by Ellis, Tim
‘I’m looking forward to Saturday,’ Howard said.
‘And me,’ Sarah agreed, as she made her way out of Howard’s room . . . ‘Oh!’
‘What is it, dear?’ Carrie said.
‘It’s Grant.’
Grant’s head appeared round the door. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anybody. I just popped up to say I was going into my studio.’
‘Okay,’ Carrie said.
She heard him going down the stairs. Why hadn’t she heard him coming up?
Yes, Saturday couldn’t come soon enough – for all of them.
***
Forensics had established that Lily Andrews’ phone was currently switched off, that she was on the train from Bishops Stortford and had disembarked at Widford station. They’d also found the driver of the bus who confirmed that he’d picked her up at the train station and she’d alighted at Walker’s Garage, where she should have walked through the winding path that emptied out into Tudor Close a short distance from her house, but – like Clarice Kennedy – she never reached her home.
‘Ma’am?’ a police officer said, coming into Mrs Andrews’ living room.
Thankfully, Mrs Andrews was taking a rest upstairs.
She really wanted to tell them to stop calling her “Ma’am”, but the bastards all did it. She thought about sending out a memo, for everyone to call her “Inspector” or “DI Blake”, but it was policy that senior female officers were called “Ma’am”. Maybe the only effective way to solve the problem was to have words with the Chief Constable and tell him to stop fucking around.
‘Yes?’
‘The woman who lives at number 7 Tudor Close says that she saw a dark blue van parked up for about fifteen minutes at the end of the footpath.
‘A dark blue van?’
‘Yes.’
She stood up and followed the constable outside.
‘And you are?’ she said to the doddering old woman leaning on a walking frame.
‘Mrs Marion Hall. I live at number seven Tudor Close.’
‘And you saw a dark blue van?’
‘My Trevor passed away seven years ago now, you know. Well, he bought number seven for a hundred and twenty-five pounds after the war. Of course, it’s worth a lot more now. Not that I have anyone to leave it to. Trevor had an accident in the Army, and they said he’d lost the ability to produce sperm, so we never had any children. Oh, there’s the usual money-grabbing relatives, but I think I’m going to leave my house to the animal sanctuary.
‘The blue van?’ Xena prompted.
‘Oh yes. Well, I like to sit at my window and watch the comings and goings in Tudor Close . . . Yes, I know, you think I’m a nosy old bat. Maybe I am, but you see things. For instance, I know that the man who lives at number seventeen visits the woman at number twelve for an hour every morning once his wife and her husband have both gone to work. It doesn’t take a police detective to figure out what’s going on there, I can tell you. So, anyway, a blue van comes along at about quarter to five yesterday afternoon and parks up at the end of the public footpath. My house is directly opposite the footpath. I can see everybody who goes up it and comes down it. Sometimes the children . . .’
‘You didn’t happen to notice the registration number, did you?’
‘Of course I did, I wrote it down on my pad. I keep a pad on the table next to my chair, and a pair of 30 x 60 binoculars that Trevor used to use for bird watching, because my eyes aren’t what they used to be . . .’
‘Do you have it?’
‘Oh yes.’ The woman unclenched her hand to reveal a screwed-up piece of paper sitting in the palm. ‘There we are,’ she said.
Xena picked up the ball of paper and opened it out to reveal three lines of spidery scrawl written in pencil:
Ford Transit
Dark Blue
LKN 127N
‘STICK?’ Xena shouted.
He came hurrying over.
‘Yes?’
She passed him the piece of paper. ‘This woman has solved our case for us.’
‘The van?’
‘Yes. Find out who it belongs to.’
Taking his phone out, he moved away to call the station.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs Hall?’
‘Marion . . . call me Marion. Oh yes. Normally at that time, I see young Lily Andrews coming down the path, but I never saw her yesterday. What a beautiful, beautiful young woman. She reminds me of myself when I was that young. I married Trevor before he went off to the war, but I could have had my pick of suitors. My father used to sit outside the house in his old rocking chair with a shotgun on his knee.’ She laughed. ‘I used to sneak out of the back door. Of course, we couldn’t do the things young girls do today – all the sleeping around and so forth. That was a slippery slope to disaster, but everything else was on the menu.’
‘Did you see the driver of the van?’
‘I’d have to be stupid not to have seen him.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Ask me what I used to do.’
‘What did you used to do, Marion?’
‘I was an artist. Not any old run-of-the-mill artist, but a proper exhibited artist. My work was on show in New York, Paris, London, Berlin . . .’ In her mind she’d travelled to somewhere else.
‘Marion?’
‘Oh yes . . . but tastes change. You’re more likely to find my paintings gathering dust in storerooms with other out-of-favour artists today. Now, the public want to see pigeon feathers, cows cut in half, sharks in formaldehyde, viruses made of glass, human flowers, faceless statues and tin foil art . . . There’s a long list of what’s considered art now before you get to ordinary landscapes and portraits.’ She opened up her other hand to reveal a second ball of paper.
Xena scooped the paper off the wrinkled skin of Marion’s palm and opened it out. It was a fabulous portrait of a good-looking young man. ‘I thought you were joking, but this is brilliant.’
Stick came back. ‘You’ll never believe who the van belongs to.’
She took Stick’s elbow and directed him away from flapping ears. ‘We don’t want to tell everyone our business, do we? Who does it belong to?’
‘Billy Kelly.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘And?’
‘Charlene Kelly’s brother.’
‘Jesus. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.’
She thanked Marion Hall profusely and told a constable to help her back to her house.
***
‘Well?’ he asked Richards when she returned to the squad room at quarter to six.
‘Did you enjoy your coffee?’
‘You’ve been gone so long I’ve had three coffees and a four-cheese pizza from Dominos on the High Street.’
‘You’re a liar. Mum would kill you if you ate a pizza before you got home.’
‘Threatening a murder detective with murder can get you into serious trouble, you know. Well?’
‘Nothing. There’s someone who looks like a woman walking along the pavement next to the gold course at about the right time, but it’s too dark to see anything properly. Terry from forensics tried to enhance the picture, but it just kept breaking up. He said to forget the CCTV.’
‘Let’s go home then.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Do you want me to say thank you?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Or maybe you’d like me to say what a wonderful job you’ve been doing?’
‘Even better.’
‘Never going to happen. You’ve still got to take the pool car back, haven’t you? I’ll follow you to the garage, and make sure you get your points from Bob.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘I’ll put your insubordination down to tiredness, Detective Constable Richards.’
‘You’re so kind.’
‘I hope you’ve put that in your report to the European Court of Human Rights?’
‘Oh don’t worry,
everything is in that report.’
‘Excellent.’
He followed her down to the car park, and then drove his own car the short distance to the garage.
‘Did Bob allocate your points?’ he asked her as she climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. How long does he reckon it’ll take before we can have the good cars again.’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Eighteen months! I’ll have words with him.’
‘Bob said you’d say that. He told me to tell you that he doesn’t respond favourably to threats or bribes.’
‘Eighteen months! Maybe the system needs changing.’
Rush hour was mostly over, and they arrived home by seven. He’d previously phoned Angie and told her that they were going to be late.
Before dinner, he went upstairs to kiss Jack goodnight, and then took Digby for his evening walk.
‘What am I going to do, Digby?’
The dog cocked his leg and urinated up a lamppost.
‘That’s not very helpful, old boy. I was hoping for something a bit more constructive.’
What was he going to do? All he had left was the list of golf club employees and members, and the Giffords’ past. If neither of those leads produced anything, then he really was up a gum tree. And wasn’t Richards adamant that they were dealing with a serial killer? If that was the case where were the second, third and fourth victims? Maybe they just hadn’t found the bodies yet.
The walk took him half an hour. Digby wanted to sniff and pee on every lamppost en route. Maybe Angie and Richards should have bought him a female dog.
It was meat loaf, mashed potatoes, cabbage and gravy for dinner with strawberry jelly and cream for dessert. Richards had already had a shower and got changed into her pink pig onesie, and was looking through the list of fifteen year-old girls who had been reported missing between 1966 and 2014.’
‘Let’s go on holiday,’ he said to Angie.
‘Mmmm yes!’ Richards said, taking her head out of the list.
‘Not you.’
‘Not me?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Most definitely not.’
‘But . . .’
‘I spend enough time with you already.’
‘That’s hardly a reason. You wouldn’t even notice I was there.’
‘As if that’s likely. You’d be lying by the pool in a skimpy bikini, I’d have to protect you.’
‘I can protect myself.’
‘From men?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t seen any evidence of that.’
‘You don’t give me the chance.’
‘I recall giving you a handful of chances, but you squandered them all.’
‘Mum, tell him.’
‘Don’t get me involved.’
‘So, I’d like to go on holiday with your mother . . .’
‘What about Jack?’
‘Well, of course, we’ll be taking Jack.’
‘You’re taking one child, but leaving the other one here to fend for herself?’
‘You’re hardly a child.’
‘That’s true.’ She began singing:
I'm nobody's child
I'm like a flower just growing wild
There's no mommy's kisses
and no daddy's smiles
Nobody wants me
I'm nobody's child.
‘You’re a drama queen.’
‘I wouldn’t have to be if you’d let me come on holiday with you.’
‘Where were you thinking of taking me?’ Angie chipped in.
‘I thought we could have a look at what’s available tonight, and go from there.’
‘Is that your final decision then?’ Richards asked.
‘Yes.’
She stood up, collected up her list and headed upstairs..‘I’m sure there are laws about leaving a child home alone while the parents go off on holiday. I’ll make sure everybody knows how you abandoned me. It’ll be on the television and in all the papers. You’ll have to walk round wearing papers bags on your heads . . .’
They heard her bedroom door close.
‘She’ll be coming with us, won’t she?’
He smiled. ‘Of course, who else is going to look after Jack while we’re having a good time?’
‘You shouldn’t tease her so much.’
‘I know.’
Chapter Twenty
The late shift were still working in the slaughterhouse. The red-faced supervisor with a substantial paunch informed them that Billy Kelly had finished work at four o’clock, and he had no idea where he was – probably in the pub if he had any sense.
‘What now, Dot?’ Walter said as they ambled back to the Land Rover.
A goods train rumbled by – clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack – along the steel tracks.
She looked round. ‘This is a big place, Walter.’
‘Once upon a time, there were dozens of businesses here. I recall a railway coach company, a sweet factory, a company called Bolding Molton that constructed porcelain baths and toilets, a distillery, and a welding factory that made boilers for ships . They used the railway to transport their wares all around the country, and to the ports for export abroad, but most of them went to the wall during the recession. Jenson’s Slaughterhouse used to be three times the size it is now, but they had to adapt or die like the rest.’
‘Let’s drive round. I have a feeling.’
‘You and your feelings.’
Walter crawled around the railway sidings in second gear until Dorothy told him to stop.
‘There,’ she pointed to a building with a loading bay.
‘What?’
‘The door is ajar. And there’s some cars and a blue van hidden in the shadows at the side of the building?’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Maybe we should go in and take a look.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Bring your gun, and make sure it’s loaded.’
Walter stopped the Land Rover, put his gloves on, climbed out of the driver’s seat and retrieved the shotgun from behind the seat. He then broke the seal on the box of cartridges and loaded the weapon. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he said, putting a handful of cartridges in one of the pockets of his khaki multi-pocketed hunting waistcoat.
It had been a while since he’d used the Yildiz .410 over-and-under double-barrelled shotgun to shoot clay-pigeons. He’d fallen in love with it when he first saw it in the shop. It was beautifully engraved with a game scene on the frame, and the stock was made from walnut that had come all the way from Turkey. Although he still cleaned and oiled it regularly, for the past eighteen months it had sat locked in the steel cabinet unused and unloved. Clay-pigeon shooting had been a hobby he’d taken up a few years ago. He’d kitted himself out like a professional clay pigeon shooter with a handicap similar to golf, but once he’d discovered that he couldn’t hit a barn door at twenty paces, his interest had waned dramatically. He’d meant to sell the gun, but a gun-owner had to dance a merry jig to comply with all the rules and regulations, and as a consequence he’d never got round to it.
They walked up the concrete steps. A fading aluminium sign – screwed to the wall next to the metal door – provided a warning:
LOADING BAY
KEEP CLEAR
‘Do you hear anything?’ Dorothy asked as they pressed their ears to the opening.
Walter shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’
The rusty metal hinges and tracks on the concertina door screeched as Dorothy pushed it open enough for the two of them to squeeze through.
Fingers of light pierced the lichen-covered glass in the skylights, and provided just enough light to see by. Now that they were fully in the building, they could hear the faint sounds of men cheering and laughing.
‘I’ll go first,’ Walter said. ‘And remember, stay beside me or behind me. Don’t, whatever you do, ge
t between the gun and the target.’
Dorothy nodded.
***
Mrs Kelly opened the door, saw who it was and pulled a face. ‘You two again,’ she said, walking back inside. ‘My house is beginning to resemble Liverpool Street station during the rush hour.’
They followed her into the dark living room.
Xena glanced at Stick. ‘This is only the second time we’ve been here today.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We’d like to speak to your son Billy.’
‘You’re investigating the murder of Clarice Kennedy, why do you want to speak to my son?’
‘Another woman has gone missing.’
‘What’s that got to do with Billy?’
‘That’s what we’d like to know. Is he here?’
The woman crossed her arms. ‘No.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Billy’s blue van was seen at the place where the woman went missing.’
‘Surely you can’t think Billy is involved in the woman’s disappearance?’
‘We’d simply like to talk to him.’
‘Well, I have no idea where he is.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘A young woman is missing, Mrs Andrews. The sooner we talk to Billy, the sooner we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’
‘The sooner you can fabricate evidence against my son, you mean. If you want to speak to Billy you’ll have to do it through my solicitors.’
‘You really aren’t helping your son, Mrs Andrews.’
‘I think you’d better go.’
She shepherded them back outside and said, ‘Call my solicitors.’
‘And who are they?’
The door shut in their faces and they walked back down the path to the car.
‘Call . . .’ Xena began to say, when, ‘Psst,’ came from behind them.