Dr Sanjay Gupta was sixty-three years old and had lost his wife to cancer three years previously. He now lived a solitary life, working on the Acute Geriatric Ward at King George Hospital and doing one weekend shift in the A&E department every three months. He liked his work, but he enjoyed seeing his grandchildren more. He also looked forward to the time he would retire and enjoy the remaining years of his life.
‘You live on your own?’ Parish asked.
‘Yes.’
The five-bedroom house was clearly too big for one person. Although, from what they’d seen of it, Dr Gupta – or a cleaner – kept it in good condition. Sheesham furniture, Persian rugs, brightly-coloured silk cushions, and ancient pictures of elephants, tigers and the goddess Lakshmi dominated the rooms.
‘Children?’
‘Three – two boys and a girl. I say a girl, but Yana is a grown woman with three children now.’
‘What about your sons?’
‘Sidhant is in America at the University of South Carolina. I wanted him to be a doctor, but he had other ideas. He is completing a research degree in nuclear physics. Rishabh is in India finding himself. I have told him he is looking in the wrong place, but he won’t listen to an old man anymore. It is as if the young now know everything, and the old and wise know nothing.’
‘What about your daughter Yana?’
‘She is married to Rajet Tamboli who is a dentist in private practice. They have given me three beautiful grandchildren, but why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Do you remember the boy – Michael Higgins . . . ?’
‘Anaphylactic shock from a penicillin injection?’
‘You have a good memory.’
‘I remember him because it was a terrible tragedy.’
‘We think the mother is killing the children of those who were involved in her son’s death.’
‘I remember that she had not long suffered the loss of her husband, as I had my wife. And then to lose her only son as well.’ He shook his head. ‘We can only imagine what she must have gone through.’
‘Can you ring your daughter and check that she’s all right?’
‘Surely you don’t think . . . ?’
‘We’re erring on the side of caution.’
‘Of course.’ He went to the phone and rang his daughter’s number. ‘That’s odd. The children are off school now, and she is usually home at this time.’
‘Can we have her address?’
He wrote it on a piece of paper and gave it to Richards.
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘I’d prefer it if you stayed here, Dr Gupta,’ Parish said. ‘She might ring, or come round.’ He passed the old man a business card. ‘My mobile number is on there.’
They made their way out to the car.
Richards keyed the postcode into the satnav, and Parish drove again.
‘I have a bad feeling about this, Sir.’
‘Don’t say that, Richards. Think happy thoughts. And while you’re doing that call Operations and request forced access, just in case there’s no answer.’
‘We should have brought Peter Moore with us.’
‘Why?’
‘You won’t be able to force the door open.’
‘Brute force and ignorance isn’t the only way to open a door, you know.’
‘Shush.’ She spoke to Inspector Threadneedle and gained authorisation. ‘My heart starts to pound when I’m speaking to the Gorgon.’
‘The Gorgon?’
‘That’s what we call her.’
‘We?’
‘All the lower ranks.’
‘What do they call me?’
She looked out of the side window. ‘I don’t think they call you anything.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Mmmm.’
Yana Tamboli lived at 33 Wanneth Hall Road in Clayhall. It took them twelve minutes to get there with the blue light and the siren. Parish screeched to a halt outside, squeezed out of the car, ran to the front door and banged on it.
They waited.
Nothing.
He banged again.
Nothing.
He lifted the letter box flap and shouted, ‘Yana?’
Nothing.
Richards moved back to look up at the bedroom windows. ‘There’s someone up there,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Someone.’
‘Okay.’ The door was uPVC. He tried kicking it in with the sole of his foot, but it barely trembled. Next, he tried to shoulder it open, but he nearly dislocated his shoulder.
‘Move aside, Sir,’ Richards said. She’d been to get a tyre-iron from the boot of the car, wedged it in-between the door and the frame and forced the door open. ‘That’s how you do it.’
‘At some other time, you and I will need to have a discussion about how you knew to do that.’
‘Yana?’ They both shouted.
No one answered.
They took the stairs two at a time.
Yana Tamboli and her three children were lying on the bed.
‘Oh God, Sir,’ Richards said, turning away.
He moved to the bed and felt for a pulse on the neck of the youngest child of about two years old. He did the same with the two other children, and then the mother. ‘Call an ambulance, Richards. They’re all still alive.’
‘I thought . . .’ She pulled out her phone and called 999.
He searched the other rooms and found Sandra Higgins lying in a bath of blood – she’d cut both her wrists and the carotid artery in her neck as well.
‘The ambulance is on its . . .’
‘You’d better ring for a second ambulance.’
He returned to the bedroom and turned Yana and her three children onto their sides, and sat in a chair until the ambulances arrived.
‘I’ve phoned Dr Gupta and told him that his daughter and grandchildren are on the way to the hospital.’
‘Good work, Richards.’
‘We got here just in time, didn’t we?’
‘Yes.’ But he was also conscious of the fact that they hadn’t reached Paul Gifford or Sheila Flack in time. He loved his job, but he hated the fact that an investigation always began with somebody’s death.
Richards had been right, but she’d also been wrong. Sandra Higgins had a motive for murder – the basic and timeless thirst for revenge. In her mind, Annette Gifford and Sheila Flack had received their just desserts. And he was also aware that if they’d taken any longer in reaching Yana and her children, Sandra Higgins would have murdered them as well.
***
When they arrived back at the station they went up to the canteen for lunch. Most of the uniformed officers about to change shift were crowded in there, as well as some of the civilian support staff, and they were all gathered round the television screen in the corner cheering and clapping.
Richards had to stand on tiptoes to see. ‘Why is Paul on the television, Sir?’
‘He found Loveday.’
‘No, that can’t be right. We found Loveday.’
‘His version of events is slightly different.’
‘He can’t do that.’
‘He already has done that.’
‘You said he’d let us know when he’d found something.’
‘I was obviously wrong.’
‘I think I love him.’
‘You don’t mean that, Richards. He’s got the morals of an alley cat. He stole your investigation, and then he said he’d worked it all out by himself.’
‘I never thought he would ever do something so . . . so manly.’
‘Manly? Underhand, more like. What type of person steals another person’s investigation?’
Annabelle Wishart had given birth to a baby boy. They also found a thirteen year-old runaway called Beverley Simmonds who was seven months pregnant and nobody knew was missing. In a field where pigs were kept, forensic officers found human remains they were unable to identify. Alfred and Edith Monkton were arrested for a variety of offences including murder and child abduction, but neither of them ever spoke to another person.
***
Thursday, July 18
‘What do you think?’
Jerry sat down opposite her in the Ritz Snack Bar. ‘I think you’re charging me too much if you can afford to have breakfast at the Ritz.’
‘I stayed the night.’
‘I feel as though I’ve been robbed.’
‘You won’t when you know what I’ve got for you.’
‘You look different, as well.’
‘I thought I’d pamper myself.’
‘With my money?’
‘With my money, if you must know. I’m a woman of means. What you pay me is a pittance.’
‘It’s nice of you to say so.’
The waitress arrived with a pot of tea for two, and toasted teacakes with cream and a varied selection of preserves.
Jerry poured the tea. ‘So, what have you got for me?’
‘I haven’t found any evidence that he killed his wife yet, but I have a lead.’
‘That’s not really what I expected to hear.’
‘I’ve got something much better.’
‘Oh?’
She took out the five tube tickets and the plastic envelopes, and spread them out on the table. ‘I found a friend of Heidi Naseby’s who lived on the Shetland Islands. Heidi had sent her a key to a safe deposit box that she’d rented at the East Asia Bank on Shaftesbury Avenue to look after. I flew up there to get it.’
‘That you’ll charge me for?’
‘Of course, but if you wait a minute you’ll realise it was worth it.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I opened the box yesterday. Inside were these.’
‘You’ve got me really excited.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Jerry Kowalski.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Each ticket and lock of hair represents a rape and murder – they’re trophies. Are you excited now?’
‘A bit.’
Bronwyn smiled, and stuffed a teacake with a dollop of cream on top of it into her mouth. ‘The date and destination on each ticket corresponds to an unsolved murder in that location.’ She re-arranged the tube tickets into date order:
10 May 08 – Heron Quays
14 Jun 09 – Forest Hill
16 Sep 10 – Elephant & Castle
12 Feb 11 – Gospel Oak
14 Mar 12 – Hatch End
‘I’ve looked, and the police haven’t connected the rape and murders together because they’re all different.
‘You’ve lost me,’ Jerry said. ‘What’s all this got to do with Manning Naseby killing his wife?’
‘This is your motive, not the so-called affair. There never was an affair, that’s why it all appears so confusing. Here look . . .’ She put each lock of hair against a ticket. ‘Joyce Mathews was raped and strangled in Heron Quays on May 10, 2008; Melinda Cripps was raped and stabbed in Forest Hill on June 14, 2009; Denise Gainsford was raped and beaten to a pulp in the Elephant & Castle on September 16, 2010; Tamsyn Smith was raped and decapitated in Gospel Oak on February 12, 2011; and finally, Suzy Pollock was raped and had her neck broken on March 14, 2012.’
‘Why did the killings stop?’
‘We don’t know that they have stopped. Heidi Naseby found the trophies from five murders, put them in a safety deposit box and sent the key to Sonya Tucker in the Shetlands. For all we know, Naseby might very well have been out collecting more trophies while he’s been out on bail.’
‘Have you sent this to the CPS?’
‘I haven’t sent anything anywhere yet, I wanted to talk to you first. The problem is, of course . . .’ She pointed at the tickets and locks of hair. ‘. . . these aren’t evidence – I have them. Yes, they could probably be linked to Heidi Naseby, but not her husband. All he has to do is deny ever having seen them.’
‘Okay. What now?’
‘I found something else. Each month Naseby pays £400 into an account at the Tynwald Bank on the Isle of Man, which is a tax haven by the way. The account is in the name of a company called Centurion Glass, which doesn’t exist.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘When I hacked into the account I discovered two things. First, the money is paid in and then it disappears . . .’
‘Disappears?’
‘There’s no record of where the money goes.’
‘Aren’t there financial rules or something?’
‘Yes there are. Secondly, there was an alphanumeric code attached to the account.’ She showed her a piece of paper with the code written on it.
JM19370/20004MC/14539DG/08070TS/SP00764
‘Aren’t those . . . ?’
‘Yes. The initials of his five victims and the numbers of the tube tickets.’
‘Now you’ve really lost me.’
‘Centurion Glass is Manning Naseby.’
‘He’s paying himself £400 a month? That doesn’t make sense.’
‘It does if you realise that he’s only paying the money into that account for onward transmission to the man who killed his wife.’
‘Ah! Of course, the money disappears, but why £400 a month?’
‘A lump sum would have been far too obvious. He’s paying for his wife’s murder by direct debit. Nobody would pay any attention to a monthly sum paid to Centurion Glass on his bank statement. In fact, I only noticed it because it started the month before his wife was killed.’
‘All right, you’re worth the money.’
‘It’s very nice of you to say so. If I ever need a reference I’ll know where to come.’
‘So, you’re saying that all this business with his wife is a smokescreen to hide his other activities?’
‘I would say so. Although, I’m not convinced that his wife’s murder actually went according to plan.’
‘The useless police?’
‘That’s my guess. Had they done their job properly, Manning Naseby would be as free as a bird now, and I wouldn’t be here telling you what I’d discovered.’
‘Yes, that’s why his barrister’s having such an easy time making fools of the police.’
‘The question is: What do we do now?’
‘I have an idea,’ Jerry said. ‘You send the details of Naseby’s monthly payments into the Tynwald Bank in the Isle of Man anonymously to Martin Dryden at the CPS, and tell him that it’s the money trail linking Naseby to his wife’s murder.’
‘And what about the tickets and the locks of hair?’
Jerry scooped them up off the table and put them in her handbag. ‘I know a Detective Sergeant from Hornchurch Police Station who needs a lifeline to hold onto his job.’
‘He made a right fuck-up of Heidi Naseby’s murder, are you sure he’s going to be able to connect the dots?’
‘We’ll be his guardian angels.’
‘I hate the police.’
‘I hate men who have murdered six women that we know of, and could get away with it if we do nothing.’
‘There is that. All right, but I don’t want him or anyone else connected to the police to know who I am, or that I’m helping. You act as the intermediary.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I’ll send you a bill.’
‘Do you declare all this money you get to the Inland Revenue?’
‘Of course I do. Three thousand pounds received for hacking into the computer systems of Hornchurch Police Station, the Tynwald Bank in the Isle of Man, and the CPS at the request of Jerry Kowalski, less twenty-two percent for you nice people at the Inland Revenue . . . You can see how that might look?’
‘Yes. I suppose it’s best kept quiet.’
‘Good idea.’
Jerry stood up. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get to the Old Bailey. Don’t forget to . . .’
‘I never forget anything.’
‘Thanks for your help, Bronwyn. I’ll be in touch.’
‘See you then.’
***
‘Sergeant?’ Jerry called after DS Mills Foster as he was walking down the steps of the Old Bailey following the judge’s decision to dismiss the case against Manning Naseby and set him free.
He stopped and turned towards her. ‘Yes?’
She held out her hand. ‘My name is Jerry Kowalski. My husband is the DCI at Hoddesdon Police Station, but I’m here in the capacity of a concerned citizen.’
‘Oh?’
‘The jury is going to find Manning Naseby not guilty tomorrow, and that’s basically down to you.’
‘Now hold on a minute. Just because you’re the wife of . . .’
She held up a hand. ‘I’m here to offer you a way to save your career – are you interested?’
His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. ‘As a matter of courtesy I’m prepared to listen to what you’ve got to say.’
‘Very generous. Should we grab a coffee somewhere less public? You’re paying.’
‘I think I can stretch to two coffees.’
‘You might also consider buying some anti-dandruff shampoo.’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘If we’re going to be working together, we may as well start off on the right footing.’
It took three cups of coffee to tell him what Bronwyn had told her, and then she put the tube tickets and locks of hair on the table.
He moved his hand towards them.
She covered them with her own hand. ‘Can I trust you with these?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot.’
‘The evidence says otherwise.’
‘All right, I’ll admit that the Naseby case hasn’t been my finest hour, but usually I’m a pretty good detective.’
‘The jury’s still out on that one.’
‘I’m curled up. So, you reckon Naseby not only paid someone to kill his wife, but is also a rapist and a serial killer?’
‘Not me exactly.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have an imaginary friend, but you’ll never get to meet her. I’m training to be a barrister, and on Tuesday I was sitting in the public gallery observing the trial as part of my training when I saw something in Naseby’s eyes. It looked certain that Hill-Ferguson . . .’
‘The bitch.’
‘She’s great, isn’t she? And she certainly made mincemeat of you.’
‘Haven’t we done that already?’
‘Sorry. Anyway, she was going to get him off, so I decided to ask my imaginary friend to see what she could dig up.’
‘And she found those?’ he said, indicating the tickets and plastic envelopes.
‘Yes. Naseby is a trophy-taker, and I think that will be his undoing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s raped and murdered at least one more woman while he’s been waiting for his trial.’
Sunday, July 21
‘Come on then, beautiful,’ he said to his daughter Melody as he unshackled her from the child car seat and hefted her onto his hip. He’d have to make at least three trips to transfer her stuff from the car to Carrie’s house. On contact weekends it always felt as though he was helping her move house.
He walked up the path and knocked on the door.
Melody was heavy on his hip, and he wondered whether they were feeding her too much. He made a mental note to keep an eye on her weight.
Maybe Carrie hadn’t heard him although, they’d agreed a time. She was usually standing at the door eager to see her daughter. He knocked again.
Still nothing.
What was going on?
He noted that Grant’s car wasn’t in the drive, so he rang Carrie’s mobile number, but it diverted to voicemail. ‘Carrie, where are you? I’m here with Melody.’
Another knock achieved the same response.
Switching Melody to his other hip, he began walking round the house and looking through the windows. He found Carrie, and her two other children – Howard and Sarah – sitting at the kitchen table.
He took Melody back to the car, strapped her into the child car seat again, phoned 999 and explained the situation.
While he was waiting, he phoned Angie and told her what he’d found.
‘I thought you’d checked him out.’
‘So did I.’
‘What about Melody?’
‘We’re her family now.’
DI Dawn French and DS Brian Garnham arrived from Epping Police Station. Hoddesdon Murder Team weren’t permitted to investigate the murder of one of their own.
He explained as much as he knew.
‘And you checked this Grant Mottram out?’ DI French said.
‘Wouldn’t you if he was looking after your child?’
‘Definitely, but I’m wondering why you didn’t find anything.’
‘So am I.’
‘Oh well, we’ll look into that as well.’
There was a lot of blood in the kitchen. Mottram had cut their throats and completely moved out. Everything had been cleaned, and there was no trace of him. Forensics couldn’t find one single fingerprint belonging to Mottram.
Except . . . the man who had moved in with Carrie and her children wasn’t Grant Mottram, and he’d done it before – twice – in different parts of the country. Each time, he created a new identity, moved in, killed the family, and then disappeared without a trace. Nobody knew who he really was, but Parish promised Carrie that he would find out.
***
In the Criminal Justice Act of 2003 the double jeopardy rule was abrogated in murder cases. What it meant was that Manning Naseby could be tried again for his wife’s murder following “fresh and viable” evidence coming to light.
Investigators working for the CPS had followed the money to the Tynwald Bank in the Isle of Man and discovered that a bank employee was being blackmailed by an unknown man into making the money disappear into an account at another bank in the name of Barry Hutton. Barry Hutton was known to police as a petty criminal who had set himself up as a hitman.
Meanwhile, DS Mills Foster convinced a judge to give him a search warrant for Manning Naseby’s house based on the story surrounding the tube tickets and locks of hair in his possession.
Forensics found three more tube tickets and three more locks of hair. The tickets were matched to the locations of three additional rapes and murders, and the locks of hair were matched through DNA to the victims of those murders.
Manning Naseby was charged with his wife’s murder, and the rape and murder of three other women. He received four whole-life sentences to run concurrently. In effect, he was never going to be released.
DI Mills Foster was allowed to remain in the police force to collect his pension, but was shunted sideways to a desk job that didn’t require him to think too hard.
####
About the Author
Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, grew up in Cheadle, Cheshire, and now lives in Cheshire with his wife and four Shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then he has worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write fiction full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.
Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com/
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Genghis Khan
Warrior: Path of Destiny
Warrior: Scourge of the Steppe
The Knowledge of Time
Second Civilisation
Orc Quest
Book I: Prophecy
Harte & KP
Solomon’s Key
Parish & Richards
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Breath of Life
The Dead Know Not
Be Not Afraid
The House of Mourning
Through a Glass Darkly
A Lamb to the Slaughter
Silent in the Grave
In the Twinkling of an Eye
Quigg
The Twelve Murders of Christmas
Body 13
The Graves at Angel Brook
The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf
The Terror at Grisly Park
The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard
The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (Novella)
Tom Gabriel
Footprints of the Dead
Stone & Randall
Jacob’s Ladder
The Gordian Knot
Josiah Dark
Dark Christmas (Novella)
Inigo & Tig
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap (Novella)
Collected Short Stories/Poetry/Anthologies/Non-fiction
Untended Treasures
Where do you want to go today?
Winter of my Heart (Poetry)
With Love Project – The Occupier
The Killing Sands (Anthology)
Raga Man (Short Story)
The Writer’s A-Z of Body Language (Non-fiction)
Summer of my Soul (Poetry)
Also planned for 2014/2015:
An Ill Wind (Novella)
The Crime Writer’s A-Z of Forensics (Non-fiction)
Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel 2)
Mortis Obscura: Scavenger of Souls (Farthing & Trask 1)
The Timekeeper's Apprentice
A Time to Kill (Parish & Richards 14)
Deceit is in the Heart (Parish & Richards 15)
Orc Quest Book II: The Last Human
The Sword of Damocles (Stone & Randall 3)
The Song of Solomon (Harte & KP 2)
Dark Matter (Josiah Dark 2)
The Corpse at Highgate Cemetery (Quigg 8)