by Tim Ellis
It rang for an age.
He was just about to give up when a male voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sergeant Leslie Carter from Cheshunt. Who’s that?’
‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station. Why are you answering DI Tubman’s phone?’
‘You know him?’
‘He’s temporarily my partner. We’re investigating a number of murders.’
‘Got bad news for you, mate.’
‘Bad news?’
‘He was your partner. Sorry to have to tell you that now – he’s sausage-meat. There was an accident. From what we’ve managed to piece together, the driver of an articulated lorry fell asleep at the wheel. As a consequence, he didn’t see the red light at the junction. If the DI had been driving one of the newer cars he might have stood a fighting chance, but an old Skoda! They were built from tissue-paper, and I’m being generous. Fire officers are cutting him free at the moment, but it’s a messy business.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ve only known him for twenty-four hours. He’s originally from Bishop’s Stortford, so can you liaise with them?’
‘Sure thing.’
He ended the call.
‘DI Tubman’s dead,’ he said. ‘Crushed by an articulated lorry.’
‘That’s awful,’ Doc Paine said.
‘Yes,’ Di agreed.
‘I’d better let the Chief know.’
‘I don’t think he’d appreciate you ringing him at this ungodly hour,’ Doc Paine said. ‘I’m sure it can wait until the morning.’
He put his phone back in his pocket. ‘I suppose you’re right. Look, I’d really appreciate it if you could find something – anything. I’m on my own, I have no suspects, no leads and I’m really tired.’
‘What’s being tired got to do with it?’ Di said.
‘My brain won’t work properly.’
‘Is that something new?’ Di asked.
‘I might appreciate the humour in that if I wasn’t so tired. Goodnight, ladies.’
Doc Paine said, ‘If we do find anything . . .’
‘You’ll let me know after nine o’clock this morning?’
‘Of course.’
He didn’t know what to think about DI Tubman, so he didn’t think about him.
***
She was calmer this time. Because, in a way, she knew what was coming. It was as if somebody wasn’t happy that she’d escaped death the last time. The Grim Reaper had miscalculated, miscounted, misjudged. The infernal accountants had tallied up the mortal remains, double-checked the arithmetic, and then called in the auditors who had found Jerry Kowalski missing from the list. Now, he’d come back – carrying his scythe like a walking stick – to balance the books. This time, there would be no mistake, no double accounting, no escape.
‘What happened to make you like this, Israel?’
Voss laughed. ‘Happened? You make it sound as if it was merely one event. No, it was a catalogue of events, my dear. Do you really want to know why I am the way I am?’
‘Yes.’
He stroked the woman’s breast, and kissed her dead lips. ‘Goodbye, my sweet Sarah.’
Jerry had no choice but to look at the mutilated Constable Sarah Schofield lying on the rack in front of her. Her intestines were dangling on the floor, her right arm had been torn from its shoulder joint, and various parts of her had been opened up with a scalpel.
‘I can understand why you might want to humour me and prolong your life,’ Voss said, turning towards her.
‘No, that’s not it. I know it’s my time to go, but I’m genuinely interested.’
‘Then I shall tell you. I expect you did your research before you came to see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘As you know, my father was a German war hero. Of course, that was until the Soviets took him back to Russia so that they could starve and torture him for eight years. When they released him and he returned to Germany – I was born the following year. It was probably the worst day’s work he ever did. He didn’t want children. He’d never wanted children. My mother knew that, but she disregarded his wishes, and had me anyway, so he left us. In 1954 a man could do that. Germany was just one massive building site, the majority of official records had been destroyed in the allied bombing raids . . . In fact, the whole of Germany had been destroyed by the bombing. So, my mother was left alone with a child, no job and no money. Out of necessity she became a prostitute . . .’
‘That’s why there’s nothing about your childhood in the records, isn’t it?’
‘Childhood! I had no childhood. Other children had a childhood, but not Israel Voss. My mother wasn’t the least bit pretty, and after the war the streets were full of prostitutes who were far prettier than my mother. She barely made ends meet, and she also had a baby to feed. I have no idea how my mother and I survived so long, but we did. Eventually, she met a man who was prepared to look after her and another man’s child, but he had an ulterior motive . . .’
‘An ulterior motive! What do you mean?’
‘He didn’t want my mother – he wanted me.’
‘How old were you by then?’
‘Four and half, maybe five. Shortly after we moved into his house it started.’
‘What started?’
‘The abuse. My mother turned a blind eye to it. In a way, I can understand why she did that, but I can never forgive her. His name was Udo Kern. He’d been an office clerk during the war due to a childhood accident that had frozen his right ankle – he walked with a cane. And that wasn’t all he did with that cane. I tried to run away once, and I still have the marks on my back to prove it.’ He smiled, as his eyes peered into the dark whirlpools of his past. ‘Yes, Udo Kern abused me in every way it was possible to abuse a child, but that was only a small part of my training.’
‘Training?’
‘I don’t know when it happened, but our relationship changed from abuser and victim to abuser and apprentice. I became his helper, his accomplice, his apprentice. He began modelling me in his own image. You see, I soon realised that if I helped him, he would leave me alone. I used to go out and get children for him . . .’
‘You could have run away, told the authorities . . .’
‘No. Don’t you see, it was too late by then. I helped him, and I stayed with him because I began to enjoy what I was doing. Some children learned to be architects, chemists, or engineers . . . I learned to torture and kill people for sexual gratification.’
‘Where was your mother while all this was happening?’
‘Oh, she was there, in the background. Cooking, cleaning and ignoring everything that might have been unpleasant. By then, it was too late for me, and it was too late for her. For different reasons, we were both destined for Hell – if there is such a place, which I doubt.’
‘Why didn’t you stop, walk away . . . ?’
‘I didn’t want to. Oh, there were times in the early days when I told myself “No more”. I was like an alcoholic or a drug addict trying to get clean, but I could never break free . . . In the end, I accepted who and what I was, and embraced it. If I couldn’t kick the habit, then I’d become the best I could be.’
‘And you needed money for that?’
‘Of course, but I also needed my privacy. Now, I’m afraid that time is getting short, my dear.’ He picked up a hammer and nails from the stainless steel table. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I’m ready.’
Chapter Seventeen
Parish was squashed up against the back wall of the lift. As well as DCI Kowalski, DCI Annie Wyatt, and DC Richards, there were also eight officers from CO19 wearing dark-blue fire-resistant overalls, Kevlar body armour, assault vests with clip-on stun grenades and tear-gas canisters, spare magazines in pouches for the Heckler & Koch MP7s they were carrying, and ceramic helmets crammed inside the lift as well.
‘Okay, Richards,’ Kowalski said. ‘Take us down.’
‘Watch, Si
r.’
Kowalski bared the watch on his wrist.
Keeping one eye on Kowalski’s second-hand, Richards turned the key and pressed the number “19” button on the panel.
The lift began to descend.
After eight seconds she pushed the red “Emergency” button. The lift shuddered to a stop. Then, she turned the key and opened the doors.
‘Crap!’ Inspector Heather Drake said. ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’
‘What is it, Drake?’
They were staring at a pair of smooth steel doors with a flush keyhole in the right-hand door.
‘We’ll have to use SEMTEX. If we had a laser cutter maybe . . . but we don’t have one of those.’ She turned to Richards. ‘Take us down to the lobby, the explosives are secured in the Jankel four-by-four.’
At a nod from DCI Wyatt, Richards closed the doors and pressed the button for the ground floor.
‘You think you can do it without destroying the lift shaft, Dancer?’ Drake said to one of her team.
He nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll channel the blast downwards – it’ll have plenty of room to dissipate down there.’
When they reached the ground floor, the doors opened and Dancer and another officer hurried out to the Jankel to get the explosives.
‘His name’s not really Dancer, by the way,’ Drake said to no one in particular. ‘We all have nicknames. His real name is Howard Morris . . .’
Richards laughed. ‘Morris Dancer.’
Drake nodded. ‘Right. You’ll never guess what mine is.’
‘Duck?’
‘I see you have a knack for nicknames, DC Richards.’ Drake smiled. She introduced the other members of her team. ‘Sparks, Muffin, Hotlips, Tart and Pie. The one with Dancer is Heartbeat.’
Dancer and Heartbeat returned carrying a rucksack. ‘Okay, we’re good to go,’ Dancer said, patting the black canvas bag.
Richards took the lift back to the penthouse suite.
‘Everyone off,’ Duck said.
‘I’ll stay here to control the lift,’ Richards offered.
DCI Wyatt’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Are you sure? You won’t be getting any danger money, you know.’
‘I’m sure. Ma’am.’
‘Be careful, Richards,’ Parish said before the doors closed.
‘While we’re waiting,’ Kowalski said to Parish in the hallway. ‘Come and take a look at this.’
Parish followed him through the master bedroom and into the walk-in wardrobe. Forensics had removed the wood panelling at the rear of the wardrobe to reveal a hidden room.
‘Jesus!’ Parish said.
There were nineteen television screens inset into the wall, a computer console underneath, and a high-back leather chair on wheels. The views were showing split-screen, and at ten-second intervals each screen jumped to a different apartment.
‘A television screen for each floor,’ Kowalski said. ‘And a camera in each room in each apartment.’
‘I can see what he might have found interesting,’ Parish said, pointing to a woman having sex with three men. He sat in the leather chair and wheeled forward. As he did, his knee caught something under the worktop that the computer console was sitting on.
A panel opened, and another television screen slowly appeared out of the worktop. At first the screen was black, then a full picture appeared – with sound:
‘Of course, but I also needed my privacy,’ a silver-haired man said. ‘Now, I’m afraid that time is getting short, my dear.’
They watched him walk to a stainless steel table, pick up a hammer and nails and walk back. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I’m ready,’ Jerry Kowalski said.
‘Christ, Ray. That’s Jerry.’
They heard a loud explosion and ran back to the lift.
‘Hurry,’ Kowalski said. ‘He’s got my wife in there.’
Richards controlled the lift.
Smoke and debris met them, but the steel doors were hanging open and twisted on their hinges.
CO19 officers tried to hold Kowalski back, but they’d have had better luck stopping an avalanche.
Kowalski ran to Jerry, who was tied to an “X-shaped” wooden frame. She was naked and had a nail through each hand, but otherwise she was unharmed. Tears tumbled down his cheeks, and he kissed her. ‘This is getting to be a habit, Mrs Kowalski.’
Jerry was crying as well. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Richards found a bloodied sheet and covered Jerry’s nakedness. ‘I’ve called an ambulance, Sir.’
‘Thanks, Richards,’ the Chief said.
DCI Wyatt came up. ‘I’m glad you’re all right, Mrs Kowalski.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Where did Tomasic go?’
‘Israel Voss,’ Jerry said. ‘Israel Voss is/was Willie Tomasic. He ran over . . .’ A look of pain creased her face as she tried to move her hand to point. Instead, she jerked her head towards the right-hand corner. ‘. . . Over there, and then he disappeared.’
CO19 officers hurried over to where she’d indicated.
‘There’s a trapdoor here,’ one of the officers shouted. ‘And what looks like a laundry chute.’
‘I’ll go first,’ Duck said, and she jumped.
The others followed her one by one.
Richards covered Constable Schofield’s body over. ‘We’d better get forensics up here,’ she said.
DCI Wyatt rang the head of forensics.
Parish found a claw hammer on the stainless steel table and took it over to Kowalski. ‘Do you want me to do it?’
Ray took the hammer. ‘No, I’ll remove them.’ It took a bit of manoeuvring, so that he could get leverage and the face-end didn’t crush her fingers, but eventually he was able to pull the nails from the wood, but he left them in the hands. They would need to be surgically removed, and the wounds properly cleaned and repaired. He untied the rope at her ankles, scooped her up and cradled her in his massive arms. ‘Take us down to the lobby, Richards.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We’re done here, Annie,’ Kowalski said to DCI Wyatt.
‘I don’t need to tell you there’ll be consequences?’
‘No, you don’t need to tell me about the consequences – there are always consequences. Come on Parish, let’s go.’
The three of them went back down to the lobby.
Richards left the key in the panel and sent it back to the penthouse suite.
Kowalski travelled with Jerry in the back of the ambulance.
Richards drove the Chief’s car behind the ambulance, and Parish followed Richards. After parking the Chief’s car in the car park, the two of them strolled into the A&E reception.
‘How is she, Sir?’ Richards asked the Chief who was pacing up and down like a caged grizzly.
‘She’ll be fine. The doctor is examining her now.’
‘Do you want us to stay?’ Parish said.
‘No. Jerry will no doubt be out of it for the rest of the day when they take her to theatre, and I have some phone calls to make, not least to the Chief Constable. You two have done enough. Especially you, Richards. I’m grateful, and I won’t forget it.’
‘You’re welcome, Chief,’ Richards said.
Parish checked the clock on the wall – It was quarter to five. ‘Right Richards, we just have enough time to grab a shower and a change of clothes before we’re due back at work.’
They began walking towards the exit.
Richards stared at him. ‘Due back at work?’
‘Did you think you were going to get the day off for being good?’
‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve not had any sleep at all. Nobody should be expected . . .’
‘Another page for your comprehensive and detailed report to the Court of Human Rights?’
‘You bet. And maybe some photographs, digital recordings and sworn affidavits.’
‘If you wanted a nine to five job . . .’
‘Let me guess: I should have got a job as a shelf-stac
ker in the local supermarket.’
‘You stole the words right out of my mouth.’
‘I’m going to start looking round for another partner.’
Parish laughed. ‘No one else would put up with you.’
‘That’s it – I’m not talking to you.’
‘You’ve made my day.’
‘You . . .’
‘I knew it was too good to be true.’
***
His phone vibrated. With difficulty, he opened his bleary grit-filled eyes and blinked until the digital clock came into focus – five past seven.
‘Jen, will you answer that?’
There was no response.
‘Jen?’ He stretched his left arm backwards to nudge her, but couldn’t feel her soft, warm skin. He turned over, and found Jen’s three-quarters of the bed empty. Then he recalled Sergeant Rosanne Catalano and her cheating husband. Jen was playing detective today.
He picked up the phone. ‘DS Gilbert.’
‘He raped me.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He raped me.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Giselle – Giselle Hamill. You asked me to call you if I remembered anything else about the man who brought me to the hospital.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he raped me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I woke up this morning and it all came back to me. I was walking aimlessly by the side of the road, cars and trucks were whizzing past me, and he pulled over. The other drivers didn’t like it that he’d stopped, because they had to drive round his car. There was lots of swearing and horn-beeping, but he ignored them. He got out of his car and asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t find any words inside my head to tell him. He put me in the passenger seat of his car, and said he’d drive me to the hospital.’
‘But he stopped somewhere?’
‘Yes. And he raped me.’
Stick could hear her crying.
‘I just lay there. I knew what he was doing, but I couldn’t do anything about it.’