The Fragments That Remain

by Tim Ellis

  ‘It all makes sense to me. Come on, we have to go.’

  ‘What about Günter Kappel and his two helpers?’

  ‘She murdered them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My guess is that she’s eradicating any evidence of her past, and that includes you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She bought a magnifying glass at a stationery store, and then went back to the cafe in the middle of the mall, sat at the same table and had another coffee.

  It had slipped her mind for a time, but then she remembered that she was more than likely going to have sex tonight. How long had it been? Months? Years? Decades? Well, she planned to get her money’s worth out of Roger Roadrunner tonight, that was for sure.

  At the table, she withdrew the photograph from her rucksack and began examining it with the magnifying glass.

  Humans were inferior beings. Evolution should have sorted out the dependency on accoutrements and add-ons such as clothes, shoes, magnifying glasses, hearing aids and the like. Animals had everything they needed, and those that didn’t were food. Someday, she’d be food. Sooner rather than later if the MI5 cockroaches had anything to do with it. They’d pick her bones clean.

  It was definitely a key. She could see the shaft and the collar, but the bit and bow were hidden under paper.

  And she wondered why someone renting a safe-deposit box at a bank would stash a key in the box that opened something else. What was so important that it needed to be hidden a second time?

  Next, she took out the bunch of keys and compared each one to what she could see in the picture. The ninth key was the one she wanted. She slid it off the large key ring and used the magnifying glass to look at it. She didn’t need to use the magnifying glass, but seeing as she had it available anyway and had paid good money for it . . .

  It was an old key – the metal brown and pitted. The bow was in the shape of a club similar to the club design in a suit of cards. The pin was solid – thin close to the collar, but slightly wider at the end. And the bit had three cuts to activate the levers in the lock.

  She examined the photograph again. There were documents on top of the key with writing on them, but she could barely make the writing out. All she could see was:

  . . . tle & Son

  . . . t 376

  . . . etery

  She cast her mind back to what Jerry had told her, and quickly figured out that “tle & Son” was probably GE Harbottle & Son. She knew that they were undertakers, so “etery” was probably Cemetery, and “t 376” could be Plot 376. She also recalled that the undertakers had been located in Lambeth.

  Picking up the key, she twirled it round in her fingers and wondered what it was for. What was on Plot 376? Was it a crypt? Was there something buried there? Or was it simply an empty plot that had never been used? If that was the case, why was there a key?

  When she looked on the internet she found there were four cemeteries, and in a number of them they were reusing graves. What did that mean exactly? Would an existing resident wake up and find someone lying on top of them? Would the interloper be lying face down or face up? Top to tail, or tail to top? Maybe they would be placed next to the rightful occupant as if they were a married couple. Would new corpses be young or old? Male or female? And what about their social class? It was a nightmare. Who were all these people? If one was paying good money for a single berth, it was hardly right that at some future date one should be expected to share. And if one were to share, surely one had a right to choose who one shared one’s final resting place with? Applications needed to be completed and assessed, interviews held, recompense paid. No, there’d be no burial for her. Cremation or food for the needy were the only viable options for the disposal of her remains.

  She checked all of the four cemeteries online, hacked into their databases and eventually found that George Harbottle had paid £10,000 for Plot 376 in perpetuity at West Norwood Cemetery in the Borough of Lambeth. After finding the directions to the plot, she returned everything to her rucksack and headed back to the bungalow.

  A good days’ work already. She’d pig out on sex with Roger Roadrunner later, throw him out on his ear and then take a trip to West Norwood Cemetery to find out what George Harbottle was doing in Plot 376.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  She turned to find Norman Milliken from the Neighbourhood Watch Team stalking her. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘There’s no need to swear, Miss.’

  ‘Well, what do you want? You’re not a pervert, are you?’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There are two men waiting for you inside your bungalow.’

  ‘Two men?’

  ‘In suits.’

  ‘What are they doing in my bungalow?’

  ‘I thought you might know – they had a key to your front door.’

  ‘A key?’

  ‘Well, I assume so, because they let themselves in.’

  ‘I’m the only one with a key to my bungalow.’

  ‘Should I call the police? That’s what we’re expected to do. Although they’re usually a bit slow in responding. However, you can hardly point the finger of blame . . .’

  ‘Will you shut the fuck up?’ She couldn’t hear herself think. Two men in her bungalow. How had those bastards found her so quickly? She couldn’t go inside now. She’d just have to head for the tube station.

  ‘I was being held as a sex slave . . .’

  Milliken licked his lips. ‘Really?’

  ‘. . . And they’ve come to take me back.’ She burst into tears.

  He put his arm around here. ‘There there, Miss. We’ll call the police.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid – they are the police. The police are the worst. They use the law to wrap a cloak of invisibility around themselves.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Surely yes.’ She saw one of the men at the window. He spotted her as well. ‘Help me. They’re coming.’

  ‘Leave it to me, Miss,’ Milliken said.

  She started running down Redford Way towards Uxbridge station. The two suited men burst out of the front door of the bungalow.

  Milliken blocked the gate.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, and saw the two men bowl Milliken over like a wooden skittle at the alley. Then, they came after her.

  Fuck! They were loping along like Olympic long-distance athletes.

  She, on the other hand, was running bent over like the hunchback of Notre Dame. Her rucksack was full of heavy shit slip-slapping against her back, and her barely-healed insides were sloshing about like the ingredients for an offal broth.

  Thank God she had an Oyster card. She was straight through the turnstile and clattering down the escalator.

  The cockroaches weren’t far behind. She heard squeals as they barged people out of the way, vaulted the turnstiles and followed her.

  There was a train for Cockfosters that was just about to leave. She ran along the carriages, and then dived through an opening as she heard the warning beeps and the doors began to close.

  She tried craning her neck to see if the men had caught the train, but she couldn’t see a damned thing. Her heart was pounding, she was breathing like an asthmatic and there were stabbing pains in her stomach. Had she undone what the surgeons had spent ages sewing up? Maybe they’d find her, the last passenger on the train when it terminated at Cockfosters, dangling from the plastic strap she had her hand through like a soap-on-a-rope. She got off at Rayners Lane and switched to the Metropolitan Line, switched again at Finchley Road onto the Jubilee Line, and again at Bond Street onto the Central Line. At Liverpool Street, she left the underground and found a cafe in the main station to eat and drink in.

  How had they found her? The only answer was that they’d bugged her. She had to get rid of everything – her laptop, her tablet, her old phone, her clothes – even the rucksack.

  After she’d munched through a Cornish pasty and washed it down with an orange juice
, she made her way up the escalator to street level.

  It didn’t look as though Roadrunner was going to be servicing her tonight.

  ***

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Stick said as they headed towards 20 Grenville Avenue in Broxbourne.

  ‘Looks likely.’

  ‘And you thought we’d never catch her.’

  ‘I had no such thoughts. In fact, I had every confidence in my own abilities.’

  ‘And mine?’

  ‘Do you possess any abilities?’

  ‘You’ve mentioned them on my annual appraisal.’

  ‘Oh those. No, I just write any old rubbish that comes to mind on those things. You see, if I wrote the absolute truth and gave you a bad appraisal, there’d be no end of paperwork and meetings to justify my comments afterwards. I’d have to explain why you’re a complete waste of space, why you’re un-trainable and why I wouldn’t put you in charge of a self-inflatable dummy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not only that, I’d also have to break-in a new partner. Hell’s teeth! It was bad enough breaking you in. No, I’m stuck with you for the foreseeable future. And you know how easy-going I am. I like to go along to get along. Anything for an easy life. So, you shouldn’t pay too much attention to those annual appraisals, they’re simply a form-filling exercise to meet the requirements of employment law. If I were you, I’d just be happy that you’ve reached your level of incompetence.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  They arrived at 20 Grenville Avenue – the address that Alex Howe had given them for where Paula Milburn lived. It was a town house in a row of four. The driveway was constructed of block paving that was in need of weeding between the cracks. An integral garage with a white metal up-and-over door stood next to the front door. There was a middle floor with a balcony, and a top floor with windows that stretched right across the house and up to the eaves.

  ‘Should I ring for back-up?’

  ‘She’s a skeleton.’

  ‘Who’s murdered eight people.’

  ‘It can’t do any harm I suppose, but we’re not waiting for them. One squad car will do. We don’t want it to appear as if a grown man like you can’t arrest a walking skeleton.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I’m still a bit tender.’

  ‘Of course.’ He called the Duty Sergeant and requested a squad car. ‘Done.’

  ‘Good.’

  They climbed out of the car.

  Stick knocked, but nobody came.

  ‘Knock again. Only this time give it some elbow grease.’

  He knocked harder, but still nobody came.

  ‘Ring and ask for authorisation to force entry.’

  He called the Duty Sergeant, who spoke to the Duty Inspector, who gave his authorisation based on the circumstances of the case.

  ‘Okay,’ he said to Xena.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You want me to break the door down?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask, but I don’t think you need to shoulder-charge or kick it. Pick up one of those rocks from next doors rockery and knock a hole in the glass. You can then stick you hand through and open the door.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’’

  He wandered next door, helped himself to a rock from their rockery and strolled back to the door.

  Xena screwed up her face. ‘Well?’

  ‘I was just thinking about the angle I should . . .’

  She reached for the rock. ‘Give it here.’

  But he turned away. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Get on with it then. For all we know she could have sauntered out of the back door and be half-way to China by now.’

  Stick broke the glass, put his hand through the jagged hole and opened the door. ‘Hello?’ he shouted. Police. Is there anybody there?’

  There was no reply.

  Along the hallway – between the wall of the garage on their left and stairs on their right – was the kitchen. It had beige units, slightly darker floor tiles, and the worktops were darker still. There were spotlights on the ceiling, everything was in its place and the kitchen extended into a semi-circular conservatory with a wicker table and matching chairs. Tall ferns in beige plant pots gave the conservatory the appearance of a Victorian hot-house.

  ‘Very nice,’ Stick said.

  ‘You’re an expert, I suppose?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Too beige for my liking.’

  The conservatory door was locked.

  Through the windows Xena could see a well cared-for garden with stepping stones across the lawn, a greenhouse, a shed, a trellis archway with clematis climbing up it, a birdbath and a patio with an iron table and matching chairs.

  Stick made his way back along the hallway and began ascending the stairs to the second floor.

  As Xena was about to follow him up, two uniforms appeared at the door.

  ‘PCs Hignett and Leverton, Ma’am,’ a tall male officer said. ‘You called for back-up?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  An inhuman scream came from upstairs.

  ‘Stick?’ she called, but there was no reply. She would liked to have taken the stairs three at a time, but she knew she couldn’t. She shifted to one side and said to Hignett, ‘Go.’

  He took the stairs three at a time and as he went he pulled the collapsible ASP baton from his belt and extended it.

  Xena followed him up one stair at a time. By the time she reached the living room Hignett had his knee in the middle of an unconscious Paula Milburn’s back and was putting handcuffs around her wrists. Blood leaked onto the floor from a gash on the side of her head.

  There was blood all over the floor.

  Where was it coming from?

  ‘She was like an animal,’ Hignett said. ‘I had to hit her hard a couple of times to stop her from stabbing DS Gilbert more than she already had.’

  Stick was lying face down and not moving.

  ‘Fuck!’ she said, and dropped to her knees beside him. ‘Call for an ambulance,’ she said to Hignett. ‘And tell them to hurry.’ She yanked his coat down. His shirt was oozing blood and she counted at least six stab wounds. ‘Jesus!’ She felt his neck for a pulse, but it was so faint she nearly missed it. She grabbed a throw off the back of an easy chair and used it to press down hard on the knife wounds in Stick’s back to try and slow the flow of blood. Tears jumped into her eyes and fell onto her hands. ‘Don’t you fucking die on me, Stick,’ she screamed at him. ‘If you do, I’ll give you the worst annual appraisal you’ve ever had.’

  ***

  As they were leaving the incident room Parish’s phone began playing Don’t Worry Be Happy – it was his and Angie’s song.

  ‘Hello, darling . . .’ he began.

  ‘Someone took him, Jed.’ Angie sounded hysterical.

  ‘Slow down, Angie. What’s going on?’

  ‘A woman walked into the crèche dressed in a nurses’ uniform and took Jack.’

  ‘Took Jack? I don’t understand. Took him where?’

  ‘Out of the hospital.’

  ‘Jesus. Have the police been called?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  He ended the call, stood up and said to Richards, ‘Come on – hurry.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She’s taken Jack.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘You know who.’

  It took them forty-five minutes to reach King George Hospital, although it felt like a week and a half.

  DCI Beth Miller from Ilford Police Station was waiting for him in the hospital reception.

  Uniformed police were milling about trying to look busy.

  Angie ran to him and burst into tears. Oh, Jed!’

  He held her tight. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, trying to sound optimistic, but he didn’t feel very optimistic – he’d already seen Zara’s handiwork. Why had she taken Jack? Was his son to be her next v
ictim?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  He didn’t understand how she had moved from her three previous victims to Jack. What did she want? Was her plan, as Richards had suggested, to eradicate her past – starting with Jack?

  ‘You’ve got the abduction on CCTV?’ he asked DCI Miller.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to look at it.’

  They walked up the stairs to a large oblong training room that had been utilised as an incident room. The far wall was constructed of safety glass and overlooked the reception.

  He sat Angie down by the door and told her he wouldn’t be long.

  DCI Miller led them to a table where a man was sitting in front of a computer, and they watched the footage of Jack’s abduction.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it, Sir?’ Richards said.

  He nodded. ‘We know this woman,’ he said to the DCI.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He told her what they knew about Zara Roche – except the small detail of her being his twin sister. ‘And this woman is our main suspect in the three murders.’

  ‘Jesus! And now she’s taken your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you any ideas about her motive, where she might have taken him, or anything else that could help us find your son?’

  He shook his head. ‘What about you, Richards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My team arrived at the hospital within twenty minutes. We’ve been operating on the “Golden Hour” principle. Roadblocks were initiated on all major roads, but without success. We have a chopper in the air. Forensics didn’t have much to go on, although I tasked them with interrogating every CCTV camera in the area – still nothing. We have her leaving the crèche carrying your son, and then it’s as if she disappears.’

  ‘That’s what usually happens. She’s a master of disguise, and it’s more than likely that she became somebody else – male or female, old or young – to leave the hospital. Get your people to examine the footage after she disappears.’

  She glanced at another detective, who nodded and moved across the room to talk to some of the others on the team.