The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I’m sure there are, Sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll need . . .’

  ‘But those archives aren’t here.’

  ‘They’re not?’

  ‘No, Sir. You really should be talking to someone at our Head Office at 25 Gresham Street, near Bank underground station.’

  ‘That’s very disappointing, Lucinda. You definitely have no records here?’

  ‘None, Sir. And if I’m not mistaken, it was all digitised in the 90s and put onto computer anyway.’

  ‘Do you have access to those digitised records?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Is it possible to go down and take a look at your safe-deposit room?’

  ‘Do you have a safe-deposit box, Sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you purchased one . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, I can’t let you go down there.’

  He stood up. ‘I won’t trouble you anymore then, Lucinda.’

  ‘What about my screen test?’

  ‘Give me your number – I’ll be in contact within the next week.’

  She wrote down her number on a Lloyds Bank post-it note and passed it to him. ‘I’ll look forward to your call, Sir.’

  Joe and Shakin’ made their way out.

  ‘Are you really going to call her, Joe?’

  ‘Do we do screen tests?’

  ‘Well . . . no.’

  ‘So, if I called her . . . ?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to do a screen test with her?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘What about . . . you know?’

  ‘You’d like to see her without her clothes on?’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘And you think I’d let you watch?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be in the way.’

  ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you, Shakin’.’

  ‘They say I produce too much sebum, which causes the pustules, papules and nodules.’

  Joe tapped his index finger on the side of Shakin’s head. ‘I’m talking about in there.’

  ‘Oh!.’

  They made their way back to the university on the underground and found Jerry Kowalski sprawled out on the grass in Ruskin Park constructing a timeline for the Baker Street Robbery.

  ‘I’ve not noticed before, but now that I see you lying out here on the grass, I think you’re pretty hot, Mrs K. What do you say to a threesome? Or we could dump Shakin’ and just have a frenzied twosome?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Joe. Are you into S&M?’

  ‘S&M?’

  ‘Sadism and masochism? As I said to Richard earlier – I like it rough. I’m a dominatrix, you see. I like to hurt people – a lot. I can just see you in manacles hanging from a metal ring in my dungeon wearing a muzzle, with electrodes on your nipples and testicles, and maybe four steel rings constricting your penis. My husband can take four hundred volts, but I think you’re probably a one-hundred and fifty volt man. Are you game, Joe?’

  ‘It’s very good of you to offer Mrs K, but I think I’ll take a rain check if it’s all right with you?’

  ‘I thought so – all talk and no backbone.’

  Joe told Jerry what had happened at the bank.

  ‘Is that what she said: All the old records are on computer?’

  ‘Yes. And she wouldn’t let us down into the vault unless we had a safe-deposit box. Of course, I wasn’t going to rent one, so that was that – wasn’t it, Shakin’?’

  ‘That was that, Mrs K. Joe was good though, I’ll give him that. Another fifteen minutes and that Lucinda would have taken all her clothes off and done a screen test there and then in the bank. He had her eating out of his hand, so to speak.’

  ‘We did take some photos of the outside though. Of course, the bank’s still there, but the Chicken Inn Restaurant is now a Pizza Hut, and the leather goods shop is an Estate Agents. We asked about the tunnel, but it was filled in with extra-hard concrete shortly after the robbery. We couldn’t find anyone who lived or worked there back in 1971. I mean, most of them would be in the old people’s home by now, wouldn’t they, Shakin’?’

  ‘Sure would. We spoke to a million people, but nobody remembered the robbery. In fact, they didn’t even know a robbery had even taken place until we told them about it, did they, Joe?’

  ‘That’s right, Mrs K. When Shakin’ fails his degree, he’s thinking of becoming a tour guide.’

  Shakin’ nodded. ‘I could do that.’

  Jerry pulled a face. ‘So, other than a couple of photographs, you’ve wasted most of the day achieving nothing.’

  ‘I take umbrage at that, Mrs K. Shakin’ and I did the best we could under very trying circumstances.’

  ‘I’ll vouch for that, Mrs K.’

  Joe peered over Jerry’s shoulder at the piece of paper she’d been working on. ‘Don’t look as though you’ve been doing much more than us, Mrs K. There don’t seem to be a lot of events on our timeline.’

  ‘No, there doesn’t, does there?’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Shakin’ asked.

  ‘Because of the D-Notice, I suppose,’ Jerry replied. ‘After they issued that, everything seemed to stop.’

  Joe scratched his head. ‘Yeah, but the Prof said that nobody issued a D-Notice. And if that’s the case, why did the reporting stop?’

  ‘Newspaper editors were informed that a D-Notice was in force, so they obviously believed what they were told.’

  ‘Who told them?’ Shakin’ asked.

  Jerry shrugged. ‘It appeared to have been the police, but it’s also been suggested that MI5 were involved as well.’

  Joe crossed his legs. ‘Yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me if the spooks were involved. The question is though – why? What was in those safe-deposit boxes that required a fictitious D-Notice?’

  Jerry turned over onto her left side and propped her head up with her hand. She wasn’t really dressed for lying around in a park. Both Joe and Shakin’ were sitting above her and in a position to lose their eyeballs in her cleavage. ‘If, as the woman in the bank has said, the records have all been transferred to computer now, I think I might know someone who can help us.’

  ‘That’d be wicked,’ Shakin’ said. ‘’Cause we’re not getting very far now, are we?’

  ‘There’s another thing I don’t understand,’ Joe said reading her timeline.

  ‘Oh?’ Jerry said, trying to adjust her position slightly, so that less of her breasts were on show. ‘What might that be?’

  ‘Yeah. You’ve got on this paper . . .’ He tapped the paper with his finger to illustrate which paper he meant even though that was the only piece of paper within a hundred miles of their current geographical position. ‘. . . That four men were convicted of the robbery eighteen months later at the Old Bailey. Well, what I don’t understand is – they mostly got eight years, which would have meant they’d have been out of prison by around 1980 – what happened to them?’

  ‘What you meaning, Joe?’ Shakin’ said. ‘What happened to them was that they got locked up for robbing Lloyds Bank.’

  ‘Afterwards?’ Joe clarified. ‘I mean, they did their time, came out, but still nobody knows anything about the robbery, or why the D-Notice was issued. It seems to me, if anybody would know, it’d be those four robbers, because they opened the boxes, saw what was inside of them, and took the contents away in bags. See where I’m coming from, Mrs K?’

  ‘Yes, I see. It’s as if they came out of prison and disappeared. There’s not one interview or exposé featuring any one of them. Their names are never mentioned again. Mind you, they got away with three million pounds in cash and valuables, which was never recovered, so I imagine they’re sunning themselves on a tropical island somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’ Shakin’ said. ‘. . . Those people who did the great train robbery were always in the news, but we’ve never heard anything about the four people who robbed the Baker Street Bank.’

 
She saw Shakin’ staring down the front of her dress, but decided that ignoring the direction of his gaze was probably the best course of action. ‘Okay, I’m going to make a phone call, so you two can go. We’ll meet in the cafeteria on the first floor tomorrow at ten – don’t be late.’

  ‘Sure thing, Mrs K,’ Joe said. ‘And if you were to wear that dress again, I for one wouldn’t be disappointed.’

  ‘I think something a bit less revealing might be more appropriate, Joe. I don’t want to be the cause of you two boys going blind now, do I?’

  Shakin’ laughed. ‘That ain’t true. If it were, I’d be walking round bumping into things already.’

  After Joe and Shakin’ had wandered off in the direction of the halls of residence, she took out her phone and called Bronwyn – something she’d been putting off and putting off until it had seemed like an impossibility.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ Bronwyn said to her.

  ‘Me? You’re a cheeky bitch. You’re the one who stole the keys to the lock-up from my bag.’

  ‘You’ll be saying next that I deserved to get shot.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say. I would never say such a thing.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘How are you anyway?’

  ‘You know – getting there. I’ll never look good in a bikini, but then I never did.’

  ‘You’ll be good as new soon.’

  ‘Well, now that we’ve got the niceties out of the way – what do you want?’

  ‘I have some work for you while you’re sitting around doing nothing.’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘Do you want the work?’

  ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘I’m doing a project for my degree . . .’

  ‘Oh, so now I’m helping you with your homework?’

  ‘It’s a mystery.’

  ‘And you call me a bitch. You know I can’t resist a mystery. Go on then.’

  Jerry told her what little she knew about the Baker Street Robbery.

  ‘And that’s all there is?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got two young boys in my group, and they found out that all the bank’s archived records have been transferred to computer . . .’

  ‘And that’s where I come in, I suppose?’

  ‘Exactly, but there’s something else.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Four people were found guilty of the robbery at the Old Bailey in 1973, did their time and then disappeared: Martin Dwyer, Hugh Johnson, George Peckham and Stanley Mellor. If we want to find out what was in those safe-deposit boxes that warranted the police or MI5 to lie about a D-Notice being issued, then we need to find one of the robbers and get him to talk.’

  ‘It’s going to cost you.’

  Jerry grunted. ‘I think you owe me one.’

  ‘You didn’t pay me for the last one.’

  ‘We’ll split the difference.’

  ‘What difference?’

  ‘The difference between me not paying you, and you stealing those keys from me.’

  ‘Don’t forget to add in the cost of the bullet that wrecked my insides.’

  ‘A bullet from a gun that you took to the jamboree. And then, of course, I have to throw in my husband who saved your life.’

  ‘I’ve not got much left to barter with, have I?’

  ‘No – besides your exceptional skills with the computer. So, as I said, we’ll split the difference.’

  ‘And what would that difference be?’

  ‘A thousand pounds.’

  ‘I’m being a fool to myself, but I’ll accept your offer of compensation.’

  ‘There’s a time-limit on this school project. I need to have it written up by next Monday.’

  ‘You don’t want much for your money, do you?’

  The call ended.

  Jerry smiled. She was glad she’d made it up with Bronwyn. The longer she left it, the wider the chasm became, and the harder it was to cross.

  ***

  Alan and Janice Caruthers were both retired and living in a bungalow at 35 Goldens Way in Waterford.

  Before they could reach the door, Xena and Stick had to fight their way through a three-deep wall of reporters with microphones, digital voice recorders and camera flashlights exploding in their faces.

  ‘Any more news, Inspector?’

  ‘Whatever happened to the right to privacy?’ she threw back at them.

  ‘No such thing anymore,’ someone announced from the back. ‘The reading public want every graphic detail, and they really don’t care what we have to do to get it.’

  After walking down the flagstone path, Xena knocked on the door.

  A man with grey hair, wearing corduroy trousers and braces appeared. He was stooped, but still an impressive height from the ground up. Xena guessed at six foot six, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told her he was six foot eight or nine.

  He stepped outside to speak to her so that he didn’t have to crouch in the doorway. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Caruthers?’ She showed her warrant card. ‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert. Can we come in and talk to you?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Your daughter and her husband.’

  ‘You know we’ve got the two children here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. The conversation would be better inside, Mr Caruthers.’

  An old woman – also with grey hair – appeared in the doorway. She was barely five foot in height. ‘Let them in, Alan, for goodness sake. You don’t want to be standing on the doorstep telling everyone our business.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He stood to one side and let them shuffle past him, and then followed them in and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Come into the dining room,’ Mrs Caruthers said to them. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Xena said.

  They sat round an antique Queen Anne table. The room smelled musty, as if it had been shut throughout the year and only opened up on special occasions. There were other antiques on the mantelpiece, the hearth, the windowsill and a sideboard that didn’t match the dining table in design or historical period.

  ‘The children are sweeping up the leaves in the back garden,’ Janice Caruthers said. ‘I can’t believe what that boy has seen. Do you know what he saw?’

  Xena nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’ll be damaged for sure after seeing his parents like that.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be counselling available to him, if you ask.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about us, love. We’ll look after ourselves as we always have done. This country is well past its sell-by date. As old as we are, we’re thinking of selling up and moving to Spain, or Cyprus . . . somewhere hot and foreign.’

  ‘What can we do for you?’ Alan Caruthers asked.

  ‘We’re investigating the possibility that Peter and Rachel were murdered by an old flame of Peter’s . . .’

  ‘Is it true that Peter’s heart was cut from his chest?’ Janice asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Stick said. ‘We’re pursuing the idea that Peter promised his heart to another woman, and she returned to reclaim it.’

  ‘There are just crazy people in the world these days,’ Janice said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Anyway, you can forget about that idea. Peter and Rachel were childhood sweethearts. It must run in the family . . .’ She took her husband’s hand in hers. ‘Alan and I were childhood sweethearts as well. They were soul mates just like us. There were no other women in Peter’s life. The only girl for him was Rachel – always was. And now – always will be.’ She began crying and dabbing at her eyes again.

  Stick continued: ‘I’m sorry to have to ask this, but was it possible he’d had, or was having, an affair with another woman?’

  ‘No, Peter wasn’t like that. He loved Rachel, and he loved his two children. They were the perfect family. He would never have betrayed them – not for all the tea in China.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have
wanted to hurt Peter or Rachel?’

  ‘No, but there’s always someone out there who wants to destroy what’s beautiful in the world, isn’t there?’

  They stood up to leave. ‘Thank you for your time,’ Xena said. ‘We’ll do everything we can to bring your daughter and son-in-law’s killer to justice. And if you do need any help for David, just give one of us a call.’ She passed Mrs Caruthers one of her business cards.

  When they were sitting in the car Stick said, ‘Maybe I am wrong about the killer.’

  ‘It won’t be the first or the last time, Stickamundo. But let’s not give up on the idea just yet – not least, because we have no other ideas to replace it with. We’re going to see his friends next, they’ll tell us what Peter Lloyd has been up to. There’s also the issue of him being £7,500 in debt on his credit card – what’s he spent that amount of money on?’

  Chapter Five

  ‘You haven’t told me what you think about the murder,’ Richards said as they sat down by a window in The Star on the High Street in Wormley.

  Richards had ordered the Chef’s Salad. He’d opted for the blue cheese burger with chunky chips and homemade coleslaw.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What you think.’

  ‘I think there’s more to this than meets the eye. I think we need to find out who the victim is and piece together his last hours. Did you speak to traffic?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘CCTV footage. I think the victim was killed somewhere else, brought to the Village Hall in a vehicle, dragged inside and then suspended from the metal beam.’

  Richards pursed her lips. ‘That would explain the lack of blood and other forensic evidence.’

  ‘It would also explain why there’s skin and blood on the bottom base plate beneath the fire door.’

  ‘Do you think the killer could be a woman?’

  He pulled a face. ‘It’s possible, but unlikely.’

  ‘Because women don’t become serial killers?’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘Yes, and if I recall correctly – last time the killer was a woman.’

  ‘An anomaly in the natural order of things – nothing more. Since then, the universe has righted itself.’