Hartmann: Malicious Rules (Hartmann thriller series Book 1)

by Helen L Lowe

  ‘I’m sure I saw him here just last week,’ she said.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, he was a nice lad - I was worried about him because he didn’t look at all well.’

  The man glanced around the room at the men and women eating their food as if their lives depended on it, and a frown wrinkled his forehead.

  ‘Is he someone close to you?’

  ‘He’s my son.’

  ‘You must be desperate to find him. Would you like me to put his photo on our board? I can get you a card to write your contact details on.’

  ‘Yes, thank you - that’s very kind of you.’

  Harriet walked over to the office to get a card, aware that he was probably watching her. He was remarkably handsome, well-mannered and had a really sexy voice. His height was an added bonus because she was tall and liked to wear high-heels. She watched him write his contact details on the card and read them when he passed the card back.

  ‘Dr Julian Hartmann,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Miss Johnson - Harriet Johnson.’

  He shook her hand. ‘You will make sure he sees this if he comes back?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He attempted to pull his hand away from hers but she held onto it to the point of embarrassment, and Dr Julian Hartmann walked away with a blush on his handsome face.

  * * *

  Paddington Green Police Station

  9 a.m. Monday 27 February

  DCI Chase stood motionless while Kenneth Judd, the Superintendent, dumped all his anger and frustration on Chase’s head.

  ‘This simply can’t go on, Chase,’ Judd said, pounding his fist on the desk. ‘You’ve had Erikson under surveillance since the beginning of January and what have you got to show for it. Nothing – not one damn thing. I’m getting pressure from the PM because the Queen is furious that Prince Charles has been dragged into this fiasco. My name is being mentioned in dispatches, linked with the force’s failure to capture this maniac. Have you any idea what effect this will have on my career - not to mention yours.’

  ‘Sir, I really don’t think there’s any threat to Prince Charles,’ Chase said, ‘I doubt the letter sent to the Daily Mirror was from the killer and it’s a pity the newspaper printed it, I know, but they’re just trying to sell more papers.’

  ‘So you, a DCI, really don’t think there’s a threat – well, I’m sure that will reassure the Royal family. I must remember to pass that little gem on.’

  After his meeting with Judd, Chase called a briefing down in CIDs main office. The room was packed with police officers working on the murders and it was standing room only. Judd stood at the back with his chest puffed out and his hands clasped behind his back. He looked more like a dictator than a police Superintendent.

  Chase was going through the facts of the case for the umpteenth time, hoping to instil some enthusiasm into the overworked officers. They had been working solidly on this case for months and all leave had been cancelled. He was only five minutes into the briefing when a phone rang on one of the desks. It was answered by a female officer and she held the receiver out for him.

  ‘It’s the river police for you, Gov.’

  Chase accepted the call, listened for a few seconds and replaced the receiver.

  ‘It seems we have two more body parts to add to our collection – a rolled up carpet was washed up at the Isle of Dogs. The river police have confirmed that a severed leg and arm were inside. They could belong to one of our three torsos or be a match for some of the other limbs. If not, we could be looking at a new victim.’

  * * *

  Erikson’s Gym, Fulham Road

  11 a.m. Monday 27 February

  DCI Chase and DS Cooper arrived at Erikson’s Gym knowing that John Erikson was on the premises. They walked straight past reception and ran up the flight of stairs towards Erikson’s office. They didn’t bother to knock and opened the door just as the phone on the desk rang.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother to answer it,’ Chase said, ‘it will be your receptionist ringing to say that we’re here.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of a meeting with my accountant,’ Erikson said.

  Chase raised his eyebrows. ‘Your accountant?’

  Erikson frowned. ‘Yes – is there something wrong with that?’

  ‘No, definitely not – I’m just surprised you have one.’ Chase looked at the diminutive man sitting at the desk who looked like a child next to Erikson who was six feet nine inches and built like a brick shithouse. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Simon Cox,’ Erikson said.

  ‘Can’t he speak for himself?’

  ‘I should leave,’ Cox said.

  ‘No need – Mr Erikson will be leaving with us so you’ll have plenty of time on your own to cook the books.’

  Cox looked nervous at the suggestion and kept his eyes down on the books in front of him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Erikson said.

  ‘We’d like you to come down to the station to help us with our enquiries regarding the assault on David Woods.’

  ‘Like? How polite of you – no arrest then?’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ Cooper said.

  ‘I’ve already answered your questions. I’ve got nothing more to add.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we have more questions,’ Cooper said, pulling a set of handcuffs from his pocket.

  John scowled at him. ‘Ok, ok – but I’m not saying anything without my solicitor.’ He stormed out of the office and down the stairs.

  At the desk, he spoke to the receptionist. ‘Call Braithwaite - tell him I’ll be in Paddington Green police station.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Queen Alexandra Hospital, Cosham

  At the hospital, news of Julian’s promotion was out and there were congratulations and rounds of drinks for days. His housemates arranged a celebration meal at a local Italian restaurant. The conversation at the table was mainly about the promotion but Vickie, always one to cut to the quick, floored him with one of her insightful comments.

  ‘You don’t seem very excited by your promotion. If it were me I’d be shouting from the rooftops.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not thinking of turning it down, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Vickie - who would turn down a Registrar’s post?’ Jeff said, looking directly at Julian. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  Julian looked at his friends around the table. ‘Well, now you’ve asked the question that’s been in my mind for days – and yes, I’m thinking of doing just that.’

  ‘Is it because of your son?’ Vickie asked.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve decided that I have to find him.’

  ‘Will it be a permanent move?’ Mike asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet - but if I do decide to stay in London I have my parents’ flat that I rent out and my training hospital, St Mary’s, is close by.’

  ‘What about your room here?’ Vickie asked.

  ‘I thought if I paid the next three months’ rent it would leave my options open for a while and if I do stay up there I’ll make sure you have at least a month’s notice to find someone else.’

  The mood at the table had changed from a celebration to a wake.

  ‘I feel a right bitch now,’ Vickie said. ‘There was me going on about girlfriends and you were worrying about your son - but what I said still makes sense. It’s time you stopped flitting from one girl to the next and found a girl you can marry.’

  ‘Ah, what she means is that you should find a girl like her to marry,’ Mike said.

  They all laughed at that and Vickie punched him in the arm.

  Mike stood up and held up his glass. ‘Come on you lot - let’s make a toast to send him on his way.’

  The three of them stood up and raised their glasses.

  ‘To Julian and his quest to find his son and a beautiful girl to marry,’ Mike said. ‘May all his trials be little ones and his triumphs stupendous.’

  * * *

&nbs
p; Mr Clarkson was shocked when Julian told him he was turning down the Registrar’s post. Julian said there were family matters he had to sort out in London and that he needed a complete break from work. There was little he could do but shake Julian’s hand and wish him well but he added that when Julian felt he could return to work he would be welcomed back at Queen Alexandra. It was a nice gesture and Julian appreciated it.

  His contract was due to end on 31 March but with holidays owed, and on compassionate grounds, he was able to leave on Tuesday 14 March. He packed up his belongings, put four boxes in the loft and donated two bottles of wine and a bottle of whisky to the ‘house bar’. It was meant as a gift but also as a sign to himself that he was serious about cutting down on alcohol.

  On Wednesday morning on 15 March, Julian set off in a positive frame of mind, relieved that at last he would have the time to look for Sam. However, before he started his drive up to London he still had one more person to say goodbye to. She was waiting on the hill.

  ‘Hi - sorry I’m late,’ he said, as he climbed into the passenger seat of her car.

  ‘For a moment I thought you’d changed your mind,’ Lizzie said. ‘Did you manage to book a room at that hotel you mentioned?’

  ‘Yes - The Worsley - it will do until I can find somewhere more permanent.’ He handed her a piece of paper. ‘This is the phone number and address. Any luck with the photos?’

  ‘I got them to print off thirty – d’you think that’s enough.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks - let’s hope I won’t need them all.’

  ‘And I got this - for you.’

  Julian accepted the wrapped present and looked at her questioningly. ‘You got me a present?’

  She smiled. ‘Open it.’

  He ripped open the paper and took out a rectangular picture frame. It had a photograph of Sam and Lizzie holding hands with a backdrop of Southsea Castle.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes - thank you,’ he said, trying to hide the emotion in his voice.

  ‘You know, I was thinking that I might come up to London to see you. It’ll be the Easter break soon and I often go up to visit my sister. You wouldn’t mind if we met up, would you?’

  Lizzie was looking at him with her lovely brown eyes, willing him to say yes, while he wavered . . . what exactly would I be agreeing to? A cup of coffee . . . lunch . . . afternoon sex in a hotel room . . . does it matter, you idiot? She’s saying she wants to see you . . .

  She reached for his hand. ‘Julian - I can’t bear to say goodbye to you - not again.’

  ‘Lizzie – please - don’t do this.’

  ‘But I know you still have feelings for me.’

  ‘Yes, I have but you’re married . . .’

  ‘Just stop talking and kiss me.’

  There was a moment of stillness filled with inevitability as they looked into each other’s eyes and without further protest he took her in his arms. It was the longest goodbye kiss of his life.

  * * *

  The Worsley Hotel on the Bayswater Road was as Julian remembered it, standing out from the other buildings like a grand relic from a previous century. The foyer, however, was not so grand. It was dull and tired with a heavily worn green carpet, stained wall paper and an overgrown potted plant standing precariously on a stand next to the revolving doors. A man struggled up from his seat behind the desk as Julian came through the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sir, how can I help you?’

  He was a thin middle-aged man with a mottled jaundiced complexion, hollows around the eyes and noisy breathing. Julian’s instinct was to get his stethoscope out and examine him.

  ‘I have a room booked. The name is Hartmann.’

  ‘Yes, of course - Dr Hartmann.’ The concierge turned a large book towards him to sign and pressed a button on the wall behind him. Within seconds a door opened behind the desk and a fresh-faced young man came out.

  ‘Alan will show you to your room.’

  The room was an improvement on the reception. The carpet was still green but less worn and the curtains and bedspread were in a matching light green material. There was a desk, a chair, a fridge with a selection of alcoholic and soft drinks, a tea and coffee making tray with a small electric kettle, a small television and a basic but clean en-suite bathroom. Alan gave Julian an unnecessary guided tour and held out his hand for a tip. He was rewarded with a shilling.

  Julian decided to visit the squat while there was still some daylight left. He drove over to Ladbroke Road and parked the car on the side road by the alleyway. This time, when he walked through the gate he proceeded with caution until he could see the length of the garden clearly and check Ringo wasn’t waiting to tear him limb from limb.

  It took several loud bangs on the back door to get an answer and a window on the first floor opened.

  ‘Yeah - what d’you want?’

  He recognised the blonde girl as she leant out of the window.

  ‘Has Sam been back here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me where he hangs out - a pub he likes - anything at all? I really could do with your help.’

  The window slammed shut.

  He cursed and tried banging on the door again but there was no response. He was making his way back down the garden when they let Ringo out . . . it’s amazing how fast you can run with the right incentive, he thought, as he stood in the alleyway trying to get his breath back . . . and this time, you managed to miss the dog shit.

  After dinner at the hotel he sat in the bar drinking whisky while he watched the news on the TV. The BBC news at ten had just started and they were covering the Thames Butcher murders. There was a suggestion from a police spokesman that it may be a ‘homophobic hate’ crime. They based this on the fact that the victims were all male and in the same age range.

  They showed the police handing out leaflets to men in the street telling them to be vigilant and not put themselves in unnecessary danger. They had a reporter talking to men outside the Coleherne pub, a popular gay venue, asking them for their reactions to the news. Their responses ranged from indifference to hysteria with one poor soul grabbing the mic to beg the killer to stop.

  Julian knew of the Coleherne. He had been there during his medical student days to watch the drag queens strut their stuff while they sang tunes from their favourite musicals. For Julian, the news that the murders were linked to homosexuals took some of the pressure off finding Sam. At least he could stop fixating on the gory headlines that were splashed across the front pages . . . thank God for small mercies . . . he thought cynically . . . now all you need to do is find out where the homeless junkies hang out.

  * * *

  Thursday 16 March

  The Worsley had a limited breakfast menu but the standard of their full English was good. Julian read the Daily Mirror while he ate and drank filtered coffee. The Thames murders were still headline news, with more body parts recovered from the Thames and there was more on the gay angle. He tried not to focus on the gory parts but even so the details were disturbing. Written down in black and white, it read like a horror film script and it was hard to believe that there was someone in London so mentally deranged they could torture, murder and dismember their victims.

  He discarded the paper, poured himself another coffee and turned his attention to the task for the day which was to start visiting the shelters and soup kitchens on the list. He thought he might be able to do the ones in Central London in one day and decided not to take the car as they were all within walking distance of tube stations. The soup kitchen in Praed Street was first on the list, as this was the only place so far that Sam was known to have visited. It was a pleasant spring day so Julian chose to walk and by cutting through the back streets he was walking past St Mary’s Hospital fifteen minutes later.

  He stopped by the old brick archway that had welcomed visitors for more than a hundred years, and by not paying attention to the busy pavement he accidently got in the way of a young nurse w
alking behind him. She was wearing the distinctive nurse’s white starched cap and heavy navy cloak and he couldn’t help but smile as she apologised with a pretty blush and stepped nimbly around him. He continued along Praed Street with a smile on his face. She reminded him of the cute sexy student nurses that he had known in his medical student days and, despite the incredibly long hours and the often tragic side of human existence that they had to deal with day in day out, the hilarious antics the medical students and nurses got up to. They used to excuse their crazy humour with the ‘we work hard and play hard’ line but to be truthful, it was the only way they could get through it all.

  At the soup kitchen the hall was deserted but he could see some women in the kitchen through a serving hatch.

  ‘Dr Hartmann - how nice to see you again.’

  He turned to see Harriet Johnson coming out of the office.

  ‘Good morning, I thought I’d drop in to see if my son had come back.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry - I’ve been looking out for him and I’ve checked with the other staff but no-one has seen him.’

  Julian tried to hide his disappointment. ‘Well, I need to change my contact details anyway. I’m staying in London now.’

  They walked over to the notice board and he replaced the old card with one from the hotel.

  ‘It must be a difficult and expensive time for you staying at a hotel?’ she said. ‘We have some rooms advertised - you should take a look - though some of the rooms are a bit basic.’ She pointed to a card. ‘This one at Sussex House, in Sussex Gardens is mine - I run a boarding house.’ She beamed a smile at him. ‘You would be very welcome to come and take a look - I have a nice room available.’

  ‘Thank you. If I decide to move out of the hotel I’ll contact you.’

  Julian drew a blank at four of the seven shelters and a soup kitchen in Peckham but he handed in photographs of Sam and left his contact details. At 6:30 p.m. he decided to call it a day. He walked into Oxford Circus underground station during rush hour and had to push through the stream of commuters to find the right platform. When he was waiting for the train he noticed a young woman in a mini skirt standing to his right, a few feet away. He remembered seeing her on Oxford Street walking in the opposite direction to him and his first thought was that he was being followed. He laughed at himself . . . and why would a pretty young thing like that be following you . . . foolish man.