There was a uniformed officer on guard outside 23 Beresford Crescent in Woodford Green where Sheila Flack had been murdered. Inside the squad car that was parked on the road was another constable, and Mrs Pat Claws – who had found Sheila Flack’s body – was sitting in the back seat. The plain white forensic truck was parked half-on and half-off the pavement further along the road to allow other vehicles to manoeuvre past it. There were also a number of journalists, being held back by crime scene tape, who wanted him to tell them everything he knew.
‘Inspector Parish, can you tell us what’s going on here?’
‘Is it true that this murder is connected to the murder of Paul Gifford?’
‘Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘Are the rumours about the Chief Constable taking you off the case and creating a task force true?’
‘Would you like to pose for some tasteful photographs, Constable Richards?’
He held up a hand for the questions to cease. ‘Constable Richards is now Detective Constable Richards, and she will not be posing for any photographs – tasteful or otherwise. Contrary to the malicious rumours, my job is safe – I have the full confidence of the Chief Constable. And, as you all know, the press briefing is scheduled for four o’clock this afternoon – thank you.’
They carried on towards the squad car.
‘Do you think it’s true about the Chief Constable creating a task force to replace us?’ Richards asked.
‘The only thing the Chief Constable is interested in is results. If he doesn’t replace us, someone will replace him . . .’
‘And they’ll replace us?’
‘Exactly. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Richards.’
‘Which means we need a result.’
‘It’s the only thing that will save us.’
They stood next to the open door of the squad car and questioned Mrs Claws.
‘That’s an unusual surname,’ Richards said.
‘Unusual in what way?’
Pat Claws had obviously shed some tears, but now she appeared to be in control of herself. She was in her early thirties with droopy eyes, ears that protruded through her light brown hair, and white even teeth that somehow didn’t seem to belong in her mouth.
Richards smiled. ‘In no way – just unusual.’
‘Unusual weird?’
‘Unusual – unusual.’
‘I acquired it from my husband.’
Parish interrupted. ‘Can we move past the discussion of unusual surnames? You found the body?’
‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t, but I did.’
‘You car share, and you came to pick up Miss Flack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where do you both work?’
‘King George Hospital.’
He glanced at Richards.
‘Which wards or departments do you work on?’
‘I work in the Cedar Centre . . .’
‘Which is?’
‘Haematology and Oncology. And Sheila worked on Gentian Ward – Diabetes and Endocrine.’
‘Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill Sheila?’
‘None at all. Except . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘You do know that she was three months pregnant?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She had an affair with one of the doctors . . .’
‘Had?’
‘She decided that she didn’t really want to marry him, so she broke it off. In fact, between you and me, what she wanted was a baby not a husband. She didn’t think much of men, to be honest.’
‘What was the name of the doctor?’
‘David Furber – he’s a consultant on Iris Ward – Urology.’
‘So you think he had a reason to kill Sheila?’
‘No, but he had a wife and three children already.’
‘Had?’
‘He and his wife separated, and now they’re getting a divorce. Rumour has it that she’s going to take him to the cleaners.’
‘Ah, so you think his wife might have killed Sheila?’
‘Have you seen Sheila?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw her through the curtains. She‘s been arranged . . . you know, in a child’s praying position. Mr Furber wouldn’t have done that, and neither would his wife. There’s also the baby . . . They wouldn’t have killed the baby.’
‘Do you know if she had any other enemies?’
’There were lots of people who didn’t like Sheila, she was very opinionated, but why would they kill her? And why would they kill the baby growing inside her? No, I don’t know anybody who would do something like that, or at least I hope I don’t.’
‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Flack.’
‘Can I go to work now?’
‘Of course. Give DC Richards your contact details, and then you’re free to go.’
‘Right, let’s go and see the victim,’ Parish said.
Richards turned towards the forensic truck. ‘I’ll just . . .’
‘No you won’t.’
‘But . . .’
‘Don’t you trust him?’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘When Toadstone’s got something he’ll let us know. We have two more murders . . .’
‘The baby?’
‘Exactly.’
They put on the white zip-up suits, masks, plastic gloves and overshoes at the door, and made their way into the two-bedroom bungalow.
The body of Sheila Flack was in the main bedroom on the right of the hallway. To the left was a second bedroom. Then there was a toilet to the right, opposite the living room and conservatory. Straight ahead was the kitchen and utility room.
Forensic officers were dusting, bagging and photographing.
Doc Riley had already arrived.
‘Hello, Doc,’ he said. ‘And don’t think it’s my turn to pay . . .’
‘. . . For lunch. Oh, I’m sure it is. Didn’t I pay last time, Constable Richards?’
‘Yes, I think you did, Doc.’
‘I’m not having this conversation. Well, what have we got here?’
‘Something I hope I’d never see.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The woman was more than likely asleep when the killer entered the bungalow . . .’
‘How did the killer get in?’ Parish asked.
‘Through the conservatory door, Sir,’ Bob Birrell said.
‘Hello, Bob.’
‘Hello, Sir. The conservatory was treated as an extension to the living room, but it didn’t have the same security as the rest of the bungalow. There’s only toughened glass in the windows and door, which can be broken quite easily and silently with a sharp tool, and that’s exactly what the killer did. There are no internal doors connecting the conservatory to the living room, so once they’d gained access to the conservatory, they were effectively inside the house.’
‘Thanks, Bob.’
Doc Riley continued. ‘There are burn marks on the wrists and ankles, and I think she was tied to the bed posts . . .’
They looked at the pool of blood on the bed. ‘Was she stabbed?’ Richards asked.
‘In a way – yes. The killer murdered the woman’s baby first, and then killed her.’
‘Killed the baby?’ Parish’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand. Surely the baby would have died anyway, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. A foetus can’t survive for long in a dead host.’
‘Maybe the killer didn’t know she was pregnant.’
Doc Riley shook her head. ‘The killer knew all right.’
‘That’s what it’s about,’ Richards said under her breath.
‘Stop mumbling, Richards.’
‘No, listen. That’s the motive.’
‘What – killing children?’
‘Yes. The first murder wasn’t about Paul Gifford at all, it was about taking Mrs Gifford’s son away from her. Here, the killer took the life of Sheila Flack’s baby away from her before he killed her. The killer made sure Sheila Flack knew she was losing her baby.’
‘You mean she was awake when the killer stabbed her baby?’ He looked at the Doc.
‘The amount of blood on the bed suggests that she was certainly alive when she was stabbed, but whether she was awake . . .’ The Doc shrugged. ‘I have no way of knowing that. But if she wasn’t awake, then why tie her wrists and ankles to the bed?’
‘Jesus. Why would somebody do something like that?’
‘Revenge,’ Richards said. ‘Annette Gifford and Sheila Flack are both nurses at King George Hospital. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that they worked together at one time and were involved in a case where a child died. The mother blamed them, and is now taking her revenge.’
Parish’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a bit far-fetched.’
‘Have you got anything better, Sir?’
He didn’t. Maybe Richards was right. It wasn’t often she was wrong. Why else would someone deliberately stick a knife in a living human foetus? God! He couldn’t imagine the horror of that. It would be easy enough to find out whether the two women had ever worked together, and whether a child had died in their care.
‘Was she injected with a paralytic?’
‘There’s a puncture wound in the neck, so my guess is yes, but it will have to be confirmed. Also, her hands have been bound together with the copper wire and . . .’ She pulled a piece of paper from between the woman’s hands with a pair of tweezers and slipped it into an evidence bag. ‘. . . There’s this prayer.’ She passed it to Parish:
Heavenly Father,
Are you really there?
And do you hear and answer
Every child’s prayer?
Some say that Heaven is far away,
But I feel it close around me as I pray.
Heavenly Father, I remember now,
Something that Jesus
Told Disciples long ago.
Suffer the children to come unto me,
Father, I’m coming now to thee.
Amen.
‘The prayers are probably for her own child,’ Richards suggested.
‘Okay,’ Parish relented. ‘Ring Mabel Stafford at the Giffords. Tell her to ask Annette Gifford if she knows Sheila Flack, and if she does – from where? And . . .’
‘. . . . If she says yes to both of those questions, then we need to know whether a child died in their care?’
‘Go.’
Richards left the bedroom to make the call.
‘Anything else, Doc?’
‘I think I’ve given you enough for today, don’t you? I’ll be doing the post mortem tomorrow at eleven . . .’
‘And it’s your turn to buy lunch?’
‘A gentleman wouldn’t quibble.’
‘Mind games don’t work with me, Doc.’
***
After the coffee and toast at Sumburgh, she thanked Sonya Tucker for the key, said goodbye and made her way to Departures where she had to go through security.
A bald-headed man with cysts dotted around the left side of his face said, ‘Please put your bag on the conveyor belt and any metal you have in your pockets in the plastic tray, then walk through the metal detector.’
‘I’ve only been here for three quarters of an hour.’
‘And?’
She did as she was asked, but the metal detector still made a noise.
‘Belt?’ the man said.
‘Do you know how difficult it is to thread this belt through the loops of my jeans?’
‘Belt.’
It took her ages to take her belt off. ‘If my jeans fall down I’ll be making an official complaint, you know.’
‘I’m sure.’
She made it through without buzzing again.
‘Thank you, Madam. Please collect all your belongings. I hope you enjoyed your stay in the Shetlands. Please come back again soon.’
She stuffed the belt in her rucksack, collected all her metal and found a seat to wait for the call to board the plane.
The flight from Sumburgh to Heathrow – via a cloudy Aberdeen – was uneventful, and she dozed most of the way. Landing, she was happy to report, was uneventful. She didn’t clap with the other passengers when the plane bounced on the runway though – as far as she was concerned the pilot was only doing the job he was getting paid a bucketful of money to do. She ambled through into domestic arrivals, headed for the tube station and bought a train ticket.
It was a straightforward journey on the Piccadilly Line from Terminal 3 at Heathrow to Leicester Square, and took her forty-nine minutes give or take.
She had to walk through Chinatown to reach the East Asia Bank on Shaftesbury Avenue. It was the year of the horse, and Chinatown was awash with colours, noises and smells. Lucky nodding cats waved at her as she passed by, red banners adorned with Chinese writing fluttered in the warm breeze, and men were sitting at tables outside restaurants click-clacking mah-jong tiles. The familiar smells of Chinese dishes poured out of kitchens and played havoc with her olfactory receptor cells making her realise that if she didn’t eat soon she’d probably fall down one of the gaps in a drain cover.
There was enough food being cooked in woks on stalls to sink a floating hotel. At one she tried some eggplant with pickle, at another the dan dan noodles, and at a third the spicy pig ear.
It took her an hour and a half to traverse the short distance through Chinatown to the eighteen-storey glass monstrosity sprouting upwards from the corner of Dean Street and Shaftesbury Avenue. She had a good idea what they did on the ground floor, but wondered why they needed another seventeen floors.
As she expected, the staff were all Chinese, and she approached a pleasant-looking woman in a matching blue skirt and jacket, a white blouse and a red silk scarf.
‘Good morning, Madam. I am Lisa Chau. How may I help?’
‘Yes, good morning. I’d like to open my safe deposit box, please.’
‘Of course, Madam. You have your key?’
She smiled, and held up the key as if she’d found it on a treasure hunt.
‘Please follow me.’
They went down one floor in the lift. A security guard opened a steel door to allow them access to the safe deposit box room, which was plain except for a bank of numbered safe deposit boxes on the far wall with two keyholes in each box. To one side, there was a steel table and chair.
‘The number of your box, Madam?’
‘Two-two-five.’
‘Please insert your key and turn it clockwise.’
She did as she was told.
Miss Chau inserted another key that had appeared like sleight of hand, and turned it anti-clockwise.
The door dropped downwards on a hinge, allowing access to the box inside.
Bronwyn went to pull the box out, but Miss Chau beat her to it and then placed it on the table.
‘I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished, Madam.’
‘Thank you.’
Once Mrs Chau had left, she opened the box.
Inside were five London Underground tickets and five locks’ of different coloured hair in small zip-lock plastic envelopes with a set of initials on each. To say she was surprised would have been a massive understatement. She’d expected to find stacks of money, passports in different names, maybe a handgun or two, some Top Secret files, a lost work of art, the Crown jewels . . .
She scooped up the tube tickets and examined them.
10 May 08 Hornchurch to Heron Quays
14 Jun 09 Hornchurch to Forest Hill
16 Sep 10 Hornchurch to Elephant & Castle
12 Feb 11 Hornchurch to Gospel Oak
14 Mar 12 Hornchurch to Hatch End
Five tickets – one for each year between 2008 and 2012. Why did Heidi Naseby put them in a safe deposit box? Who did the five locks of hair belong to?
She looked at the tickets again, and something clicked in her mind. Each ticket had a number recorded on it:
19370
20004
14539
08070
00764
They were the same as the five groups of numbers in the alphanumeric code she’d found hidden away in the Centurion Glass account at the Tynwald Bank in the Isle of Man.
JM19370/20004MC/14539DG/08070TS/SP00764
So, the alphanumeric code wasn’t for a numbered bank account after all, but it begged the question: Why were the numbers from five London Underground tickets, that were locked away in a safe deposit box paid for by Heidi Naseby, in an Isle of Man bank account in the name of Centurion Glass? The other question, of course, was: What did the two initials with each number and on each lock of hair represent?
JM19370
20004MC
14539DG
08070TS
SP00764
She slipped the tickets and locks of hair into her rucksack, put the empty box back in its slot, turned the key anticlockwise and dropped it in her pocket. She pressed the buzzer to be let out.
‘All finished, Madam?’ Miss Chau asked when the door opened.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Are you intending to keep the box, Mrs Naseby?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, there’s the small matter of six months outstanding . . .’
‘How much?’
‘Sixty pounds, and if you’d like to keep . . .’
‘No thanks.’ She put the key into Miss Chau’s open hand.
Once she’d paid the outstanding charge with cash, she made her way out of the bank, found a cafe nearby and ordered a coffee. She had a hunch about the initials in the alphanumeric code, and tested that hunch by keying the first date into the search engine on her tablet.
Then she rang Jerry, but it went to voicemail, so she left a message: ‘Meet me at nine o’clock tomorrow morning in the snack bar at the Ritz Hotel on Piccadilly.’
She made her way back to Leicester Square tube station, travelled the two stops to Green Park and walked up Piccadilly to the Ritz Hotel where she marched up to the reception desk.
‘Yes, Madam?’ a dark-haired woman said.
‘I’d like a room for one night, please.’
The woman looked down her nose. ‘A room, Madam?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all.’
‘What have you got available?’
‘We only have three rooms left. There’s the Superior King at £614.40; the Executive King at £713.42; and the Junior Suite at £1,050. All prices include breakfast and Value Added Tax.’
‘I’ll take the Junior Suite then.’
‘You will?’
‘Has it got free WiFi?’
‘Of course, Madam.’
‘Good.’
‘Will you be paying by credit card or cash?’
She leaned her elbows on the counter and put her chin in the palms of her hands. ‘Do you get many people coming in here and paying by cash, Phyllis Bond?’ She asked, reading the woman’s name badge.
‘Not usually, Madam.’
‘I won’t be either.’ She passed the woman her credit card. ‘What other facilities have you got here?’
‘There is a fitness centre, massage, you can rent a bicycle should you wish . . .’
‘I don’t wish.’
‘. . . A casino, radio, iPod docking, satellite channels, DVD player, flat-screen television, free WiFi as I have already said, CD player, telephone . . .’
‘What about the massage?’
‘In the Ritz Salon on the basement floor, Miss Gibbs. Opening hours are from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m.’
‘I’d like my haircut as well.’
‘We have a professional stylist available.’
‘And a manicure.’
‘There are qualified staff to look after you nails.’
‘Okay, let’s do it.’
‘Certainly, Madam. That will be £650. Shall I take that amount off your card?’
‘Why not? Say about four o’clock?’
‘Consider it booked and paid for, Madam. Would you like any help with your luggage?’
She pulled a face. The stupid woman could see she only had a baby rucksack. ‘I don’t think so.’
The receptionist handed her the card key to room 407. ‘Have a lovely stay, Miss Gibbs.’
‘Thank you, Phyllis.’