by Tim Ellis
‘Have you deciphered the first two messages yet?’
‘I’ve been promised the first message in plaintext tomorrow morning.’
‘Will you communicate the plaintext to the press?’
‘That depends on what it says.’
‘Is there anything useful that you can tell us, Inspector?’
‘There will be an official press briefing in the station at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘Has Constable Richards got anything to say?’
‘No. There will be a news blackout about Miss Langley’s death for an hour while we inform Mr Wozcniak that his girlfriend has been found.’
He climbed back into the car, locked the door, and drove slowly through the crowd until he reached the end of Quebec Road where he turned into Perth Road, and then hung a right onto the A12.
‘They wanted me to say something didn’t they?’
‘I’m not devaluing your input, Richards, but what they really wanted to see were your breasts.’
‘Sirrr.’
‘That’s how it is. I’m not sexy enough for them. Sex and murder sell newspapers.’
‘It was nice of you to mention Paul.’
‘He’s not the only Mr Wonderful, you know.’
They reached 19 Mordon Road in Seven Kings at five-twenty. The press had beaten them to it. Mark Wozcniak already knew that his girlfriend was dead. Parish apologised for the way in which he had found out, left the Victim Support Officer providing support, and drove to the station.
‘It’s not going well is it, Sir?’
‘I’ve noticed that you have a knack for understatement, Richards.’
‘At least you haven’t got that horrible, Chief Inspector Naylor on your back all the time.’
‘There is that, I suppose.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Ranger?’
‘Pete, its Trev.’
‘You must be psychic. I was literally just about to ring you.’
‘Rather than talk about our business on an open line, have you got time to meet in the Alf’s Head?’
‘I’m feeling a bit thirsty.’
‘Half an hour?’
‘Mine’s a Fosters.’
***
It was five to five, and they were nearly an hour late. Jenny Ravel, The Duty Sergeant, had left messages on Parish’s phone, which he had been too preoccupied to answer. Now, standing outside the interview suite with her hands on her hips, she had a face like half a grapefruit.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you.’
‘You do know that I’m running a triple murder investigation, Sergeant?’
‘That doesn’t prevent you from answering your damned phone. You could have rung me and said you were going to be late. I’ve had to put up with these five low-life’s whining on about how they’ve got better things to do…’
He held up his hand. ‘Did you and I get married, and someone forgot to tell me?’
‘What do you mean?’ Like him, she had aged. Once, she’d had long fair hair held up in an impossible knot, but now it was short with dark roots and split ends.
‘You’re beginning to sound like a fishwife, Jenny.’
Her face cracked into a smile. ‘It’s been a long day, and I’m pissed you didn’t answer your phone. How long have we known each other?’
It wasn’t a question of how long, but more of the feelings they had once shared. They were both promoted to Sergeant at the same time seven years ago, and the celebrations in the Alf’s Head had led inexorably to her bedroom. Afterwards, although relationships between work colleagues was frowned upon, they had made time for regular sex in each other’s flat, a cubicle in the men’s toilet, in the back of a police car along a lane somewhere in Woodbridge, and a number of other places too obscure to recall. After five months, they both realised their relationship was only about sex, that it was going nowhere, and they mutually agreed to end it.
He touched her hand. ‘Sorry, Jenny, I’ve had a difficult afternoon myself. Can we put it behind us, and interview these toe-rags before they take us to the Court of Human Rights?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said.
They interviewed all five men one after the other in forty minutes in one of the four stark interview rooms, but Parish saw nothing in their eyes that would suggest any of them were the person they were searching for. All five men had alibis for at least one of the murders, two had never heard of Marie Langley or the Redbridge Tribune, one had never learnt to drive, and another had a plaster cast on his ankle and hobbled about using crutches. They’d had to interview the men, but it was really a waste of their time.
‘Thanks Jenny,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’
‘Yes you do Jed Parish, and don’t think I won’t collect.’
On the way up the stairs to the squad room, Richards said, ‘What did she mean by that, Sir?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richards.’
‘And I saw you touch her. Are you cheating on my mum?’
‘Jenny and I have some history. It was over and done with a long time ago, so keep your nose out.’
Richards arranged for a car to take Dan Jeffers back to the hotel, and Parish hefted the box of files from under his desk – about DI John Lewin’s death – down to his car, and put it in the boot. Richards met him in the car park, and they set off home.
Parish’s mobile vibrated as he turned right into High Road. He retrieved it from his coat pocket and passed it to Richards.
‘It’s mum.’
‘Answer it then.’
‘I hope you’re not going to be grumpy tonight when you’re helping me to study?’
‘Your mum will think I don’t love her anymore if you don’t answer the damned phone.’
‘Hello mum? Yes, we’re on our way home now.’
Parish said, ‘Ask her what’s for dinner.’
‘My boss wants to know what’s for dinner?’
‘Mmm, I can smell it from here.’ She turned to Parish. ‘Mum says its beef casserole with chunky carrot pieces.’
‘I want thick fresh bread with lashings of butter to dunk in the gravy.’
Richards laughed. ‘She says you have more chance of becoming a member of the Chippendales.’
‘Tell her I’ll give her a private live audition later.’
‘Sirrr,’ she said laughing. ‘I don’t want to be in the middle of this conversation. We’ll be home soon, mum.’
***
Gabriel parked further down Puck Road and saw Mary Richards climb out of the silver Ford Fiesta and go inside the four-bedroom detached house. He didn’t know who the man taking the box out of the boot was, and he didn’t really care. If he stood between Mary and himself then he would kill him.
Sitting in his car, he watched the house. The lights came on in the front room, and then the curtains were drawn. Mary stood against the light in the front bedroom and undressed. He could only see her silhouette, but he imagined so much more. Between his legs lay a dormant raging monster that would rear up soon and claim its prize – the sooner the better.
Tomorrow he would call in sick and spend the day following her, find out her movements, and look for an opportunity to take her. On Friday, he would grasp that opportunity – she would be his. It would give him time to find another van, to prepare the secret room under the bungalow for his guest. Surely God wouldn’t want him to take and punish another sinner so soon. He had time to prove he was a man with Mary Richards. Give her a baby – his baby.
***
‘I have the package we spoke about,’ Pete Ranger said after Trev had bought the drinks and they’d sat down in front of the fire again. At this time of day, before the night got going, customers were thin on the ground, and there were only two couples in the bar.
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about, Pete.’
‘You’ve decided against it? I’m glad.’
‘No, I’m still doing it.’ He took a large swallow of his pint. ‘
Since when have you ever known me to change my fucking mind once I decided on doing something?’
‘Probably never.’
‘There you go then.’
‘What‘s the problem?’
‘I’m delaying it for a few days, is all. I have some other business to take care of first.’ Yes, his wife and kids were other business now. Like the drugs, the protection, and all the other business he had been involved in as a copper. Pete didn’t need to know what he planned to do to Katie and the kids. He’d hear about their tragic deaths on the ten o’clock news, or read the details in the Sunday newspapers. By that time, Trevor Naylor wouldn’t even be in the country. He’d be somewhere without an extradition treaty under another name – Tom Peters – a forgettable name. The million and a half he’d put in his ‘rainy day’ account would keep him in beers until his swollen prostrate stopped him drinking alcohol anymore.
‘I don’t want to hold onto it for too long, Trev.’
‘Have you got it with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll put it in my car.’
‘When are you planning to use it?’
‘Friday evening, I’ll do it as he’s leaving the station.’
‘You’ll call me.’
‘Of course.’
They finished their drinks and left together. Outside in the car park a package was transferred from the boot of one car to another, and hidden in the side panelling.
***
‘I could hear you two, you know,’ Richards said as she came into the kitchen in her dressing gown. ‘I’m probably psychologically damaged now.’
‘You shouldn’t be listening,’ Parish said.
‘It was hard not to. I thought you were murdering my mum.’
‘If you’re trying to embarrass me it’s not working, Mary,’ Angie said. ‘I’m on night duty, I have to get my enjoyment when I can.’ She leaned over and kissed Jed who was sat at the kitchen table waiting for his casserole and reading DI John Lewin’s post mortem report.
Mary pulled a face. ‘You didn’t sound as though you were enjoying yourself.’
‘Well, I was. So, sit down I’ll be serving dinner soon.’
‘Maybe we could get your room soundproofed… Or mine.’
‘Maybe you could put your earphones on and listen to music,’ Angie countered.
‘Or, you could refrain from doing it while I’m here?’
‘You’re always here when Jed’s here.’
‘I know, I have no love life. My boss makes me work twenty-seven hours a day, he’s forbidden me to see a married man, or for that matter any man at the station. I’m going to die a lonely old maid.’
Parish ignored her. It appeared that DI Lewin had died of a gunshot wound to the head. How was that possible, he wondered? He’d known John Lewin, and although he was uninspiring he didn’t think he was the type to commit suicide. He continued to read. Doc Michelin had found gunshot residue around the wound and on Lewin’s right hand. The more he read, the more he was sure it was murder. He walked through into the living room and phoned Doc Michelin.
‘Don’t you want this casserole after I’ve spent hours cooking it?’ Angie called after him.
‘Of course… Hello Doc, how’s it going?’
‘I know you Parish, you rang me about something else. If you were interested in how things were going here, you would have stayed. Instead, I bet you’re at home getting ready to watch the Champion’s League match between Chelsea and Barcelona?’
‘Thanks Doc, I’d forgotten that was on. It was worth ringing you after all.’
‘Anything else I can do for you?’
‘DI John Lewin?’
The Doc didn’t speak and Parish thought he’d lost the connection.
‘Are you still there, Doc?’
‘I’m still here. Why do you want to know about John Lewin?’
‘He died during his investigation of the first murder. I wondered whether there was a connection, but I’ve just read his post mortem report and found out that he died of a gunshot wound to the head.’
‘He was murdered.’
‘That’s what I think. What evidence have you got, and why wasn’t there a murder investigation?’
‘Are you sure you want to know, Parish?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Have you read all the case files?’
‘No, only the PM report while I was waiting for my beef casserole dinner.’
‘Beef casserole! I love beef casserole – is there carrots in it?’
‘Big chunky ones, so I’m led to believe.’
‘Do you think there’s enough for me?’
‘Hang on…’ He stuck his head into the hall and shouted, ‘Angie, is there enough casserole for Doc Michelin?’
‘Yes, but no more.’
‘Did you hear that, Doc, don’t bring the whole forensic team with you?’
‘I’m on my way. Even forensic pathologists deserve to be fed once in awhile, and when Angie has fed me I’ll tell you what I know about John Lewin’s murder.’
‘We’re not going to wait for you to arrive until we eat, Doc. Angie is on night duty and…’
‘No, don’t wait for me. Go about your normal domestic business, Parish. I’ll just slink in, eat, tell you what I know, and slink out.’
‘See you soon, Doc.’
Parish went through into the kitchen as Angie began putting out the casserole.
‘I’m starving,’ Richards said. ‘We haven’t got to wait for Doc Michelin, have we, Sir?’
‘No, he can eat when we he arrives.’
‘Why did you ring him?’
‘I wanted to know how DI Lewin had died of a gunshot wound to the head.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said that DI Lewin was murdered.’
‘Oh!’
‘He wouldn’t tell me anymore until I paid him with casserole. Now stop asking me questions and let me eat.’
Doc Michelin arrived as Angie was leaving. Mary showed him into the kitchen and gave him his plate of casserole while Parish kissed Angie goodbye on the doorstep.
‘I can drive you there if you want me to?’
‘Then I won’t have my car to get home.’
‘I could pick you up?’
‘At seven-thirty in the morning? That would make you late.’
‘I love you,’ he said as she climbed into her car.
She mouthed the same back to him.
He waited until she’d reversed out of the drive and was out of sight, then he closed the door.’
‘This is amazing, Parish, you’re a lucky man. Angie is not only beautiful, but a talented cook as well.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you, Doc’
‘Did you notice the blue Toyota Aygo parked outside with someone sat in it?’
‘No.’ He went to the front door, opened it and peered out. Although it was dark the streetlights were all working and he could see along the road in both directions, but there was no blue car.
‘It’s not there now.’
‘Must be me. I’m becoming paranoid, Parish.’ He finished the casserole and sat back holding his stomach. ‘Working with the police makes you question your own sanity sometimes.’
‘Now that you’ve been paid, are you going to tell us about DI Lewin?’
The Doc checked his watch. ‘John Lewin was found in his car in Hoddesdon Police Station car park on the morning of 17th December 2003, and I carried out the post mortem later that day. He’d been in his car all night, and due to the freezing conditions, rigor mortis had begun to set in.’
‘At face value, it seems a straightforward suicide,’ Parish said. ‘What made you think it was murder, and why isn’t that conclusion in your report?’
‘I deal in objective facts not supposition, but there were three things which made me suspicious. First, there was a silencer on the gun. In my experience, suicides don’t use silencers because it makes it more difficult to place the g
un against one’s head. Secondly, DI Lewin was left-handed, but the gunshot residue was found on his right hand. That, in itself, wouldn’t have been a problem, but he was sat in the driver’s seat.’ The Doc paused to look at Parish.
‘I’m not with you, Doc?’
The Doc stood up. ‘Let’s go outside, bring your car keys.’ He led the way. Parish’s car was parked in the drive.
‘I’m not coming outside in my dressing gown,’ Richards called after them from the open doorway. ‘I’ll watch what you’re doing from here.’
‘Get in the driver’s seat and shut the door.’
Parish did as the Doc instructed, put the key in the ignition to turn the electrics on, and lowered the window so he could hear the Doc speaking.
‘Put the window back up and try to shoot yourself with your right hand.’
Parish did as he was told, and immediately realised that DI John Lewin had been murdered. There was no way he could have shot himself in the right side of his head with the amount of room available between the window and the driver’s head. He climbed out of the car, locked it, and followed the Doc back inside.
‘It was murder,’ Parish said.
‘That was my conclusion.’
‘But why didn’t you put that in your report?’
‘Because the person who was investigating Lewin’s death, was also the person rumoured to have killed him.’
‘Naylor?’ Parish said.
‘Exactly. And I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of DI Naylor, because the same thing would have happened to me.’
‘There were other people you could have spoken to, Doc, such as the Chief,’ Richards said.
‘The Chief wasn’t Walter Day then, Constable. Parish was a nobody, and…’
‘Thanks, Doc,’ Parish said.
‘You know what I mean. I had no idea who was clean and who was dirty. I had no proof that Lewin’s death was anything other than a suicide, and I certainly had no evidence linking Naylor to Lewin’s death. After a large dose of hand wringing, I thought discretion was the better part of valour.’