Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  ***

  Lake came out of the kitchen with her mug of coffee, jumped when she saw him and spilled the coffee on the floor. ‘You’re trying to give me a heart attack, aren’t you?’

  He held out his hand. ‘Not before you’ve cleaned up that mess, made me a coffee and given me a hundred and eighty-two pounds twenty-five pence.’

  ‘Where did the seven pounds twenty-five pence come from?’

  ‘A day’s interest at five percent. That’s what we agreed.’

  ‘We agreed that you were a robbing bastard. Anyway, I can’t give it to you.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. When you say, “You’re not going to give it to me”, is that ever? Or, is it merely a temporary cash-flow problem?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of my dad last night, he was at a lodge meeting.’

  ‘Ah! Of course, he would be one of the secret fraternity, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘They’re not secret, and they do a lot for charity.’

  ‘So I believe, and charity begins at home. Just another reason not to trust you, Lake. And, you know how I’ve stopped you from talking to Henn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That also applies to anybody who knows the secret handshake, including your father and Henn.’

  ‘You can’t stop me talking to my dad.’

  ‘About me, any of our investigations, what we eat, what we drink, where we go . . . If he ever asks you, you’re to say, “No comment”. Is that clear?’

  ‘You’re paranoid.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t like working for a paranoid boss, you know what you should do, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re not going to get rid of me.’

  ‘Then, what I’ve said goes. So, are you just going to stand there, or is there any chance of you cleaning the floor and then making me a coffee. Also, wash your hands between the two.’

  ‘Did you get home okay last night?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondering, that’s all.’

  ‘I got home just fine. It made a pleasant change to sit in an automobile with modern suspension, a radio, satnav and an engine that ran as quiet as a butterfly’s flapping wings.’

  She placed the mug of coffee down on her empty desk, which had been denuded of the personal clutter she’d put there yesterday, and walked back into the kitchen.

  ‘When am I likely to get my money then?’ he said when she returned with his coffee.

  ‘I’ll phone my dad later.’

  ‘If you have time. Have you collected the Search Warrant?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Today’s not starting off as I expected, Lake. What are you waiting for? Go upstairs and sign for it from the Duty Sergeant, we’ll be leaving soon.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘Why? Do you think an army of unknown criminals will try and stop us from opening the box? Would you like to arrange for a Tactical Unit to back us up?’

  ‘I was merely checking, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, just the two of us. Also, ask the Duty Sergeant if they’ve found Joseph Corbyn yet. Anybody would think he was an expert in camouflage instead of a homeless waster. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to learn that we’ll be using my car for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Monty doesn’t care. He likes resting up in the car park between coming here and going home.’

  ‘Do I have to go and get the Search Warrant myself?’

  ‘I’m going. Keep your grey hair on.’

  ‘For future reference – it’s silver.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the poor light in here,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she walked up the stairs to the Operations Room.

  Avril Burrows clomped down the stairs. He hadn’t seen her without a forensic suit on before. She wasn’t attractive. In fact, compared to Tyree and Wong, he’d have said she was the runt of the litter, the ugly duckling. Her hair was long, flat and greasy. She had a big nose, and her left ear stuck out like a side fin. Maybe she was beautiful inside.

  ‘Don’t you know how to walk quietly?’ he aimed at her.

  ‘It’s these shoes I’m wearing.’

  ‘Knowing that, you could have taken them off at the door.’

  ‘Did you get out of bed on the wrong side, Sir?’

  ‘You’re making the assumption that I went to bed – I didn’t. So, what have you brought me?’

  ‘You wanted a canal map with the locations of the narrowboats at the time of Flagg’s death, and E-FIT pictures of the two men from Rose Hill train station?’

  ‘I did.’

  She put a cardboard tube on his desk. ‘The E-FITS are inside as well.’

  ‘Great. Are the E-FITs being distributed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re finishing the analysis of the CCTV footage from Marple train station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any luck with the number on the wooden stake?’

  ‘I have people looking at it today.’

  ‘I hope they’re doing more than looking at it?’

  ‘Of course, but I’m sure you realise that it could be anything or nothing?’

  ‘That’s why I gave it to you instead of trying to tackle it myself. You have the resources, I don’t.’

  ‘I have very few resources, but we’ll try our best, Sir.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  ‘I believe you have an evidence bag you want me to . . .?’

  He pointed at the evidence bag with the note addressed to Mrs Miranda Flagg stuck to the whiteboard. ‘It’s fifteen years old, so you’ll have to try your best with that as well – fingerprints and DNA.’

  She took the note off the whiteboard. ‘Anything else, Sir.’

  ‘Nothing springs to mind.’

  ‘Have a nice day then.’

  ‘And you, Burrows.’

  Lake passed her on the stairs, and they began chatting.

  ‘When you’re ready, Lake. This is not a drop-in centre.’

  He pulled the map and E-FITS out of the tube. The E-FITS were a bit basic, but then so were the descriptions. He didn’t recognise either of the men, which was hardly surprising. He rolled open the canal map using his mug of coffee and the stapler out of his top drawer to stop it rolling up again. It was an impressive piece of artwork with all the key points identified. There was Brabyns Brow, Lock Numbers 1 to 16, Oldknow’s Warehouse, St Martin’s Road that began at Lock Number 9 and Strines Road.

  ‘Is that the canal map?’ Lake asked.

  ‘No, it’s a Van Gogh that I’m valuing for a private client. Did you get the Search Warrant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He checked his watch. It was eight twenty-five. They’d have to leave in five minutes. He passed her the E-FITS. ‘The two men from Rose Hill train station.’

  ‘I don’t recognise them.’

  ‘Why would you? And, as you’ve astutely pointed out, this is the canal map.’ He ran his finger along the length of the canal. As well as all the key locations, the artist had also identified the narrowboats and their positions on the canal at the time of Toby Flagg’s death. There were two boats that passed through Lock Number 9 between 11 p.m. on Monday night and 3 a.m. on Tuesday morning. ‘Take down their details, find out their mobile numbers and interview them over the phone. We haven’t got time to visit everybody.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re suspects?’

  ‘No.’

  Lake wrote the details in her notebook.

  ‘Are we ready now?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  ‘You’ve got the key, haven’t you?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘The key? No. I’m sure I gave it to you.’

  Lake’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘Maybe I have got it then.’

  ‘Is that you’re idea of a joke?’

  ‘I don’t do humour.’

  ‘No.’

  Chapter Fourt
een

  Montague’s Safe Deposit Storage on Ducie Street in Piccadilly was located in an unassuming building with an entrance that one hardly noticed, but it had a sophisticated external CCTV system and black wrought iron gates, which were controlled from inside.

  Dark pressed the button on the intercom system.

  ‘Yes?’ a deep male voice said.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dark and Detective Constable Lake from Bootle Street Police Station to see the manager.’

  ‘Hold your Warrant Cards up to the camera, please.’

  They both complied.

  There was silence for what seemed like hours in the freezing cold as they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together, but in reality only a few minutes passed.

  ‘You check out. What do you want?’

  He held up the Search Warrant. ‘I have a search warrant to open box EB54.’

  The metal gates clicked open.

  They stepped through them into a small enclosure.

  Once the gates closed, the highly-polished front doors opened in front of them.

  An unsmiling tall man with barely noticeable gelled grey hair was standing just inside the crimson carpeted lobby holding out his right hand. He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and a red tie.

  Dark passed him the Search Warrant.

  The man examined the warrant carefully. ‘Everything seems to be in order, Sir. I’m the manager – Wilfred Pearson. Please follow me.’

  He led them down a set of stairs, through a turnstile and into a vault that contained floor-to-ceiling rows of pitted grey steel safe deposit boxes on three of the four walls. There was also an oblong table and a chair in the centre of the vault.

  ‘You have a key, Sir?’

  He pulled out his wallet, unzipped the inside pocket, withdrew the thin key and held it out to Pearson.

  ‘No, that’s your key,’ the manager said. He held up a matching key. ‘We have our own key.’

  They put their individual keys in the keyholes of the door that had EB54 stencilled on it in a slightly darker grey and turned them anti-clockwise.

  Pearson opened the door, withdrew the box and carried it to the table. ‘I shall be outside if you need me, Sir,’ he said, and left.

  Lake moved her hands towards the box.

  His brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was going to . . .’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m surprised at how easily you forgot my instruction: Don’t do anything unless I say you can. It’s a very simple instruction, and as I recall you said you understood perfectly well what that instruction meant, and yet here you are trying to open a safety deposit box without any authorisation from the person in charge.’

  ‘You just want to open it yourself?’

  ‘I want to make sure that it’s safe to open before anybody opens it. I’m doing you a favour – it could be booby-trapped.’

  ‘You must think I’m so gullible?’

  ‘You are. That’s why you’re the apprentice.’

  ‘Well, are you going to open the box?’

  He squatted, lifted the lid a tiny amount and . . .

  Lake pulled the lid open. ‘Just as I thought – no booby-trap.’

  ‘You’re walking a precariously thin tightrope, Lake.’

  ‘I have a good head for heights.’

  They stared at the object inside the box.

  Dark picked it up to examine it more closely. ‘It’s a membership card for Marple Library in Memorial Park, Marple in the name of FLAGG.’ As well as the library’s details on the front, it had Flagg’s name on the back together with a barcode.

  ‘Why?’ Lake asked.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why is it in a safe deposit box?’

  ‘I expect if we go to Marple Library we’ll find out.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else in the box other than the card?’ Lake said, running her hand around the inside of the box, picking the box up, tipping it upside down and finally shaking it.’

  ‘You seem disappointed, Lake.’

  ‘I am. I expected . . .’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Yes. Something that would give us answers.’

  ‘This card may very well give us all the answers we need.’

  ‘Not now it hasn’t.’

  ‘Ah! You’re one of the “now” generation who want instant gratification. You should have said. Life isn’t like that, Lake. You’re in the wrong department if you want immediate answers. In the SCD you have to work for the answers, they’re not handed to you on a silver platter.’ He called Mister Pearson into the vault.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Did Mister Albert Flagg pay for this box?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. On Wednesday, June 13, 2002.’

  ‘The day before he was murdered,’ Lake said.

  ‘If Mister Flagg’s been dead since June 14, 2002, who’s been paying the annual rental for the box?’

  ‘Mister Flagg purchased the box in perpetuity, Sir. Nobody knows what the future holds, so we have a special rate should clients wish to buy a box to be passed on to family members.’

  ‘I’m afraid there are no members of Albert Flagg’s family left to pass the box onto, so you might want to bring it back into service.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mister Pearson,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome, Sir.’

  They made their way out, through the layers of security, and into the grey dismal weather on Ducie Street. It seemed to be getting colder, not warmer. He had no idea whether snow had been forecast, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to have found a couple of inches when they walked back out.

  ‘Marple?’ Lake said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? But that library membership card could give us all the answers we need. We could solve the case this morning. There’d be no need to . . .’

  ‘It could also provide us with no answers, which would mean we’d then have to drive back to Manchester and carry on with our itinerary. So, before we go to Marple, we’re going to pay Robert Bryson at Whitchurch Architectural Partnership on St Ann Street a visit.’

  ‘Who’s Robert Bryson?’

  ‘The person ACC Vickers called last night.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘I’m a detective, Lake. Unlike you, who appears to be content to sit back and wait for information, clues, leads and food to fall into your lap, I actually go out and do what I’m paid to do – detect. If I waited for you to find anything, I’d have a stack of unsolved cases on my desk. Sometimes, you have to do some work and get your hands dirty.’

  ‘No, that’s not . . .’

  ‘Yes, it is. You keep telling me that you’re a real detective, someone who’s done the course, passed the exams, got the Warrant Card . . .’ He made a snorting noise. ‘Prove it. From what I’ve witnessed so far, you’re barely an apprentice. You’re just another one of those card-carrying idiots in SCD who do as little work as possible to get by. Get in the car and stop annoying me.’

  ‘One of these days you’ll be glad I’m your partner.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to write a letter to Santa Claus at the North Pole.’

  ***

  Whitchurch Architectural Partnership was housed in a Victorian five-storey building wedged between Habitat and Waterstones on St Ann Street. The reception had been ergonomically re-designed in the minimalistic tradition, but wasn’t really in keeping with the actual building. He didn’t like it – thought the design and colours were boring, but what did he know?

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ the pretty young receptionist said. She was probably in her late-twenties with blonde hair pulled up and fanned out at the back of her head, and a pleasant smile. She wore a sleeveless bright green dress and a hands-free telephone headset.

  ‘Robert Bryson, please.’ He held up his Warrant Card.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’<
br />
  ‘Just one moment.’

  She called an internal number, but received no answer. She tried another number, spoke to the person who answered the call and then put the phone back down. ‘I’m afraid Mister Bryson isn’t in today, Sir.’

  ‘When will he be in?’

  ‘He’s on six weeks paternity leave, and isn’t due back until the beginning of February.’

  ‘When did he go on paternity leave?’

  ‘Straight after the New Year, Sir. He was last here just before the Christmas break.’

  ‘So, he wasn’t in his office last night?’

  ‘No. I believe he is still working, but from home until the end of his paternity leave.’

  ‘That can’t be right. One of my colleagues called here at eight-thirty last night and was put through to extension 127, which is Robert Bryson’s extension according to your internal telephone list.’

  The receptionist checked her list. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Is somebody using Mister Bryson’s office while he’s on leave?’

  ‘No. I would have been informed if that was the case.’

  ‘Then who was still in the building last night who might have answered his extension?’

  She slid a slim oblong book off the reception counter and flicked through the pages. ‘According to the signing in and out book, there were three people who signed out after eight-thirty last night.’

  ‘Three people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like their names, please?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘I’m investigating a murder Miss . . .?’

  ‘Stanton – Natalie Stanton.’

  ‘Well Natalie, I don’t want to mention how the courts take a dim view of anyone who obstructs an active police investigation, or suppresses crucial evidence of a crime having been committed, but I need to know those names.’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose they’re only names.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘All right.’ She ran her finger down the list of entries in the book. ‘Well, Mrs Jenny Lazarakis was still here until eight forty-five. Nick Elliott left at five past nine; and Jeffrey Higham was the last to leave at quarter past nine.’

  ‘That’s great, Natalie. One last thing, which of those three has worked here the longest?’