The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘What now, Mrs K?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We should probably knock on the door.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Ask them about the history of the place.’

  It couldn’t do any harm she supposed. ‘Okay, let’s do that.’

  They walked past a privet hedge that needed trimming, along a flagstone path with weeds sprouting between the gaps and up a set of cracked and mouldy concrete steps to a blue-painted door. Joe went first and banged the door knocker above the letter box.

  The house had three floors – a cellar, the ground floor and an upper floor. The ground floor windows were plain and arched, but the upper floor had oblong Georgian sash windows – architecturally, it was a mishmash.

  A woman in dungarees with a snot-nosed toddler perched on her hip opened the door. ‘Yeah?’

  Joe smiled like a door-to-door salesman hawking copies of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. ‘We’re interested in the history of this address.’

  The woman stared at him to see if he was for real and then said, ‘Fuck off.’

  Before she could close the door fully, Jerry moved up to the top step. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s telling the truth.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘Do you know anything about the history of the house?’

  ‘No. You might want to try the pervert who lives upstairs, or the sad loser who lives downstairs. All I know, is that I know fuck-all about the history of this house.’

  ‘What about the Letting Agents who manage the house?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Halsey Estate Agents.’ She pointed to her right. ‘Down to the end, turn left up Parkhurst Road, and they’re about half a mile along.’

  The toddler began crying.

  ‘Is that it? As you can see, neither of us are in a good mood.’

  ‘Thank you for your time . . .’ Jerry started to say.

  The door slammed shut.

  ‘Very pleasant?’ Joe said.

  They walked back down the steps and turned right along Walters Road.

  ‘Have you ever had a baby, Joe?’

  ‘I take your point, Mrs K. You’ve had four of them, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you ever like that?’

  ‘Foul-mouthed and grumpy?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘On many occasions, and still am sometimes.’

  ‘Makes me glad I’m not a female of the species.’

  Before they reached the end of Walters Road Jerry stopped.

  ‘Something wrong, Mrs K?’

  ‘The Estate Agents won’t tell us anything.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Client confidentiality.’

  ‘I don’t think Estate Agents can cite client confidentiality in a court of law.’

  ‘We’re not taking them to court, Joe.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  She took out her phone and called Bronwyn.

  ‘You again?’

  ‘I’m at the address you gave me.’

  ‘I’m very pleased for you.’

  ‘There are three people renting the three floors – they know nothing.’

  ‘Oh well.’

  ‘But I have the name of the Estate Agents that are managing the lettings.’

  ‘And you’re thinking that they might have information relating to the owners of the building on their computer system?’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Halsey Estate Agents on Parkhurst Road.’

  ‘I’m busy at the moment, but I’ll call you back when I’ve taken a look.’

  ‘Ok . . .’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Back to uni’?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so. We’ve got the last lesson with Professor Pemberton on “Points of Law”, which we shouldn’t miss.’

  ‘So, who’s this person you keep calling?’

  ‘If I tell you, are you prepared for the consequences?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’d have to kill you, burn your body and sprinkle the fragments that remain on unconsecrated ground.’

  He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yeah, right. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.’

  ‘Good. What’s that?’

  Joe stopped to look at a sign screwed to a building wall on the opposite side of the road that directed customers down a set of steps:

  NATHANIEL I JACOBSON

  Ladies & Gents

  Made to Measure Tailor

  for over 50 years

  Tel: 081 7296751

  ‘For over fifty years – he might know something.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  They crossed the road, walked down the steps and entered the basement tailor’s shop of Mr NI Jacobson.

  A bell jangled on the door.

  They could hear the sound of sewing machines humming in another room, and there was the strong smell of clothes – if such a smell existed.

  A good-looking young man with black curly hair and a five o’clock shadow came through from the back. ‘Good afternoon. How can I help?’

  ‘Mr Jacobson?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit young to have been here for fifty years.’

  For a moment he looked confused. ‘Oh no! You want my father. I’m Ruben Jacobson.’

  ‘Is it possible to speak to your father?’

  ‘He doesn’t work anymore, but I’d be happy to help.’

  ‘We wanted to talk to him about Number 44 across the road.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Who lived there in 1971?’

  ‘Ah, then you need to speak to my father.’

  ‘Who doesn’t work here anymore.’

  ‘No, but he lives upstairs. Can I ask who you are?’

  Jerry produced a business card and passed it to him. ‘My friend and I are doing a law degree, and we’re conducting research on a robbery that occurred in 1971. It’s our understanding that 44 Walters Road was connected to that robbery, and we’d just like to ask your father if he remembers anything from that period.’

  ‘He’s got a formidable memory, and I’m sure he’d welcome the opportunity to have a conversation with someone other than me about the old days.’ He called through into the back. ‘Caleb, I’m just going upstairs. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Okay,’ a voice filtered though from the other room.

  ‘Please, follow me.’

  ***

  Bronwyn caught the tube from Highgate to Embankment on the Northern Line. At Embankment, she switched to the District Line and travelled the two stops to St James’s Park.

  The first place she visited was the cafe next to the tube station, which had free Wifi. She ordered a large Americano coffee and an apple cinnamon sticky bun.

  She found a seat facing the door, and munched through the bun while she assessed the clientele who were already in the cafe and those who came in after her.

  After a swallow of coffee, she took out her laptop and logged onto the router as “Guest”. There was a long list of Wireless Network Connections, and it didn’t take her long to find the conveniently-named “EW Network”. She ran her “WirelessKey” software program and the passwords for all the networks listed appeared within seconds. She typed in the EW network password and was logged on as “User”.

  The first thing she checked, after upgrading her security access, was the evidence relating to the Baker Street Robbery. It was no good breaking into the place if what she wanted wasn’t there – it was. The evidence boxes were located in the basement on Row G.

  She examined the security drive. Everything was there as she knew it would be – CCTV control software, electronic gates, internal and external lighting, movement detectors, water spr
inkler system, door access, security visits . . . She went into the folder and discovered that the mobile security guards from GS Security visited twice a night. The timings varied, but there was always two hours between visits. They entered the premises through the electronic gates, which registered on the network. They checked the building externally, and swiped a card at five checkpoints, and then they left. To her mind, that was hardly security.

  The Evidence Warehouse was meant to be a modern state-of-the-art building, but modern didn’t necessarily mean secure. She created a backdoor into the network and connected it to a shortcut button depicting a police helmet on her desktop.

  And that was it. Tomorrow night, Yoda and Sushi would stroll into the evidence warehouse without a care in the world, help themselves to the details relating to Box 253 from the Baker Street Robbery and stroll out again. No one would be any the wiser. For all intents and purposes it would look like a power cut.

  She’d done everything she’d intended to do and closed her laptop, stuffed it back into her rucksack, and went back up to the counter.

  ‘Two cheese sandwiches and two bottles of orange juice with the bits still in, please,’ she said to the woman behind the counter. She had no idea how long she was going to be there, but she didn’t want to die of starvation and/or dehydration.

  ‘Ten pounds seventy-five, please.’

  She gave the woman fifteen pounds, put the sandwiches and bottles of orange into her rucksack and took her change. ‘Thanks.’

  After leaving the cafe, she made her way to the four-star St Ermin’s Hotel, which she thought was nice enough, but a bit over the top for her liking with its white marble staircases and balustrades. She caught the lift up to the sixth floor, climbed the stairs to the roof and found a secluded spot that overlooked the one-storey Evidence Warehouse where she could watch and get a feel for the comings and goings.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once they were on the motorway heading back to Hoddesdon Xena put on a pair of plastic gloves, opened up the evidence bag and removed the pin holding the dry-cleaning tag on the designer’s label to reveal what it said underneath:

  LIBERTY

  LONDON

  ‘Jenifer has clothes from them,’ Stick said. ‘We went down to London on a long weekend to do some shopping. The Liberty store is an enormous Tudor building and they sell everything from food to flowers.’

  ‘Had you ever heard of them before Jenifer took you there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you don’t actually know anything about them, do you?’

  ‘No, not really. Except . . .’ He turned his tie over and held it towards her. ‘Jen bought me this from there.’

  Xena grabbed the tie and yanked it towards her. ‘Watch the road, numpty. If you’re wearing something from them, then the stuff they sell must be two-a-penny.’

  ‘They’re certainly very popular with the middle classes.’

  ‘You think you’re middle class, do you?’

  Stick grunted. ‘Isn’t everybody who isn’t on benefits middle class these days?’

  ‘Are you being cynical? It’s not like you to be cynical.’

  ‘Maybe a bit of cynicism. What about the dry-cleaning tag?’

  ‘If it was just a number I’d screw it up and throw it away, but the initials could very well be the break we’ve been looking for.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell the press, and then the killer will find out as well.’

  ‘What choice do we have?’

  ‘None, I suppose.’

  They reached the station at ten past three.

  ‘Right, while I’m visiting the ladies room, you take the scarf and dry-cleaning tag up to forensics.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then, I’ll go and brief the Chief and follow it up with the press briefing. You get started sorting through the bag of papers and documents from the Porter crime scene, and I’ll meet you in the incident room in about an hour.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Stick wandered off in the direction of the kitchen.

  A toilet cubicle was always a good place to while away five or ten minutes contemplating the destruction of the ozone layer, or dwell on the misalignment of the magnetic poles and whether it would right itself in her lifetime. Women came in, completed their ablutions and left again. Sometimes, there was a meeting of two or more women. Either they came in as a group, or happened – by the strangest of chance – to meet in there.

  ‘You’ve heard about the Murder Team?’ one of the women said.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘I saw a report . . . Oh, I shouldn’t have done I know. It was addressed to DCI Kowalski, but it just fell out of its envelope onto my desk. I mean, I can hardly be blamed for the quality of envelopes these days, can I? The sticky flap was just flapping about in the wind without any sticky on it . . .’

  ‘Nothing’s as good as it used to be, that’s for sure. So, you read what was in the report?’

  ‘I think read is a bit harsh. A couple of words jumped out at me that’s all.’

  ‘And what did the words say?’

  ‘They didn’t say anything – words don’t talk.’

  Xena heard them both laughing.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘They’re getting rid of the murder team here and amalgamating it with one somewhere else. I didn’t really get the chance to read all the details because I was called away, and I thought I’d better not leave the report on my desk, so I had to seal it and send it on its way.’

  ‘It’s the cut-backs, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s my guess. Now listen, you mustn’t tell anybody.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’

  She heard the door close, waited a handful of seconds, unlocked the cubicle door and stuck her head out – all clear.

  Was it true? Was the Chief Constable really getting rid of the Murder Team at Hoddesdon? How could he? How could he amalgamate the best team on the Force with a team of useless has-beens? What would happen to her and Stick? Would they get new partners?

  She felt physically sick. What did they think they were doing? Just when she thought things were going well, the bastards pull the rug from under her. And what was worse – officially, she didn’t know about any planned closure or amalgamation.

  Crap!

  She walked up the corridor to brief the Chief as if the gallows and the High Executioner were waiting for her.

  The Chief’s secretary nodded at her, but she didn’t nod back. Lydia O’Brien was far too young and pretty to be the Chief’s secretary. He should have chosen an old hag with a face like a bag of onions.

  ‘Come,’ the Chief’s voice filtered through the door.

  She entered.

  ‘DI Blake. Have you been avoiding me?’

  ‘Have I got reason to avoid you, Chief?’ She hadn’t been avoiding him, she’d been working her nuts off – if she’d had any nuts, or a womb for that matter.

  ‘Take a seat and tell me what’s going on with your two double murders.’

  Yes, there had been two double murders. Would there be another one tomorrow?

  She told him about the two murders at the Lloyd’s house, and the two at the Porter’s house; about the removal of body parts and how they thought it was a woman scorned . . .

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes. As she leaves each house, she looks in on the children – only a woman would do that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She leaves bloody glove prints on the bedroom door handles.’

  ‘Interesting. Have you any idea who this woman is?’

  ‘This morning we had a name . . .’ She told him about finding the receipts for Acorn Lodge in Guildford; about the woman who booked into the guest house every time Peter Lloyd was there; about their trip to Bushey in Watford to Lisa-Marie Ward’s address and what they found there . . .

  ‘So, now you’re helping old ladies across t
he road?’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t do anything like that, Sir. It was DS Gilbert’s idea.’

  ‘I hope so, because if I thought you were going soft on me, Blake . . .’

  ‘Absolutely not, Sir.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  She told him about their visit to Acorn Lodge in Guildford; about the scarf; about the dry-cleaning tag with the number and the initials on it . . .

  ‘Initials?’

  ‘In all honesty, it’s our only lead at the moment.’

  ‘Now you’re going to feed it to the press and ask the person who initialled the tag to come forward?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Good work, Blake.’

  ‘Thanks, Chief.’

  ‘And let Gilbert know what I said.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  She stood up. ‘I need to get to the press briefing.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, DI Blake.’

  She made her way down to the press briefing room and slid into her usual chair. As expected, they were waiting for her like ravenous beasts. But today, she had something to feed them.

  ‘We’d very much like the person who works in a dry-cleaners and has the initials CLY to contact us,’ she said to the assembled media representatives.

  ‘And would this person be a suspect, Inspector?’

  ‘No. They would merely be helping us with our inquiries.’

  ‘You’ve found a piece of evidence, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any additional information, but if you could run that request for assistance you’ll be contributing to our investigation.’

  She sidled out and went upstairs.

  Stick wouldn’t have made her a coffee, so she went to the kitchen and made herself one.

  ‘How did it go?’ Stick asked when she entered the incident room.

  ‘Much better than yesterday.’

  ‘Good.

  She stared at the pile of papers and documents on the table. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m slowly making an impression. It’ll be a while though.’