The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I’ll just watch you while I drink my coffee, then I’ll be going home.’

  ‘Okay. Was the Chief okay?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and he said to tell you that you’re not pulling your weight.’

  Stick raised an eyebrow. ‘He did?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘How did he know?’

  ‘I told him.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ***

  ‘We have two suspects now,’ Richards said. ‘It won’t be long before we have the killer in custody.’

  They were on their way to interview the next person on the list of females who had purchased a pair of size 6 Rosa Amento climbing shoes from Vista Climbing.

  ‘I don’t know how you can possibly say that, Richards.’

  ‘Because it’s true. We have loads of evidence now.’

  ‘We have nothing.’

  ‘Nothing! That’s ridiculous. There’s the climbing shoes, The Hanged Man position from the Tarot pack, the way that the blood was drained from the victim, the climbing rope and knots, the two CCTV recordings, the lock picking, the stolen van, the number 31 inserted into Patrick Carroll’s heart . . .’

  ‘It all amounts to a hill of beans.’

  ‘You want your eyes testing. It’s like an evidence mountain – only bigger.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Name me one piece of evidence that will help us?’

  ‘The CCTV recordings.’

  ‘Why do you think we have them?’

  Richards glanced sideways at him and smiled. ‘Because I’m a good detective?’

  ‘It’s too easy, Richards.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘All of it. We’re being led down the garden path by rope through the rings in our noses.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I haven’t got a ring through my nose.’

  ‘You and your ring are first in the queue. You think we have evidence when we have none at all.’

  ‘I think you need psychiatric help.’

  ‘We’re being manipulated.’

  ‘Well, they’re not doing a very good job at manipulating us, because we know who they are.’

  ‘That’s not them.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who is it then?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. None of the evidence makes sense. None of it is connected . . .’

  ‘Maybe we just haven’t found the connection yet.’

  He fell silent. Maybe he was simply tired. He couldn’t get his head round the disparate pieces of evidence – if he could call what they had evidence. It had looked as though Patrick Carroll had been specifically targeted by the woman in The Stag Inn – he could have worked with that, used it like a hook to hang the investigation on. But then she’d stared directly into the camera lens, and he’d realised that what he had was nothing more than an apparition, a mirage, a chimera that crumbled to dust as soon as he reached for it.

  Who was the woman? Was she the killer? If so, who was the man driving the van? Was he an accomplice? Was Patrick Carroll really the target? Or was it just made to look that way? If it was, why? Richards was right, they had a heap of evidence, but none of it meant anything. He was sure they were wasting their time interviewing suspects, but what other choice did they have? Providing the press with still photographs from the CCTV footage of the male and female would also be pointless. The only reason they had allowed themselves to be recorded was that they were wearing disguises – they had to be. In which case, they had nothing.

  He went through the evidence in his mind. None of it – either on its own or as part of the whole – meant anything.

  ‘Licking your wounds because you’ve realised I’m right?’

  ‘They were wearing disguises.’

  ‘The man and the woman?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, there is no man.’

  ‘No man?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So I am right – the killer is a woman?’

  ‘It’s easy enough for a woman to disguise herself as a man, but a lot harder for a man to disguise himself as a woman.’

  ‘Especially when she’s wearing a gold mini dress and showing everybody what she got for Christmas.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘I bet. She could still be one of the four suspects we have left to interview.’

  ‘Possibly, but it’s looking less likely now.’

  ‘We don’t know what’s a lie and what’s the truth anymore, do we?’

  ‘No.’

  They interviewed another two female suspects, but neither was the killer.

  ‘Back to the station?’ Richards asked.

  ‘Unless you have somewhere else we can go to find some answers?’

  ‘You’re in a bad mood.’

  ‘Have you ever known me to be in a bad mood?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No. Now I’m just frustrated that we’re being played like Irish fiddles. Once we get to the station we’ll call it a day. Things might look different tomorrow.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Stop talking and drive, Richards.’

  ***

  Jerry and Joe followed Ruben Jacobson out of the tailor’s shop and into the house proper.

  ‘He’s upstairs in his bedroom,’ Ruben said over his shoulder as they climbed the stairs. ‘He’s ninety-four years old now, and very rarely comes downstairs these days. His mind is as sharp as it ever was, but his body has gone to rack and ruin.’

  ‘My hearing’s still all right though,’ a voice called out from upstairs.

  Ruben grinned at them.

  ‘Hey dad, I’ve brought you two people who want to talk about the old days.’

  ‘And that from a son who disrespects his father. My two wonderful daughters would never say those terrible things about their father.’

  ‘Two daughters who you never see.’

  ‘They have their lives to live, husbands and children to look after, but they know a good father when they see one.’

  ‘Let’s not discuss them again when there are people here to see you, dad.’

  Nathaniel Jacobson was sitting in a high-backed green leather chair in front of a long sash window watching the world pass by beneath him. He was bald, with clumps of white hair above his ears and at the back of his head, and he wore thick oblong glasses.

  ‘And who might you be, young lady?’

  ‘I’m Jerry Kowalski, and this is . . .’

  ‘Kowalski huh? A good Polish name. I come from Poland myself, you know.’

  ‘The surname belongs to my husband. He’s fourth generation Polish.’

  He began to reminisce. ‘We were living in Warsaw when the Germans came with their tanks in September 1939. At first, we could do nothing but accept the situation, but then in October of the following year they created the ghetto.’ He stared out of the window and dabbed at his eyes with a white handkerchief. ‘I was married to my first wife Lila at the time. We had two children – Maya and Shmuel – and I owned a well-respected little tailor’s shop on Gesla Street. All the local councillors and important people in the town came to me for their suits, and the ladies for their ball gowns.’

  ‘The Germans surrounded the ghetto with a ten foot high wall, which had barbed wire on the top. If you were caught trying to escape, they shot you on sight. We had to wear the Star of David to show that we were Jews. Typhus and starvation killed many of us before they began their final solution.’

  ‘In August 1942, while I was in my shop trying to earn enough to buy food for Lila and the children to eat, the soldiers went to the house where we were living and took them away with all the others. Of course, I didn’t find out until later. I hurried to the train station, but by then the train had already left for Treblinka. It wasn’t until many years later that I heard a first-hand account of what had happened to them at the extermination camp.’ He dabbed at his eyes again.

  ‘My poor wife and children. After
that, I joined the resistance. I had nothing to live for anymore. I was part of the ghetto uprising between January and April of 1942. Towards the end, when they were obliterating everything and killing everyone in sight, a few of us managed to escape into the surrounding woods.’

  Jerry put her hand on the old man’s withered arm. ‘And here you are, all these years later, to tell us what happened.’

  ‘Yes I am, Jerry Kowalski. No thanks to my ungrateful son. I swore I’d never leave my family again, but if it was up to him I’d be in a home for old people, instead of here surrounded by the warmth and love of my family.’

  ‘They came to talk about 1971,’ Ruben said to his father. ‘Not 1942, dad.’

  The old man looked at Jerry. ‘1971?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jerry said.

  ‘You don’t want to know about the ghetto?’

  ‘Maybe another time.’

  ‘What’s so special about 1971?’

  Jerry pointed across the street. ‘That house. There was a robbery at Lloyds Bank on . . .’

  ‘. . . Yes, I remember. Baker Street in Westminster on September 11, 1971.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I remember what happened that night. I knew someone would come and ask me about that night one day.’ The old man turned his head towards Ruben. ‘Well, if you’re staying here instead of looking after the business I spent years building up into a respectable tailor’s shop, you could at least make us all a cup of tea.’

  Ruben rolled his eyes, shrugged and left the room.

  ‘The robbery was all over the radio. I remember listening to the reports, but then nothing – it was as if it had never happened. Of course, at the time I didn’t connect the two events, but afterwards I realised they were connected. On the night of the robbery, and the day after, there were cars and trucks coming and going all the time. Men in dark suits, hats and heavy overcoats. I’d seen those same type of people in Warsaw – the Gestapo they were called.’

  ‘The Gestapo were here in 1971?’ Joe asked.

  The old man stared at Joe as if he’d just appeared out of thin air.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jerry said. ‘This is Joe Larkin – my assistant.’

  ‘An assistant eh!’ He smiled. ‘Everyone should have an assistant. Before I met Nava – my second wife – and she had given me two wonderful daughters and an ungrateful son . . .’

  ‘Who makes tea in the middle of the afternoon for an ungrateful father,’ Ruben said as he came back into the room carrying a tray full of crockery and a steaming teapot, and put it down on a high table. ‘I’ll leave this here and get back to the shop. Will you be all right on your own, dad?’

  ‘If you hadn’t noticed, I am not on my own. I have a beautiful young lady here to look after me. No wonder you’ve never married and given me lots of grandchildren like my two wonderful daughters . . .’

  ‘Grandchildren you never see.’

  ‘Only last month . . .’

  ‘I’m going back to the shop, dad. I’ll see you later.’ He looked at Jerry. ‘Will you let me know when you leave?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They heard Ruben clumping down the stairs.

  ‘He’s a good son really, but don’t ever tell him I said so.’

  ‘You should tell him yourself before it’s too late.’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  Jerry acted as mother and poured the tea.

  ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes – an assistant. Before my son was old enough to help me in the shop, there was Moshe. He was from the old country as well. Been gone fifteen years now Moshe has. I still miss him. And Nava, she died in the same year. Soon, it will be my turn. I will be joining all those who are waiting and have gone before me.’

  ‘As will we all,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Very true.’ Nathaniel stared at Joe. ‘No, young man, the Gestapo were not here in 1971, but I recognised the type.’

  Jerry touched the old man’s arm. ‘Is there anything you can remember about that night that might help us work out how the people living there at the time were involved in the bank robbery?’

  ‘You want a clue to follow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The cars were mostly black. The trucks and vans were mostly white, but there was one van that had yellow writing on the side . . .’ He took a sip of tea. His hands were as steady as if he were a young man of twenty. ‘. . . Yes, I remember that van as if it was yesterday: It was dark green. On the side was written:

  GE Harbottle & Son

  Joiners & Undertakers

  Since 1884

  Jerry looked at Joe. ‘Are you writing this down?’

  ‘Was I meant to be?’

  ‘That’s what assistants are for, aren’t they?’

  Nathaniel chuckled. ‘That’s also very true. On the driver’s door of the van was written:

  Cardigan Street

  Tel: 081 8956341

  Lambeth

  ‘You have a formidable memory, Mr Jacobson,’ Joe said.

  ‘I have, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ Jerry said. ‘We have to go now, but I’ll take the cups downstairs and wash up.’

  ‘Going so soon?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘Sorry, Mr Jacobson. We have a class at the university at four o’clock and we’ll have to rush to get there in time now.’

  ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting the pair of you, and I hope my lead helps you with your mystery.’

  ‘So do we,’ Jerry said, piling the crockery on the tray.

  ‘You don’t need to wash up,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘It’s no trouble. While I’m doing that, Joe can go and tell your son that we’re leaving.’

  After she’d washed up, she met Joe outside and waved at the old man in the second-floor window as they flagged down a taxi to take them to the tube station.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wednesday, December 10

  “I’ll never touch another woman in the way I’ve touched you for as long as I live.”

  That’s what he’d said to her, but he hadn’t meant it. No, he hadn’t meant it at all.

  Well, he won’t be touching anyone anymore.

  Tears dripped onto the severed hands sitting on the bed and trickled in-between the thick hairy fingers.

  She looked at the body of Oscar Donald. Blood from his wrists was soaking the quilt, and she knew she’d done the right thing – he didn’t deserve to live anymore.

  Once, she had loved this man. Loved him more than life itself. And she thought he had loved her in the same way. He said he had loved her, but then he had gone and loved somebody else. What type of man would do that to another human being?

  After sliding the hands into a plastic bag, and that bag into a second one and folding it all up nice and neat as if it were a Christmas present for her niece, she dropped the bloody package into the main compartment of her rucksack. She then wrapped the hacksaw and chopping board in an old towel and put them into the rucksack as well.

  On her way towards the stairs, she checked on the baby and the toddler. They were still asleep. She had nothing against the children, and hoped they slept the sleep of the innocent.

  The grandfather clock in the hallway by the front door struck two o’clock as she left.

  ***

  ‘We don’t get much chance to talk these days,’ Ray said to her as she was brushing her teeth. ‘How’s the course going?’

  She swilled her mouth out with water. ‘So you decide to start talking while I’m in the middle of brushing my teeth?’

  ‘It seems like no time is a good time these days.’

  ‘You’re being paranoid. We talked all last night.’

  ‘If I recall correctly – your parents and the children were in the middle of any conversation we tried to have.’

  ‘And you’re going to waste what little time we have now by complaining about the situation?’

  ‘You’ve chan
ged.’

  ‘I’m exactly the same woman you married all those years ago.’

  He wrapped his arms around her. ‘I’ll need to check.’

  ‘Ah, of course, “conversation” is a code word for sex, isn’t it?’

  ‘Last night you were too tired.’

  ‘I was studying, and you were asleep before your head hit the pillow.’

  ‘It’s those tablets – they wipe me out.’

  ‘They keep you alive.’

  He undid her towel and it fell to the floor. ‘What’s the point of being alive if your wife won’t talk to you.’

  She turned round and kissed him. ‘We’d better talk then, hadn’t we?’

  Afterwards, she had to have another shower. ‘Now look – you’ve made me late.’

  ‘As I recall, it was you who wanted seconds.’

  ‘Those tablets are affecting your memory as well.’

  ‘So, you didn’t answer my original question: How’s the course going?’

  ‘I’ve been paired up with two young boys – Joe Larkin and Shakin’ Stevens – for a project about DA-Notices.’

  ‘In all my years on the force, I’ve never had to enforce a DA-Notice.’

  ‘I think they’re quite rare.’

  ‘Must be. So, two young boys eh! And one of them called Shakin’! Your personal sex slaves.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No wonder you’re tired when you get home.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Yes, but they don’t satisfy me like you do.’

  ‘I should hope not. So, what’s this project about?’

  ‘A bank robbery from 1971.’

  ‘Really? It wouldn’t be the Baker Street Robbery at Lloyds Bank in London, would it?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘The very one. How did you know?’

  ‘I was reading a strange report late yesterday afternoon about the murder of George Peckham in Poplar Care Home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And as luck would have it, he was the last remaining member of the gang who robbed that bank in 1971.’