by Ellis, Tim
Fish eyes jumped up in a different place. ‘Is it one of the things you’re keeping from us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Myriam Berger from the Estuary Telegraph. Is there a sexual motive to the murders?’
‘We don’t know what the killer’s motive is yet, Ms Berger.’
‘’Steve Bamping from NBC Europe. The killer is obviously telling you where he’s burying the bodies, but do you think the locations he’s choosing are relevant to your investigation?’
‘It’s certainly something we’re looking into, Mr Bamping.’
The questions dried up – much like his leads.
He stood up. ‘Thank you all very much for coming. Same time tomorrow, when I hope I’ll have more for you.’
Chapter Twenty
She was too late.
Parked any old which way outside Joseph Strutt House was a low-slung black transit van with blacked-out side windows and a black four-by-four with raised suspension. Why did government agents have all the best cars? Didn’t they know the country was in the middle of a recession?
How long did she have?
As she drove past the block of flats, she saw that the four-by-four was empty, but the driver was sitting in the van. She parked the Hyundai, ripped the wires apart to stop the exhaust fumes contaminating the environment and walked back towards the transit van.
The driver licked his lips as he watched her sashay towards him.
She banged on the blacked-out driver’s side window.
He opened it about half-an-inch, but didn’t say anything.
‘I need to talk to you.’ What she needed was for him to open the fucking window.
He didn’t say anything.
‘You’re meant to say something like, “About what?” at this point.’
But he didn’t.
‘Don’t you want to know what I know about Chloe and Poppy?’
That got his attention.
He began to open the door.
When she saw a leg appear, she threw all her weight against the door.
The man sucked in his breath and grunted with the pain as the bottom of the door crushed his shin bone.
She’d never used the “Touch of Death” since Bruce Lee – that’s what they used to call Taiku the Chinese student living in the squat with them – had told her what it was and how to apply it. Did it really work? He said it did, but no one would volunteer as a test subject – they were put off by the name.
Now, she jabbed her thumb into the soft spot underneath the man’s left ear as hard as she could and held it there.
The driver would have crumpled to the ground if she hadn’t forced him back into the driver’s cab using first the door, and then her body.
Next time she saw Bruce Lee, she’d tell him the “Touch of Death” really did work.
She found a large sheath knife on the driver’s belt. Fucking hell! They’d come tooled-up. She ran to the four-by-four, pushed the knife into the nearside tyre and then struggled to pull it out as the air inside escaped with a hiss.
Next, she climbed into the driver’s seat of the van, stripped the man of his weapons and pushed him out the other side onto the road. ‘Bastard,’ she mumbled. If it was up to her, she’d line every government agent up against a graffiti-daubed wall and shoot them. It was the least she could do after what they’d done to her.
Of course, if the others had gone up to flat seven in John Strutt House and killed Chloe and her daughter Poppy, then she was in deep shit when they returned. But if that’s what they’d planned – why bring the van?
It wasn’t long before the front doors of the building burst open and four men came out with Chloe and a crying Poppy wedged between them.
She started the ignition.
The side door opened.
Chloe and Poppy were bundled into the back of the van and the side door slammed shut.
She rammed the gearstick into first gear, pushed the accelerator to the floor and swung the steering wheel all the way round to the left. It came to her – as she was about to drive off into the sunset like the Lone fucking Ranger – that St Margaret’s Road was a dead end.
The off-side wheels bumped over the driver lying in the road.
Oh! What a shame.
She saw the astounded faces of the men through the offside wing mirror. Watched as they ran to the four-by-four, and then realised it had a flat tyre. She exited St Margaret’s Road, turned left into Sanford Road, right into Chelmer Road and another right into Springfield Park Avenue.
She spotted a Rover 75 and pulled up behind it.
Jumped out of the van and opened the side door.
Chloe and Poppy were sitting on the floor hugging each other.
‘Hurry,’ she said to them. ‘It won’t take them long to find us.’
‘What . . . ?’ Chloe began to ask.
‘We haven’t got time for twenty questions right now.’
She hurried to the Rover, jemmied the door, disabled the alarm and hot-wired it.
‘Get in the back,’ she said to them.
‘Where are we . . . ?’
‘There’ll be a question and answer session later.’
She went back to the front of the van, helped herself to an Uzi with three full magazines, a revolver, some maps and papers that were in the glove compartment, and a pair of cool sunglasses lying on the dashboard. The back of the van was empty.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ she said, as she jumped into the driver’s seat, closed the door and pulled away at a more leisurely speed, so as not to draw unnecessary attention to a crime in process.
‘They were going to kill us, weren’t they?’ Chloe said.
‘And they still might. You know too much.’
‘What made you come back?’
‘I had a premonition.’
‘Where are you taking us?’
‘All three of us need new identities now. I know a lizard in Mile End who can provide them.’
‘Is it a real lizard?’ Poppy asked.
‘He’s certainly slimy enough.’
She joined the A12 and headed towards London. At Brentwood, she stopped off, helped herself to an Audi TT that she spotted lying around looking neglected, and then re-joined the A12.
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ Chloe said.
The corner of Scylla’s mouth creased upwards. ‘Once or twice.’
***
‘Did I tell you I had a secret weapon?’
‘I recall the lads at Barking talking about your tiny, miniscule secret weapon in the past. Is that the secret weapon you mean?’
‘You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself.’
‘You don’t need any puffing up, Tom Dougall. What do you want? Did you call to talk dirty to me?’
‘I thought you might like to know what happened today.’
‘Well, go on then?’
‘I went to see a man called Colin Hargrave . . .’
People were all the same. They wanted you to pander to their desire for feedback, confirmation and idolatry. Well, she wasn’t playing that game. ‘Baby, come back; all right hey . . .’
‘You never could sing . . . So, I took my secret weapon.’
‘Yeah! Baby, come back; ooh all right; ooh okay . . .’
‘And I told him that I knew he had DC Koll, and that I wanted her back.’
‘Which he readily agreed to, of course?’
‘He obviously denied having anything to do with her abduction. That’s where my secret weapon came in.’
‘Ooh baby don’t go; Oh, won’t you please come back . . .’
‘Her name was Constable Nancy Barth.’
‘And she did the dance of the seven veils to persuade him to change his mind?’
‘They call her “The Mauler”.’
‘I said, baby come back . . .’
‘She boxes for the police force. You want to see this woman – if I’m not doing a disservice to womankind by calling her that.
She has arms like an orang-utan.’
‘Sounds just like your type, Dougall.’
‘Maybe I will.’
‘Maybe you should.’
‘She hit Hargrave once. He went down like a sack of spuds.’
‘Now, remind me what it is you do again?’
‘As my boss said: “Sometimes you have to get into the pit with the snakes”.’
‘Very philosophical.’
‘Hargrave had a bodyguard as well.’
‘I knew there was a catch.’
‘He was built like a brick shithouse. She sidestepped him and gave him an uppercut that started somewhere in hell. He flew across the room and slid down the back of the door.’
‘Sounds like my type of woman.’
‘Sadly, she’s not very bright.’
‘Neither are you, but I make do.’
‘I don’t know why I put up with you.’
‘That’s rich coming from you. So, come on then, finish the story.’
‘I brought Hargrave round and told him that he had until Monday morning to bring Koll back to Shrub End, or I’d send in the Wrecking Crew.’
‘So, we wait until Monday?’
‘Yes. Do you want to know about the Wrecking Crew?’
‘Sometimes I despair of you, Dougall. I invented the Wrecking Crew. They operate under my command. Nobody uses them without my specific authorisation.’
‘I’m glad I rang you.’
‘So am I?’
‘It doesn’t sound like it.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear. So, are you coming to pick me up and take me home tomorrow morning?’
‘You know I would if I could, but I can’t. I’ve had my two days off. The boss is expecting me back tomorrow.’
‘You fucking bastard, Tom Dougall. When was it that you last thought about anybody but yourself? Never – that’s when.’
She ended the call and burst into tears.
What the fuck was wrong with her?
She rang Scylla, but it diverted to voicemail.
‘Are you fucking working for me, or not?’
Next, she looked at her emails – no response from Scylla. She sent her another email:
Hey,
Are you fucking working for me, or not?
Xena
‘All ready for leaving tomorrow, Xena?’ Staff Nurse James asked as she came into the room.
‘Don’t pretend you care. I’ve been here for less than five minutes, suffered abuse and torture on an unprecedented scale by you, the doctors, and those idiots you call nurses and HCAs. My evidence to the government quango who are looking into the mismanagement of this shithole will be the final nail in its coffin.’
‘And don’t forget to buy an expensive bunch of flowers and an even more expensive box of chocolates to say, “Thank you” to all the people who have saved your life and nursed you back to health.’
‘A bunch of weeds and a box of turds, more like. Of all the things I might say, “thank you” would not be one of them. If the lazy bitches that work here – and that includes you – worked for me, they’d be begging for slops on the street.’
Staff Nurse James roared with laughter. ‘You’re a piece of work, Xena Blake.’
‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in all the time you’ve been torturing me.’
‘Would you like me to do anything for you before I go home?’
‘Yes, you can get the fuck out of my room and leave me in peace.’
***
‘Sorry about the issue of the forensic anthropologist coming up,’ Parish said as they walked up the stairs. ‘I planned to ask you if we had the funds for one before the press briefing.’
‘No worries, Jed. It was my fault, I got tied up.’
‘How’s the case going?’
‘Nearly there.’
‘Good job, Kowalski.’
‘Thanks, Parish.’
‘Do you miss the good old days, Ray?’
‘Things change – that’s life.’
‘Have you heard from the hospital yet?’
‘They said not to expect an immediate change in her condition. I’m sure that if Jerry had woken up, Bert or Matilda would have called me.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Are you knocking off now?’
‘I’ll sort the anthropologist out, and then I think I’ll call it a day.’
‘See you tomorrow then.’
‘Goodnight, Ray. And give my love to Jerry and the kids.’
‘Will do.’
He carried on up the stairs to forensics. Di Heffernan had probably emailed him, but where possible he liked to talk with people face-to-face.
She was just on her way out of the door.
‘I hope . . . ?’
‘I won’t keep you long.’’
‘I don’t want to be kept at all. Didn’t you get my email?’
‘I haven’t checked.’
‘Well, maybe . . .’
‘Five minutes.’
‘I want triple overtime pay.’
‘They all say that. Five minutes?’
‘Five minutes. Any longer and I’ll be consulting my union rep’.’
‘Thanks, Di.’
They walked back to her lab.
‘The cryptanalyst found two acrostics in the messages.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Does the name THOMAS I PYLSTER mean anything to you?’
‘No – sorry.’
She picked up her tablet, switched it on and brought up the messages on a large screen in the order that they were sent to the newspapers:
There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware! I will give you cause to weep.
I picked a juicy flower in Hoddesdon and I shall do it again. For there is no holiday without a funeral.
Happiness would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.
Only tears of sorrow can wash out the stain of shame; only pangs of suffering can blot out the fires of lust.
My invisible tears are the hardest to wipe away.
Sadness is always a legacy of the past; regrets are pains of the memory evermore.
All good things must come to an end; but all bad things can continue forever.
‘As you can see, he’s not the Zodiac Killer. The first and last letters spell out THOMAS I PYLSTER. We’ve checked CrimInt, but he’s never been arrested. There is, however, someone of that name on the electoral roll living at 44 Chesterfield Road in Broxbourne – I put it all in the email.’
‘Thanks for that, Di. It’s not a name I’ve seen before, but I’ll look into it.’
‘We’re all surprised here that nobody found the name before.’
‘To find it, someone had to be looking for it, and nobody was apparently.’
‘Also, we eventually found the missing items between the crime scenes and the forged Page 4s of the post mortem reports – train tickets.’
‘Train tickets?’
She brought up a copy of a page from a police notebook on the screen. ‘This is Detective Constable William Orde’s notebook. I don’t think he knew they were the numbers of train tickets, but we’ve checked, and that’s what they are. This is the only place they’re recorded, so where he got them from is anybody’s guess.’
He smiled as he recognised the Chief Constable’s backwards-sloping handwriting and the four train ticket numbers. A young DC Orde had the answer in his notebook all along, but never realised it.
‘Thanks very much for your help, Di.’
‘Have we helped?’
‘Yes, I think we can move this case from the “Unsolved” to the “Solved” pile.
‘Was it a police officer?’
‘No.’
‘But what about . . .’
‘You know all you need to know.’
‘I see – a cover-up.’
‘Hardly. Tomorrow, have all the evidence moved down to my office.’ He walked towards the door. ‘Have a pl
easant evening, Di.’
‘And you, Chief.’
Carrie had gone home, but left him instructions for READING, SIGNING and MESSAGES.
He called the Chief Constable first.
‘Mrs Susan Keen – the Chief Constable’s Personal Assistant. How may I help you?’
‘Still there, Sue? It’s DCI Kowalski . . .’
‘I forgot to say earlier – I hope your wife is better soon.’
‘Nice of you to say so. Is he in?’
‘Do you have the codeword?’
‘’SPARTAN.’
She transferred him.
‘Hello, Ray.’
‘Evening, Sir. I thought you’d want an update.’
‘Sure.’
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Oh?’
‘You had the answer in your notebook all along.’
‘Christ, Ray! Don’t say that.’
‘It was shortly after you joined the task force. You were obviously trying to get up to speed with the investigation, and you made a note of all the evidence.’
‘I remember. Jesus! I wrote the numbers down, didn’t I?’
‘Yes. Any idea where you got them from?’
‘They were on a sheet of paper . . .’
‘Which was obviously removed from the files shortly afterwards.’
‘And those train ticket numbers were the connection between the victims?’
‘Yes, but in your defence, I don’t think you realised the numbers belonged to train tickets.’
‘That’s small comfort.’
‘Have you ever heard the name Thomas I Pylster?’
‘No.’
‘Everything is pointing to him being the Red Spider. I saw my train guy today. Pylster was a ticket inspector on trains that were in Rye House and Cheshunt stations at the time of the two murders.’
‘It’s that simple?’
‘So it would seem. And what’s worse is that the first and last letters of the messages spell out his name.’
‘You’re making us appear like a bunch of incompetents, Ray.’
‘Twenty-twenty hindsight is a wonderful thing, Sir. Also, I went to see Andrew Pearson again today. We narrowed the list of names on the task force down to seven. If any of them are connected to Pylster, I’ll find it.’