Chapter 1: A Rural Scene

Linda Pariff’s naked corpse was discovered by her cleaner. The cleaner had been instructed not to visit the house until the Thursday before the Sunday Miss Linda was to have returned from a well deserved holiday.

Some people thought it odd that she wouldn’t be contactable during the two weeks she had planned to be away. But as one of her neighbours had said she’d done it before. Skipped off and deliberately made herself scarce. So no one worried too much. No doubt she’d flown off to somewhere exotic to get away from the wet, cold November nights. There’d be a text or a call and she'd announce her return, tanned and ready to plunge into her latest project.

She had, however, never left her cottage just outside the small village of Horsted Keynes in mid Sussex. As Mary her cleaner discovered the set of manacles on her hands and feet, and the thin piece of electric cord around her neck had prevented Miss Linda from leaving her bedroom.

Mary Toms had shown great presence of mind in phoning the police the instant she saw what remained of Miss Linda. Mary said she’d been worried about rats - she’d seen them scurrying down by the brook that ran along the bottom of cottage’s small back garden. Oh, and how they gnawed at her body, especially her face. Mary would take quite a time to get over the shock.

She told that to Inspector Michael Able and his young DC Emily Fell when they visited her at her home the next day. The police officers accepted the offer of tea and biscuits.

Mary was in her late 50’s divorced with three grown up children, but they’d all fled the nest and she now lived on her own with her beloved poodle “Patch”. She’d moved out of the family home a few years ago after the last of her children left and into a small flat above the post office and general store. The flat was tidy and decorated with photos of the dog. The sideboard was covered with souvenirs from around the globe.

“Miss Linda always brought me back something from her hols. That one’s from St Lucia.” remarked Mary pointing to a decorated conch shell. “I thought you weren’t allowed to take them out of the country.” queried the DC. “That’s right, but Ms Linda is popular in St Lucia so their Customs people made an exception.” “It’s pretty.” Said Emily as she wondered why anyone would want to bring home a large seashell.

“I know this must be painful and we’ll not want to distress you but can you, in your own words, describe the events of yesterday.” Inspector Able bit into his Rich Tea as Mary choked back a sob and poured a cup of milky tea for “Patch”.

“ He loves his tea and bikkies.” Mrs Toms said as she fed the overweight canine a handful of biscuits. “I’ve been cleaning ‘er ‘ouse these past 5 years. Lovely little place it is, all cosy and warm. She’d spent quite a lot on it, well she could do given her success in the business. She’s a famous actress you know: been on Graham Norton and in all sorts of shows. Fans visit the village. She’s very popular here. Does a lot for the place. She paid for the repair of one of the church bells at St Giles’, and the new curtains in the village hall. Oh, she’s…was a lovely person, so generous.”

Inspector Able wondered what Mary was paid by the saintly Ms Pariff. “And well liked?” queried PC Fell. “Oh, yes, everyone thought the world of her, well almost everyone. She and Mavis Hancock, she runs the village drama group, didn’t quite see eye to eye, over a production of “A Season’s Greetings” a couple of years ago. Linda didn’t think much of Mavis’s direction and told her so. Caused quite a stir it did.” “You were telling us about yesterday.” Interrupted the DI. “Well as I was saying I usually clean twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and would come round special, to make the place spick and spam, if she was entertaining. I’d also come in the day after to tidy up.”

“Such a lovely lady…” Mary hesitated and with a catch in her voice and a tear in her eye, she continued, “…she was. Who could ever have done such a thing? And what those rats did to her pretty face, it’s passed believing’” The memory of it all was just too much for the poor woman and she began to sob uncontrollably.

Inspector Able shot a despairing glance at his pretty PC who put a comforting arm around the char lady. “There, there Mary you're being incredibly brave: now tell us in your own words what happened yesterday afternoon.”

Mary took a deep breath and mentally pulled herself together. She poured another cuppa for herself and Patch.

“I knew something was not quite right when I went to open the front door. It wasn't properly bolted - it’s got two of those massive locks top and bottom, and they weren't engaged, just the Yale. I said to myself “This is weird and no mistake, she couldn’t have left the house like that.”

“Well I went in and got this uncomfortable feelin’, all chilly it was. I’ve been told I’ve got this extra sense - a gypsy on Brighton Pier years ago had read my fortune and she told me I had this special gift, you know “seeing things.””. A sideways glance from the Inspector put her back on track.” You wouldn’t believe it, the front room looked like it’d been hit by a tornado. Stuff everywhere. A pair of Miss Linda’s bra and knickers was nailed to the door. It was a shock but I started to clear up and then I noticed that her bedroom door was wide open and there she was…” At this point Mary completely broke down. “Who could have done such a ghastly thing Sir...who?”

The two police officers decided that they’d get nothing more out of Mary that day so they thanked her for her cooperation under such distressing circumstances and headed back to the police station at Haywards Heath.

They got back to the station at 2pm. Emily Fell logged onto her computer and opened her email app. “Idiot” she mumbled. There in her in box were 16 new messages all headed with the same title “Love is in the Air.” She could imagine what would happen if the Sarg saw those, she and her boyfriend PC Emberly would be on a charge. The Sarg wasn’t that happy with there being a romance in the station - disrupted discipline and distracted the officers involved. Frivolous, if harmless, emails cluttering up in-boxes were not tolerated. Emily deleted all 16 but not before sending a sharp rebuke to her six foot four boyfriend. DC Fell was beginning to tire of her constable boyfriend. She should never have got involved with a work colleague no matter how good looking they were. She sighed and started to write up the report of the morning’s interview.

Inspector Able had no inappropriate messages on his computer, just a yellow “Post It” Note stuck to the screen. “Can you call the lab.” “Lab here, is that you Michael?” said the voice at the end of the phone. “What have you got for me, Sam?” Dr Samuel Josephs, the local pathologist, didn’t waste words. “You may have a murder on your hands.” He paused, “Then again you may not”

Dr Josephs went on to describe in some detail the results of his dissection of the late star of stage, screen and the Graham Norton Show. “She was in a pretty poor state of repair. I calculate she died about 2 weeks ago, around Ist November, by being slowly strangled. But not before she would appear to have been involved in some serious and strenuous sexual activity. There were traces of semen in all the usual places.” The police officer cut him off. “Thanks Sam, I’ll read your report over my ham and egg at breakfast tomorrow. What else can you tell us? Was she raped?” “Nothing to indicate that, she might have died while enjoying her carnal pleasures. Her heart was none too healthy and her lungs were a bit the worse for wear, so she could have just croaked. The abrasions on her wrists and ankles where she was manacled are interesting. The rats haven’t helped matters. I’ll need to dig deeper.” Thanks Sam. Let me know asap when you come up with something definite.”


With that the Inspector ended the call and summoned PC Fell into his office. She was a good copper; intelligent, inquisitive, and hardworking. She’d go far he thought if she focused on work and not on her handsome PC boyfriend. Also she was disconcertingly pretty. A DI should not be distracted by such thoughts as the length of his DC’s thighs or the rising and falling of her bust - but he was. Inspector Able’s life was rather void of female warmth and company at the moment. He was divorced, another statistic in the grim catalogue of marriage breakups amongst police officers. He had the cats Pixie and Dixie, two mischievous tabbies, and now they shared the mournful conjugal bed but how he longed for the sweet smell of a perfumed body close to his.

DI Able wasn’t given to much introspection. Life was, well, life and you got on with or put up with it. He didn’t see much point in thinking deeply about the whys and wherefores of existence. He was, however, troubled by the lack of a female partner. He was approaching his mid 50’s and attracting women had never been his strong suite. His last serious date was at least 6 months ago and he hadn’t met anyone since. Most of his female colleagues were far too young, like his very attractive DC, and weren’t interested in a shortish,fattish, aging DI whose career was parked in a lay-by. “Shit, keep that up Able and you’ll end up a sad old git.” He admonished himself. “Snap out of it and get on with what you’re paid to do. There was a tap on his office door.

“You wanted to see me, Sir.” He liked that; her calling him “Sir”. It showed respect for his rank and age. “I’ve just been speaking to our butcher friend Sam, our actress friend could have died “naturally” or might have been strangled.” “Actor, sir, she’s an actor, no one ever talks about actresses these days.” “Thank you DC, our actor friend appears to have had quite a high old time before she died. She had a weak heart and dodgy lungs so could have expired during a rather energetic sexual encounter. I understand some people find being partially throttled during the sex act stimulating, along with being chained up. Or she could have been cruelly strangled. At the mo, it’s a bit like Schrodinger’s Cat, neither one thing nor the other.”

Emily was used to her DI’s flights of fancy. That’s one of the things she liked about him. He made out he was such an old stick in the mud, but deep down, when he wasn’t watching himself, he was an inquisitive little boy, full of excitement and wonder. She wished he’d see what she saw in him. O.K. looks wise he wasn’t in the top flight. Mid table maybe, he’d a good head of hair, straight teeth and a winning boyish smile. She knew a lot of her DC friends would have readily swapped places.

“Sir, if she died in flagrante so to speak, why was she left. I mean it might have been somewhat embarressing to explain that she snuffed it during sexual congress but …” “It could have been more than inconvenient, if her sexual partner was married. But, I agree it’s odd. They could have phoned anomously. Otherwise it’s seems a pretty cruel way to repay her for the sexual favours bestowed: leaving her like that.”

“In which case, a deliberate killing seems more likely. Don’t you think so, Sir?” Saying that Emily disconcerted her DI by uncrossing and recrossing her extremely shapely legs. Inspector Able gulped out “That’s possible. We’ll have a clearer idea when Dr Josephs gets back to us.”

The phone rang. The DC answered it. “There’s been another death, Sir. It’s near Nutley, Crowborough Road.” “That’s about six miles from the last place isn’t it? Better phone lover boy and tell him you’ll be home late and let Sam know.” Instructed the DI. “Yes Sir,” saluted Emily.

The body was lying semi-naked on a blood sodden bed in the main bedroom on the first floor. That it was murder was not in doubt given the nearly severed head. The hands and feet were manacled. The room stank. Death had occurred within a few hours of the body’s discovery. After a quick glance around the room was secured and they went back downstairs into the hallway where a young PC was waiting.

He’d found the body having gone round to interview the owner about a recent break in at the house. “He knew I was coming to see him as I’d made the appointment a couple of days ago so I was surprised there was no reply when I knocked. I went round the back thinking he might be in the garden and I saw that the french windows were open. I thought that was strange it being rather cold. I called a few times and when there was no reply I went in. I don’t know why but I had a really uncomfortable feeling on entering the house – a chill.”

“Did your contact have a name, officer?” “ Michael Hinkley, Sir, he’s something in the West End, an agent I think” replied the young officer. The inspector looked at him. “How long have you been on the Force, constable?” “Just over a year Sir.” “This - a bit of a shock?” “You could say that Sir. I’ve seen dead bodies before but not like this.” “I know what you mean, it’s not nice.” He registered that the DC Fell was ashen faced and looked less than steady on her feet.

“O.K you two interview the immediate neighbours. Ask the usual stuff, what was the owner like, anything out of the ordinary recently - strangers, noises, sounds of an argument that sort of thing. In the meantime I’ll have a look around the house.”


The two junior officers set about their task and Inspector Able slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and started exploring the ground floor of the house. The kitchen was modern, tidy and light. He opened the fridge door. It was well stocked; a capped half bottle of white wine was in the door shelf. There was a downstairs shower room and toilet as well as a utility room. There were wet clothes in the tumble drier.

Next he went into the lounge with the french windows leading onto the garden. Like the rest of the downstairs it was in good nick. The room had an open fireplace, a freshly laid fire, and expensive looking ornaments on the mantelpiece. On the walls were prints and a few water colours. The sanded and oiled pine floorboards were covered with expensive looking rugs. The place reeked of a well off occupant.

He didn’t assume that the body was that of the owner – Mr Hinkley – that needed verifying. Then there was the death of our actor friend. Two bodies manacled in bed, a few of miles apart was rather unusual: especially for a quiet part of mid Sussex.

There were papers on the dining room table. Holiday brochures, and what looked like an itinerary. Thursday 1st December was underlined – departure - Heathrow to San Paulo, a series of dates and destinations in Brazil. but no return date. “Just over two weeks away, there must be a passport around here somewhere.” He thought to himself.

The image of the bloodied corpse in the bedroom popped into his head, along with images of a charnel house 17 years before. Three bodies, naked, hanging, and limbs hacked, the open wounds infected with flies and maggots. He was back there breathing in the stench and slipping on putrid bodily fluids. He had to tell the mother that her daughter was dead, murdered. Months later after they’d caught the bastard he had to watch as the horror was revealed in court. No parent should have had to have faced that.

He thought that was one reason why he and his wife hadn’t had kids. Part of the reason they split up.

In the bureau drawer, besides an expensive pen set was a passport and plane reservation. The name on the passport and the ticket matched the name the PC had given him. The DI went upstairs to the bedroom with the passport. The passport photograph matched the distorted face hanging by a slither of muscle and flesh on the bed. There was little doubt that Mr Hinkley wouldn’t be flying down to Rio.

He went back down to the lounge. There on the desk was a mobile phone: how could he have missed that? He bagged it up along with the passport and the paper work and was just about to head out into the garden when he noticed a flashing light on the landline phone which was lying on the floor. He picked it up and pressed the message replay button.

There were 3 messages. The first was that morning, timed at 09:45. “Mike are you there? call me, we must talk before you leave for Brazil.” The middle call was tagged at 11:55 on the Wednesday, two days ago. “Michael, Peter Shore from Distant Shores Estate Agents – I have some important information on your purchase in San Paulo, please call me on 020 7375 2961.” The last message was date stamped on the Monday at 15:00. It was a woman’s voice. “Darling, it looks as if it’s all going to be fine. That’s great news isn’t it. Ring me. Love you.”

“Well, it wasn’t as if he was planning to skip the country.” thought the DI. The last call was intriguing. Was it to do with the trip or the purchase in San Paulo or something completely different?

He scanned the room once more. Why was the phone on the floor? His attention, however, was drawn to the garden. It was unusual in that it was fully paved with reddish brick, with a narrow, neat border. Very pleasant, he thought as he walked through the French windows. He particularly liked the sunken feature which was surrounded by various evergreen shrubs. A few years ago he’d have been able to name them. He and his wife had spent a small fortune on their garden: at the time he’d enjoyed keeping it up to scratch. Lot of good it did him – now that they’d gone their separate ways.

The garden was sheltered by a high wall of ancient red brick, ideal for storing the heat from the summer sun which would gradually radiate away during the night providing an equable micro climate for soft fruits and grapes. He could imagine the now bare and stunted stems full of fruit in the summer months. There was an expensive looking garden shed. He tried the door, it wouldn’t open but then he noticed a key hanging on a hook just under the shed’s only window. Inside the shed was as neat as the garden. The floor was swept and all the gardener’s tools were laid out neatly on a table. Except a serrated pruning knife which appeared to have been hurriedly replaced.

“Bugger, where the fuck’s the murder weapon?” He recalled that the near decapitated head was resting on a crimsoned pillow, with an open bloody mouth and staring eyes mimicking a grotesque in the local church of St Saviour’s. The neck was cleanly severed. The serrated blade couldn’t have delivered such a clean cut.

The two constables had by then returned. There was nothing unusual to report. Mr Hinkley kept himself much to himself. Went up to London most days; would go to the local pub at the weekends. He had a brother and he was planning to move. Somewhere overseas, Brazil, but no one knew much about that.

As they drove back to the station two things troubled Inspector Able. Where was the murder weapon and why, if Mike Hinkley was moving abroad within a week or two, did everything about the house suggest the complete opposite.