by Tim Ellis
He tapped on Richards’ bedroom door, but received no response. Opening it, he called her name, ‘Richards?’ but still she didn’t stir. The bedside light had been left on. He tiptoed all the way in and stood next to the bed, which had the Blackstone’s Police Investigators’ Manual and Workbook, and some National Investigators’ mock examination papers from 2011 spread out all over her Crime Scene Chalk Outline quilt cover. Her mouth was open and she was snoring as if she was in training for the 2012 Olympics. Shaking her he whispered, ‘Wake up, Richards?’
She snorted and squirmed like a fish on a line. Digby stood on his back legs watching her with a quizzical expression on his face.
Prodding her arm again with his index finger he hissed slightly louder, ‘Richards?’
She sat up, eyes staring like a mad woman, and pulled the quilt up to her chin. ‘What are you doing in my bedroom, Sir?’
‘Trying to get you to wake up, Richards. Get your arse out of bed. Another woman has gone missing. I’ll be in the kitchen making tea and toast.’
‘Okay, I won’t be long, Sir.’
He left her bedroom, shut the door, and crept downstairs. In the kitchen, he put a side light on, made himself a coffee with four sugars, and toasted two pieces of bread.
Richards came in yawning.
‘What do you want?’ he asked her.
‘I want to go back to bed.’
‘That’s not an option.’
‘I’ll have tea and one piece of dry brown toast then.’
‘You always have to be awkward, don’t you?’
She sat at the kitchen table with her chin in her hands and closed her eyes.
He put the milkless, sugarless tea and dry brown toast in front of her, and sat down nursing his coffee with his legs stretched out.
‘It’s no wonder you’re tired.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Snoring, Richards. Even if you got yourself a man, you wouldn’t be able to keep him when you snore like that.’
She blushed. ‘There are some things you shouldn’t say to a lady, Sir.’
‘Did you know you snored?’
‘My mum told me ages ago.’
‘And have you done anything about it?’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, the first thing you need to do is go and see your doctor, and ask him what he recommends. If you don’t do something now, you’ll die a lonely old woman.’
‘Don’t say that, Sir. It’s not that bad.’
‘Not that bad, Richards? It’s worse. A horse comes to mind, and I think your Mother should arrange for a structural engineer to check that the foundations of the house are still in good condition and aren’t going to collapse around our ears while we sleep.’
‘You’re so mean, Sir.’
‘Right, enough about you sawing logs in the night. Marie Longley finished what she was doing at the Redbridge Tribune at eleven-thirty last night. Between her desk and her car she disappeared. She called her boyfriend before she set off, and he expected her home by midnight, but of course, she didn’t arrive. He phoned around, but no one had seen her. Then he began looking for her in his own car, but as soon as he realised that her car was still in the Redbridge Tribune car park he phoned the police.’
Mary finished her toast and took a swallow of the tea. ‘Can I go back to bed now, Sir?’
‘Of course you can, Richards, but you’ll have to return to Cheshunt police station in the morning and start walking the streets again.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to come with you then.’
‘I’m grateful for your benevolence.’ He wrote a quick note to Angie asking her to feed Digby before she went to bed for the day.
‘Where are we going first?’
‘The Redbridge Tribune, that’s where she went missing.’
‘Do you think we’ll find her alive, Sir?’
‘Do you think I’ve developed extra-sensory perception during the night?’
‘I hope we do.’
***
‘Anything, Toadstone?’
‘CCTV footage, Sir.’
They were in the Security Office behind the Reception of the Redbridge Tribune building overlooking Gants Hill roundabout and train station. ‘Go ahead, make my day?’
Toadstone sat at the computer and clicked the CCTV recording. ‘Dirty Harry Callahan, Sudden Impact, 1983.’
‘You spend too much time watching films instead of trying to find evidence for me, Toadstone.’
‘Here it is,’ Toadstone said leaning back in the chair.
Parish and Richards stood behind him and watched the black and white image of a young woman walk from the building towards one of the three cars visible in the car park. Then the screen went black.’
‘What happened, Paul?’ Richards said.
‘Watch again.’ He slowed the recording down to fifty percent of its usual speed. A high-sided vehicle moved between the camera and the woman and blacked out the picture. Eventually, the vehicle reversed, swung round, and left the car park. Marie Longley was nowhere to be seen.
‘Shit,’ Parish said. ‘I presume you’re going to examine this recording in greater detail, Toadstone.’
‘I’ll give it my best shot, Sir, but I’m not hopeful.’
‘For once, I’d like you to be optimistic.’
‘I could be, but it won’t change the fact that the recording is in black and white, the CCTV system is poor quality, the rear number plate is obscured, and the side windows of the van are blacked out.’
‘Have we got people out checking for other CCTV coverage?’
‘Yes, Sir. I do know there’s a traffic camera on the roundabout outside, so we should be able to see the van enter and leave the car park.’
‘Good. I needn’t tell you that this is a priority, Toadstone. Miss Longley has been missing for six hours already.’
‘No, Sir, you don’t have to tell me.’
‘Right, I’ll let you get on then. You’ll…’
‘Yes, Sir, I’ll inform you if we find anything worthwhile.’
‘I’ll be back, Toadstone.’
‘Too easy, Sir. The Terminator, 1984.’
Parish grunted. With Richards close on his heels, he left the Security Office and walked up the stairs to the second-floor open-plan journalist’s room. The desks were so close together the room looked like a model of a Council Estate. On top of the desks were computers, printers, and overflowing file trays. In-between them were photocopiers, televisions, and worn out carpet. The Night Editor – Patrick Morley – came towards him and offered his hand. Parish shook it, showed his warrant card and introduced Richards.
‘I’m not going to be much help Inspector, I’m afraid no one up here saw anything. Marie left at eleven-thirty last night. She waved to the two of us who were still here, walked down the stairs, and that was the last we saw of her. Unfortunately, we can’t see the car park from up here. Everyone at the paper will be devastated, Marie is a lovely person, and well liked.’
‘What was she working on?’
‘A series of articles about the hidden increase in domestic violence, linked to the Women’s Refuge Shelter in Chigwell. You don’t think…?’
‘I don’t think anything yet, Mr Morley. Have you…?’
Patrick Morley passed him a green folder. ‘These are the two articles she’s produced to date, and her contacts at the Shelter are inside as well.’
Next, they went out of the rear exit to the outdoor car park. It had begun to drizzle. There was nothing to see. Marie Longley had obviously not reached her car because it was still locked, and even though forensics officers were combing the car park with torches, there appeared to be no evidence of anything untoward happening. They moved back to the building and stood under a concrete overhang.
‘Maybe she’d arranged for someone to pick her up?’ Richards suggested.
‘Possible,’ he responded. ‘But if so, why did she ring her boyfriend and tell him she was on her way home? Why p
ut him through hell?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, what now, Richards?’
‘I was just about to ask you that, Sir.’
‘I’m asking you. You’re the one in training. When do you take the National Investigators’ Exam?’ He knew she’d been studying like crazy for the Phase 1 examination ever since the Chief Constable had fast-tracked her onto the course a month ago. Personally, he thought it was a bit soon, but she was desperate to take the examination and prove herself.
‘Next Wednesday, Sir. I’m never going to pass. I know nothing. There’s just too much information to take in. I’ve not had enough time. I think my brain leaks at night. I read something, and then in the morning it’s gone. I’ve devoured the manuals, practised the questions, made revision aids like mindmaps and flashcards, and I still know nothing. What am I going to do, Sir?’
‘Are you giving up, Richards? Capitulating? Throwing in the towel? ’
‘No I’m not, but maybe I’m not ready for being a detective. Maybe this is payback for jumping the queue. Maybe…’
‘Maybe you don’t want to be a detective, Richards?’
‘I do so, Sir.’
‘Maybe you’ve pressed the psychological destruct button, because you feel guilty about jumping the queue. Maybe you’re willing yourself to fail, so that everything will stay the same. Maybe…’
‘Maybe I need some help, Sir.’
‘Maybe you do, Richards. We’ll talk about it at home tonight, and see what we can come up with.’
‘You’re the best, Sir.’
‘I know. So, you didn’t answer me… What now?’
She thought for a while then took out her notebook and flicked through the pages. ‘We have to leave everything else and concentrate on Marie Longley, because she might still be alive.’
‘Good, what should we do first?’
‘Go and talk to her boyfriend to see if he can help us, and of course, we should question the people at the Women’s Refuge Shelter to see if her disappearance might have something to do with what she was working on?’
‘This is on-the-job-training, Richards. I don’t know how you can say you know nothing, you know a hell of a lot. You’re just feeling overwhelmed by it all.’
‘Did you pass first time, Sir?’
‘What do you think, Richards?’
‘I think you did. What percentage pass did you get?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do, Sir. Sixty percent?’
‘Do you see me as a sixty percent type of person, Richards?’
‘Seventy…?
‘Pah.’
‘Eighty…?’
‘My name isn’t Kowalski, Richards.’
‘Ninety…?’
‘I got one wrong.’
‘Ninety-nine percent, Sir? You’re my hero. Why haven’t you been helping me to pass?’
‘You never asked. I thought you wanted to do it all on your lonesome.’
‘What I want to do is pass. I don’t care who helps me.’
‘Okay, enough about you, Richards, let’s go and talk to the boyfriend.’
They went back inside and met Toadstone coming to find them. ‘I’ve got news, Sir.’
‘Your face tells me that I’m not going to like the news you’ve got for me, Toadstone.’
‘Sorry, Sir. The traffic camera identified the vehicle as a Renault Master. There was one person in the front with a pig mask on, and the number-plates belonged to a Volvo C30 that was stolen two days ago.’
‘Well, nobody’s perfect.’
‘I’ll keep looking, Sir, and don’t think you can slip them in and I won’t notice. That was Osgood Fielding III, Some Like It Hot, 1959.’
‘He’s good isn’t he, Sir?’
‘Passable. A pig mask is not something people usually wear when they’re out shopping. I think we can work on the assumption that Marie Longley was abducted.’
‘Your good as well, Sir.’
‘Right, we’re off to speak to the boyfriend, and then we’re going to the Women’s Refuge Shelter. At some point I’m going home to put some clean clothes on, but we’ll be out all day. If you discover anything that can help us you know my number, Toadstone?’
‘Okay, Sir.’
‘Oh God, Sir, Amanda Sprinkles is coming to the station at ten this morning, and I’m meant to pick up Dr Jeffers then as well.’
‘Crap.’ He looked at his watch. It was six-forty. ‘The best laid schemes of mice and men.’
‘And don’t think you can fool me with quotes from poems, Sir. That’s from Robert Burns’ To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, 1785. The poem was also used to provide the title for John Steinbeck’s 1937 novella, Of Mice and Men.’
Richards laughed. ‘You’re never going to get one over on him, Sir.’
‘Whose side are you on, Richards?’
‘I’m on the right side, Sir.’
Toadstone smiled and rubbed his hands together like a miser. ‘Beverley Knight, Moving On Up (On the Right Side), from the album B-Funk, 1996.’
Parish pushed Richards towards the front door and said over his shoulder, ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you, Toadstone.’
***
A male Victim Support Officer sat at the oval dining table with Mark Wozcniak in the minimalist kitchen of 19 Mordon Road in Seven Kings. Although Marie Longley’s boyfriend was in his early thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair, the dark rings under his eyes made him look ten years older this morning.
‘We’re sorry to bother you, Mr Wozcniak,’ Parish said after introducing himself and Richards, ‘but we need to ask you some questions.’
Wozcniak lit up a cigarette. The large black ashtray on the table overflowed onto the table, and the kitchen reeked of stale tobacco. ‘Of course, can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee would be good,’ Parish said. ‘It’s been a long day already.’
Richards shook her head.
The uniformed Constable was about to get up, but Parish signalled for him to stay seated. Making drinks would occupy Mr Wozcniak’s time, and divert his thoughts for a short time.
‘Miss Longley phoned you at eleven-thirty last night and said that she was on her way home?’ Parish knew that the boyfriend hadn’t been involved in Marie Langley’s abduction. There was no way he could have answered the telephone, and then reached the Redbridge Tribune to abduct his girlfriend.
‘Yes.’
‘Was she in the habit of phoning you when she was about to leave the newspaper?’
‘Usually, in case I wanted her to get something on the way, like cigarettes, a Chinese, or….’
‘Has she ever phoned to say she was on her way home, and then gone somewhere else?’
‘No, never.’
‘I know this is difficult for you, but I have to ask. Did she sometimes disappear, and not tell you where she was going?’
Mr Wozcniak hesitated as the kettle clicked off.
‘If there’s something you feel you should tell me…’ Parish pressed.
He finished making Parish’s coffee and sat back down. ‘Recently… On a couple of occasions she said she was going to work, but she went somewhere else.’
‘You don’t know where?’
‘No, except… I found this hidden in her make-up drawer.’ Mr Wozcniak passed him a business card with The Chameleon Club printed on it in bold italic, and a local telephone number underneath. ‘My mind has been in overdrive all night trying to piece the clues together…’ He stood and scooped a stack of papers off the worktop. ‘These are her mobile and credit card records for the past three months. She’s been to that place three times in the last two months at a hundred and twenty pounds a time, and phoned them twice. I rang the number earlier – somebody picked it up, but nobody spoke. What is it, Inspector? She never mentioned she was a member of a club.’
Parish shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of it.’ He turned th
e card over. ‘There’s no address.’ He looked at Richards and the Constable, but they didn’t know either.’
‘I searched the Internet, but couldn’t find anything about a local Chameleon Club. Maybe she did have someone else. Until tonight, I would have thumped anybody who suggested that Marie was being unfaithful, but now… I don’t know anything anymore. What’s happened to her, Inspector? Do you think her disappearance is connected to that club?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Wozcniak. Let’s wait and see shall we. We know she got into a van before she reached her car. Whether she was taken by force, or she went voluntarily, we don’t know. You’ve tried ringing her mobile?’
‘Every five minutes, but I keep being diverted to her voicemail.’
‘We’ll see if we can locate it by GPS. What’s her number?’
Wozcniak located the number on his own mobile, took the Chameleon Club card back off Parish, and wrote the number on the reverse of the card.
Parish passed the card to Richards and said, ‘Phone Toadstone and ask him to find out what he can about the club, and to locate Marie Langley’s telephone. Also, phone the Duty Sergeant and ask him to send a squad car to pick up Dr Jeffers.’
‘What about Amanda Sprinkles, Sir?’
‘We’ll be back at the station for ten.’
Richards stood, walked into the hallway, and called Toadstone.
‘Have you got a recent photograph we could have, Mr Wozcniak?’
‘Of course.’ He took his wallet from the back pocket of his crumpled chinos and withdrew a photograph. ‘It’s only two weeks old. I went with her to the Grosvenor Hotel in London, she was awarded Local Journalist of the Year at the British Press Awards.’
Parish stared at a professional photograph of a beautiful brown-haired woman in a black evening gown and matching glasses over intense blue eyes. Another colour for the killer’s collection, he thought.
Wozcniak gripped Parish’s arm. ‘Please find her, Inspector?’
‘We’ll do our very best, Mr Wozcniak.’
***
Outside, as they climbed into Parish’s Ford Focus, Richards said, ‘He’s not involved is he, Sir?’