by Ellis, Tim
They watched the CCTV recording from the Tesco Express again, and saw the white Mazda 3 drive by, but that was all. The recording had been aired on Crimewatch, all news channels and on a documentary entitled: “What happened to Jade?”. Requests were made for drivers to come forward. Poelman had never contacted them, which was hardly surprising considering he was probably the killer.
Toadstone slid a piece of paper across the table. ‘They keep daily back-ups in compressed format, so it was easy to find the conversation at PopTalk in which Squiggle arranged to meet with Raveneyes.’
‘Excellent. What about the CCTV from the supermarket?’
‘Nothing – the cameras don’t cover the car park.’
‘Still no sign of her handbag, mobile or clothing?’
‘No.’
‘What about the car?’
‘We found a lot of hairs and fibres that we’re subjecting to analysis, but so far no match on the database, or with samples taken from Brent Poelman last night.’
‘Make yourself useful, Richards. Draw a timeline on the board.’
She went to the whiteboard and picked up a marker pen. ‘Shoot?’
‘The VW Polo was stolen on Wednesday, January 22; Jade went to Nicola Mayell’s house on Lilac Road on the evening of Friday, January 24; she left there at seven-thirty; was recorded on CCTV passing the Tesco Express at seven thirty-nine and then nothing. What time did Poelman’s white Mazda 3 drive past?’
Toadstone moved the pointer pack and stopped the file at the point at which the Mazda passed the shop. ‘Seven forty-three.’
Richards made a noise. ‘He abducted her and killed her, didn’t he, Sir?’
‘A four-minute gap is pretty damning evidence.’ He stood up. ‘Okay, let’s go and see what Mr Poelman has got to say for himself, Richards.’
The CCTV had already been activated.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Parish,’ he said to Poelman as he sat down opposite him. ‘And this is Constable Richards.’
‘The clock is ticking, Inspector,’ Yong said.
Parish offered the shadow of a smile. ‘I’m grateful for your confirmation that the clock on the wall is working, Mr Yong.’ He turned back to Poelman. ‘Can you state your full name and address for the record, please?’
‘Brent Irving Poelman, 97 Marston Road, Netteswell in Harlow.’
‘Good. Now, do you understand why you’ve been brought here?’
‘You think I had something to do with the death of Jade Williams, but . . .’
Parish held up his hand. ‘Let’s go one step at a time, shall we?’
Poelman glanced at his solicitor, who nodded.
‘So that there is no misunderstanding on your part, Mr Poelman, forensic officers entered your house once you were on the way here. They confiscated your computer, your clothes and anything else that might have been considered as evidence. They also took possession of your car for forensic examination.’
‘It wasn’t me . . .’
‘I’m sure you won’t mind if I don’t take your word for that. Can you confirm that you used the pseudonym of “Squiggle” on the chat site PopTalk?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘And that you uploaded this picture . . .’ Parish placed the photograph of a dark-haired young man with smouldering eyes and a rippling six-pack on the table in front of Poelman, ‘. . . onto your profile, which suggested that you were someone you weren’t?’
‘Everybody does that. Have you seen the picture she used?’
Yes, they had. Jade Williams hid behind a cartoon picture of a wide-eyed girl in a skimpy bikini with pig-tails and large breasts. The picture hadn’t left much to the imagination, but it certainly wasn’t an invitation to be murdered.
‘I’m well aware that some people don’t necessarily use their own image as a profile picture. However, they don’t then go on to arrange meetings with young women without communicating who they really are . . . especially when they’re married with teenage children of their own.’
Poelman looked at the floor, but said nothing.
‘You drove from Harlow to the Tesco Express in Rye House to meet Jade Williams. Tell us what happened next.’
‘Nothing happened next. She wasn’t there.’
‘And you expect us to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth. I drove past the Tesco Express and parked up, but she wasn’t there.’
‘If she was in your car we’ll find out.’
‘I promise you, she was never in my car.’
‘She didn’t go home, so where did she go if not with you, Mr Poelman?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that I waited ten minutes and then I drove back home.’
‘And your wife and children will verify that?’
‘No . . . they were all out.’
‘How very convenient.’ He stood up. ‘I’m arresting you for being in possession of child pornographic images. As to the murder of Jade Williams, we’ll await the outcome of further forensic investigations before we interview you again. This interview is terminated at seventeen minutes past nine on Wednesday, May 25.’
Outside, Richards said, ‘He didn’t do it, did he, Sir?’
‘It doesn’t look like it, but let’s reserve judgement until we have all the evidence. Maybe we’ll get a fingerprint or DNA match from the post mortem.’
‘I don’t think we will. As soon as Paul said that those twelve other women were alive, I knew Poelman wasn’t the man we were looking for.’
‘Jade Williams might be his only victim. You seem to think everyone is a serial killer. Do you know what the statistical probability of Jade’s killer being a serial killer is?’
‘I don’t even know what a statistical probability is.’
‘The chance of it being a serial killer expressed as a percentage.’
‘Ninety-nine percent?’
‘Zero percent. There’s something seriously wrong with you. You’re like one of those people who see conspiracies in everything.’
‘I know. I need help.’
He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you some help, Richards.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
***
Somebody was shaking her.
‘Mmmm?’ she said, opening her eyes.
A black nurse was standing over her with balled fists pressed into her ample hips. ‘I’m sorry, but if you’re not a patient at the hospital you can’t sleep here.’
‘Too late, I already did.’ She swung her legs off the bed, helped herself to a glass of juice with water off the bedside cabinet, gulped it down and headed for the door. ‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter to six,’ the nurse said.
‘What time’s breakfast?’
‘Seven-thirty, but you won’t be getting any.’
‘I’ve stayed in better squats.’
She caught a taxi to Newbury Park tube station. Had a full English breakfast at the Gourmet Cafe on Buntingbridge Road – just round the corner from the station. If there’d been any sun, she could have used the grease left on the plate as suntan lotion, but at least the food filled the cavernous hole where her stomach used to be. Afterwards, she caught the seven twenty-three train from Newbury Park to Epping on the Central Line.
She’d sorted out her money and somewhere to live. In-between the work she promised to do for Charlie Baxter, she had to buy a decent car and organise television access with all the trimmings – unpaid, of course.
But first, she needed a shower, and a couple more hours of sleep wouldn’t go amiss either. She couldn’t smell herself, but she imagined that others could. Some sex – after the shower, of course – would have been more than welcome as well, but there was no rush. She could always guarantee – at the drop of her knickers – a queue of men a mile long who were willing to satisfy her desires.
As soon as she arrived home someone knocked on the front door.
She opened it to find a woman with grey hair, inconspicuous breasts beneath
a grey-patterned frock and an apron standing there holding a plastic bag.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Honey Hunt-Davis, but everyone calls me Honey. I live across the road at number five.’
‘That’s very nice for you.’ She went to close the door.
‘I’ve brought you a welcome gift.’
‘Oh yeah?’
The woman slid the plastic bag off a large plate like the Maitre ‘d at the Ritz. ‘A Brambly apple pie.’
‘At nine-thirty in the morning?’
‘No, silly. You can put it in your fridge and eat when you want to.’
‘You strike me as the type of woman who knows exactly where my fridge might be. You’d better come in and put it on one of the shelves.’
‘Oh yes, I know where everybody’s fridge is.’
‘I guessed you would.’
‘I used to be married, but my husband – Gerald – died of cancer last year.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘I’m sure the Lord had something special planned for him, and we’ll no doubt be together again soon.’
‘You don’t fancy somebody different while you’ve got the chance?’
Honey laughed. ‘You are a one.’
‘I suppose I am.’
They were in the kitchen.
‘You can have coffee or tea if you want to make it,’ Scylla said.
‘Of course I’ll make it,’ she said, filling the kettle. ‘I like to help out where I can. What’s your name, dearie?’
She paused, to make sure she was using the right one. ‘Alice Kellogg.’
‘Alice is a nice name.’
‘Thanks, I’m sure.’
‘And what brings you to Number 2 Baffin Road in Epping, Alice Kellogg?’ she asked as she passed Scylla a mug of steaming coffee.
‘I don’t suppose you have security clearance up to Top Secret, do you?’
‘Only Secret, I’m afraid.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m not very good with jokes. Gerald used to work at the Foreign Office, so they vetted me up to Secret – just in case anything accidently slipped out of his briefcase.’
‘And did anything accidently slip out of his briefcase?’
She laughed again. ‘Oh yes, lots of times.’
‘I can see I’ll have to watch you very carefully, Honey.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to watch me at all. I’m really a nobody. So you work for the government?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘I understand. Well, if you need any help, you know where I am.’
‘Very kind. Do you do anything other than cook apple pies?’
‘On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I’m at the charity shop on the High Street. The rest of my time is taken up with cross stitch, crosswords and some gardening when the weather lets me venture out into my garden.’
Honey struck her as a church-attending busybody. ‘Nothing for the church?’
‘Ah?’
‘What?’
‘Joyce Donkin – the organist and Vicar’s little helper. She and I don’t get on, I’m afraid.’
‘So you stay away?’
‘Seems to be the best course of action under the circumstances.’
She wanted Honey to leave so that she could climb into the shower, but her mouth worked independently of her brain. ‘What happened?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘It was my turn to host the committee meeting. I’d bought fairy cakes and a variety of white and oolong teas, but that selfish bitch stole my day.’
‘I bet you were distraught.’
‘I certainly was. Anyway, after that, I had no choice but to resign from the committee and withdraw my goodwill.’
‘And you’d like nothing better than to reciprocate in kind?’
‘Am I awful, do you think?’
‘You certainly are, Honey. We’ll have to see what we can come up with.’
‘You’ll help me?’
‘Call it payment-in-kind for the apple pie. Anyway, I was just about to take a shower and grab some sleep.’
‘I’ll leave you in peace then. Maybe I’ll call again tomorrow.’
Scylla ushered Honey along the hallway to the front door. ‘Maybe you will.’
That’s all she needed – she thought, as the warm water massaged her neck – a nosy bitch knocking on her door every five minutes.
Chapter Nine
Sitting in his car outside the Pastures New Care Home in Ware – a stone’s throw from the municipal cemetery – he wondered whether it was a worthwhile stopover before death:
Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shall return.
Not that he would ever make it into a care home, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about the benefits of such a place. Why would anybody want to sit in a chair all day long and stare out of the window at the depressing English weather? Although, it was probably better than the alternative – or was it?
He pressed the buzzer.
‘Yes?’
He held his warrant card against the glass. ‘DCI Ray Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station to see Andrew Pearson.’
The door clicked open.
He walked inside and wiped his feet on the coconut matting.
An obese woman – probably in her thirties – wearing a dark blue nurse’s top that appeared to be three sizes too small for her body, with flesh hanging like shrivelled pasta from under her chin and upper arms, welcomed him in. ‘Staff Nurse McGuire. You’re lucky, Andrew is having one of his better days.’
He shook the podgy hand and signed the visitors book. ‘It’s not been a wasted journey then.’
She led him through a labyrinth of creaking brown-carpeted corridors.
He tried to memorise the route, but had no clue where he was in relation to the entrance after thirty seconds.
‘You must lose a lot of people in here.’ he said.
‘Acceptable losses, I’m afraid. We have regular head-counts and searches, but sometimes . . .’ She shrugged.
She kept a deadpan face, and he couldn’t work out whether she was joking or not. With the mistreatment of old people in care homes making a number of unwelcome appearances in the news lately he guessed she must be joking, but he knew all too well that there were some strange people about.
‘Here we are,’ she said, as they walked into a cosy sitting room with seven women and two men temporarily taking up space in high-backed chairs.
The same brown-patterned carpet covered the floor, there were bookcases containing the latest thrillers and romance novels, tables stacked with boxes containing 1,000-piece jigsaws and games that had stood the test of time. None of the residents were availing themselves of these diversionary opportunities for entertainment before the big goodbye.
She led him to a shrivelled bald-headed man dressed in a white shirt and sky-blue crew-neck jumper sitting in one of the chairs. Wrapped around his legs was a multi-coloured crocheted blanket.
‘Andrew?’
‘Hello, Nurse Vicky. How are you today?’ He put his hand on her arse and squeezed.
‘All the better for having my backside touched by you, What have I told you about that?’
His forehead wrinkled up even more than it had been. ‘Only on Fridays and Saturdays?’
‘That’s right, and today is Wednesday.’
‘I get confused about what day it is.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to do without Friday’s feel now.’
‘Yes, Nurse.’
‘You have a visitor.’
‘Not that masseuse again? Please don’t let her in. She keeps taking advantage of me because I’m so old and fragile.’
‘See what I mean,’ she said to Kowalski. ‘He’s having one of his better days. I’ll be back in half an hour to see if you’re ready to leave.’
‘Thanks.’
He pulled up a normal chair and sat down facing Pearson. ‘Hello, Andrew.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Ray Kowalski.’
‘The rugby man?’
‘That’s right. There’s nothing wrong with your memory then?’
‘Not today anyway. Tomorrow . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘Who knows what I’ll be able to recall tomorrow? What are you doing now, Ray?’
‘Your job. I’m the DCI at Hoddesdon.’
‘Good for you. We need a new man on the escape committee. Hey Harry,’ he called to the other old man five chairs along who couldn’t stop shaking. ‘New man here for the tunnels.’
Harry ignored him.
‘Polish, I’m afraid. He doesn’t speak a word of English. I mostly have to communicate the escape plan by sign language.’
Kowalski held the latest card from the Red Spider killer up, so that Andrew could see it.
His face went white.
‘Just when I thought it was safe to die. Even when you retire you’re still a copper. I hope you haven’t just received this.’
‘Came in the post yesterday morning.’
‘Shit! I thought the bastard would be dead by now. What about that newspaper man?’
‘Tom Elder?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Died eighteen months ago.’
‘So the killer sent it to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve come here to pick my brains.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘It’ll be slim pickings, and you’d better get everything you can today. As I said, tomorrow I could be Rasputin, King Charles II or nobody at all.’
‘I also came as a courtesy. You were a decent copper and a good detective.’
‘Nice of you to say so, but not good enough to catch the Red Spider.’
‘We’ll catch him this time.’
‘Too late, too late by far. Those poor girls. They deserved justice, and I couldn’t give it to them. He’s lived a full life, while theirs was cut horribly short.’
‘Why do you think you couldn’t catch him?’
‘The bottom line – he was too good for us. Most of them – as you know – want to get caught – but he didn’t, and it was old-fashioned police work in those days. DNA profiling came too late.’
‘I’m having all the samples re-tested and put through the meatgrinder.’