Queen Takes Bishop, Check!

By Jefferson Merrick

Detective Reason has been 'moved' from her troublesome position in The Met to a quieter and less stressful nick in Bristol. She has quelled the demons and overcome her traumatic past. Her first murder moves her to tears. The victim is a beautiful young woman, just as she once was. She knows she will move heaven and earth to find the killer. At first it all seems so easy, so straightforward, then the rot sets in. The evidence is worthless, leading them so far astray they have to begin all over again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jefferson Merrick
• Release date: May 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311582195

Jefferson Merrick

I am a retired airline pilot. I ran an exclusive yacht charter business in my spare time for many years. I am now living and teaching in Thailand. My spare time is busily occupied with writing. Eight books so far, more to follow.

Book preview

Prologue

How the mighty are brought down by the sight of the fairer sex. Anon

Elizabeth Mary Jellico-Hall didn’t see her killer’s face. He wore a ski mask, with holes for the eyes and nose. She woke up as soon as his weight hit the bed but his hands held her wrists in his strong grip. He jumped astride her, landing on her bosom, blasting the air from her lungs with his considerable weight. She thought the mask might be black or navy blue. He pushed her wrists under his knees and bore down hard. The pain slammed through her, the finality of her short life jabbed into focus. She felt the soft silkiness of the scarf as it wrapped around her neck. She could smell the expensive perfume on it and another, less attractive smell she recognised. She looked in his pale grey eyes and saw hatred, loathing with a hint of lust, perhaps. Then the scarf became hard, unyielding, tight, as her assailant wound his hands around, and around, and around. She tried to scream but nothing came out, he had closed off her throat; no air could pass in either direction. She struggled and thrashed, kicking with her legs at his broad back but that made the lack of oxygen worse. Her hands gripped his knees as he held her and the scarf still on the bed. The lack of air exhausted her in seconds. He leaned in close and spoke to her. She thought he said something like,

Die, you lying bitch.

Elizabeth could not remember the last time she lied to anyone, she could not remember anything now since the room had gone dark and silent. Her killer stayed still for several minutes after he had killed her, ensuring she was dead. He leaned close and placed his lips on her mouth. It was not a kiss, more an acknowledgement that his job was done. He stood back and admired the voluptuous young woman. A wave of excitement, arousal, and euphoria swept over him. He removed his gloves, opened his trousers and took himself in hand. He pumped rapidly while he stared down at the naked body. He prolonged the episode by pausing several times to allow the sensation to subside slightly, then he resumed until the pressure was too much to restrain. He grunted as he ejaculated into his left hand. He wiped the resultant emission with a few tissues and placed the wadded clump in his trouser pocket. He stood for a moment until the adrenaline and his erection subsided. A feeling akin to regret passed but he ignored it. He replaced his gloves, thin black leather. He zipped up his trousers and sat on the bed, stroking his victim’s legs and hips. He spent some time arranging her hair and limbs to his liking. He took more time as he carefully placed a few items he had brought with him in his black leather bumbag, certain that this time he would get the result he wanted. He glanced once again at the naked woman, admiring her still, naked beauty. He smiled and quietly closed the door as he left the room.

Chapter One

Veronica Reason saw and described several death scenes in her career in the police. She had never described a scene as beautiful before. This one would be different. The phone on her night-stand buzzed and moved away from her. She grabbed it before it slid to the floor.

Yes.

DC Yates’ response had been short and to the point.

Boss, sorry to wake you. We have a body at one-twenty-seven Cowper Road. You're the Duty Officer. PC Dawson says it looks like a murder.

Right. Fifteen minutes. Veronica did not like to waste words.

She swiped her phone, disconnecting the call and dashed to the shower for two minutes. She dressed in a white cotton shirt and a dark blue skirt over her plain skin-tone underwear. She grabbed an apple and her woollen jacket off the back of the kitchen chair and dashed out to her car. She punched the address on Cowper Lane into the GPS and followed the instructions. The journey through Bristol city centre at six on a Sunday morning took less than half the time during a normal workday. She kept her speed at around sixty-five, taking the roundabouts by the shortest route when traffic permitted. She did not bother with siren and the blue strobes behind the grille of the car. Yates had already described it as a murder so Veronica had no reason to hurry nor to expect this one to be any less ugly than all the previous call-outs to death scenes. Thirteen minutes after the call, she parked in front of the semi-detached Edwardian house in Clifton. The house was easy to find, two police cars blocked the traffic in both directions. The sun had yet to breach the horizon; the faint pink light glimmered to the east, hovering between dark and light. The lights on the roofs of the cars flashed in uneven patterns, bathing the street in an eerie blue pattern of staccato light. It made Veronica think she was underwater.

Veronica walked up the short stone path to the black-painted front door. A bleary-eyed uniformed Constable Dawson nodded a greeting and added her name to the clip-board in his hand.

Good morning, Boss. Upstairs, turn right.

Veronica grunted a response. It did not feel like the beginning of a good morning. Besides it being the wrong side of six-thirty it was also Sunday and Veronica’s schedule showed it to be a day off. She sat on the step outside the house and donned the rubber booties. As she clumped up the carpeted stairs, she pulled on her rubber gloves. She snapped the cuffs; just as she had seen the surgeons do it on the TV shows she enjoyed, when she had the time to watch them. She paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. In front of her a plain wooden door stood open into the bathroom. A small ceramic tile with a picture of an old-fashioned bath adorned the door. To her right, the hall extended about twelve feet with a door either side at the end. The left hand door was closed, the right door stood open. She could hear conversation from inside the room. She stood at the open door and surveyed the scene.

Sergeant Mitchell Meadows and Constable Seymour Livingstone-Jones stood behind the bed. Seymour, a tall slim Nigerian, held an expensive looking camera. He paused to greet his boss. Both men were in civilian clothes. Black jeans and a black T-shirt and leather jacket for Jones. Grey slacks and a white shirt and leather jacket for Meadows. Meadows stood a couple of inches under six feet and held his considerable bulk well. He moved like an athlete, a javelin thrower perhaps. Jones, in contrast, stood at well over six feet and weighed around half of Meadows. A marathon runner, maybe. A king-sized bed stood centred against the north wall of the large bedroom. The room occupied the front upper half of the house with a bay window overlooking the street to the south. A large, wood-framed free-standing mirror stood to one side of the bed, angled to reflect the occupant. Soft lights illuminated the scene; a standard lamp to the right of the bed and two bedside lights on two drawer cabinets. Red silk scarves draped the two bedside lamps. The low wattage lamps produced little heat. Jones paused from his picture taking duties and waited for his boss to say something. Meadows saw her as he came erect from examining the face of the woman on the bed.

Mornin’, Boss. Have you ever seen anything like this before?

Veronica looked at the naked body on the bed. The first impression that struck her forcefully as she took in the image was the beauty of the scene. Never before had Veronica described a murder scene as beautiful but this broke the mould. The curvaceous young woman lay in the middle of the bed. Her toned legs lay straight, the feet about a foot apart. Her trimmed pubic hair amounted to a thin blonde strip. Veronica thought it might be a Brazilian, if asked. Her arms stretched out either side of her body at right angles to her body. Her hands didn’t reach the sides of the bed. Her slender fingers curled upwards, relaxed. Her large and natural looking breasts lay flattened on her well-toned abdomen. A hint of a six-pack ran down from her breasts to her navel. She had flawless, almost translucent skin. It shone in the pale light, almost white with just a few freckles and tiny moles around her stomach. An almost angelic smile lit up her pale face. Her blue eyes were wide open with the slightest hint of surprise on them. Her long blonde hair lay in a neat semi-circular halo around her head. Her ear lobes were almost black. She had been dead some hours. A red silk scarf lay spread above her head. A large cream and grey IKEA duvet lay in a heap on the floor at the left side of the bed.

Looks like strangulation, Boss. There’s blood in both eyes.

Who called it in?

Veronica continued to study the body, leaning over her, holding her long brown hair clear of her face with her left hand. She had neglected to put it in the scrunchie she carried in her voluminous handbag. Her cavernous shoulder bag sat on the front passenger seat in the car outside.

Next door neighbour. Missus Skinner. Came downstairs at five-thirty like she does every day and found an envelope on the door mat. She read the note and called us. She didn’t come and look, just picked up the phone and called us on the Hotline. Here, take a look.

He handed Veronica a clear cellophane evidence envelope. Meadows had folded the note in half. Veronica could read it without taking it out of the bag. Someone had written with a black felt-tip pen on a single sheet of white A4 paper. Veronica read it.

‘There is a deceased young woman in the house next door, 127. Please be good enough to call the police and inform them.’

Veronica read it again. The use of the words deceased and inform and the strange phrase, please be good enough, struck her as odd. Who used that sort of language any more? She handed the envelope back to Meadows. Without waiting, he reported what he had learned from the neighbour.

She’s almost seventy, has obvious arthritis and breathing difficulties. She knows the victim only as, that nice young girl next door. She thinks her name is Liz or Lizzie. The wording is a bit odd in that note, don’t you think, Boss? Veronica studied him for a moment before asking,

Have you finished in here, Jones? If you have, detailed pics of every room, please.

Yes, Ma’am. On my way.  Ever the polite officer, thought Veronica as he left the room. She and Meadows exchanged the briefest of smiles.

Yes, archaic is the word, I think. How long before forensics and the ME arrive?

Forensics should be here any minute, Boss. I called them as soon as I got here with Seymour, at six thirteen. Doc said he’d be here at seven. We woke him up at six fifteen. He lives out near the airport so he has a bit of a drive.

Veronica picked a mobile phone off the table next to the bed and glanced at it before she held out her hand to Meadows.

Here, take the phone back to the station with you. Get Seymour to work his magic. Can you leave me a minute?

Meadows left without a word. He had only known his boss for a little less than six months. On the last two occasions they had attended murder scenes she had done the same thing. He had no idea what she did; he did not make a habit of spying on his colleagues. He stepped outside and stepped into the bedroom opposite, at the back of the house. Veronica moved to the end of the bed and stood still. She studied the room. About twelve feet by twenty with a high ceiling. The wallpaper might have been applied in the seventies, she decided. A spindly chair sat in the corner opposite the bed. Over the back of the chair lay the woman’s clothing, folded and arranged in neat order. A lacy black bra and matching black pants lay on top of a simple black dress. Nothing too fancy. Veronica looked at the labels; Marks and Spencer, 34 D bra and size 12 pants. They would fit her, she noted. A cheap woollen carpet piece covered most of the floor to the right of the bed, a few stains here and there. Even cheaper but far gaudier Polyester curtains covered the large bay window. Two pictures of indeterminate origin hung on the wall either side of the bed.

A dressing table with a large oval mirror sat on the west wall. On the opposite wall next to the door stood an old wooden cupboard, one of the doors hung ajar a few inches. On the centre panel of the wardrobe hung another full-length mirror. Veronica examined inside the cupboard. Behind the open door she could see a row of clothes on hangers. Shoes covered the bottom of the cupboard in tidy rows. A few pairs behind the open door might have been pushed to one side. The other door revealed clean clothes on hangars. Once again, nothing too expensive or extraordinary, just generic fashion for a twenty-something woman.

Veronica walked to the bedside table. On top were a shaded lamp, an open packet of Kleenex tissues and about four pounds in coin. A paperback book, The Social Workers Guide to the Care Act, 2014, lay open at page 107. Veronica frowned, surprised that the victim might be a social worker. She imagined her to be an accountant or a doctor. A half full bottle of Dior perfume sat to the back of the table. She opened the single drawer. Uppermost were five, twenty pound notes. They covered an opened box of Durex Intense Stimulating condoms. She opened the lid; box of eighteen, six remaining. Next to the open box were four more unopened boxes. Small stickers identified them as coming from Boots, the chemist, and cost £15.99 a pack.

An elaborate looking battery operated vibrator lay in a folded cotton yellow cloth.  It sported a protruding red extension about three inches from the base. A four-position switch on the base promised variations Veronica could only imagine. Veronica had heard the purple machine referred to as Rabbits. A tube of lubricating jelly, partly used, lay alongside it. An old-fashioned tin sweet box held six Viagra tablets in two cellophane packets. Alongside them were two brown glass ampoules of Amyl-nitrate. A short pencil, a cigarette lighter, two Long-life AA batteries and a second small packet of tissues rounded out the contents of the drawer. The second drawer beneath held two packs of tissues and a much smaller, silver vibrator in a green silk scarf.

Veronica walked around the bed to the other bedside table. The top drawer held nothing other than a jar of Vick’s Vapour Rub and some Pond’s hand cream. The lower drawer had two paperback novels in it, ‘Past my Bedtime’ and ‘Flowers in the Attic.’ It appeared the woman lived alone in the house. The dressing table and the cupboard contained all that one would expect in a young woman’s drawers. There were pants, bras, T-shirts, folded jeans, socks and a few more silk scarves. There were what looked like uniform shirts and skirts at one end of the wardrobe, all pressed with sharp creases in the sleeves. Veronica angled her head in the mirror next to the bed. She saw that it would give a close up view of any action taking place on the bed. Veronica took her mobile phone from her bag and made a selection. She began to take pictures, around twenty, as she moved around the room. As she took pictures, she paused to lift the recorder close to her mouth and began talking. She looked in the waste bin beside the dressing table and found some make-up removal tissues and a used cotton bud. No used condoms though.

‘Check if the deceased is the owner of the house. Did I just say ‘deceased’? For goodness sake! First thoughts. The victim is a young, attractive woman around twenty-five. Her body is in great shape. Check gym membership. Her physique and trimmed pubic hair indicates a certain pride and confidence in her body. She has blonde hair. All her clothes are generic and cheap apart from the scarves. Some are Hermes and expensive, presumably presents. She is sexually active, with or without a partner. At least one of her partners is in need of Viagra. She is neat and clean, although she has no idea about house furnishings.’

Veronica slid her thumb across her phone and stopped recording. She stood at the end of the bed. She rested her gloved right hand on the girl’s ankle and closed her eyes. She waited, breathing deep and slow, extending the exhalations. The darkness enveloped her completely. Veronica waited for the violence to come, the anger, the passion, the disruptive energy that she felt on previous occasions. The room looked peaceful, just like the girl on the bed. She felt almost nothing, perhaps a glimmer of darkness and pain, but not as vivid as before. She peered at the victim’s neck; the slightest discolouration showed around the base of her throat. The petechial haemorrhaging in her eyes showed the wash of red where it should be white. Cause of death was strangulation. Now Veronica felt a disturbance. The evil that occurred in the room glimmered behind her eyes. She shivered slightly.

It looked to Veronica as if the woman had lain there while the strangler simply took her life. There were no signs of a struggle. No rumpling of the bedclothes. No obvious signs of skin under her nails. Nothing at all to suggest any violence had taken place in the room in the previous twenty-four hours. Veronica suspected they would find some form of drug in her system that prevented her from fighting back. No one just lies there and lets someone strangle them, do they?

Veronica returned to the end of the bed and looked at the body of the woman. She absorbed the picture before turning away and going into the bathroom along the hall. The old fashioned bath featured a shower unit attached to the taps. Rubber hoses joined and a single pipe led to a shower-head in a steel bracket about five feet above the bath. The room impressed her as clean and neat. Folded towels sat on two shelves of a glass unit in the corner of the room. The top shelf held various bottles; shampoo, conditioner, body lotions and oils. They were from discount stores, Poundland and Superdrug. An almost full bottle of sunscreen, factor 30, stood out from the rest. The price tag read £12.99. This single bottle cost more than the other dozen or so put together. Veronica paused a moment to consider whether this might be significant. She failed to reach a conclusion as she opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Nothing aroused her interest. It was just toiletries, a few pills and jars of prescription drugs but nothing out of the ordinary. She left the room and stepped into the second bedroom. She found Meadows going through the cupboards. He turned to her and said,

Nothing in here, Boss.

Recheck the bathroom, will you? Then check the bedside cabinets in there. She pointed back in the room where the body lay on the bed. Veronica walked downstairs and found Seymour Jones in the kitchen. He had the fridge door open. He held the camera steady in front of him, taking pictures of the contents of each shelf. He was nothing if not thorough in his chosen speciality. She left him to it and moved into the living room. The furnishings were only slightly more expensive than the stuff in the bedroom. It looked as if the woman bought everything at car boot sales or market stalls. Nothing matched but the effect exhibited comfort and function over style. As she surveyed the room, she saw the forensic team walking up the short path to the house. She met the team leader at the door. They exchanged curt greetings and she left them to it. Three men in white cotton scrub suits, rubber boots and gloves climbed the stairs. They would be there all day.

Minutes later, the Medical Examiner arrived. Doctor Norman Callier, about fifty and looking undernourished, walked up the short path to the door. It was getting light outside, at last. He wore a long beige raincoat, even though the morning had grown quite warm and sunny by now. He wore it every day, as Veronica had learned when she questioned Meadows about it. He greeted her almost cheerfully.

Good morning, Detective Superintendent. How are you this morning?

Morning, Doc. Top of the stairs and right. I’ll wait down here. said Veronica.

She had no real need or desire to see a ten-inch temperature probe inserted into the victim’s liver. He would only need fifteen minutes to do the tests and examination before removing the body. Forensics might want more time but they were more concerned with the room than the body.

Veronica used the time to scan through the DVDs on the shelf below the TV. There were about thirty discs, all bootlegged copies of popular films of recent years. They were romantic comedies or fantasy tales of vampires and werewolves. Nothing out of the ordinary struck Veronica. Various magazines lay on a cheap coffee table in front of the TV. They again seemed appropriate for her age. The dark grey sofa sagged a little as Veronica leaned on the cushions. She ran her hands around the backs and sides of the two seat cushions. She retrieved fourteen coins totalling £3.47 with 2 euros from Spain. She felt less pleased to find a used condom despite wearing rubber gloves. The contents had long ago drained out and dried. Veronica marked the location of the condom on the back of the sofa with a stick of white chalk. She scrawled DNA in large letters and drew an arrow down to the circle at the bottom of the seat-back.

A small sideboard held the usual contents; plates, bowls and some cutlery in one of the drawers. She hoped the second drawer would contain what she looked for; household bills.  She opened it and found folded linen cloths, all white and well starched. The woman evidently ate at the coffee table. The dining room lay empty, nothing in the room at all. Veronica got the impression that the woman lived in a house much larger than she needed. She confined herself to the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom and bathroom. Callier came into the living room carrying his medical kit. He stood just inside the door and gave Veronica all he knew so far.

Liver temp puts the TOD around five to seven hours ago, so around midnight to two a.m. this morning. COD is almost certainly strangulation. Murder weapon, if you want to call it that, the red scarf above her head. No obvious signs of a struggle. She is sexually active, as I’m sure you already noticed. She had what was probably consensual anal and vaginal intercourse last night shortly before her death. No semen in either orifice. There are no obvious signs of bruising around her genitals or anus, no scars or needle marks on her body. There are minute traces of dirt or debris under her fingernails. There is a small secretion of what is likely her own vaginal fluid on the bed sheet under her backside. She has some bruising on her wrists and contusions on her shoulders, most likely the killer sat on top of her. She has a seven-inch long and three inch across tattoo on her back. Hmmm, across, why didn’t I say wide? It’s a crucifix entwined with barbed wire. She has two labial studs, one in each lip. I’m sure you noticed the nipple studs. They are gold. I will do the cut later today and have the report ready for you by Monday afternoon. Do you need me for anything now?

No, thank you, Doctor. What time will you start the cut?

I’m going home for a shower and something to eat. I will be in the morgue at nine-thirty. I guess I’ll see you there?

Yes, you will.

Callier left the room for the drive home. Moments later the morgue attendants carried the body downstairs in a yellow body bag. They paused in the hall to lay her on a stretcher and took her out to the waiting van. They drove off having given the six spectators no useful glimpse of the body.  

Meadows and Jones stood together at the bottom of the stairs. Veronica joined them and said,

Did you find any bills, letters, any receipts, anything with her name on it?

No, we didn’t. We just talked about that. Odd that there’s nothing like that here. It’s like she’s living here rent free and all the bills are paid by someone else, the owner presumably. We’ll need the housing records to find out that in the morning.

Veronica waited for him to continue, he didn’t. She looked at Jones; he had nothing to add.

Okay, there’s nothing left for us here. Callier will do the cut at nine-thirty. Get the rest of the team out and get started. Canvas the neighbours before you leave, you never know. You know the drill. ID is the priority then known associates and nocturnal habits. I’m going home for some breakfast then I’m at the morgue.

She left them as they bade her goodbye. She sat in her car, craving a cigarette but avoiding the temptation. Her breathing exercises helped. She closed her eyes, thinking of fresh air and a beach full of bronzed men. That distracted her until the image of the young woman intruded. She lay naked on the beach surrounded by several naked men. They caressed her body while she handled the manhood of the two largest amongst them. Veronica snapped her eyes open to banish the thought; where had that idea come from, she wondered? She drove home as the sun rose higher in the east, bathing the city in pale orange autumn sunshine.

Chapter Two

Sunday lunch at the Bishop’s palace had a reputation throughout the diocese. It was always an elaborate affair. Invitations were much sought after amongst the clergy of the diocese. Two or sometimes three priests attended each weekend. It helped to integrate and foster good relations between the Bishopric and the priests, apparently. Over a hundred and twenty priests ministered to the diocese of the South-West. Each priest visited the Bishop about once each