She’d been dwelling on the initials AE, and she knew exactly who it was – Anthony Etches. He was a family friend with two children of his own. After this was all over, she’d make sure that his wife Polly knew exactly what type of man he was.
The phone call had also been troubling her.
Clarice had spoken of a Charlene Kelly that she’d befriended at the dance school – was that Billy’s sister? Why had he called? Why had the call ended so abruptly? The more she thought about it, the more she felt that it was important.
DI Blake had left her business card. Dorothy had every intention of ringing the number and telling the detective about the call, but instead she rang Bernadette Jodh at the Rhythm Stick Dance Studio.
‘The Rhythm Stick.’
‘Miss Jodh?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Clarice’s mother – Dorothy Kennedy.’
‘I’m terribly sorry about Clarice, she was a beautiful person and a wonderful dancer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Clarice spoke of a friend . . .’
‘Charlene Kelly?’
‘Yes. I know it’s not the proper thing to do, but I’d like to speak to Charlene. You couldn’t give me her address, could you?’
‘We don’t normally . . .’
‘Please.’
‘Just this once, but you must promise not to tell anybody that I gave you a client’s address.’
‘I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Number 51 Abbotts Lane in Widford.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You will let me know when Clarice’s funeral will be, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
She put the phone down. ‘Walter.’
He came into the kitchen from the living room. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘You’re driving.’
‘Where to?’
‘Widford.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going to find out who killed our beautiful Clarice.’
‘I’ll get my keys.’
‘You’ll need your shotgun and a box of cartridges as well – just in case we find what we’re looking for.’
‘Are you sure, Dot?’
‘I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Are you with me, Walter?’
‘Always.’
Walter put the shotgun and cartridges behind the seat and drove the Land Rover to the address that Bernadette Jodh had given Dorothy.
They knocked on the door of the pink house, which was opened by a young woman with a squashed nose and flat face.
‘Charlene?’ Dorothy said.
‘Who’s that, Charlene?’ came from inside.
An older woman appeared at the door. ‘Yes?’
‘We’re Dorothy and Walter, Clarice Kennedy’s parents.’
‘The girl who . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss. The police came here to ask Charlene some questions about your daughter.’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘So, why are you here?’
‘We had a phone call from your son, Billy.’
Mrs Kelly pulled a face. ‘From Billy? Why would he phone you? He didn’t know your daughter.’
‘Yes he did, mum. Billy used to pick me up from dance class sometimes. I introduced him to Clarice.’
‘We have no idea why Billy called us. The line went dead before he said why he was calling, but we’d like to find out.’
‘When was this?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘He would still have been at work.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘No, he hasn’t come home yet. You’d better come in. I’ll call his mobile and find out what he’s playing at.’
They followed Charlene and her mother into the house and were surprised at how dark and dingy it was.
Mrs Andrews used the landline to call her son’s mobile number, but it went to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘Where does Billy work?’
‘The slaughterhouse at River Meads, next to the railway track in Stanstead . . .’
‘Charlene!’ Mrs Andrews admonished her daughter. To Dorothy and Walter she said, ‘You can wait here for Billy, or I’ll ask him to contact you again when he does come home.’
‘Are you expecting him anytime soon?’
Mrs Kelly shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Billy’s twenty-five. He does what he wants when he wants with no assistance from me.’
‘Then we’ll leave,’ Dorothy said. ‘If you could ask him to contact us, I’d be very grateful.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Kelly said, and showed them out.
Once the door was closed and they were walking down the path to the Land Rover Dorothy said, ‘Do you know where the slaughterhouse at River Meads is?’
‘Yes, I know it. It’s mainly an abattoir, but they also offer a bereavement service for larger animals such as donkeys, horses and cows.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. I remember a chap telling me that his daughter had her horse’s ashes in an urn on the mantelpiece. They were very good apparently.’
‘And it could be where Clarice was kept for a month.’
Walter Kennedy was usually a mild-mannered man who’d had the perfect life. He loved his wife, his daughter and animals of all shapes, sizes and denominations, but someone had robbed him of that perfect life. ‘If it was,’ he said, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked. ‘We’ll damn well get to the bottom of it, Dot.’
He aimed the Land Rover down the Hunsdon Road towards Jenson’s Slaughterhouse in Stanstead Abbotts.
***
But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practise magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur.
Revelation 21:8
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to be talking about the “sexually immoral” in front of my children, Grant,’ Carrie said to him across the dinner table.
‘The bible is an open book, Carrie. “Your children” will learn all about the sins of humanity during religious studies at school, and when they go to church.’
She noticed how his voice changed when he said, “Your children”. Yes, they were her children, but he should have been making an effort to get closer to them. Instead, it was all about him, about his religion and about his photography that seemed to shut her and the children out. He was changing little by little before her very eyes.
‘I said no.’
‘As you wish. I’ll keep the bible readings clean in future.’
‘No, I don’t want you doing any more bible readings.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
They ate the meal in silence.
Afterwards, Carrie said to Howard and Sarah, ‘Go upstairs and get ready for bed.’ Howard stared at her and was about to say something when she gave him a look. ‘Go,’ she repeated.
Before she could say what she wanted to say to Grant he spoke first.
‘You want me to go, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it the religion?’
‘Partly. You’ve changed.’
‘I’m the man I’ve always been.’
‘No, you’re not. Or, if you are, then I didn’t see the man you’ve always been before, I saw someone else. Little by little you’ve become someone different, someone I don’t recognise.’
‘There’s no way to repair it?’
‘No.’
‘Is it all right if I pack everything up and leave on Saturday?’
‘Yes, but you’ll have to sleep . . .’
‘It’s okay, I have a camp bed and sleeping bag in my studio. I’ll sleep in there, if that’s all right with you?’
She nodded. ‘That’s fine.’
He stood up. ‘I’ll clear the table and wash up while you put the children to bed.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s no need to fall out just because it didn’t work. I’m sure we’ll still be friends in the future.’
‘Of course,’ she said, but already she was looking forward to Saturday. The sooner he was gone from her life the better. No, it hadn’t worked. In fact, it had probably been the biggest mistake of her life.
She went upstairs to tuck the children in. Melody was already asleep.
They were both in Howard’s room.
‘Have you told him?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes. He’s moving out on Saturday.’
‘Wicked,’ Howard said. ‘And no more bible readings?’
‘No.’
‘Great.’
‘Did you love him, mum?’ Sarah asked.
Carrie smiled. Did a seven year-old girl have any conception of adult love? ‘No, I didn’t love him. I liked him a lot when we first started going out, but you only really know someone when you start living with them.’
‘And now you don’t like him?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, darling. He’s a very nice man, but now that we’re living together I realise he’s not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. Now, enough questions, time for bed.’
‘I’m looking forward to Saturday,’ Howard said.
‘And me,’ Sarah agreed, as she made her way out of Howard’s room . . . ‘Oh!’
‘What is it, dear?’ Carrie said.
‘It’s Grant.’
Grant’s head appeared round the door. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anybody. I just popped up to say I was going into my studio.’
‘Okay,’ Carrie said.
She heard him going down the stairs. Why hadn’t she heard him coming up?
Yes, Saturday couldn’t come soon enough – for all of them.
***
Forensics had established that Lily Andrews’ phone was currently switched off, that she was on the train from Bishops Stortford and had disembarked at Widford station. They’d also found the driver of the bus who confirmed that he’d picked her up at the train station and she’d alighted at Walker’s Garage, where she should have walked through the winding path that emptied out into Tudor Close a short distance from her house, but – like Clarice Kennedy – she never reached her home.
‘Ma’am?’ a police officer said, coming into Mrs Andrews’ living room.
Thankfully, Mrs Andrews was taking a rest upstairs.
She really wanted to tell them to stop calling her “Ma’am”, but the bastards all did it. She thought about sending out a memo, for everyone to call her “Inspector” or “DI Blake”, but it was policy that senior female officers were called “Ma’am”. Maybe the only effective way to solve the problem was to have words with the Chief Constable and tell him to stop fucking around.
‘Yes?’
‘The woman who lives at number 7 Tudor Close says that she saw a dark blue van parked up for about fifteen minutes at the end of the footpath.
‘A dark blue van?’
‘Yes.’
She stood up and followed the constable outside.
‘And you are?’ she said to the doddering old woman leaning on a walking frame.
‘Mrs Marion Hall. I live at number seven Tudor Close.’
‘And you saw a dark blue van?’
‘My Trevor passed away seven years ago now, you know. Well, he bought number seven for a hundred and twenty-five pounds after the war. Of course, it’s worth a lot more now. Not that I have anyone to leave it to. Trevor had an accident in the Army, and they said he’d lost the ability to produce sperm, so we never had any children. Oh, there’s the usual money-grabbing relatives, but I think I’m going to leave my house to the animal sanctuary.
‘The blue van?’ Xena prompted.
‘Oh yes. Well, I like to sit at my window and watch the comings and goings in Tudor Close . . . Yes, I know, you think I’m a nosy old bat. Maybe I am, but you see things. For instance, I know that the man who lives at number seventeen visits the woman at number twelve for an hour every morning once his wife and her husband have both gone to work. It doesn’t take a police detective to figure out what’s going on there, I can tell you. So, anyway, a blue van comes along at about quarter to five yesterday afternoon and parks up at the end of the public footpath. My house is directly opposite the footpath. I can see everybody who goes up it and comes down it. Sometimes the children . . .’
‘You didn’t happen to notice the registration number, did you?’
‘Of course I did, I wrote it down on my pad. I keep a pad on the table next to my chair, and a pair of 30 x 60 binoculars that Trevor used to use for bird watching, because my eyes aren’t what they used to be . . .’
‘Do you have it?’
‘Oh yes.’ The woman unclenched her hand to reveal a screwed-up piece of paper sitting in the palm. ‘There we are,’ she said.
Xena picked up the ball of paper and opened it out to reveal three lines of spidery scrawl written in pencil:
Ford Transit
Dark Blue
LKN 127N
‘STICK?’ Xena shouted.
He came hurrying over.
‘Yes?’
She passed him the piece of paper. ‘This woman has solved our case for us.’
‘The van?’
‘Yes. Find out who it belongs to.’
Taking his phone out, he moved away to call the station.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs Hall?’
‘Marion . . . call me Marion. Oh yes. Normally at that time, I see young Lily Andrews coming down the path, but I never saw her yesterday. What a beautiful, beautiful young woman. She reminds me of myself when I was that young. I married Trevor before he went off to the war, but I could have had my pick of suitors. My father used to sit outside the house in his old rocking chair with a shotgun on his knee.’ She laughed. ‘I used to sneak out of the back door. Of course, we couldn’t do the things young girls do today – all the sleeping around and so forth. That was a slippery slope to disaster, but everything else was on the menu.’
‘Did you see the driver of the van?’
‘I’d have to be stupid not to have seen him.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Ask me what I used to do.’
‘What did you used to do, Marion?’
‘I was an artist. Not any old run-of-the-mill artist, but a proper exhibited artist. My work was on show in New York, Paris, London, Berlin . . .’ In her mind she’d travelled to somewhere else.
‘Marion?’
‘Oh yes . . . but tastes change. You’re more likely to find my paintings gathering dust in storerooms with other out-of-favour artists today. Now, the public want to see pigeon feathers, cows cut in half, sharks in formaldehyde, viruses made of glass, human flowers, faceless statues and tin foil art . . . There’s a long list of what’s considered art now before you get to ordinary landscapes and portraits.’ She opened up her other hand to reveal a second ball of paper.
Xena scooped the paper off the wrinkled skin of Marion’s palm and opened it out. It was a fabulous portrait of a good-looking young man. ‘I thought you were joking, but this is brilliant.’
Stick came back. ‘You’ll never believe who the van belongs to.’
She took Stick’s elbow and directed him away from flapping ears. ‘We don’t want to tell everyone our business, do we? Who does it belong to?’
‘Billy Kelly.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘And?’
‘Charlene Kelly’s brother.’
‘Jesus. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.’
She thanked Marion Hall profusely and told a constable to help her back to her house.
***
‘Well?’ he asked Richards when she returned to the squad room at quarter to six.
‘Did you enjoy your coffee?’
‘You’ve been gone so long I’ve had three coffees and a four-cheese pizza from Dominos on the High Street.’
‘You’re a liar. Mum would kill you if you ate a pizza before you got home.’
‘Threatening a murder detective with murder can get you into serious trouble, you know. Well?’
‘Nothing. There’s someone who looks like a woman walking along the pavement next to the gold course at about the right time, but it’s too dark to see anything properly. Terry from forensics tried to enhance the picture, but it just kept breaking up. He said to forget the CCTV.’
‘Let’s go home then.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Do you want me to say thank you?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Or maybe you’d like me to say what a wonderful job you’ve been doing?’
‘Even better.’
‘Never going to happen. You’ve still got to take the pool car back, haven’t you? I’ll follow you to the garage, and make sure you get your points from Bob.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘I’ll put your insubordination down to tiredness, Detective Constable Richards.’
‘You’re so kind.’
‘I hope you’ve put that in your report to the European Court of Human Rights?’
‘Oh don’t worry, everything is in that report.’
‘Excellent.’
He followed her down to the car park, and then drove his own car the short distance to the garage.
‘Did Bob allocate your points?’ he asked her as she climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. How long does he reckon it’ll take before we can have the good cars again.’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Eighteen months! I’ll have words with him.’
‘Bob said you’d say that. He told me to tell you that he doesn’t respond favourably to threats or bribes.’
‘Eighteen months! Maybe the system needs changing.’
Rush hour was mostly over, and they arrived home by seven. He’d previously phoned Angie and told her that they were going to be late.
Before dinner, he went upstairs to kiss Jack goodnight, and then took Digby for his evening walk.
‘What am I going to do, Digby?’
The dog cocked his leg and urinated up a lamppost.
‘That’s not very helpful, old boy. I was hoping for something a bit more constructive.’
What was he going to do? All he had left was the list of golf club employees and members, and the Giffords’ past. If neither of those leads produced anything, then he really was up a gum tree. And wasn’t Richards adamant that they were dealing with a serial killer? If that was the case where were the second, third and fourth victims? Maybe they just hadn’t found the bodies yet.
The walk took him half an hour. Digby wanted to sniff and pee on every lamppost en route. Maybe Angie and Richards should have bought him a female dog.
It was meat loaf, mashed potatoes, cabbage and gravy for dinner with strawberry jelly and cream for dessert. Richards had already had a shower and got changed into her pink pig onesie, and was looking through the list of fifteen year-old girls who had been reported missing between 1966 and 2014.’
‘Let’s go on holiday,’ he said to Angie.
‘Mmmm yes!’ Richards said, taking her head out of the list.
‘Not you.’
‘Not me?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Most definitely not.’
‘But . . .’
‘I spend enough time with you already.’
‘That’s hardly a reason. You wouldn’t even notice I was there.’
‘As if that’s likely. You’d be lying by the pool in a skimpy bikini, I’d have to protect you.’
‘I can protect myself.’
‘From men?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t seen any evidence of that.’
‘You don’t give me the chance.’
‘I recall giving you a handful of chances, but you squandered them all.’
‘Mum, tell him.’
‘Don’t get me involved.’
‘So, I’d like to go on holiday with your mother . . .’
‘What about Jack?’
‘Well, of course, we’ll be taking Jack.’
‘You’re taking one child, but leaving the other one here to fend for herself?’
‘You’re hardly a child.’
‘That’s true.’ She began singing:
I'm nobody's child
I'm like a flower just growing wild
There's no mommy's kisses
and no daddy's smiles
Nobody wants me
I'm nobody's child.
‘You’re a drama queen.’
‘I wouldn’t have to be if you’d let me come on holiday with you.’
‘Where were you thinking of taking me?’ Angie chipped in.
‘I thought we could have a look at what’s available tonight, and go from there.’
‘Is that your final decision then?’ Richards asked.
‘Yes.’
She stood up, collected up her list and headed upstairs..‘I’m sure there are laws about leaving a child home alone while the parents go off on holiday. I’ll make sure everybody knows how you abandoned me. It’ll be on the television and in all the papers. You’ll have to walk round wearing papers bags on your heads . . .’
They heard her bedroom door close.
‘She’ll be coming with us, won’t she?’
He smiled. ‘Of course, who else is going to look after Jack while we’re having a good time?’
‘You shouldn’t tease her so much.’
‘I know.’