3.45pm Sunday 22nd December
When Barrett and Palmer arrived outside the Kilpatrick residence in Fulbourn the sky above was angry. Dark storm clouds had gathered above and the birds were flying in all directions warning of the downpour to come.
Palmer pulled his collar up as Barrett knocked on the front door impatiently, which Palmer struggled to understand given that they were there to deliver distressing news.
‘Hello?’ Susan Kilpatrick peered through a crack in the door.
‘DCI Barrett.’ He held his badge up.
‘Come in,’ she said apologetically and stepped aside.
‘Thank you.’ Palmer smiled politely. ‘Would you like us to take our shoes off?’ he asked noticing she was wearing slippers.
‘If you don’t mind.’ Everything she said was tinged with embarrassment and concern.
‘Of course,’ Palmer said slipping his brogues off his feet. Barrett followed suit having already trampled slush into the carpet in the hallway.
‘Please come through.’ Susan led them into the kitchen. As they passed the living room both inspectors noticed the television was on and a young woman sat curled up on a sofa. She didn’t acknowledge the police and seemed to be in a world of her own.
‘My daughter,’ Susan explained shutting the kitchen door so that they wouldn’t be disturbed. ‘Is there any news?’
‘There has been a development,’ Barrett admitted before pausing. How was he going to tell this woman that her husband’s finger had been removed and sent to a local journalist?
‘I think it would be best if you took a seat,’ Palmer said kindly, sitting down himself and leaving her no option.
‘What is it?’ she asked, her eyes wide and glassy.
‘Yesterday morning a package was delivered to the editor of the Cambridge News,’ Barrett said steadily.
‘Yes, I saw it on the news. The fingers in the box.’ Susan turned to Barrett not yet realising the link.
‘Two of the fingers belonged to the recent murder victims. The third…’ He cleared his throat wishing he had a glass of water. ‘We’ve matched to your husband.’
Susan sat still, blinking and looking from Palmer to Barrett.
‘Eddie?’ The words came out in a half whisper.
‘The DNA matches the DNA from the toothbrush you gave us.’
‘Eddie?’ she said again in the same high pitch.
‘Yes. We are extremely concerned for his safety.’ Palmer lent forward.
‘Eddie’s finger,’ she said to herself trying to process the information.
‘We are doing everything we can to find him, Mrs Kilpatrick, but now we know Eddie has been targeted by the man responsible for the deaths of two other victims, we really need to find a link. Is there anything you can tell us that might shed some light?’ Barrett asked hopefully.
‘Is he dead?’ She turned to Palmer ignoring Barrett’s question.
‘We are working on the assumption that he is alive.’
‘Mrs Kilpatrick. Barrett moved his chair closer to her. ‘We need to know if your husband knew either of the deceased. Do the names Dennis Wade or Wendy Matlock mean anything to you?’
‘Dennis?’ Her gaze remained fixed on Palmer. ‘My husband used to play golf with a man named Dennis.’
‘Do you remember his surname?’ Barrett asked urgently.
‘I’m not sure I ever knew it.’ She looked down at her hands, her eyes resting on her splayed fingers.
‘What about Wendy Matlock? Does that name ring a bell?’ Palmer encouraged.
‘No. I’ve never heard of her.’ Susan’s voice was fractured.
‘Mum?’ The young woman who had been sitting on the sofa appeared in the doorway looking concerned. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair was pulled up in a scruffy bun and she had a tattoo running down her neck. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘DI Palmer,’ he said getting up and shaking her hand.
‘What’s happened?’ She stared at him with the same fear on her face as her mother had.
Palmer looked at Susan, not feeling it was his place to tell the woman what had happened, and watched as the mother beckoned for her daughter to come and sit by her side. Palmer could see now that the woman was much older than he had first thought. From a distance she appeared to be in her twenties but on closer inspection it was clear that she was closer to forty. He noticed there was no wedding ring.
‘Tell me.’ The tattooed woman said, placing her hand on her mother’s shoulder.
Barrett and Palmer were quiet while Susan told her daughter the news.
‘So he’s dead?’ The woman turned to Barrett with a look of horror on her face.
‘We don’t believe so.’ Barrett tried to focus on her face rather than the large floral tattoo that snaked up the left side of her neck.
‘Do you know a Wendy Matlock or Dennis Wade?’ Palmer asked.
‘No, sorry.’ She blinked back tears trying to be strong for her mother who sat completely still and ghost-like.
‘Dad used to play golf with a Dennis, didn’t he?’ Susan said to the woman who still hadn’t been properly introduced to the policemen.
‘Yes, I think you’re right.’ The woman nodded as a strand of hair freed itself from her bun. ‘He did have a golf buddy called Dennis a while back. Not heard him mention him for years though.’ She spoke with a slight lisp due to the fact she had a rather large tongue piercing.
Palmer struggled to see how Susan could be the woman’s mother. Although they shared similar features, Susan was dowdy in her appearance and her daughter was the opposite.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Barrett cut in.
‘I’m Marie.’ Her eyes were fixed on her mother’s face.
‘Is there any way you might be able to find out Dennis’s surname?’
‘Dad’s old diaries!’ Marie said all of a sudden. ‘He’s very particular and keeps all his old diaries. It will take a while to find the right one but if his surname is anywhere, it will be in there. Where are they, Mum?’ she said turning to look at her mother who had returned to staring down at her fingers.
‘In a box. In the attic,’ she said vaguely.
‘Why is this person cutting people’s fingers off?’ Susan looked up at Palmer.
‘We don’t know yet.’ It pained him to admit it.
‘Would you like me to go up into the attic?’ Barrett asked standing up.
‘No, I’ll do it later.’ Marie looked at him with distrust.
‘We need that name as soon as possible. I would rather take the diaries with me now so that my team can start going through them.’
‘You’re not taking them.’ She half laughed. ‘They don’t belong to you. I’ll look through them and let you know when I find the name.’
‘I’m sorry if you think I am being pushy, but your father is in serious danger. We don’t have time to spare.’
‘You can have them,’ Susan told him resting her hand on her daughter’s arm and squeezing it. ‘We just want him back.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Kilpatrick.’
‘There is a ladder in the garden shed. Somewhere in the attic you’ll find a box which has diaries written on it in large letters.’
Barrett nodded and headed out of the back door and into the garden to retrieve the ladder just as the rain started to pour. He’d forgotten he had taken his shoes off and returned with soaking wet socks and a look of irritation. If the situation hadn’t been so grave, Palmer might have laughed.
After manoeuvring the ladder through the kitchen and up the stairs Barrett found himself poking about in a large dark attic. It was the most ordered attic he had ever been in and it didn’t take long to identify the box Susan told him about.
Once back downstairs, Barrett put his wet feet into his shoes, after thanking Susan and Marie for their time and cooperation, before heading back out into the downpour followed closely by Palmer.
‘She’s a character,’ Palmer said referring to Marie and wiping the raindrops from his face.
‘Call Hale and Singh,’ Barrett barked as he started the engine. ‘I want them waiting at the station ready to go through these diaries. Everything else can be put on hold.’
Roy Dunlop had been waiting for the rain to pass before he ventured out to walk his golden Labrador. The dog, Marlow, had been scratching at the front door and dropping heavy hints all afternoon so, when the downpour finally ceased, Roy pulled on his Barbour jacket and flat cap and grabbed the dog’s lead.
Closing the door on his cottage he wondered why he’d given in. An icy wind was blowing and darkness was already falling.
He walked along Toyse Lane on the outskirts of Burwell and kept his head down, wanting to avoid the drizzle. Marlow pulled hard on the lead and tugged his master along the lane, making Roy move at a faster pace than he wished to. It was his wife who insisted they had a dog, yet he was the one tasked with walking the creature. Still, he knew when he got home that a nice steak and onion pie would be waiting so it wasn’t all bad.
It was the same walk he did every day, along Toyse Lane and right onto North Street before heading up Little Fen Drove. He walked along the quiet country track, avoiding puddles, before turning onto the footpath that led to the fishing lakes and letting Marlow run free. The dog immediately went galloping through the deep muddy puddles enjoying his freedom and not giving a second thought to the fact that he would have to be bathed when he got home.
Roy plodded along behind, his gumboots squelching in the thick mud. From his pocket he removed a small torch so that he could see in the gloom. The drizzle had relented but the sky was still heavy with dark clouds.
As he reached the edge of a lake he stopped to see where Marlow was. The dog was on the other side of the water barking at a tree. Rolling his eyes, Roy made his way round the perimeter to see what the dog was making a fuss about. He wasn’t prepared for the body he discovered hanging from one of the branches.
The skull had been caved in and the torso was a bloody mess, the clothes ripped revealing skin and wounds. Below the corpse, the dog went on barking, its hackles up while its feet stood in a puddle of rainwater marbled with blood.