by Tim Ellis
‘I don’t have one.’
‘And in the absence of an alternative theory – we’re looking for a man?’
‘I suppose so.’
Parish took a slurp of coffee, and then interrupted. ‘I’ll be handing the photographs out to the press this morning, and telling them we’d like to speak to the driver as a matter of urgency. I don’t expect a flood of volunteers to come forward, but somebody might recognise him.’
‘And in the meantime?’ the Chief asked.
‘We’ll continue looking for the woman who was wearing the size 6 climbing shoes. We still have another four suspects to see before we run out of ideas.’
‘By which time, you might have received some feedback from the public on the driver.’
‘Hopefully.’
‘Is that okay with you, Richards?’
‘Yes, Sir. I still think the killer is a woman. I don’t know who that man is, but I think he’s a red herring.’
‘Hardly a red herring. He’s obviously connected to the murder because he’s driving the van that presumably conveyed the victim’s body to the Village Hall.’
‘Oh yes, I agree. But what I don’t understand is why the driver’s face and the number plate of the van are in full view of the CCTV camera. I mean, the killer took every precaution in the Village Hall not to leave any evidence, and yet we have a clear picture of a man driving the vehicle that was used to transport the body to the crime scene.’
‘Maybe they didn’t realise there were traffic cameras in operation on the roads around the Village Hall,’ the Chief suggested.
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Right, let’s go, Richards. I don’t know about you, but I have a gaggle of press waiting for me, and you need to go and get a pool car.’
‘I suppose, but I’m not going to say the killer is a man when I know it’s a woman.’
‘And I wouldn’t expect you to,’ Parish said. ‘Say goodbye to the Chief, and thank him for taking time out of his busy schedule to listen to your ramblings.’
‘Goodbye, Chief. And thanks for listening to me.’
They nodded at the Chief’s secretary – Lydia O’Brien – before separating. Parish headed down to the press briefing room, and Richards went to collect a pool car.
***
Shakin’ had a Political Science class, so Joe and Jerry caught the underground at Temple on the District Line to South Kensington and switched to the Piccadilly Line heading to Hounslow East, where they jumped in a taxi to Ranelagh Road in Isleworth.
Poplar Care Home was a Local Authority-run endeavour, and as a consequence the external decor was in need of some tender loving care, which would probably be some time in arriving if the austerity measures were anything to go by.
‘Who should I be this time, Mrs K?’
Jerry screwed up her face. ‘Just be yourself.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, I was pretty good as an investigative journalist yesterday. What about a private detective? Or maybe a government secret agent?’
‘Joe Larkin is just fine. I don’t think we need to be anyone else today, Joe.’
‘You’re the boss, Mrs K.’
Joe rang the bell on the intercom system.
‘Yes?’ a female voice enquired.
‘Mrs Kowalski and Mr Larkin to see George Peckham.’
The door clicked open.
An overweight nurse wearing a uniform that appeared to be two sizes too small for her met them in reception. Etched on her name badge was: Nadia Morgan.
‘Is he expecting you?’
Jerry had a feeling. ‘We’re from Baxter, Kowalski & Associates,’ she said, and handed the nurse a business card. ‘Mr Peckham contacted us about drawing up a Last Will & Testament.’
The nurse nodded. ‘I understand. If you’ll follow me, please.’
She led them along a corridor, up a set of stairs, and in the opposite direction along a second-floor corridor to a door with George Peckham written on a white plastic name plate in marker pen. There was clearly no expectation by the staff of a long-term stay.
‘I’ll leave you here,’ the nurse said. ‘Just go right in, and good luck.’
Jerry smiled at her. ‘Thanks.’
Once the corridor was clear Joe said, ‘I thought we weren’t role-playing today.’
The corner of Jerry’s mouth creased upwards. ‘I had a feeling.’
‘You should have said, I have healing hands.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Why did she wish us good luck?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’ Jerry gave a sharp tap on the door and pushed it open. ‘Mr Peckham?’
‘Again? It’s like Clapham Junction in the rush hour in here this morning. What d’ya want this time?’
They sidled in.
George Peckham was sitting in a chair wearing a checked shirt, sleeveless jumper and a flat cap. He was painfully thin, pale-looking and his left eyelid was taped closed.
‘My name’s Jerry Kowalski. I’d like to talk to you about the Baker Street Robbery.’
‘NURSE?’ he shouted.
‘Hey,’ Joe said, standing in front of him. ‘That’s no way to treat a lady.’
‘Couldn’t she find a babysitter to look after you?’ George aimed at Joe.
‘You shout for the nurse again and I’ll give you a good smack.’
‘Ah, so you’re gonna beat the truth out of an old man?’
Jerry dragged Joe backwards. ‘No, we’re not. We’d just like to talk to you, that’s all. If you tell us to go away, then we will.’
‘Go away.’
Jerry smiled. ‘At least listen to what we have to say first.’
‘It’s not about what you’ve got to say, is it though? It’s about what you want me to say. You’re reporters, aren’t you?’
‘No . . .’
‘Don’t think you’re the first. There’s been a half-dozen or more reporters come to find out the truth about what happened that night, but I ain’t talking.’
‘Everyone else is dead, George. If you don’t talk, no one will ever know what really happened.’
‘So, they’ll never know.’
‘Think of it as a final confession.’
‘Ain’t religious in the slightest.’
‘It’ll be your last chance.’
‘When we tunnelled into that bank we opened up a can of worms – that’s what really happened. Me and the others got warned that if we ever talked, we’d be dead meat.’
‘It was a long time ago now, George. I’m sure that nobody even cares anymore.’
‘You don’t know nothing, lady.’
‘The only way to find out is if you tell us.’
He laughed. ‘By which time it’ll be too late, because I’ll be dead.’
She waited.
Eventually he said, ‘We didn’t know it at the time, but it was the worst day of our lives when we broke through the floor into that vault . . .’ He began wringing his hands together. ‘It didn’t take them long to find us. That idiot Martin Dwyer had signed his own name on the contract to hire the shop that we used to tunnel from. None of us could believe he’d done that – a right idiot, and we told him so as well.’
‘They?’ Joe asked. ‘Who?’
‘MI5, of course.’
‘So it was about the compromising photographs of . . . ?’
‘Was it ‘eck as like! Are you telling this story now?’
‘No, you continue, George.’
‘It’s Mr Peckham to you. The lady can call me George, but you ain’t earned my respect to let you call me George.’
‘So, MI5 found you?’ Jerry prompted him.
‘Yeah. It was all because of what we found in Box 253 . . .’
There was a knock at the door.
‘See what I mean about Clapham Junction?’ George said.
A male nurse wearing a white jacket came in carrying a small plastic pot containing two red and blue capsules. ‘Time for your ten o’clock, Georg
e.’
‘Bloody tablets! I get more tablets than I get food in this place. In fact, come to think of it, the tablets taste a lot better than the food.’
The nurse handed him a glass of water from the bedside cabinet.
George swallowed both capsules – one after the other, and handed the glass back. ‘You can bugger off now.’
The nurse left.
‘Right where was I?’
‘The contents of Box 253,’ Joe said.
‘Oh yeah . . .’ but he didn’t continue. Instead, he began coughing, pulling at his shirt collar, struggling to breathe, frothing at the mouth and then he started to change colour from pale pink to a darkening blue.
‘What’s happening, Mrs K?’ Joe said.
‘It looks like he’s having a reaction to the medicine. Press the emergency button, Joe.’
Joe did as he was asked.
Between them, they lay George down on the floor, but Jerry could see it was too late as his arms and legs began jerking uncontrollably and the stench of urine wafted up her nostrils.
Nadia the overweight nurse came in. ‘Move out of the way,’ she said.
They stood back to give Nurse Morgan access. As she loosened George’s shirt at the neck, he stopped fitting and lay still. She checked his pulse, put her ear to his mouth and then said, ‘He’s dead.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to do mouth-to-mouth and smack his chest, or something?’ Joe asked.
‘It’s too late for that,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
Jerry said, ‘The male nurse came in and gave him his ten o’clock tablets. Within minutes he was struggling to breathe, frothing at the mouth and having a seizure. I’d say he had a reaction to the medicine.’
Nadia’s forehead creased up. ‘George didn’t have a ten o’clock, and there are no male nurses on duty today.’
***
It was tempting to join the M25, but it was smack bang in the middle of the rush hour, and the M25 was not a motorway anyone in their right mind would want to join at this time of the morning. Instead, they went down the A10, joined the A406, went a short distance along the A1 and then took the A41 to Bushey. Yes, it was stop-and-start some of the way, but it was much better than being stuck in a queue that didn’t move for large chunks of time.
Once they were a good third of the way into their journey Stick said, ‘I have some questions.’
‘Some?’
‘Maybe three or four.’
‘And you think I may have the answers to these questions?’
‘Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.’
‘Are they related to the investigation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I’m prepared to listen, but I’m not promising I’ll provide you with any answers.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Begin when you’re ready.’
‘Do you think it’s the same woman?’
‘Yes. You’d be hard-pressed to find two killers who would wander in off the street and help themselves to pieces of two separate men.’
‘That’s what I thought. With the first murder, we . . .’
‘We?’
‘I?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘. . . I thought that maybe Peter Lloyd had promised his heart to a woman and she’d come back to reclaim it.’
Xena nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Let’s for argument’s sake say that the same woman has taken Mr Porter’s eyes for whatever reason . . .’
‘Okay.’
‘What’s her motive? Why now?’
‘That’s two questions.’
‘Sorry. What do you think her motive is for killing these two men and taking a piece of each one?’
‘She’s crazy.’
Stick pulled a face. ‘Is that all there is to it?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not. I was just thinking that it might help us to get one step ahead of her.’
‘The only way we’re going to do that is if we find the link between Peter Lloyd and Ian Porter.’
‘Maybe the only link is the woman.’
‘Don’t be a dunce, numpty – of course it is.’
‘But Peter Lloyd didn’t go with any other woman besides his wife.’
‘According to everyone we’ve spoken to. But now we’ve found evidence to the contrary.’
‘Have we? According to the owner of the hotel they didn’t share a room, eat together or have any other contact that she knew of.’
‘It’s too fantastical to think that every weekend his taught element came up, the woman appeared in the same hotel as if by magic. Now, if she was a student on the same course, or on another course that ran on the same weekends, I might believe it, but otherwise . . .’
‘So you think he was having an affair with Lisa-Marie Ward?’
‘Definitely.’
‘What do you think acted as a trigger for the woman to start killing and taking pieces of men?’
‘I know I’m a brilliant Detective Inspector, but I’m not clairvoyant.’
The journey took them forty-five minutes. Stick parked up outside 44 Bourne Drive in Bushey, Watford, which was a mid-terraced house with an overgrown front garden and a muddy flagstone path leading up to the wooden front door.
‘What do you think?’ Stick asked.
‘I don’t think anything. Knock on the door and stop asking stupid questions.’
Stick knocked.
It took a while, but the door eventually opened to reveal a decrepit old woman clinging onto a walking frame for all she was worth. ‘Hello?’
Stick showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Gilbert and Detective Inspector Blake from Hoddesdon. We’re here to see Lisa-Marie Ward.’
‘Are you indeed? Well, you’d better come inside then. I don’t want to stand here with the door open catching my death, do I?’
She turned slowly round and shuffled back inside the house. ‘I’d offer you a lovely cup of tea,’ she said, as she sat down and wrapped a blanket around her knees and pulled a shawl about her shoulders. ‘But I haven’t got any tea bags or milk.’
‘Why not?’ Xena asked.
‘No money until I get my pension on Monday next week.’
‘But that’s a week away. Where’s this week’s pension?’
‘Ah well, the lady who looks after me – Miranda Batty – who lives down the road with Wally and her five children, collects my pension every week. She said that the government aren’t paying it this week. She says I’ll probably get two weeks next week. That will certainly come in handy. I don’t know, this government is full of promises, but short on action. I was expecting my Winter Fuel Payment last week, but it hasn’t arrived. Another week without any heating. I don’t know how they think old people can survive without any heating.’
‘What about your daughter – Lisa-Marie – doesn’t she help?’
‘Daughter? No, I don’t have a daughter. Oh, I had a son – Terry – but he died in the Iraq War. I had a husband – Hubert – but he died over fifteen years ago when a tree fell on his car in that awful storm of 1999. Now, there’s just me.’
‘No daughter? Then who’s Lisa-Marie?’
‘I am.’
Xena looked at Stick. ‘Call the local police and tell them to get someone round here, and then find a shop and buy some provisions – tea bags, sugar, milk, biscuits – you know the type of stuff people who live on their own eat, and sort out the heating.’
Stick nodded and ducked outside.
‘How long has Mrs Batty been looking after you, Mrs Ward?’
‘Oh, about eighteen months now. But Miranda isn’t married to Wally – never has been married to the men she’s been with, and every one of those children has a different father, you know. And she’s pregnant again to Wally who’s living with her now. She’s very good though. Comes round here regularly to dust and tidy up.’
‘You know that I’m a police officer?’
‘Yes – a Det
ective Inspector.’
‘That’s right. Well, I think that Miranda has been stealing from you.’
‘Surely not? But she’s been really nice to me.’
‘Sergeant Gilbert is calling someone from the local police station to come and investigate what’s been going on. It’s not right that you haven’t got any money. The government will always pay your pension when they’re supposed to pay it, and the Winter Fuel Payment should have been paid to you automatically in November because you receive a pension.’
‘Well I never.’
‘My partner has gone to the shops to buy you some groceries, and when he comes back he’ll sort out your heating. We’ll wait here until the local police arrive. Don’t you worry Mrs Ward, we’ll get to the bottom of it.’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighty-seven.’
‘You’ll be getting your telegram from the Queen soon.’
‘I can’t see me lasting another thirteen years, love.’
There was a knock at the door.
Xena opened it to find a female Constable on the doorstep.
‘PC Lucky Morris from Oxhey Police Station.’
‘DI Blake from Hoddesdon in Essex,’ she said, taking out her warrant card and showing the constable. ‘Lucky? What were your parents thinking?’
‘Don’t ask, Ma’am. It was because they won £10,000 on the lottery the week I was born, so they called me Lucky.’
‘I suppose that’s a good enough excuse.’ She told Constable Morris what they’d discovered about Mrs Ward, Miranda Batty, and the missing pension and Winter Fuel Payment.
‘Have you any evidence that Miranda Batty has stolen it, Ma’am?’
‘The evidence is here in this house. Mrs Ward doesn’t have any money, even though she was paid her pension yesterday. Neither does she have any food, teabags or milk, and can’t afford to put her heating on. I’m going along to speak to Miranda Batty about another matter, but I expect you to sort this mess out.’ She passed Morris a business card. ‘I want you to keep me in the loop.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Chapter Nine
‘Sometimes, Toadstone, we stare so long at a door that is closing that we see too late the one that is open.’