Silent in the Grave (9781311028495)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Very nice for you, I’m sure. Well, you’re confined to bed until I say otherwise, and especially keep out of the basement. There are people queuing up for operations. If you stay here any longer you’ll be sharing that bed with some of those people.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Xena Blake.’

  Chief Kowalski appeared at the door, took a step inside and closed it behind him. ‘Good to see you awake, Blake.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘The doctors say another two weeks before you can go home.’

  ‘They just like torturing me.’

  He dragged a chair up to the bed, reversed it and sat down with his elbows on the backrest. ‘Bronwyn told us everything.’

  ‘About the Assistant Commissioner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Stephen Harradine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she give you the evidence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Bruce Artell committed suicide in his bathroom at six-thirty this morning – put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.’

  ‘Are they going to explain it away?’

  ‘Of course. Harradine will resign later this morning so that he can spend more time with his family.’

  ‘What about justice for Ellie Farrington?’

  ‘You know very well that politics comes before justice in the pecking order of things. Making Harradine’s crime public would only serve to destabilise the government, and we don’t want that, do we?’

  ‘Bastards. I bet they’ve already covered up what happened here last night.’

  ‘Did something happen here last night, Blake? It’s my recollection that you had a relapse, suffered a few delusions and then they rushed you to theatre to have another life-saving operation.’

  ‘Fucking bastards. How’s your wife, Sir?’

  ‘She woke up last night . . .’

  ‘That’s brilliant news. Is she . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, she’s back to her old self. Wants to know when she can get out of here and come home. That’s why I was here in the middle of the night. In fact, it was through my unselfish gallantry that you’re still alive.’

  ‘I expect you’ll get a medal.’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Professional Standards had something to say about your unauthorised investigation, which led directly to the events last night and resulted in significant damage to the fabric of the hospital and . . .’

  ‘You knew what I was doing . . .’

  ‘Evidence, Blake. I’ll deny all knowledge, of course. Even if it had come to my attention, I certainly would not have authorised an investigation into something that the Chief Constable had already allocated to DI Banister at Southend. And then, of course, there’s all the other laws, regulations and guidelines you ignored last night . . .’

  ‘Me? What about that fucking bitch, Blodwyn . . . or whatever she’s calling herself these days?’

  ‘She told me how you’d tricked her into breaking the law on numerous occasions. You’re a senior officer now, Blake. You have a responsibility . . .’

  ‘Didn’t you just say that nothing happened here last night?’

  ‘Did I? Anyway, enough about that. Have you managed to extricate Gilbert from the mess he’s got himself into yet?’

  ‘Gilbert? What about the mess I’m in?’

  ‘Yes . . . you and Gilbert make a good partnership in that respect. It would be a shame to lose both of you.’

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that he needs you, and you need him.’

  ‘You want me to continue with the investigation?’

  ‘Absolutely not, Blake. You’re obviously still suffering from delusions. I couldn’t possibly agree to such a course of action. You’re in hospital recovering from a major operation, you’re not on active duty, you have no police powers, your warrant card is a useless piece of paper . . .’

  ‘Plausible deniability?’

  ‘As I said earlier: Political expediency always comes before justice.’

  ‘I thought you were different, Sir.’

  ‘In a system that values conformity it doesn’t pay to be different, Blake.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, Sir.’

  ‘You do that. Bronwyn said she’ll be back later.’

  ‘She’s a fucking traitor.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you and Gilbert back at work in the very near future.’

  Some fucking holiday this was passed through her mind as she drifted off to sleep again.

  ***

  It was five to twelve. He’d given her more than enough time. Her appointment with the Prison Governor had been an hour and a half ago. He’d told her to ring him when it was over. Why hadn’t she called? Surely she couldn’t still be in there haggling for a copy of Newey’s file.

  He’d been at work all morning filling in the time until he heard from her – emails, reading, messages, a whole tray of signing – where did it all come from? Who had the time to generate such copious amounts of rubbish? A cottage industry had sprouted up to service the needs of an ever-expanding bureaucracy.

  He found her name in his phonebook.

  His finger hovered over the screen.

  Why did he have to ring her? He was the DI, she was the Constable. She needed to understand how the hierarchy worked. She was one step up from Nancy in the canteen, and he was knocking on the door of the guest room in the penthouse suite looking down at her with a frown etched on his face. Yes, he’d have to give her a few lessons in subservience when she got back.

  What if something had happened to her? What if she was lying in a cold damp cellar bleeding to death and calling out his name? What if . . . ? He pressed her name and the phone dialled her number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I’ll ring you back soon.’

  The call ended.

  Yes, she needed lessons in who the boss was, and who the boss wasn’t. He was the boss. Familiarity breeds contempt – that’s what they said. Well, it looked like it was true. He’d told her to ring him as soon as she left the prison – she hadn’t. Instead, she’d disobeyed a direct order and he’d have to discipline her accordingly.

  The phone vibrated.

  ‘About time. Why didn’t you ring me once you’d left the prison like I ordered you to do.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Don’t “hello” me, Constable.’

  ‘Did you want me to ring you when I had nothing to say?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I wanted you to do.’

  ‘Were you worried about me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, there was nothing to say. Newey made no friends, he had one visit from a woman, he was murdered in the shower by a person or persons unknown and the Governor wouldn’t give me a copy of his file..’

  ‘One visit from a woman! That was something to say.’

  ‘Not until I found out who she was and why she’d visited him.’

  ‘Which you’ve now done?’

  ‘I’m sitting outside her house.’

  ‘You see, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You could have been murdered – or worse – in that house and nobody would have known where you were.’

  ‘What’s worse than murder?’

  ‘You have to ask after everything we’ve seen?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Oh yes. Her name is Donna Vincent. She had Philip Newey’s child nineteen years ago, but never told him because he used to beat her senseless, and she wanted to be free of him.’

  ‘Why visit specifically to tell him she’d had his child?’

  ‘Revenge. She knew he’d never be released after what he’d done.’

  ‘So, she gave birth in secret?’

  ‘Yes. The child’s name is Holly Vincent and she
ran away from home three years ago. The mother never heard from her daughter until a postcard arrived from her six months ago.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It said how she was getting her life back together, that she had a boyfriend and a job in the local Marin supermarket.’

  ‘Have you got the . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it, but I don’t know how useful it will be.’

  ‘Doesn’t she say where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there a postmark on the stamp?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s smudged and unreadable.’

  ‘Forensics might be able to do something with that. What’s the postcard of?’

  ‘It’s just an Essex postcard showing all the tourist attractions such as Colchester, Epping . . .’

  ‘I think I have a good idea of the attractions in Essex.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Good job, Richards.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want you to say something you might regret at a later date.’

  ‘I’m sure. Can I hear whispering? You’ve not got a man there with you, have you?’

  ‘A man? I should be so lucky. I don’t think that God ever meant for me to have a man.’

  ‘Get your arse back here then, and stop sightseeing.’

  He ended the call.

  At last, he had a name – Holly Vincent. And she’d had a job at the local Marin supermarket. Where had her local supermarket been? The head office would have staff records. Was it a coincidence that Jade Williams had been left in the car park of a Marin supermarket? He didn’t believe in coincidences. And what about the boyfriend – who was that?’

  ***

  ‘Hello, Ernie.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Pint?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Ploughmans?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Aye.’

  He nodded at the same barman from yesterday and said, ‘An orange juice and ploughmans for me, please. Double stilton and chutney for Ernie, singles for me.’

  The barman served their drinks, and then went into the back to tell the chef what food they’d ordered.

  He’d just come from the station after discovering that none of the seven names on his list had been the Red Spider’s accomplice, which had left only one person it could possibly be – the courier who had transported the post mortem reports and victim’s possessions between the mortuaries and the police station. The signature on the paperwork couldn’t be deciphered, but he found references to a company called Express Couriers located in Woodford. He found a number and phoned them.

  ‘Express Couriers,’ a female voice said.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Ray Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Are you married, Ray?’

  ‘I’m not ringing for a phone interview.’

  She laughed. ‘No . . . I just want to marry a policeman.’

  ‘That’s a strange desire.’

  ‘I know. So, are you married?’

  ‘Yes . . . with four children.’

  ‘Rats.’

  ‘No – children. Sometimes they looked like rats, but . . .’

  ‘No. That’s what Snoopy says – rats.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Anyway, I need to know if you keep old records.’

  ‘Yes. We were established in 1974 by Edward Mullins, and we have all our old records.’

  ‘I need to find out the name of a courier who transported items between mortuaries and the police station on six occasions during the early eighties.’

  ‘You give me the dates, I’ll give you the names.’

  ‘I’m hoping it’s just one person.’

  ‘Maybe it will be, but you have to do something for me if I give you a name.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You must have a lot of single policemen there.’

  ‘I’m sure we do.’

  ‘You could put my name and telephone number on a notice board, or something.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. As long as you’re not . . .’

  ‘No, I’m not one of those.’

  He wrote down her name and number on a post-it note and she promised to get back to him within the hour. While he was waiting, he wandered downstairs and pinned the note to the board, but had added: Woman Wants to Marry Police Officer.

  She called him back as he was about to set off to the Alf’s Head to meet Ernie.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. And I’ve had three phone calls already.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘That’s because no one wants to marry a police officer.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So you’ve said. Have you got a name for me?’

  ‘Oh yes! You were right – it was one person did all those collections and deliveries. Her name was Norma Wallis.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘The first we ever employed as a courier apparently.’

  ‘Do you have any information on her?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Is a Thomas Pylster mentioned anywhere?’

  ‘She was married to Paul Wallis who she put down as her next-of-kin, but her second next-of-kin was her brother – Thomas Pylster who lived at 44 Chesterfield Road in Broxbourne.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to leave your wife and children, and marry me?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He asked Carrie to find out where Norma Wallis was now, but he already knew the answer.

  Now, he turned slightly on his barstool. ‘Are you here every day, Ernie?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How long have you been retired?’

  ‘Nigh on fifteen years now.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Aye – Ethel.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘I’ve got four.’

  ‘Hate them.’

  ‘Just your children, or all children?’

  ‘All of them. No respect for their elders anymore.’

  ‘The world’s changing.’

  ‘Aye. And not for the better, either.’

  Ernie finished his pint.

  He nodded at the barman to fill Ernie’s pint up again.

  The food arrived.

  They ate in silence.

  ‘Same ticket inspector was on all the trains,’ Ernie said at last, placing a crumpled piece of paper on the bar. ‘Thomas Pylster. He wasn’t scheduled to be on one of the trains, but I found him in the end. Two of them did a shift change, so he was on a train he shouldn’t have been on. He’s the one who murdered those six women, isn’t he?’

  ‘Between you and me, it certainly looks that way, Ernie.’

  He put forty pounds behind the bar and shook Ernie’s hand. ‘You’ve been a godsend.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Thanks for all your help.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And look after yourself.’

  ‘Aye. You too, Mr K’walski.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He reached 44 Chesterfield Road in Broxbourne at one thirty-five and waited for the squad car to arrive. He didn’t want to go in and arrest Thomas Pylster without back-up even though the man was probably in his eighties by now.

  Carrie had called him as he climbed in his car outside the Alf’s Head.

  ‘Hi Carrie.’

  ‘Norma Wallis died of breast cancer six weeks ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Pylster had been protecting his sister as she had protected him all those years ago.

  The squad car arrived with a male and a female officer.

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Constable Anne Henry, Sir,’ the tall, skinny female officer said. ‘And this is my partner for the day – Constable Douglas Farquar.’

  ‘Would you recommend him?’


  ‘Only for use as a guinea pig in an experiment.’

  ‘You’d better buck your ideas up, Farquar.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He told them what to expect and they made their way up the concrete path to the three-bedroom semi-detached house and knocked on the door – there was no answer.

  ‘Police. Open up, Mr Pylster,’ he shouted through the letterbox.

  No response.

  The front door was uPVC and unlikely to respond to a shoulder charge. He sent Henry and Farquar left and right round the house to find an entry point.

  After about five minutes Henry opened the front door from the inside.

  ‘Good job, Henry.’

  ‘It’s not the first time, Sir.’

  ‘Is that a confession?’

  ‘Absolutely not, Sir.’

  Farquar found Pylster hanging from a rope that had been looped round a large hook screwed into one of the rafters in the loft and dangled through the access hole at the top of the stairs. The body was still warm, and had probably been dead about an hour.

  ‘You two wait outside,’ he said to them. ‘It looks like a suicide, but might be a murder. If it is, we don’t want to contaminate the crime scene.’

  They left him there.

  He phoned forensics and the pathologist.

  Pylster had written a suicide note in which he confessed to the murders. The reason he’d killed all those women was because a Loraine Wardell had gone to a backstreet abortion clinic to get rid of his baby, and then bled to death afterwards. For a long time he hated all women.

  As well as the suicide note, there was also an old shoe box full of keepsakes including Polaroid photographs of the dead women, locks of blonde hair in plastic envelopes, rings, necklaces, a pair of knickers, newspaper cuttings, a small pack of white cards, a pot of red artist’s paint and a quill pen . . .

  He collected these up, walked outside and put them in the boot of his car. There was no need to make any of it public now. Time had moved on. He’d write a full report explaining the final piece of the jigsaw and add it to the evidence boxes at Rye for anyone in the future who might want to know the truth. For now though, the truth was a poisoned chalice.

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘Kowalski.’

  ‘It’s Vicky McGuire.’