by Ellis, Tim
‘It’s not our fault, Gov,’ Tony said.
‘That may be true, Tony but the trouble is I don’t have anyone else to blame.’
‘Maybe we’ll get a break tomorrow, Gov,’ Frank said.
‘Let’s hope so, Frank. Otherwise I’ll be the one singing the Mingulay Boat song from the lost property room in the Outer Hebrides police station.’ She looked at the clock and saw that it was quarter to five. ‘Right, knock off everyone. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning seeing as it’s Sunday.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Randall climbed the steps of 200 Portobello Road and forced open the boarded-up main door. Inside the entrance lobby, the absence of light gave him the eerie feeling that he had crossed the threshold of a black hole. He switched the torch on. There was a reception desk directly ahead, with a clock that had stopped at two thirty-seven. A thick layer of dirt covered everything. To the left was an alcove with two lifts, but Randall was sure that they wouldn’t work. On the right of the desk was a door with TO THE STAIRS etched into a plastic sign above a small window with Georgian glass.
Before moving on he shone the torch all around the entrance lobby, but there was nothing of interest.
Shouldering through the door, he found two other doors in the stairwell as well as the stairs leading up to the five floors and the roof. The door to the left was open and led into what looked like a staff area for the receptionists with a table, five chairs, a small kitchenette with a water boiler, sink, and cupboards. The door to the right was locked. He used the torsion wrench and the snake rake pick from his pickset to open the pin and tumbler lock. During an undercover operation, he had met Harry the Pick who had shown him how to open locks. It had been the best short course he’d ever attended. After only a couple of lessons, Harry had said he had the gift.
The open door revealed a set of concrete steps leading downwards. He started into the blackness. At the bottom there was another locked door. He opened it and stepped through into a boiler room, which also had three locked storage cages. In each cage he found clutter and junk, and the boiler room itself revealed nothing. He realised that if Pike was using this building as a place to store his axes, then this room would have been ideal. Even though this was only the first of Pike’s properties he had looked at, he felt disheartened. Detective work was always about persistence and patience, but like a rookie, he had a sense that he would stumble on the truth at the first try. He had forgotten how utterly soul-destroying it could sometimes be.
He made his way back up to the stairwell and climbed to the second floor, but he knew he wouldn’t find anything. He had tried to ignore the fact that he hadn’t seen any footprints etched into the dust either in the lobby or on the stairs. Now, fitting the pieces together, he realised that he was wasting his time, but he carried on anyway.
On each floor there was a central corridor running the length of the building like a spine with offices on either side like vertebrae. The desks, chairs, filing cabinets, telephones, and carpets had all been left in the offices, and he thought that with a major clean and some electricity they could become operational in no time.
Through a broken window on the fifth floor, he looked out over the bustling Portobello market, which was beginning to wind down. The stallholders had come prepared with hanging lights, and some of them had coloured bulbs. Halloween had been over for a week, but he could still see some pumpkins on display. He remembered coming to the market with Sarah and the kids during the summer of 2005. They had walked for miles through stalls filled with second-hand clothes, new bags and shoes, hardware, bric-a-brac, fruit & veg, bread, fish, French cheese, fresh cakes, vintage bags and lace, costume jewellery, and fur coats. Agreeing to split up so that they could cover more ground, Sarah had taken Tilly, and Mathew went with him. Then they met for fish and chips at the Earl of Lonsdale pub. It was only on his birthday that he found out Tilly – with Sarah’s help – had bought him a T-shirt with a London Bridge tube station motif on the front. Tears ran down his cheeks.
He was just about to head back down the stairs when he saw the door leading to the roof. It was locked so he picked it and climbed more stairs to the fire door exiting onto the flat roof. The only thing up there was a water tank with a dead pigeon floating on the top.
Thoroughly depressed at not finding anything, he made his way back down the stairs. As he let himself out of the lobby and pushed the door shut behind him, his mobile rang.
‘Hello, Molly.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Portobello Road.’
‘It’s five o’clock, and I’m standing outside your flat like a fucking prostitute.’
‘You won’t make much money standing there, Molly. Go round to the Pepper Pot café… I’ll see you there in about half an hour if you’re not with a client.’ He disconnected the call and smiled.
As the stallholders dismantled their stalls for another Saturday, the clatter of metal poles clanging on the tarmac accompanied him along the road. The tourists continued to arrive, wondering what had happened to the market.
It had been a wasted journey, and he wondered if he was pursuing the wrong man. How many times had he been riddled with doubt in his career? All he had on Pike were two pubic hairs, a secret exit, and a gut feeling. It wasn’t much to go on. There was a heap of evidence to support him not being the killer such as his alibis, the prostitutes, the fact that he was out of the country when some of the murders took place. Either Pike was working with someone, or Randall was after the wrong man.
He bought a tube ticket at Notting Hill Gate back to Hammersmith and descended to the platform.
It had to be the answer. There were two of them sharing the killing. The other one kills the last two families and plants the pubic hairs. Pike has an alibi, and the police look stupid. But why implicate Pike in the first place? Randall realised then that Pike was playing a game, and winning. Pike wants the notoriety, the fame. Implicating himself as a suspect was just another part of the game.
The five-thirteen arrived two minutes late. It was the beginning of rush hour. He squeezed inside.
Mind the doors.
Had Pike – like himself – stumbled into the macabre game of a psychopath, or was Pike the psychopath? He was sure Pike was a killer. As soon as he saw Pike on the interview disc he knew. The unmoving eyes told him everything he needed to know. He had stared into the eyes of enough killers to know them now. Some wished they’d never killed, some killed in a mad rage, others killed out of necessity, but psychopaths killed because they enjoyed it. Psychopaths made a game out of killing. Pike was definitely a psychopath. He had spotted the signs as soon as he’d seen him. His selfishness – the fact that he uses prostitutes and doesn’t share his life with a partner; his inability to feel guilt or empathise with the victims during the interviews; and the ruthlessness – evident in his eyes.
He stepped out of the tube at Hammersmith and made his way along the corridors and up the escalators to the surface. Outside, he took a deep breath, glad to be in the open. He had spent far too long underground bathed in artificial light at Springfield Asylum.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After rushing to get to Randall’s flat for five o’clock there was no answer when she knocked, so she phoned him.
‘Hello, Molly.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Portobello Road.’
‘It’s five o’clock, and I’m standing outside your flat like a fucking prostitute.’
‘You won’t make much money standing there, Molly. Go round to the Pepper Pot café… I’ll see you there in about half an hour, if you’re not with a client that is.’
He disconnected the call.
God, she hated the way he did that. ‘You fucking bastard,’ she screamed at the phone.
Walking down the stairs towards her, a scruffy man with straggly blonde hair and a spotty nose said, ‘I’ll agree with that.’ As he drew closer, the stench became overpowering.
Molly covered her nos
e and mouth with her hand and said, ‘Christ, you stink.’
‘Well, fuck you as well, slut,’ he said pushing past her.
She followed him down the stairs, eager to breathe in fresh air. Outside she made her way to the Pepper Pot café. She had noticed it, but never been in until now. She was sitting on the right facing the door with her back to the wall. A thin white-haired waitress approached with a pencil and pad.
‘Just a cup of coffee, please,’ she said. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’
The waitress nodded and left. Customers were arriving, some were leaving, and the café quickly filled up with weary shoppers, workers too idle to cook for themselves at home, people who were tired of takeaways eaten alone and craved a home-cooked meal, and Molly Stone waiting for someone she wished wasn’t coming. She was glad Cole Randall had been released, glad he was innocent, but she wasn’t glad he was forcing her to break the law. Since she’d started investigating this case her life had begun to unravel like a cheap jumper. She needed to take back control of her life again, but how? Her team had deserted her when she needed them. Yes, she could order them to keep pursuing Pike, but their hearts wouldn’t be in it. She would like to have told Cole Randall to fuck off, but she needed him as much as he needed her. Now that there was a restraining order in place, the only way to investigate Pike was through illegal means, and Randall was the only one who could do that. She had five days left if Thursday wasn’t included. Yes, Randall had to prove Pike was the killer and save her career.
She was just about to order another coffee when Randall sauntered in as if he had all the time in the world.
‘You said five o’clock,’ she said accusingly as he took his coat off and sat down.
‘I was doing your job.’
‘You could have called. It wouldn’t have taken you a minute to call and say you were going to be late.’ Even as she was speaking she knew she sounded like a fishwife.
‘You’re right, I’m sorry. There was no need to keep track of time in the asylum.’
She felt guilty then. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Checking out the address in Portobello Road. It’s a derelict office block, and would have been ideal for Pike. It’s close by, has lockable rooms, but it’s due to be refurbished in January.’
‘I take it you didn’t find anything?’
‘No.’
The white-haired waitress approached with her pad and pencil.
‘Do you want another drink, Molly?’ Randall asked.
‘Coffee,’ she said.
‘A coffee and a tea, please, Kiri.’
The waitress left.
‘How come you know her name?’
‘How come you want to know?’
Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Mmm,’ she said sliding the DVDs of the interviews with Pike and Olga Balanchuk, and Pike’s property list across the table.
He put them in his pocket without looking at them. ‘Don’t "Mmm" me Molly Stone. Keep your mind focussed on the case.’
‘INTERPOL came back negative. My team has been less than helpful today, we’ve eliminated Pike as a suspect.’
‘To be expected,’ Randall said. ‘Apart from the pubic hairs, everything you have says he’s not the killer. Your team doesn’t know about the secret exit. They have no imagination, and don’t believe he could be one of two killers?’
‘No they don’t. They thought I was mad for even suggesting it.’
‘I guess we’re on our own then, Molly.’
‘I’m going to Broadmoor tomorrow to look at Jacob Hansen’s medical records and speak to a Dr. Harry Maslow about him. I’m not hopeful.’
‘If this Jacob Hansen has disappeared, then maybe he could be our second killer.’
‘We need to know what’s wrong with him, and obtain a photograph. At the moment we don’t know anything about him.’
The waitress returned with the drinks.
‘Anything else?’ he asked Molly when the waitress had left.
‘Frank questioned the Blueberry girls and they all supported Pike’s alibis.’
‘You know what I think of Frank. Keep going.’
‘As you predicted, we didn’t get the search warrant for Pike’s credit card and phone records.’
‘As I said, I know a man. Copies of the records should be waiting for me when I get back to the flat. I’ll phone you tomorrow morning if I find anything.’
‘I had the 999 tapes analysed, something DI Miller should have done.’
‘There were probably lots of things we should and should not have done a year ago, Molly. What did forensics find?’
‘It’s the same voice on all the tapes, and it’s not Pike.’
He wrapped his hands around the mug of tea and stared into the murky depths as if the answer might float to the surface. ‘We have two possibilities then. Either Pike is an innocent victim and we haven’t found the killer yet, or there are two killers.’
She took a drink of her coffee. ‘If we believe Pike is the killer, but we know he couldn’t have done some of the murders because he was in another country, then the only logical explanation is that he must have a partner.’
‘We’re like a finely tuned Stradivarius again, Molly. Your thoughts mirror mine, but there’s still nothing to link Pike to the murders.’
‘No, but you’re going to find something aren’t you, Sir?’ She desperately needed a cigarette.
‘All the exits from Pike’s flat are being watched by CCTV cameras now.’
‘Christ, Sir. That’s an invasion of privacy.’
‘You’re still thinking like a copper, Molly. I’m a private citizen now. I can do whatever I like as long as I don’t get caught. And if I do, I’ll call my guardian angel, Molly Stone.’
‘Shit, I hope you don’t get caught, Sir. It could get bloody complicated if you did, especially if they thought I was using you to get round the restraining order. I’d be in the cell next to you.’
Randall upended the mug and swallowed the last of his tea. ‘So, is that it? I have places to be, people to see.’
‘How did you manage to get CCTV cameras put up at Pike’s flat?’
‘I know a man. Well, a seventeen-year-old goddess actually. If Pike comes out of the secret exit during the night he’ll be followed, and I’ll get a call.’
‘Then you’ll call me?’
‘I’ll find out where he’s going first.’
‘We both know where he’ll be going. You’ll call me?’ she persisted.
‘All right, I’ll call you, but don’t think…’
‘If you want to kill him I won’t try to stop you, but don’t forget that I need to solve the case. We need to work out a plausible scenario so that I get the credit.’
‘I see,’ Randall said. ‘I do all the work and you get all the credit?’
‘Is that a problem?’ she said.
‘No.‘
She stood up to go. ‘You’ll call me if anything happens?’
‘Didn’t I say I would? Don’t you trust me?’
‘Maybe. You want to get a shower as well, you stink.’
‘Thanks.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘Who was that?’ Kiri asked sitting down opposite him after the last customer had left and the door was locked.
He’d stayed in the café, changed seats so that he was facing the door, and ordered a 7oz fillet steak with chips, and a husk of sweetcorn. And even though it didn’t have a fancy name, he relished it anyway. Also, just for a change, he had a bottle of lager to swill it all down. He didn’t normally drink alcohol, but sometimes he had an odd craving.
He leaned back and swigged the Budweiser from the bottle. ‘That was Detective Inspector Molly Stone, my old partner.’
‘A Detective Inspector! She certainly didn’t look old, and she was pretty in a plain sort of way.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sure she’d be flattered to hear you say that.’
Kiri laughed. ‘I doubt it.’
&nbs
p; ‘So what now, Kiri?’
‘Now, we go upstairs to my flat and you make love to me.’
He hesitated. Wiping the condensation off the lager bottle with his index finger he said, ‘I don’t…’
She touched his hand. ‘It’s all right, I understand. We’ll just do whatever comes naturally.’ Her nose wrinkled as she pulled a face, ‘You’ll need a shower first though. You’ve been swimming about in a cesspit, haven’t you?’
He realised then that he hadn’t changed his clothes since walking out of the asylum. ‘Yeah, I’ve been rummaging around in a derelict building. It was a bit damp and mouldy in there.’
She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come.’
He let her lead him through a ‘STAFF ONLY’ door, and up a set of stairs into her private apartment.
‘Take your shoes off,’ she said.
He did as he was told and shut the door.
The living room was lilac – the walls, the carpet, the two sofas, and the curtains. There was a matching set of four beautifully drawn flower prints on the wall above the left-hand sofa. He stared at the names of the flowers – Caryophyllaceae, Campanulaaceae, Asteracae, and Ericaceae – as Kiri squeezed behind the other sofa in front of the windows overlooking King Street and drew the curtains The Latin names of the flowers meant nothing to him.
‘Very nice,’ he said sweeping his arm around the apartment.
‘Do you know about interior design?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
He followed her into a white bedroom with a double bed and pine wardrobe that matched the headboard and bedside cabinets. The floral curtains at the windows were the same as the throw on the bed. Above the headboard were two more flower prints, but he couldn’t see their names.
‘There,’ she said pointing to a door to the left that led to a white tiled bathroom with a bath/shower, washbasin and toilet. ‘The water’s hot, I’ll get you a towel. Drop your smelly clothes on the floor and leave them there, I don’t want them stinking up my bedroom.’