Silent in the Grave (9781311028495)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Staff Nurse Vicky from the Pastures New Care Home.’

  ‘Of course. How’s Andrew today?’

  ‘I’m afraid he died an hour ago. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Was it . . . ?’

  ‘He was sitting in his chair staring out of the window as usual. He doesn’t have any family, so I thought I’d ring and let you know.’

  ‘What about the funeral?’

  ‘It’s paid for. We’ll organise a simple ceremony.’

  ‘Will you let me know when and where?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ***

  ‘You’re a fucking traitor.’

  Bronwyn shut the door and sat down on the plastic chair. ‘It’s nice to see you as well.’

  She’d been back to Lizard’s and collected her documents. Chloe and Poppy had gone off to find new lives, and she’d done her research on Gilbert’s past cases.

  ‘You didn’t need to tell Kowalski everything.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him everything. Some of the things I’ve done nobody needs to know about.’

  ‘I didn’t mean about you.’

  ‘You didn’t say I was to be economical with the truth.’

  ‘After all we went through together.’

  ‘How are you feeling anyway?’

  ‘Like shit.’

  ‘You don’t want to know what I’ve found out?’

  ‘Is it worth me staying awake for?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Go on then. I’ll try to remain interested.’

  ‘Very kind.’ She removed the tablet from her rucksack and brought up an old newspaper article:

  Court of Appeal upholds Police Commissioner’s right not to name the police officer who killed David Renner

  ‘You remember the Renner case four years ago?’ Bronwyn said.

  ‘Yes. He was shot by a police officer for waving a replica gun about during a walk-about by the Israeli Prime Minister . . . fucking hell!’

  Bronwyn smiled. ‘I can hear cogs and wheels moving.’

  ‘You mean Stick was the officer who killed Renner?’

  ‘Yes. Remember the woman at the airport?’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Sister.’ She scrolled down the article and showed Xena a picture of a woman wearing sunglasses and a smart trouser suit. ‘She’s changed her hair style and so forth, but that’s her – Sarah Tait. The man in the silver Mercedes at the airport is her husband Craig Tait – a property consultant.’

  ‘She must have found out Stick had killed Renner.’

  ‘A logical conclusion.’

  ‘Then she and her husband murdered Pine and the three others because they knew about DC Isolde Koll, planted all the evidence to make it look as though Stick had done the dastardly deed.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if that fingerprint on the lens I found belonged to one of the Taits.’

  ‘Fucking brilliant.’

  ‘And a traitor?’

  ‘That goes without saying. If I could get out of bed I’d arrest you and lock you in the Tower of London to await execution.’

  ‘I’m lucky you’re not feeling yourself today then?’

  ‘Very lucky, I’d say.’

  ‘So, I hacked into your email account and sent DI Banister a copy of everything I had – the airport CCTV showing Sarah Tait watching Gilbert get arrested; Craig Tait driving the silver Mercedes and dropping off/picking up his wife at the airport; the Hire Agreement for the Mercedes in the name of Lee Wells; information from the DVLA that Lee Wells is actually a sixty-nine year old bus driver from Hackney; this article; the fingerprint on the lens; the email you received stating that the fingerprint didn’t belong to Gilbert; and Gilbert’s real alibi that he was visiting a protected witness at number seven Joseph Strutt House in St Margaret’s Road, Chelmsford at the time the murders were committed.’

  ‘You hacked into my email account?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to send it from me, was I?’

  ‘You read my private emails?’

  ‘They held my attention for less than one second.’

  ‘Do you think it will be enough?’

  ‘Can pigs fly?’

  ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘I guess so. My gut feeling is that Banister will contact you when he receives that email. Your job is to convince him to focus his investigation on the Taits instead of Gilbert.’

  ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘I’ll send you a bill.’

  ‘You don’t work for me.’

  ‘I meant for saving your life.’

  ‘I’d rather die.’

  ‘I know some people who can arrange that.’

  ‘Fuck off then, I need my rest.’

  Bronwyn bent down, took Xena’s face in her hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘See you around, sleeping partner.’

  ‘Not if I see you first you crazy bitch.’

  ***

  The Human Resources Director at the Marin supermarket Head Office in Colchester wouldn’t give him any information about Holly Vincent over the phone, but she would if he presented himself in person.

  He decided on a leisurely drive along the A120 instead of the M25 or A12, but after thirty minutes wished he hadn’t. A peppering of road works made the journey two hours long instead of an hour and ten minutes.

  Marin House was a four-storey modern glass building on the East Gates Industrial Estate. He walked into the reception and spoke to the woman dressed like an air stewardess sitting behind the reception desk. ‘Detective Inspector Jed Parish to see Mrs Louise Spensley.’

  ‘Just one moment, Sir.’

  She called an internal extension.

  ‘Please go up to the fourth floor in the lift. Mrs Spensley will meet you there.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Louise Spensley wasn’t a natural blonde – he could just make out the dark roots of her real hair in the perfect line of her middle parting. She wasn’t a person who smiled naturally either. The smile that she offered him was more like a grimace than a smile. Her handshake was limp, her eyes were dull, but she wore an expensive gold-coloured silk blouse and a beige skirt and jacket with matching designer shoes.

  She led him through to her office.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked as if she hoped he’d decline.

  ‘No thank you. If I could just have the information regarding Holly Vincent, I’ll be on my way.’

  She began touch-typing on the keyboard of her computer. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’

  He was surprised that she hadn’t already carried out a search and printed the information off, but then again maybe he wasn’t. She struck him as someone who wouldn’t give you the dirt from under her fingernails, and the type of person you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

  ‘Here we are.’ She passed him three sheets of paper stapled together.

  He glanced at the information. ‘She worked at the Wormley branch for three months?’

  ‘That’s what it says.’

  ‘Why did she leave?’

  She shrugged. ‘One day she failed to turn up for work. We wrote to her, but there was no response. We terminated her employment two weeks later.’

  ‘You didn’t send someone to find out what had happened to her?’

  ‘The short answer is no. We employ hundreds of staff across our seventy-four branches. Some of those have been with us for years, others are seasonal. We take care of our people, but if someone doesn’t want to work for us there’s not a lot we can do about it.’

  ‘She’s put NA instead of a next-of-kin.’

  ‘It means . . .’

  ‘I know what it means, but she had a mother.’

  ‘Did you want us to check that as well?’

  ‘Well, it seems to me that somebody could put what they wanted on these forms.’

  ‘We rely on people telling the truth, but if they don’t . . .’ She shrugged again. ‘Apart from e
mploying a team of private investigators there’s not a lot we can do about it.’

  ‘Do you happen to know if she actually lived at this address?’

  ‘That’s where we sent the letters to.’

  He stood up. ‘Thanks very much for your time, Mrs Spensley.’

  ‘I hope the journey was worth it?’

  ‘So do I.’

  He made his way down in the lift and out to his car. Was the address valid? Would the boyfriend be there? Was the boyfriend the murderer? Well, he’d soon find out.

  ***

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Well, don’t pass it onto me, Toadstone.’

  He’d just arrived outside the tower block in Broxbourne where Holly Vincent had told the Marin HR Department she lived.

  ‘Newgate Street in Cuffley.’

  ‘Newgate was one of the original six gates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you got your people out there?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What are you waiting for – an invitation?’

  ‘I’m following Standard Operating Procedures and notifying you first.’

  ‘I won’t be coming.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Look, we both know you’re going to find a body out there. I have far more important things to do than look at one more dead woman wrapped in cling film.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so. I’m on the trail of the murderer. Anyway, good job, Toadstone. Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  He made his way into the tower block, which had been called “Woodhouse”, but somebody had renamed it with spray paint to “Shithouse”.

  The lift reeked of urine. He was glad to get out on the eighth floor, until he took a breath. The stench of urine was everywhere.

  No one answered when he knocked on 806. He tried 807 and got the same result. The door of 804 opened and an obese woman with a boy of about three years old strapped into a pushchair came out.

  ‘Are you the lift engineer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that. Do you know how long I’ve been stuck up here with this little bastard.’

  ‘No. I’m . . .’

  ‘Three fucking days that’s how long. Another day and we’d have starved to death.’

  He stuck his warrant card in her face. ‘Detective Inspector Parish from Hoddesdon. I’m interested in the people who live in 806.’

  ‘No one lives there.’

  ‘What about three months ago?’

  ‘Holly and John had it then.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to them?’

  ‘Holly did a runner so John said, and then he had to move out because he couldn’t afford the rent on his own. You want to talk to him – John Gibbons. He works at Wallace’s Tyre Centre in the village.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Are you travelling down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They waited for the lift to arrive, but it seemed to be stuck between the fifth and sixth floors.

  ‘Not again,’ the woman said.

  ‘I could carry the pushchair down,’ he offered.

  ‘Going down isn’t the problem, it’s getting back up again. Never mind, we’ll stay up here and starve to death. I’ll phone the lift company again.’

  He left her to it and walked down the eight flights of steps back to his car.

  ***

  Wallace’s Tyre Centre was located on Bell Lane near Ali Baba’s Kebab Emporium.

  He parked in the car park of the carpet shop next door and as he climbed out of his car his mobile vibrated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you’re not investigating without me?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Time waits for no man.’

  ‘Woman.’

  ‘Or them. Where are you?’

  ‘Pulling into London. Where are you?’

  He told her what he’d been doing.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d send me to Warrington and then investigate the case on your own.’

  ‘As I recall, you begged me to send you to Warrington.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know you were going to send me to Coventry as well.’

  ‘You should have checked the terms and conditions before you volunteered.’

  ‘Are you going to pick me up from Chigwell.’

  ‘No. Get a taxi.’

  ‘I can’t believe . . .’

  ‘Not something else you can’t believe?’

  She ended the call.

  He phoned the press officer, cancelled the press briefing and re-arranged it for tomorrow morning. It was quarter to four. There was no way he was going to get back to the station in time.

  ‘Can I help you, mate?’ a man with a crew cut, overalls and a pair of blue plastic gloves asked.

  ‘John Gibbons.’ He showed his warrant card.

  ‘You’re not here to arrest him, are you?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  He called into the workshop. ‘John, there’s copper here to see you.’

  A spotty-faced young man appeared. ‘Huh?’

  ‘What can you tell me about Holly Vincent?’

  ‘She left me. I thought we were good, but she did a runner.’

  ‘What do you mean, did a runner?’

  ‘I got home from work one night about three months ago, and she’d packed all her stuff and left me. No note, no text message, no phone call – gone.’

  ‘She packed her stuff?’

  ‘Yeah. Why are you asking me all this stuff?’

  ‘Holly’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Somebody killed her after she left me?’

  ‘No. She never left you. Someone killed her and made it look as though she’d left you.’

  ‘Fucking hell! Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Did anything unusual happen before she left?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Any strangers knocking on the door, weird phone calls, someone following her . . . ?’

  ‘She said there was a guy at work that kept pestering her, but she’d told him where to get off. That was one thing about Holly. If she told you to fuck off you knew she meant it.’

  ‘Did she tell you his name?’

  ‘No, all she said was that he was a slimy greaseball.’

  He passed him a business card. ‘If you do think of anything else that could be useful, please call me.’

  ‘Sure, and thanks for coming here to let me know. I felt like shit thinking Holly had left me, but now . . . well, I still feel like shit, but for Holly. Are you trying to find out who killed her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you do, Mister. Holly was a lot rough round the edges, but she had a heart of gold sometimes.’

  ***

  Would anyone remember a “slimy greaseball”?

  He drove to the Marin supermarket in Wormley and asked to see the manager.

  ‘Curtis Mayfield,’ the manager said. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Curtis Mayfield?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve heard all the jokes, so don’t bother. My parents were big fans and decided to psychologically torture me throughout my whole life.’

  He showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Jed Parish . . .’

  ‘Now that’s a normal name – Jed Parish. I should have been called something like that.’

  ‘I’m looking for a slimy greaseball.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Has somebody told you we sell them in our toy section?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m investigating a murder. Three months ago you had a young woman working here called Holly Vincent . . .’

  ‘I vaguely recall the name. Come to my office.’

  He followed Mayfield through the store to an office at the back.

  ‘Holly to
ld her boyfriend that there was a slimy greaseball pestering her at work.’

  ‘I see – a slimy greaseball. No name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No description?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not much to go on.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Three months ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He checked his diary. ‘Yes, I thought so. I was in hospital over that period – had my gall bladder removed by keyhole surgery. There was an interim manager covering for me called . . .’ He consulted his diary again. ‘Stanley Magee. He might know.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘No idea. You’d have to ring the Head Office – Mrs Spensley – she’d know. She’s a bit strange, but it takes all types.’

  ‘Mrs Spensley and I have met.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then.’

  ‘Wouldn’t any of your staff know who she was referring to?’

  He shrugged. ‘They might. Can you wait until tomorrow morning – now is our busiest time?’

  ‘What time tomorrow morning?’

  ‘We open at seven, so you’ll have to get here at six-thirty.’

  ‘Six-thirty?’

  ‘You’ve seen what the store is like.’

  ‘All right, I’ll be here at six-thirty.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I also need to talk to the interim manager – Stanley Magee.’

  ‘As I said . . .’

  ‘Can you ring Mrs Spensley and find out where he is. I had to drive all the way to Colchester to get the information on Holly Vincent.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s a stickler for rules is Mrs Spensley.’ He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Mrs Spensley, it’s Curtis Mayfield from . . . yes, I’m fine. How are you? . . . Good. I have an Inspector Parish . . . he said you two had met. He’s here asking about Holly . . . yes. If you recall, I was in hospital three months ago and you sent Stanley Magee here to cover . . . really? I know this is asking a lot, but could you fax Mr Magee’s details to me now, because I know the Inspector wants to . . . That’s great, Mrs Spensley. Thanks very much. Have a good weekend.’ He put down the phone. ‘Stanley Magee handed in his notice two months ago.’

  ‘I see.’