by Ellis, Tim
What the fuck was he playing at? It must be something to do with his time in Special Ops and his signature on the Official Secrets Act, but what? And how the hell was she going to find out?
She phoned Di Heffernan.
‘Are you still alive?’ Heffernan asked her.
‘You won’t get rid of me that easily.’
‘Each morning while I eat my muesli I look through the obituaries to see if your name is there.’
‘Have you found it yet?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘Are you back at work now?’
‘No, I’m still in hospital.’
‘Inactive detectives can’t ring up and ask busy forensic officers to do anything – goodbye.’
‘Wait.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s not for me, it’s for Stick.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’ve heard about the trouble he’s in?’
‘I’d call the mass murder of four other police officers a little more than “trouble”.’
‘All right – he’s in deep shit, and he needs our help.’
‘Our help?’
‘I thought you got on okay with Stick?’
‘I do – did, but from what everyone is saying he took the law into his own hands, and there’s a heap of evidence against him.’
‘That’s right . . . except he didn’t do it.’
‘So what are you doing from your hospital bed?’
‘Investigating.’
‘Yeah, only you would do something like that. I bet you’ve got an incident board up in the room, and all the hospital staff are jumping through hoops as part of your investigative team.’
‘We’re not talking about me.’
‘I thought so. Well what’s this “help” you want from me?’
‘I have a still from a video recording. The lens of the camcorder had a fingerprint on it, which shows up clearly on the still. Can you do anything with it?’
‘Send it to me.’
‘Okay. You’ll . . .’
The call had disconnected. ‘You fucking bitch,’ she hissed under her breath.
She sent Heffernan the email with the still as an attachment. Was the print Stick’s? Even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be enough to get him off. It might throw some doubt on his guilt, but the prosecution would argue that the print could have been put there at any time – not necessarily during the recording of the murders. But . . . and this was key to her – it would give them someone else to look at. Up to now, all the evidence pointed at Stick. Banister had no other suspects, because he’d found the guilty person.
‘I’ve had a complaint,’ Staff Nurse James said, as she came into the room with the tiny plastic cup brimming over with tablets.
‘Good for you.’ She took the cup, and popped a tablet into her mouth.
James poured her some water and passed her the glass.
She swallowed down the tablets one after the other.
‘About you.’
‘Me? I find that hard to believe. I’m a model patient. Wait . . . it was that Russian HCA with the blonde hair and tattoos, wasn’t it?’
‘She said you swore at her.’
‘I don’t know how you can believe I would do something like that. Surely, you’re not going to take the word of a fucking Russian mafia bitch, over a fine upstanding police inspector who does charity work during her off-duty hours.’
‘Stop swearing at the staff.’
‘She swore at me in Russian.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s one of the many languages I speak fluently.’
‘I hear the doctor is letting you go home on Friday.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere, bitch. I’m staying right here to make your life a fucking misery – it’s the least I can do after all the care and attention you’ve given me.’
Staff Nurse James smiled and left.
***
Before going back to the station he decided to visit Tom Elder’s wife – simply to tie up the loose end.
Judy Elder lived in a three-bedroom detached bungalow on Mill Lane in Broxbourne, which was lodged nicely between the two rivers and close to the Church of St Augustine.
He knocked on the front door.
A grey-haired woman in a pair of green wellies, a Barbour jacket and a trowel in her hand appeared round the side of the bungalow.
‘It’s no good knocking, young man. The lady of the house is busy in the back garden.’
He smiled. ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Elder.’ He walked towards her and showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ray Kowalski from Hoddesdon.’
‘That brings back memories.’
‘You’re talking about the Red Spider murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I received another card.’
‘My goodness. Tom will be sorry he missed that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You first. Why are you here?’
‘I’m trying to solve the murder, and I thought . . .’
‘After all this time? He’s not going to start killing again, is he?’
’I hope not.’
‘What did the card say?’
‘It’s time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘I wish I knew, but I have the feeling he wants to be caught. He wants everyone to know who the Red Spider is. I don’t think he relishes the idea of dying a nobody.’
‘I hope you’re fit?’
The left side of his face creased up. ‘It depends what for? I’m not really dressed for gardening.’
‘Come on. I’ll make us a nice pot of tea like they used to do in old days, and then we can sit and talk.’ She led him round the back, through a patio door and into a lovely neat kitchen full of collectible tea pots. ‘Every Sunday, Tom and I used to travel all over Essex to the antique fairs and car boot sales. He went hunting for cigarette cards, and I rummaged for tea pots – a right pair of collectors we were. I still miss him, you know. I haven’t been to an antique fair or car boot sale since he passed. Now, on Sundays, I don’t get out of bed until midday. Sundays are the worst days. Are you married, Chief Inspector?’
He told her about Jerry, about Bert and Matilda and about the children.
She touched his hand. ‘I hope she gets better soon.’
‘Thank you.’
‘When he knew the cancer had finally caught up with him, Tom said, “Save the box. You can throw everything else out, including my ashes and my collection of cigarette cards, but keep the damned box, Judy. One day, the police will come knocking at the door. When that day arrives – give them the box, and that’ll be an end to it.” And here you are, knocking on my door just like he said.’
‘What box?’
‘He was obsessed with the Red Spider . . .’
Kowalski’s lip curled up. ‘He wasn’t the only one. I went to see Andrew Pearson this morning . . .’
‘He’s still alive as well?’
‘In a care home causing mayhem with the nurses and the other patients. He remembers the case as if it was yesterday.’
‘Yes, it affected a lot of lives – not least the six young women who were murdered, and their families.’
‘The box . . . ?’
‘Oh yes. When he received the first card with the red spidery scrawl on it – he thought it was aimed at him. Later, when he knew about the first girl – Lia Armitage – he felt guilty, and began investigating the murders himself. It started with a few newspaper cuttings, but soon the whole garage was taken up with his obsession. He’d spend hours in there trying to piece it all together. Of course, he had as much luck as the police, and eventually – when the killings stopped – he packed everything away in a box and stored it in the loft.’
His brow furrowed. ‘You want me to go up into the loft and retrieve
the box?’
‘It’s a long time since I was able to climb into the loft space, and – as well as the box – there’s a few things I’d like you to bring down from up there.’
‘You have a ladder?’
‘Oh yes, there’s a loft ladder that you can pull down.’
‘And it’ll take my weight? I’m not exactly Tinker Bell.’
‘Don’t worry, Tom wasn’t a small man either.’
After he’d finished his tea she showed him the loft ladder, which he pulled down with a hooked pole hiding in a corner. He climbed up the ladder and switched on the light. The floor had been reinforced, and the whole space was stuffed with cardboard boxes.
‘Which boxes do you want bringing down?’
‘All of them.’
‘All of them! There must be about fifty boxes up here.’
‘Really? Well, then the sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish. Stack the boxes in the hallway against the right-hand wall. I’ll pour you a glass of lemonade – I expect it’ll be thirsty work.’
She’d pulled a fast one on him. It took him an hour and a half to move the boxes one at a time from the loft to the hallway. The box containing the information relating to the Red Spider was in the third box he shifted down.
After humping a few boxes down, he had to take off his jacket. After a few more, he stripped off his shirt and tie. Eventually, he ended up naked from the waist up sweating like a sinner in a church where the minister was preaching hellfire and damnation. If it hadn’t been for his obstinate pride, he would have explained about his two heart attacks, the pills he was taking and suggested that she obtain the services of a younger, fitter man to shift her damn boxes from A to B. Instead, he nearly killed himself emptying her loft.
‘If I was twenty years younger,’ she said, handing him a towel.
He wiped the dripping sweat from his face. ‘I’d be twenty years younger as well.’
‘That’s true. We’d be like two star-struck lovers separated by time.’
‘You read too many books.’
‘There’s only filth and mindlessness on the television these days, so reading is all that’s left.’
He washed himself in the bathroom, and put his clothes back on. ‘Thanks very much for the box,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘It’s good of you to say so, but I fear I took advantage of you a little bit.’
‘I hope that whatever is in this box was worth it.’
‘So do I.’
‘Why didn’t Tom simply bring the box to the police station?’
‘I asked him the same question. He said that nobody would be interested until they were interested. If I’d brought the box to you a year ago, would you have been interested?’
‘Probably not.’
‘There you are then,’ she said, showing him out through the front door. ‘But now you can’t wait to find out what’s in that box, can you?’
He smiled, said goodbye, put the box in the boot of his car and headed back to the station.
Chapter Thirteen
‘He’s playing a game with us, isn’t he?’
‘It’s nothing personal, Richards.’
‘I can’t help but feel that it is.’
They were on their way back to the station. The plan had been to visit Sheila Cooper – Michael Fishlock’s ex-girlfriend – to check his alibi, but there didn’t seem to be much point. A second body changed the whole emphasis and direction of the investigation. It wasn’t about Jade Williams anymore. Now, they had to look for a link between the two women – if there was a link. Sometimes – in random murders – the only link was the murderer. It also wasn’t necessary to re-examine the statements of Jade Williams’ family and her boyfriend – they were now considered collateral damage instead of suspects.
He shook his head. ‘You’ll end up in an early grave.’
‘I’m only twenty-two.’
‘Well, there you are then – the odds are alarmingly high. You have to learn to be objective, and you can only do that if . . .’
‘. . . If I become a cold-hearted robot like you?’
‘Exactly. I mean, you’re half-way there.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Don’t you want to know what I mean by that?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you want me to.’
‘Aren’t you just a little bit curious?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want me to tell you anyway?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ He began whistling.
‘But if it’s a choice between you whistling and telling me, I’d prefer it if you told me.’
‘Any psychological scale to measure curiosity would need to be redesigned to accommodate your uncontrollable urge to know other people’s business.’
‘That’s just another way of saying that I’m the nosiest person you know.’
‘Mmmm! I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’
‘That’s what makes me such a brilliant detective.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Are you going to tell me then?’
‘No, I don’t think I will now, Little Miss Detective.’
‘I didn’t want to know anyway.’
‘Of course you didn’t. Okay, seeing as you asked me to tell you so nicely – I will. You’re half-way there because of the way you treat Toadstone.’
‘I treat Paul just fine – I like him.’
‘Yes, but he loves you.’
‘I can’t help that.’
‘It’s not as if you have an army of admirers knocking down your door.’
‘That’s a cruel thing to say.’
‘But true.’
‘So, you think I should pick Paul because he’s the only cookie in the jar?’
‘We’ve discussed your poor judgement when it comes to choosing men before. I think you should pick Paul because he’s the right man for you.’
‘But I don’t love him.’
‘You might grow to love him, and love isn’t everything.’
‘You love mum.’
‘We’re not talking about me.’
‘Maybe we should. Anyway, I’m not having this conversation. What do you think the clue means?’
‘That’s right, change the subject – always a good tactic to avoid unpleasant truths.’
‘Well?’
‘I think it means there’s a third body. You should be pleased – you were right.’
‘I knew I was right anyway, but I’m hardly pleased about another dead body.’
‘No – maybe not.’
‘Something’s bothering me though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, I thought Jade Williams was the latest victim, and that the clue on her body would lead us to a previous victim, but it’s not turned out that way. In fact, the killer has reversed everything. Each victim we find tells us where his next victim will be. Jade Williams was the first victim – not his last.’
‘That’s an interesting way of looking at it . . . if the second woman was murdered after Jade Williams.’
‘I don’t think Doc Riley will find any evidence of freezing in the latest body.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Yes, we will. He’s taking us on a body hunt.’
‘You mean like a treasure hunt – where one clue leads to a hidden body and provides us with the next clue, and so on until we reach the end?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many bodies are there? And where’s the end?’
‘That’s the game he’s playing with us. We have to find him before he reaches the end.’
‘Then what will happen?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, and I don’t really want to find out.’
‘Well, we’re stuck at the second clue. If Toadstone doesn’t work out what it means, we’ll have to call in a specialist.’
‘A specialist in treasure hunts?’
&nb
sp; ‘Why not. Someone who can solve cryptic crosswords. I hate those things. Are you any good at cryptic crosswords?’
‘I don’t do crosswords.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘They’ve never appealed to me.’
‘If a serial killer had left a crossword at a crime scene, would you want to solve it then?’
‘That would be different.’
‘Anyway, I think we’ve already established that you’re no good at solving cryptic clues.’
‘Neither are you.’
‘Maybe there should be a selection process.’
She grunted. ‘Is this another one of your crazy ideas?’
‘Well, look – you and I have become partners, but maybe we’re not a match made in Heaven.’
‘I’ve been saying that for ages. Now, if you changed . . .’
‘Me? I think you’ve got the wrong idea about this proposed selection process. I’m the Detective Inspector – I don’t change. Instead, I get the partner who matches my profile.’
‘And I don’t match your profile?’
‘I didn’t say that, but take cryptic clue-solving as a case in point. Neither of us can solve them, so maybe we both need to be matched with partners who have complementary skill sets.’
‘I see.’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘That sounds like a good idea to me. I’d get someone who appreciated me for the wonderful and caring person I am, who treated me like a proper human being instead of something that the hedgehog dragged in, someone who made the coffee now and again and . . .’
‘Is this a long list?’
‘It could be. I’d have to give it some thought.’
‘You’re dabbling in the realms of fantasy now. No one would have all the qualities on your extraordinarily long list.’
‘Maybe I’d settle for just one quality.’
‘Anyway, I’ve made the coffee.’
‘When?’
‘Well, I can’t bring the exact date to mind, but . . .’
‘Never – that’s how many times you’ve made the coffee.’ She pulled into the car park at the station and switched the engine off. ‘You could make the coffee when we get up to the squad room.’
‘You know I’d love to, but I have a press briefing to prepare for.’
‘There you are. You had the chance to prove me wrong and you flunked it.’