by Ellis, Tim
***
‘Is that you?’
‘It depends if that’s you on the other end?’
‘It’s me – Jenifer.’
‘I know it’s you, but do you know it’s me?’
‘You sound like you.’
‘It must be me then.’
‘You do it just to get me flustered, don’t you?’
‘You should make a written complaint – in triplicate, of course. Well, have you found anything that will prove Stick’s innocence yet?’
‘No . . .’
‘What have you been doing? I hope you’re not getting too close to Banister – if you know what I mean.’
‘I never would.’
Xena gave half a laugh. ‘Stick says that as well.’
‘I know.’ Jenifer began crying. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop blubbering and tell me why you called.’
‘Two men came to see Inspector Banister just before lunch.’
‘And?’
‘I have their names.’
‘Is there a reason you’re passing this nugget of information on to me?’
‘They were talking about Rowley.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Inspector Banister was showing them the case files.’
‘Have you seen these men before?’
‘No – they’re from London.’
‘London’s a big place.’
‘They were from SO1.’
‘The Specialist Protection Branch? There’s a few Special Operation Directorates. Are you sure it was a one and not some other number?’
‘That’s what they wrote in the Visitor’s Book.’
She didn’t know what to say to that. Why were two police officers who were employed to provide specialist protection to the Prime Minister, government ministers, ambassadors, visiting dignitaries and other high-profile citizens be interested in Rowley Gilbert? Was he in SO1? He never said which branch of Special Operations he was in. Even if he was, that was four years ago. ‘What were their names?’
‘DI Scott Porter and DS John Roche.’
She grabbed the temperature and blood pressure chart hanging on the end of her bed and – with the pen dangling from it by a piece of string – scrawled the two names on the sheet of paper clipped to the plastic board.
‘Do you think they might be important?’
‘I have no idea. Is that it?’
‘Yes. I volunteered to work at the weekend, but there’s a moratorium on overtime, so it looks like I have a free weekend with nothing to do and nobody to do it with.’
‘Have you visited Stick yet.’
‘No, but if I’m working undercover, so I’d better not.’
‘That’s true. When he calls me again I’ll tell him you’ve gone on holiday to the Maldives with DI Banister.’
‘You won’t?’
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I like nothing better than winding Stick up.’
She ended the call.
What to do?
If she phoned the Met and made enquiries about Porter and Roche, they’d stonewall her. It would also alert the hordes of darkness to the fact that she was onto them. She couldn’t ask Tom to do it either – it would put him in the firing line. That weird Cookie – or Scylla as she now referred to herself – was her only option. Asking someone to break the law went against the grain, but what other options did she have? If she let the wheels of justice reach their natural conclusion, Stick would never see the light of day again.
She rang Scylla, but there was no answer, so she sent her an email:
Scylla,
I need two police officers checking out. DI Scott Porter and DS John Roche. They’re both in SO1, which is the Special Protection Branch working out of New Scotland Yard. They were at Southend today asking about Gilbert.
Xena
She was about to press the “SEND” button, but instead she added:
PS: Be careful.
Then she sent the email.
She was getting soft in her dotage.
What the hell had Stick got himself involved in? In fact, what the hell had he got her involved in? She licked her lips, and reached for the half-full glass of barley lemon juice. She didn’t have a handle on this case at all. She thought she knew the rules, but now she wasn’t so sure. Some of the players were playing in the open, others were hiding in the shadows. Maybe getting out of hospital was the right thing to do – her brain was beginning to calcify..
Her heart rate increased.
Maybe she wouldn’t barricade herself in the room after all.
It felt as though someone was cranking a ratchet around her chest – tighter, tighter and tighter.
Struggling to breathe, she grasped the emergency cord and pressed the button.
A nurse came running in.
‘I’m having a heart attack,’ she gasped.
The nurse checked her pulse, and then rummaged in the bedside cabinet. She pulled out a paper bag, squeezed her hand around the neck of the bag to create a small opening and thrust it at Xena. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Breathe in and out of this. You’re having a panic attack not a heart attack.’
‘You fucking nurses are rubbish,’ she said, and held the bag to her face.
‘Keep breathing in and out of the bag until you feel lightheaded, and then stop.’
‘This fucking hospital . . . won’t have a red cent . . . by the time . . . I’ve finished . . . suing every . . . body.’
‘Of course it won’t. You’re still being discharged tomorrow though.’
‘Fuck . . . off.’
***
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Nurse Vicky said as she let him into the Pastures New Care Home in Ware.
‘That’s right! “Lucky” is my middle name – Ray “Lucky” Kowalski.’
She pulled a face. ‘Andrew is having a bad day today.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I still need to try. I might be able to get through to him.’
‘It certainly won’t do him any harm. Follow me.’
She led him along the labyrinth of corridors to where Andrew Pearson was sitting in a chair in front of the sitting room window. He was staring through a crack in reality into a place of darkness and light.
‘Thanks,’ he said to Nurse Vicky.
‘I’ll be back in half an hour. If you need to escape before then . . .’ She pointed to a phone on the wall. ‘Dial zero.’
He nodded and sat down in a chair facing Andrew Pearson.
‘Andrew, it’s DCI Ray Kowalski.’
There was no recognition in Andrew’s eyes. It was as if the world outside the prison of his mind had stopped turning.
‘I want to talk to you about the Red Spider case again. I need your help. Remember, those six girls who were murdered?’ He reeled off the names of the victims in the hope that his voice might act as a beacon to guide Andrew out of the darkness, but his eyes were like frosted glass.
‘I think I might know why you never caught him . . .’ He carried on speaking. ‘Someone on the task force was manipulating the evidence, but I don’t know who. I have a list of thirty-seven names here . . .’ He took the sheet of paper out of his pocket. ‘I was hoping that you could help me reduce this list down to a manageable number.’ He read each name on the list. ‘. . . DS Andrew McCann . . . Constable Cathy Shrivington . . . Constable George Mullins . . .’
After fifteen minutes he’d ran out of things to say. ‘Oh well, I’ll come back tomorrow, Andrew.’ He stood up, squeezed his shoulder and said, ‘Look after yourself.’ Then, he walked towards the phone.
‘I was thinking of Nurse Vicky’s arse . . .’
Kowalski turned. ‘She’s definitely got one of those, Andrew.’
‘It would be like overdosing on bum flesh.’
‘Are you back?’
‘For a while. There’s nothing, you know. I go, and then I come back. In-between there’s nothing. I don’t come back and recall dreaming of buxom women prancing about na
ked in a field of chocolate – there’s nothing. Is that what it’s like on the other side?’
‘I’ve had two heart attacks, Andrew. They say I died. If I did, then you’re right – there’s nothing. I wasn’t in a waiting room, there was no light, no flapping of wings, no eternal judgement – simply blackness. Maybe I was in hell . . .’
‘Or in-between. Maybe someone was deciding whether you should go up or down.’ He pointed his thumb in the direction of travel.
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s one thing for sure,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll find out before you.’
‘What’s certain Andrew, is that we’ll all find out sooner or later.’
‘That’s true. So, why are you here?’
‘There was someone on your team manipulating evidence.’
‘Don’t say that, Ray.’
‘That’s why you never caught him.’
‘I wish I hadn’t come back.’
He told Andrew about the altered post mortem reports, about Tom Elder and the four train ticket numbers, and about Thomas Pylster – the ticket inspector. ‘We’re not quite there yet though. I need your help reducing the thirty-seven names down to something I can work with.’
‘Thirty-seven! There was more than that.’ He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair. ‘Okay, I’m in the task force incident room. It’s like Waterloo fucking station in the rush hour . . .’ Andrew identified a further nineteen people who had unrestricted access to all the evidence and the reports. ‘It was different in those days, Ray.’
‘I know, you don’t need to explain.’
Together, they reduced the list of names down to seven:
James Stone
Sharon Nunn
Eric Stanton
Ted Beckwith
Arthur Ormrod
June Tipping
Morris Croker
‘What about the post mortem reports, Andrew? I have the feeling that whoever collected them, and the victim’s possessions, from the pathologists should be on this list.’
‘That’s the thing, nobody collected them. Everything was sent by courier. When it arrived at the station it was logged in. You need to find that book and see who signed them in.’
‘Of course! I’d forgotten about the evidence logging-in book. It’s all computers, email attachments and back-ups nowadays.’
‘The machines are replacing humans. That Terminator film with the big guy in . . .’
‘Schwarzenegger?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Well, that film was a glimpse into the future. In a way, I’ll be checking out at just the right time. I don’t think I could cope with all that technology buggering up the works.’
‘Welcome back, Andrew?’
‘Nurse Vicky!’ Andrew said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘I know exactly what you were thinking about.’
‘You could make a dirty old man very happy.’
‘As you’re well aware, I’m married with three children.’
‘I won’t tell anybody if you don’t. It’ll be our little secret.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll leave you everything in my will. You’ll be a very rich woman once I’m gone.’
‘And you want to pay for my services like a . . . ?’
He winked at Kowalski. ‘I’d be happy for you to perform your act of mercy for free.’
‘Are you ready, Chief Inspector?’
‘I think so.’ He shook Andrew’s hand. ‘Thanks for your help, Andrew.’
‘No problem. As you’re walking out, see if you can make Nurse Vicky see sense. All my money for . . .’
He smiled. ‘Good luck, Andrew.’
‘I’ll need it.’
Nurse Vicky led the way. ‘I hope you don’t think . . . ?’
‘I don’t think anything. He’s teasing you.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I would never . . .’
‘I know.’
Outside, he climbed into his car and headed back to the station. Seven names was certainly more manageable. Tomorrow, he’d start checking them out.
He arrived back at the station just as Parish was about to go into the press briefing.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he said. ‘Where’s Richards?’
‘In your office . . .’
‘She’d better not be.’
‘I’ve sent her to Warrington.’
‘Not Coventry?’
‘I wish.’
‘I’ll stay and listen.’
‘Okay, but don’t blame me if you don’t learn anything.’
‘Still nothing?’
‘That’s why Richards has gone to Warrington.’
***
He’d expected to brief the Chief at half-past three, but the door had been locked and Carrie had said that she hadn’t seen him since before lunch.
‘I’m worried about him, Jed.’
‘In what way?’
‘He seems distracted.’
‘That’s good. When he’s involved in a case he focuses on nothing else. That’s what makes him a brilliant detective. Have you heard how Jerry is?’
‘No.’
‘The doctors are slowly withdrawing the drugs. I was wondering if there’d been any news.’
‘No, I don’t know, and the hospital wouldn’t tell me anyway.’
‘I suppose.’
‘What time are you picking Melody up tomorrow evening?’
‘After work, the same as I always do. What’s going on?’
She looked at her hands. ‘I’ve been seeing someone.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Are you?’
‘Well, yes. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I’m thinking of asking him to move in with me.’
‘I see. What’s his name?’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll check him out.’
‘I thought you weren’t meant to do that for personal reasons.’
‘There are ways and means. If he’s going to be living with you and Melody, I want to be sure he’s not an axe murderer.’
‘Grant Mottram.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what there is on him.’
‘If there’s anything.’
‘Of course. Guilty until proven innocent.’
‘I think you have that the wrong way round.’
‘Not when you and my daughter are involved.’
He was surprised at how warm the press briefing room was as he sat down behind the raised table. As usual, the room was full to bursting, and all the high-powered lights and electric cables didn’t help either.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press . . .’ He decided to take the lead on this one – being serially ambushed wasn’t his idea of fun. ‘As many of you are aware, we now have four bodies . . .’
‘Can you tell us . . . ?’
He held up a hand. ‘Please be so kind as to wait until I’ve finished before you start asking questions.’ He cast a penetrating gaze over the sea of faces. ‘Thank you. As I was saying . . . we now have four bodies. The first victim – Jade Williams – was discovered in the car park of the local Marin supermarket. Bodies have also been found at Hoddesdon Cemetery, Haystack Grove and Hamlet Hill, and we have information that there is a fifth body out there, but as yet we have no idea where it might be. Lastly, we believe that we have a lead on the identity of the second victim, and we’re currently following that up.’
A multitude of hands shot up.
He pointed.
‘Suzanne Carey from the Hoddesdon Sentinel. I get the feeling there are things you’re not telling us, Inspector.’
‘Hello, Miss Carey. I can assure you that there are a number of things I’m not telling you. I’m sure you’re aware that, in the majority of serial killer investigations, we need to keep certain details out of the public domain to eliminate the possibility of copycats.’
‘Raffi Wilson from the Identity Channel. Have you identified a sus
pect yet?’
‘No.’
‘You have four – possibly five – dead women, and yet you have no suspect.’
‘You have to understand Ms Wilson that all the victims have been dead for at least two months. The killer hasn’t left us any forensic evidence to work with. And, with the exception of Jade Williams, the other victims have not been identified. What compounds the problem is that we have no faces to match with missing persons.’
‘Becky McKeever from U>Direct. Are you using a forensic anthropologist to reconstruct the faces yet?’
‘It’s one of the options we’re considering.’
‘How many women does he have to kill before you reach a decision, Inspector Parish?’
It was getting hot in the kitchen, he thought. A glance in the Chief’s direction produced a nod. ‘It’s been less than two days since we began the investigation, Ms McKeever. I can assure you that everything that can be done, is being done.’
‘Is the cost of a forensic anthropologist a factor in your decision making process?’
He could have told them the truth – that cost was always a factor, but he could imagine the headlines in the morning:
HODDESDON INVESTIGATES MURDERS ON THE CHEAP
‘No, cost is not a factor.’
‘Clare Tindle from the Redbridge Camera. Are the women you’ve found all of a similar age to Jade Williams?’
‘Yes, that’s my understanding.’
‘Why is he choosing young women? Is he communicating with you? What . . . ?’
‘You’re stealing someone else’s quota of questions, Ms Tindle. We have no idea why or how he’s choosing his victims, but we’re exploring the possibility that these women are runaways.’
‘Jade Williams wasn’t a runaway.’
He caught a fleeting glimpse of fish eyes.
‘No, she wasn’t. Why he chose her is unclear. As for your second question, I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’