The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Not even close.’

  They traipsed into the fish and chip shop and sat down in a booth next to one of the windows overlooking Cardigan Street.

  A young Eastern European waitress with bottle-blonde hair, no breasts and no backside to speak of, came over chewing gum as if she had shares in Wrigleys. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hi babe,’ Joe began.

  She stopped chewing and stared at Joe. ‘You greasy English boys all same. Come in here wanting to impress her your mommy. Well, my boyfriend big guy behind counter. You want to impress someone, I tell him you say, “Hi babe” to me . . .’

  Joe looked at the bearded man-mountain behind the counter and said, ‘That’s all right. I’ll just have the fish and chips with three slices of bread and a cup of tea, please. What about you, Shakin’?’

  ‘Same for me, please.’

  Jerry smiled at the woman. ‘A cup of tea for me, please.’

  ‘Some girls don’t know which side their bread’s buttered on, eh Shakin’?’ Joe said.

  ‘Too true, Joe. You was doing her favour, weren’t you?’

  ‘She should have considered herself lucky I gave her the time of day.’

  ‘Oh, I think she was suitably impressed,’ Jerry said. ‘She was playing hard to get. You give up too easily.’

  ‘You’re trying to get me killed, aren’t you, Mrs K.’

  ‘A granny like me?’

  ‘We was only joking about that,’ Joe said. ‘Weren’t we, Shakin’?’

  ‘Course we were. You’re hot as mustard.’

  The waitress brought the food, and conversation was suspended until all the food and drink had been demolished.

  ‘Good,’ Shakin’ said, leaning back and sliding both his hands into the waistband of his trousers.

  ‘Only just,’ Joe agreed. ‘Another chip and I might have had to give it to the poor.’

  Shakin’ said, ‘What now, Mrs K?’

  ‘We find out what we came to find out – ask people if they know anything about a joiners and undertakers called GE Harbottle & Son. You two go over onto the other side of the street and start knocking on doors. I’ll stay on this side and do the same.’

  ‘You gonna be all right on your own, Mrs K?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I’ll hardly be on my own, will I? You two are just across the street.’

  Shakin’ nodded. ‘That’s true. We’ll keep an eye on you, make sure nothing happens.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  Jerry paid, and they made their way outside.

  Shakin’ stopped just outside the door. ‘We forgot to ask if they knew anything there.’

  ‘I thought about it,’ Jerry said. ‘But the business is owned by Bulgarians. They won’t know anything about an undertakers from 1971.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ agreed.

  Joe and Shakin’ dodged in-between the traffic to cross the street and began knocking on doors.

  Shakin’ waved at her.

  She began knocking on her own doors. The two shops next to the Windmill Fish Bar were empty and had graffiti on the metal shutters by someone who signed him or herself Broken Fingaz.

  The first place she came to was a studio advertising architectural services by Bernard Wellingham. She went inside . . .

  By the time she’d reached Courtenay Square, Joe and Shakin’ had disappeared. She waited, but she couldn’t locate them. She thought about phoning Joe, but she had an idea what they up to and decided to let them get on with it. There was still two-thirds of the road to cover yet.

  She crossed over Stables Way and knocked on more doors. At Number 46, which was a private house, she struck gold.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is Jerry Kowalski from Baxter, Kowalski & Associates . . .’ She passed the grey-haired old man a business card. ‘I’m trying to locate a local undertakers called GE Harbottle & Son.’

  ‘Well, I never.’

  ‘You’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Used to have a place down the street with a yard attached – Number 87, if my memory hasn’t deserted me. Of course, they aren’t there now. Haven’t been for nigh on thirty years . . .’ He smiled. ‘My name is Harry Bell. Would you like to come in, love?’

  ‘No offence, but I’d rather not, Mr Bell.’

  ‘None taken, but call me Harry. I understand all too well. In this day and age a young woman has to be careful about the situations she gets herself into.’

  ‘Not so young anymore.’

  ‘You’re a spring chicken from where I’m sitting, love.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Mr Harbottle and his son?’

  ‘Strangest of things. One minute they were there, next they were gone. I remember waking up one morning, and it was as if they’d never been there. I used to walk to work up Cardigan Street and down Black Prince Road to the river. I’m retired now, but I was the Head Gardener at Lambeth Palace Gardens for going on twenty years. Anyway, I’d cross the road and walk past George Harbottle’s yard. I was always curious about the dead bodies, you see. Not that I ever saw any, mind. That morning the gates were open, but there was no one about. I wondered if they’d been robbed or something, so – being neighbourly – I wandered inside to check the place out. It was completely empty. Well, nearly . . . you wait here a minute, love.’ He turned and went inside.

  She looked up and down the street, but it was mostly empty. It looked like Joe and Shakin’ had disappeared into a black hole, because she hadn’t seen them since they’d crossed over nearly an hour ago.

  ‘Here we are, love.’ He handed her an old brown A5 envelope that had been folded an inch in at the side and an inch over at the top. ‘Don’t ask me why I took them, or why I kept them – I have no idea. But they’re yours now. I’ve had them stuck in a bottom drawer for all this time. People are crazy sometimes.’

  She opened the top of the envelope and peered inside.

  ‘The place had been stripped bare. I’d never seen anything like it. I mean, everybody in the local area used to use George for burying their loved ones – he must have been raking it in. If I didn’t know better, I’d say something wasn’t quite right with the way he left. Anyway, I walked round and found those things.’

  Jerry tipped the contents of the envelope out into her left hand. There was a live 9mm brass bullet, an old blue English passport with the number 3459 in the name of Mr Jack O’Donnell; and a business card:

  DANCRAFT

  Manufacturer of High Quality Pace Sticks

  UK MoD Approved

  Martin Dukes

  Linton-On-Ouse, York

  ‘Who was Jack O’Donnell?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Harry said. ‘The only thing I can think of is that he was one of George’s clients, but why George would have had the man’s passport is beyond me. Anyway, as I said, they belong to you now.’

  She slipped the envelope and its contents into her handbag. ‘Thanks very much for your help, Harry.’

  ‘My pleasure, love. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Safe journey now.’

  The door closed.

  She carried on walking along Cardigan Street, and planned to cross over when she was opposite Number 87, but as she drew level with a small alley between two buildings, hands shot out and dragged into the small gap.

  ‘Make a sound and I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear, Mrs Kowalski,’ a man’s voice whispered in her left ear.

  Her heart was jumping about. How did he know who she was? What did he want?

  He pushed her face hard up against the brick wall.

  She could smell garlic and cheap aftershave.

  His other hand squeezed her breast, and slid down over her stomach and . . .

  She tried to struggle out of his grasp, but he forced her against the wall with the weight of his body.

  ‘You carry on trying to find out what happened on September 11, 1971 and you’ll end up just like George Peckham. Am I getting through to you, Mrs Kowals
ki?’

  ‘Yes,’ she forced out.

  He moved his hand from her crotch, slid it into her handbag and took out the brown envelope. ‘I’ll take this.’

  Then he wasn’t there.

  She didn’t turn round immediately, but when she did there was no one else in the alley. She crumpled to the ground and cried.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was too early to phone Doc Riley for the results of the post mortem, so he wandered up to Forensics to see Toadstone.

  ‘Working hard and working smart sometimes can be two different things, Toadstone.’

  ‘Hello, Sir. You’re picking the quotes of those American politicians clean at the moment. That particular one was said by Byron Dorgan a former Senator from North Dakota.’

  ‘A lucky guess. Listen, I want you to prepare yourself for a major disappointment.’

  ‘With Mary, you mean?’

  He sat down on a lab stool. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Is it not going well?’

  ‘You’re the best friend a girl ever had, but she just doesn’t love you.’

  ‘I could make her happy, Sir.’

  ‘Nobody’s disputing that, but can you make her heart jitterbug every time you walk in the room?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I can.’

  ‘It’s my considered opinion that you should throw yourself on your own sword.’

  ‘You think I should tell Mary it’s over?’

  ‘Unless you want to thrash about like a dying turkey waiting for Richards to pluck up enough courage to do what you should have done? It’s the right thing to do, Toadstone. You gave it your best shot, but it wasn’t good enough. Now, it’s time to end it. You’ll always be her best friend, but that’s all you’ll ever be.’

  ‘And that’s not so bad, is it, Sir?’

  ‘No, not so bad at all.’

  ‘In my heart of hearts I knew it wasn’t working.’

  ‘I know you did. You’re not stupid. That’s why we’re having this conversation.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘While the iron’s hot.’

  Toadstone nodded.

  ‘Right, now that we’ve sorted your pathetic excuse for a love life out, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Well, nothing really.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about all the hair, fibres, bodily fluids, footprints and fingerprints you collected?’

  ‘Nothing so far.’

  ‘That’s not really the news I was hoping for.’

  ‘I wish I could be more forthcoming, Sir.’

  ‘You were finding out about the Drayton family and their crypt.’

  ‘The Drayton family line ended during World War 1 when Captain Angus Drayton was killed at the Battle of Vimy Ridge on April 14, 1917 without the foresight to leave an heir.’

  ‘That’s disappointing.’

  ‘Especially for the Drayton family.’

  ‘If the line ended, how can they be disappointed, Toadstone?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘What about the CCTV footage from Goff’s Oak?’

  ‘We haven’t found anything yet.’

  ‘And the footage from the car park at The Spires shopping centre?’

  ‘Patrick Carroll arrives back at his car with the woman, but the picture is too grainy to make out any details. They drive out of the car park, and then we lose them.’

  ‘You’ve asked traffic . . . ?’

  ‘Yes. They couldn’t find the car either.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘Not really. The traffic cameras are mostly on the main roads. If you know where the cameras are, you can get from A to B without appearing on a single one. Obviously, most people don’t bother about whether they’re being filmed or not, but there are those who make it a point to avoid the cameras at all costs.’

  ‘Crazy people?’

  ‘Some people think that the crazy people are the ones who aren’t in the psychiatric hospitals.’

  ‘Those people are crazy.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, you really have got nothing for me?’

  ‘Which is what I said.’

  ‘Sometimes disappointment makes you stronger, Toadstone.’

  ‘The Kenyan middle distance runner David Rudisha said that.’

  ‘But this is not one of those times.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Parish went back to the squad room.

  Richards put the phone down. ‘All done.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I explained to them how you were very impatient for the results, and they said they were extremely sympathetic to your plight, but it would take as long as it took.’

  ‘You didn’t stress the urgency of our request, did you?’

  ‘I said that our request was of the highest priority, and they said that other people’s requests were just as urgent. Apparently, our request was number seventeen in the queue.’

  ‘Number seventeen! How quickly does the queue go down?’

  ‘They didn’t say, but they were at pains to point out that we were a valued customer, that our call was very important to them and that they would get to our request as soon as they possibly could.’

  ‘In other words – we have to be patient and wait for them to pull their fingers out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We may as well go to lunch then.’

  ‘Somewhere close by?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘La Bohème.’

  ‘I hope you’re not teaching yourself to swear in different languages.’

  ‘It serves French and Mediterranean food.’

  ‘Like frogs’ legs?’

  ‘I’m sure they have more than frogs’ legs on the menu.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, otherwise we’ll be walking straight out of there.’

  ‘You don’t like frogs’ legs?’

  ‘I suppose you do?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ‘What about slimy snails?’

  ‘I know you’re trying to put me off, but it won’t work.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We have to be a bit more sophisticated in our dining experiences.’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish and get your coat. Is it within walking distance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  They walked up the High Street, past half a dozen perfectly good eating places, the Post Office and the library. La Bohème was on the right just past Lord Street.

  ‘Welcome,’ a woman wearing a sack-like flowery dress with gelled curly hair and a moustache said. ‘My name is Francine. Would you like a table for two?’

  ‘Please,’ Richards said.

  They were led to a table in a corner.

  Richards indicated the paintings on the walls. ‘Lovely artwork.’

  ‘They’re murals of famous landmarks in France, Spain and other Mediterranean countries. They were painted for us by the local art group.’

  ‘They add to the atmosphere.’

  ‘Lots of people say that.’

  Parish screwed up his face and interrupted the conversation. ‘Do you have to keep the woman talking? Can’t you see she’s trying to get our lunch?’

  ‘Take no notice of Mr Grumpy,’ Richards said.

  Francine smiled, passed each of them a menu and went to get their drinks.

  Richards pulled a face. ‘You’re a philistine.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You know . . . a philistine.’

  ‘You have no idea what a philistine is, do you?’

  ‘I have every idea what one is. If you want to know what one is you should look it up.’

  ‘They’ve got sautéed frogs’ legs here in fresh herbs and garlic sauce,’ Parish said, pointing at the menu.

  ‘Feel free to order them for yourself.’

  Francine came back with their drinks.

  Parish ordered the filet mignon
with fresh peppers in pepper sauce. Richards had the Tabbouleh salad with cilantro, lemon and olive oil.

  ‘What’s the wait time?’ Parish asked.

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Is that less than half an hour? Or more than half an hour?’

  Richards nudged him. ‘She just said it would be about half an hour.’ She glanced at Francine. ‘Take no notice of him.’

  The woman left.

  ‘It was a valid question.’

  ‘No it wasn’t. You’re just being awkward.’

  It was twenty-five minutes before Francine re-appeared carrying two steaming plates of food.

  He was just about to take the first mouthful of food when his mobile vibrated. ‘Hello, Doc. I hope you’ve got some good news for me?’

  ‘It depends on your interpretation of good news?’

  ‘Something that will help me catch a crazed killer before she murders again.’

  ‘Number 77.’

  ‘Sunset Strip.’

  ‘No, we’re not playing bingo. It’s what I found on the paper wedged inside the woman’s right ventricle.’

  ‘So we have 31 and 77?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not much help. Any ideas?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘I was surprised to find your DNA on the victim.’

  ‘My DNA?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right. Where on the victim?’

  ‘Her foot.’

  ‘But I never touched her.’

  ‘I’m only telling you what I found. You must have brushed her foot with a part of your body.’

  ‘I was wearing a forensic suit, hat, mask and gloves. There’s no way I could have transferred DNA to the victim.’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  ‘You’ve double-checked?’

  ‘I ran it four times.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it must be true, but I don’t know how that could have happened. Anything else?’

  ‘I have the victim’s name.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  ‘She was arrested for driving under the influence two and a half years ago – we still had her DNA on record.’

  ‘What is it?’