Anna was about to call flight arrivals at Heathrow when Mr and Mrs Flynn were ushered into the room. Their flight had been delayed owing to fog, and they were very apologetic, but their
nervousness made it even more difficult for Anna to prepare them for what they would see. Mr Flynn was a robust man with a barrel chest, and bright very blue eyes; in contrast his wife was
ashen-faced, with deep circles beneath her eyes, and she clutched a tissue, close to tears.
In as gentle a way as possible Anna told them how their daughter’s body had been found and that her dental records had identified her. They didn’t interrupt but sat tightly holding
each other’s hands. Anna then explained to them that Fidelis’s body was badly decomposed and what they were about to see would not look like the daughter they so lovingly remembered. Mr
Flynn put his arm around his wife and said that perhaps it would be best for her to stay in the waiting room.
Mrs Flynn refused, so Anna escorted them into the chapel of rest. It was wretchedly sad as they stood side by side holding each other, both trembling with the anxiety of what was to come. Anna
nodded for the assistant to ease away the sheeting from the skull, which he did very carefully, and there was a terrible pause. They did not move closer but remained standing a little away from the
body.
‘When they are finished will they let us take her home?’ Mr Flynn asked, and Anna assured him that it would be arranged. He then gave a small nod of his head, and the sheet was drawn
back over what was left of Fidelis Julia Flynn’s head.
They walked slowly back to the waiting room, holding onto each other for comfort. Anna asked if they would like a cup of tea, and they accepted. It was a relief because it meant she could leave
them alone for a while. She heard Mrs Flynn begin crying as she closed the door.
Tracking down the tea-making facilities took a while, but at least it gave the Flynns time to compose themselves before the next part of their ordeal.
As they sipped their beakers of tea, Anna took a small plastic evidence bag out of her briefcase.
‘Is this your daughter’s crucifix?’ she asked gently.
They asked if they could take it out to have a closer look. Mr Flynn cupped it in the palm of his hand; the chain was broken in two places. He stared at it, and then held it out to his wife.
‘I’ve never seen this before, have you?’
‘No. I have never seen her wearing this. Is it gold?’ Mrs Flynn touched it lightly with her forefinger. She gave a nervous look at Anna. ‘Do you mind if I pick it
up?’
‘Do, please.’
Mrs Flynn held the cross in her hand, turning it over to look at the back; she rubbed it with her thumb, and then chewed at her lips.
‘I don’t think this could belong to her, it’s rolled gold, and she was allergic to anything that wasn’t real gold. You remember the St Christopher?’ she asked her
husband.
‘No.’ Mr Flynn watched her as she continued rubbing at the cross.
‘My sister gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday, but it left a terrible rash on her neck just like the swimming medals she won. Doctor said it was the nickel in them that gave her
eczema. I tell you it was the same with her pierced ears, they got itchy and started weeping because the posts weren’t real gold . . . It’s the ones where the posts go through the ear
I’m talking about.’ Mrs Flynn handed the cross and chain back to Anna.
‘So you never saw her wear this and doubt that she would have worn it?’
‘That’s right.’
Anna replaced it into the small plastic evidence bag. She knew that she had to say something, knew that they would be thinking this meant that perhaps the remains they had just seen were not
their daughter’s.
‘I’m afraid the dental records sent from your daughter’s dentist in Dublin were a confirmed match. Also we’ve compared the DNA samples you sent over. I’m very
sorry, and if there is anything I can do whilst you are here . . .’
Somehow, through all of this, the couple were able to maintain control over their emotions, impressing Anna with their quiet dignity.
As soon as she got home, Anna called Barolli, who had been to see Fidelis’s boyfriend Barry Moxen, the nurse at Charing Cross Hospital, about the crucifix; she repeated
the concerns of Mr and Mrs Flynn.
Barolli said that he had shown Moxen some photographs of the crucifix and although not one hundred per cent certain he ‘thought’ that it did belong to the victim.
‘Thought isn’t good enough, Paul, you have to go back with the actual crucifix itself and get him to look at it, also go to the ex-boyfriend who worked at the garage and her
flatmates and see if they recall her wearing it.’
‘Right, will do, have you still got it with you?’
‘Yes, I’ll bring it in first thing in the morning; you do realize the importance of this, don’t you?’
‘Course I do – if she wasn’t wearing it, then it could belong to the killer.’
‘Exactly.’
She replaced the phone, and closed her eyes, sighing. Nothing she knew about Henry Oates led her to believe that he would wear a crucifix, let alone a cheap rolled-gold one. The chain was
broken, as if it had been snapped, the tiny links flattened. She knew if it had not been worn by Fidelis, or Oates, then they would have yet another massive round of enquiries to trace its origin,
unless they struck lucky and got a hit for Oates with the DNA swabs taken from it. But if the DNA on it was unknown, or absent altogether, Anna knew it would open up the door for Kumar to allege
that Oates was not their killer.
I
t was mid morning and Anna was in the incident room with Mike Lewis, going over the details of her meeting with Mr and Mrs Flynn and the
conversation about the crucifix. Paul Barolli entered the room looking annoyed and slammed the crucifix in its plastic evidence bag on Anna’s desk.
‘Bloody Moxen. Now he’s seen the real thing he’s not so certain. I pressed him on it and he came out with a load of crap about another girl he knew who had a similar one that
was silver.’
‘Thanks for going back to him,’ Anna said.
‘It doesn’t get any better. While I was out I also visited the other ex-boyfriend who worked in the garage and her former flatmates. Not one of them recognized the crucifix as ever
being worn by or belonging to Fidelis.’
‘Well, the plus side is that it’s now more likely that it belonged to Oates himself,’ Anna reminded Paul.
‘Yeah, but the lying bastard is never going to admit that, and there was no DNA on it.’
‘So we keep digging until we find the connection,’ Mike said in an effort to lift Paul’s mood.
Mike asked Joan if she had spoken with the Polish worker Pavel who had supervised Oates at the work site.
‘Yes, guv, and he’s been very helpful and given us a list of contracted and casual labourers who worked on the car park. Barbara and I are trying to track them down.’
‘Good. So we can ask them if they knew Oates and if he ever wore or had a crucifix like the one that was recovered,’ Mike said with enthusiasm before Barbara interjected.
‘Well, tracking them down is not proving as easy as it sounds, bearing in mind they are all now on different jobs, moved house or gone back to God knows where in Eastern Europe!’
‘Keep up the enthusiasm, Barbara,’ Mike said as he walked off towards his office.
Barbara looked at the others, who were now all laughing.
Anna anxiously checked the time, as she knew that Samuels would have received the DVDs and documents Mike had sent to him by now and she was eagerly awaiting his reply.
Barbara handed to Barolli the details to be passed on to the officers checking out the crucifix.
‘It’s unbelievable, they’re all working in different parts of London or have gone home to Poland,’ Barbara went on. ‘Personally I think it’s a waste of time.
I mean, it could have been dropped there by anyone.’
‘Not at all,’ Anna snapped. ‘On the contrary, it could prove to be invaluable evidence. In case you are not aware of it, Barbara, the crucifix was found snagged to clothing on
the body. So it coincides with her body being carried and dropped into the lift shaft, and the cement being poured on top of her at the same time, all right?’
She got up and put her coat on. Sometimes it really ratted her, not having her own office so she could have time alone.
‘Where you off to?’ Barolli asked.
‘Going over to see how the search is getting along.’ She had a good idea that they’d be talking about her as soon as her back was turned, but the reality was, the Rebekka
Jordan case was now very much lagging behind the discovery and identification of Fidelis Julia Flynn. Although she had uncovered new evidence, there was still no tangible proof that Oates had
abducted Rebekka. No witnesses. No sign of the Jeep. Even then they had no sighting of him driving it, they could only assume he’d stolen it.
The police vans were lined up outside the house. The team had already started the second search, this time lifting floorboards and taking down false ceilings. A few neighbours
stood watching the comings and goings, and two of the officers were standing outside in white suits drinking coffee.
When Anna showed them her ID, one smiled, suggesting she use a face mask as there was a really pungent stink inside, especially in the basement. She hesitated.
‘Pungent?’
He put up his hand, and said it was not the smell of a decaying body, that smell was different. This, he said, was sewage.
Anna carefully stepped inside the hallway; floorboards had been lifted up and stacked, leaving a narrow passage. The search teams were literally ripping the house apart,
dismantling all they could find in every room. It was hazardous walking around and Anna knew she should have worn a hard hat, but it was too late now. She turned back to the hallway and then
through a narrow door heading down into the basement.
The stench was disgusting – urine and sewage; it was a filthy hovel. As the officers were busy, she tried to not get in their way. The main room where it appeared Oates
had slept and lived had already been searched, as the floorboards lay stacked against one wall by a filthy floral bedhead. The iron bed was turned on its side, the springs showing the rusted frame,
since the mattress had been taken to the lab. Cardboard boxes contained broken mugs, teapots, and plates. She could see a dresser with its drawers hanging open, and a broken mirror, which was part
of the wardrobe door.
Anna had seen, and smelt, enough, so she spoke with the Crime Scene Manager to make sure the search was done properly this time then left the officers to get on with it. The
fresh air outside came as a huge relief. Opposite was a terraced house, the garden of which had been paved over to use as car parking. A Ford Escort was parked on it, and the gates closed. She
crossed the street, glanced back towards the derelict house, then looked up to the curtained windows. No other house on the terraced side had gates; this had to be the one with the ‘helpful
neighbour’.
Anna unhooked a gate, closed it, and walked up the neat paved drive to the immaculate front steps and dark green front door. She rang the bell, observing a notice for no circulars above the
letterbox. Two clean empty milk bottles stood by the thick doormat.
‘Yes?’ The door was opened by a stern grey-haired woman.
‘I’m Detective Anna Travis from the Met; could I have a few words with you?’ She showed her ID.
‘They’re making a mess over there, dust’ll be everywhere, and they’ve been at it since eight this morning.’
‘I’m sorry for any inconvenience.’
‘Is it the developers? They’ve been supposed to do something for ages, that’s three houses left empty for almost six years.’
‘Could I come in? I’m sorry, you are?’
‘Adele Murphy. Wipe your feet.’
Anna did so, and stepped into the hallway. The smell of lavender polish was very strong, combined with some kind of floral air freshener.
‘We can sit in here, or in the kitchen.’ The woman indicated a closed door.
‘Whatever is convenient?’
‘Well the kitchen’s best as I’ve just hoovered and cleaned in the front room.’ Anna followed Mrs Murphy into a kitchen with green linoleum floor, pine tables and chairs,
pine cabinets and a big white range cooker. The sink and draining boards looked new; everything was polished to within an inch of its life.
‘Thank you for seeing me, I know you were previously asked about the resident of the derelict house opposite.’
‘I wouldn’t call him a resident, he was a squatter, but not like the others we’ve had, hooligans drinking and playing loud music. We’ve all called the police out numerous
times, they board up the place but they come back, well they did. We had an officer with a dog that used to patrol the neighbourhood; he sort of made sure the place was cleared.’
‘But you have stated that Henry Oates lived in the basement opposite your house?’
‘Yes, told them all about him, and he was no trouble, and he kept himself to himself.’
‘You apparently used him for odd jobs?’
‘Yes, my husband did, he helped put the gates up and sometimes washed the car.’
Anna went over all the previous questions, and Mrs Murphy answered them without adding anything new. She also said that she had never seen Oates with a car or any other kind of vehicle. She
calculated that he had been squatting in the basement for over five years, possibly nearly six as the house had been empty for that long.
‘They moved out families, you know, and then do nothing. One by one they’ve been bought up, all three of them. At first it was just the house opposite. They’re still arguing
over the protection order in the courts.’
‘Did you ever see Mr Oates with anyone, male or female?’
‘No.’
‘So he came and went, never entertained anyone, no friends?’
‘That’s right.’ Mrs Murphy then frowned, and ran her finger along the pine table top.
‘I was thinking about him since the other detective spoke to me, and my husband and I talked about it, and then he reminded me about one time. I’d forgotten about it.’
She pursed her lips.