. ‘I’ll be dead long before the next race. Where are we going after lunch?’

  ’54 Pear Tree Walk in Hammond Street to speak to the younger sister – Anne.’

  ‘Good. We should get some answers from her.’

  It was two thirty-five when they arrived at the house of Fannie Binetti’s sister – Anne Slater. According to the onboard computer, she’d been married to Christian Slater – no relation to the film star – but was now divorced and had two children aged five and seven.

  The family liaison officer had already arrived, imparted the news and was sitting in the living room drinking tea and eating custard creams.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Claire Duddell, Sir.’

  ‘You know Richards, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Hello, Mary.’

  ‘Hi, Claire.’

  ‘We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs Slater. I know this is a difficult time, but we need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Help yourself to tea and biscuits,’ she said pointing at the tray on the coffee table.

  They both declined.

  Once everybody was seated Parish indicated to Richards that she should lead with the questions. She was far better than he was at empathising. Not only that, she was meant to be the lead detective.

  ‘We think that the person who killed your sister was an ex-boyfriend. Could you . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  Richards glanced at him.

  Parish decided that he had no choice but to tell her a version of the story. ‘What I’m about to tell you is not to be shared with anyone else.’

  Anne Slater nodded.

  ‘We found a drawing of a broken heart with an arrow though it. Fannie’s initials were at one end, and the killer’s initials – GH – were at the other. Do those initials mean anything to you?’

  She thought for some time, and then slowly shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know anybody with those initials, but we hadn’t been close for a couple of years.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Richards took over again.

  ‘The house. Mum left the house to Fannie. All I got was a few items of jewellery. I don’t suppose it matters now.’ She started sobbing.

  Claire Duddell passed her the box of tissues.

  She took one and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘Do you know the names of any of her recent boyfriends, or her friends.’

  ‘She didn’t keep boyfriends long. Certainly not long enough for me to remember their names. I know she had a lot of casual friends, but her long-time friend was Jane Cole.’

  Richards checked her notebook. ‘Yes, I have Jane Cole’s number.’

  ‘If you want to know what Fannie has been doing recently, Jane’s the one to talk to. Even when we were young we weren’t close. Fannie was a bit of a tearaway, I was the more responsible one. Fannie wanted to party all the time, I got married and had children. Fannie stayed single.’

  ‘Can you tell us about Fannie’s child?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was raped. The baby was taken away, presumably to be adopted. There was five years between Fannie and me. I was eight at the time and don’t remember much about it. Nobody in the family ever mentioned what had happened, or spoke about Fannie’s baby.’

  ‘No idea who the father was?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Or who adopted the child?’

  ‘No.’

  Richards looked at him.

  ‘Thanks very much for your help, Mrs Slater,’ Parish said. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll need to formally identify the body at some stage.’

  Anne Slater nodded. ‘Claire has told me I have to do that.’

  Parish and Richards both stood.

  ‘We’ll leave you in peace now,’ Richards said.

  ‘Will you let me know if you find out anything?’

  ‘Once we’ve concluded our investigation, we’ll come and tell you – as far as we’re able to – what we know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She showed them out.

  Claire Duddell remained.

  ‘She didn’t know a lot, Sir.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be, but I’m always surprised at how easily families become estranged. The mother makes a stupid decision in her will and two sisters are torn apart. Promise me you’ll never fall out with me and your mother.’

  ‘We fall out all the time.’

  ‘They’re minor upsets. We haven’t had a catastrophic falling out yet.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you marry a man we don’t want you to.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. I can’t even get a man, and even if I could I know enough by now to listen to your advice.’

  ‘Or you decide to walk away from your career and become a nun.’

  She laughed. ‘As if. Although . . . It would take no effort at all to give up sex – seeing as I’m not getting any anyway – and become a nun.’

  ‘Promise,’ he urged.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of your promise one day.’

  ‘That day will never come.’

  Chapter Six

  Cookie’s hackles were up. Well, they would have been if she’d had any glossy feathers on the back of her neck.

  Winton’s was a family business. The owner was a boring old fart – the last in the Winton line apparently – Algernon Albert Winton – unmarried and childless. Although there were unsubstantiated newspaper reports of a boy being born out of wedlock in the 1960s, nothing was ever proven. He was now ninety-six, lived in a crumbling old house in Benfleet with a horde of nurses to keep him in the style he’d become accustomed to, and was planning to leave all his money to an obscure charity for erectile dysfunction.

  The board of directors were another matter. They had skeletons, and Cookie liked nothing better than rattling people’s skeletons. There were three directors: William Ismay OBE, Hastings Shipton and Grace Dingle JP. All three were in the process of buying out old man Winton, and apart from a few crossed t’s and dotted i’s the deal was as good as done.

  The Executive Director – who was an executive within the organisation – was William Ismay. He was sixty-seven, and had a wife and three children – two boys and a girl – who had all left the family home. His wife had petitioned for divorce and expected half of his fortune. The trouble was, he didn’t have a fortune. His grasp had far exceeded his reach. He’d taken out a second mortgage on his six-bedroom Edwardian house, had a
loan from the bank of £250,000 and various other debts that amounted to £66,000. All in all, he owed close to a million pounds with very little chance of making the continuing repayments. From what Cookie could see, his investments were producing diminishing returns month on month. The only thing that was keeping him afloat was his director’s salary from Winton’s.

  Hastings Shipton was a non-executive director. He was fifty-four, and had made his money acting as a go-between in the exchange of weapons and training for diamonds to support the Revolutionary United Front insurgency in Sierra Leone. His wife had died of cancer in 2010, and his son – Donald – was living in South Africa with a woman called Mandy White who had been born Maurice White. The directorship of Winton’s was one of seven boards that he served on. Shipton wasn’t short of money, but he was short of morals.

  On the face of it, Grace Dingle JP was a pillar of the community. At forty-seven she was the youngest of the three directors, and also served on a number of boards. As Grace Rush she had married local businessman Walter Dingle twenty-five years ago, but Cookie had discovered her secret – she never was Grace Rush. Who she was for the first twenty-five years of her life Cookie had yet to find out. All her search queries seemed to fall off a cyber cliff, or hang in the ether.

  Who was Grace Rush? Cookie was definitely intrigued. It wasn’t often she found perimeter security that she couldn’t get through with a few keystrokes, but it seemed that someone didn’t want her to know who Grace Rush was. She terminated her search and switched the laptop off. She’d probably tripped a few booby traps. What she didn’t want was whoever had planted those traps to trace her back here.

  She smiled, because she knew who and where they were. All she needed to bypass the firewall was a physical connection to the server.

  It was time to activate her team.

  She phoned Jerry Kowalski.

  ‘I have something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I don’t know what yet, but all three of the directors have skeletons rattling around in their cupboards, and four of the male employees are getting money on top of their usual salary.’

  ‘Why?’