The Wages of Sin (P&R2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Nearly right, Ray. Leave everything out after, “Don’t” and you’d be close. I’m back to square one. No suspects, and no idea where to go from here.’

  ‘You’ve had a good day then?’

  ‘What’s happening with Naylor and the Refuge fire?’

  ‘Not much. Can’t find Naylor anywhere. Waiting for the Fire Brigade to complete their investigation and Doc Michelin to do the post mortems on the three bodies in the car. I’m sat here at this time on a Friday night waiting for a phone call from forensics.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d be better off sat at home with the wife and kids.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry, Parish, I’m going to the warmth of my loving home as soon as lazy arse Toadstone rings me about the gun found in the car. Are you working over the weekend?’

  ‘Have I got a choice?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Parish sat at his desk and waded through the stack of papers in the middle. He had an ‘in’ tray, a ‘pending’ tray, and an ‘out’ tray on the corner of his desk, but people still put ‘incoming’ items in the middle of his desk just in case he didn’t notice them if they were put in the ‘in’ tray. He glanced at each item briefly one at a time and found the list from Cheryl of two men households – there were thirty-one close to Grove Lane. He would look at it tonight, and slipped the list in his briefcase. Everything else could wait. He piled the rest of the papers into his ‘in’ tray.

  There were also an array of brightly coloured Post-It notes stuck all over the desk and computer vying for attention. He thought it all resembled a Post-It Message Board after a natural disaster. Skimming each one in turn, he either screwed them up or stuck them on a pile. The screwed up ones found their way into his wastebasket. He came across a fluorescent green Post-It note from Libby – one of the clerical assistants - that said:

  Phone call from a Mr Anthony Abillard, 37 Brisbane Road. Back from holiday, neighbour told him of request for info about Valentine Lido – saw a small blue car on a number of occasions before murder.

  A small blue car! It nudged something in his subconscious memory. He had a vague notion that it was important, but he couldn’t grasp the information and bring it to the front of the queue. Standing up, he stuck it in the middle of his desk knowing that in the morning, when he wasn’t so tired, he’d remember. Maybe Richards knew something about a small blue car.

  Kowalski was still waiting for the phone call and reading, so he called goodnight and made his way out to the car park. It was pitch back, somebody had obviously forgotten to turn the car park lights on. He reached his car and fumbled for his keys. Where was Richards? Maybe he should pretend to go and park round the corner. He smiled at the thought of the face she’d pull if she didn’t find him there. It came to him then that sensors activated the car park lights – when it became dark the lights came on, but before he could formulate a plan of action his whole world went black.

  ***

  ‘Fuck you, Parish,’ Trevor Naylor said as he swung the Pennsylvania Ash baseball bat as if he were playing in the Superbowl. He’d bought the bat especially for the job, and found it fit for purpose. If he wasn’t planning on disappearing right after this, he might have written a letter of appreciation. He grunted and smiled.

  Finding Parish’s keys, he opened the central locking mechanism and bundled the dead weight of the body into the driver’s seat. He carefully removed the syringe full of A-grade heroin from the inside pocket of his jacket. Next, he put the clear plastic bag full of snow on the passenger seat and spilled a small sample.

  Switching the penlight torch on and putting it in his mouth he worked quickly. Hunched over, so that no one could see what he was doing. He shoved Parish’s sleeve up above the joint, put a rubber tourniquet around his bare upper arm, and slapped the skin in the crook of his elbow to make the veins stand up. Throwing the needle cover on the floor of the car, he slid the needle easily into the vein, released the tourniquet, and emptied the syringe into Parish’s bloodstream.

  He’d tried it himself a couple of times, but afterwards he’d always felt like shit, so he decided that he wouldn’t bother anymore. What he didn’t want to do was become an addict, a victim – he’d seen enough of those to be wary. There were much better things to spend his hard-earned money on – like women.

  He left the needle and syringe hanging out of Parish’s arm, released the tourniquet, and shut the door. A job well done, he thought. Parish would be lucky if he lasted an hour. Naylor smiled at the newspaper headlines ticker-taping through his head: Detective Inspector dies of heroin overdose. Hoddesdon Police Station riddled with drug addicts. Next he pulled out his phone.

  ‘Ranger?’

  ‘It’s done.’

  ‘On my way.’

  ‘No rush, Pete.’

  ‘Shit Trev, what have you done?’

  ‘Put it this way, Pete, Parish won’t be ratting anybody out ever again.’

  He disconnected the call and made his way back to the car he’d stolen earlier wondering where Parish’s partner was. If the stupid bitch had interrupted him, he’d have shot her and left the gun in Parish’s hand. He climbed in the car, lit a cigarette, and waited for the party to start.

  ***

  Kowalski put the phone down and kicked the leg of the desk. Toadstone had found nothing on the gun – no serial number, no fingerprints, and no clues to point him in the killer’s direction.

  ‘Shit!’ He was hoping that Toadstone would have used some ancient alchemy to lift the serial number, so that he could trace it back to Naylor.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw flashing lights through the blinds at the window. Pushing himself up, he walked over to investigate.

  An ambulance! He grabbed his coat and hurried down to the car park. He’d seen Parish’s car down there, but he’d left a good twenty minutes ago. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and knew Naylor was behind it. Where the hell was Richards?

  When he reached the car park, the paramedics were putting Parish into the back of the ambulance. He had an oxygen mask over his face and an intravenous canula in the back of his hand.

  ‘What the hell’s happening here?’ he said showing his warrant card.

  A female paramedic wearing a green jumpsuit with the words Redbridge Primary Care Trust sewn inside a yellow badge said, ‘Looks like a heroin overdose. Bag of it on the passenger seat, needle and syringe hanging out of his arm.’

  ‘He’s still alive then?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked climbing into the back of the ambulance to strap Parish in. The male paramedic squeezed through the doorway in the bulkhead and sat in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Yes, he’s Detective Inspector Jed Parish.’

  The paramedic stopped what she was doing and stared at Kowalski. ‘A policeman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how long he’s been using?’

  ‘Never. This was done to him, he didn’t do it to himself.’

  ‘Oh… then this could be murder?’

  Kowalski’s brow creased. ‘Is he going to die?’

  ‘I don’t know. We have to get him back to the hospital. If this is the first time then he has no tolerance level. In other words, it’ll take less to kill him. Also, it depends on the purity of the heroin, or whether its been mixed with anything else such as PCP. All I can say is that he’s still breathing, but its shallow and his pulse is very weak. Let’s get him to the hospital, he’ll stand a better chance of surviving this in A & E.’

  ‘Can I come with him?’

  ‘If you want.’

  He clambered into the back of the ambulance and pulled the doors shut. Then he took out his mobile and phoned the Chief who said he’d meet them there.

  The ambulance set off with the lights flashing and the sirens blaring.

  Next, he phoned Richards, but it diverted to voicemail. ‘This is Kowalski, Richards, where the hell are you? Parish has… had an accident, he’s being taken to A & E at King Ge
orge Hospital. Get your arse up there, but don’t touch Parish’s car.’ He nearly said it was evidence, but he didn’t want to go down the route of attempted murder on the phone.

  His phone vibrated as soon as he’d ended the call. It was Jenny, his wife, wanting to know where the hell he was because the kids were going to put her in the loony bin. He explained what was happening, and that he might not be home tonight. She said he cared more about his job than he did about his own family, and ended the call. He had always tried to be a good husband and father, but being a copper made it difficult. How many times had she resurrected this same old argument? A bit of understanding from his wife would be good.

  ‘How is he?’ he said to the paramedic, but as he said it she stood up, put a bag and mask over Parish’s nose and mouth, and started pumping.

  ‘Put your foot down, Barry, or we’re going to lose him,’ she shouted to the driver over the noise of the sirens.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he said not recognising his own voice. He hadn’t realised how much he liked Parish until now, but seeing him fighting for his life he felt angry and wanted to kill Naylor with his bare hands.

  ‘Have you ever performed cardiac massage?’

  ‘Did a course years ago. I vaguely remember.’

  He stood up and she showed him where to put his hands. What he really wanted to do was pick Parish up and shake him awake, but he rocked forward pressing his friend’s bare chest above the heart. The paramedic put a long tube down Parish’s throat, connected up the airbag again, and pumped some more.

  ‘How far to go?’ Kowalski asked, but as he spoke the ambulance came to a stop and the back doors opened. He stepped out of the ambulance and moved out of the way as the paramedics rushed Parish into A & E. Following the gurney, he wondered if Parish was going to make it, and then his thoughts shifted to the heroin. Where had Naylor got a bag of heroin from? It didn’t take him long to come up with Pete Ranger’s name.

  There was nothing he could do for Parish, the Gods would decide whether he lived or died. But there was something he could do to catch his attacker. He phoned his partner DS Ed Gorman and told him what had happened.

  ‘Shit, Ray, how is he?’

  ‘Too early to tell. Listen Ed, get some back up then go and arrest Pete Ranger…’

  ‘You mean DI Pete Ranger from Vice?’

  ‘I don’t know any others, do you?’

  ‘Well no, but…’

  ‘If I’m right, he supplied Naylor with the heroin. Put him in a cell and tell the Duty Sergeant he’s in there until I say otherwise.’

  ‘Okay, Ray.’

  ‘Afterwards, see if you can find out what’s happened to Richards.’

  Next he phoned Toadstone and told him what had happened.

  ‘What can I do?’ he asked immediately.

  ‘You can secure Parish’s car and find me evidence that DI Trevor Naylor tried to kill Parish.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Sir. If there’s any evidence I’ll find it.’

  ‘Thanks, Toadstone.’

  He had no idea whether Angie was at home or at work, but he phoned her home first.

  ‘Hello?’

  She broke down when he told her what had happened.

  ‘I’ll be there soon. You tell Parish not to die before I get there Kowalski?’

  ‘I’ll tell him, Angie.’

  His hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. A nurse came up with a pen hovering over a form. ‘Can you give me some details about the patient?’

  Kowalski realised how easy it was to move from being a Detective Inspector to a patient. He devoted five minutes to the nurse’s form filling and then the Chief arrived.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘They’ve told me nothing, Chief.’

  The Chief puffed himself up. ‘Leave it with me,’ and disappeared through a set of double doors.

  Kowalski looked around. He needed a coffee and he needed it now, but he couldn’t see a machine that would give him one.

  Approaching the Reception desk he said, ‘Coffee?’

  The old woman pointed him down a corridor to a WRVS run cafeteria where he bought two coffees. If the Chief didn’t want his, he’d drink that as well.

  Angie was with the Chief when he got back, tears streaking her face. He had his arm around her shoulders like a surrogate father. The Chief waved the offer of coffee away, so he finished his own off and started on that one.

  ‘What happened, Kowalski?’ the Chief asked.

  ‘As far as I knew Jed was on his way home. Naylor must have jumped him in the car park and injected him with the stuff.’

  ‘Where’s Mary?’ Angie asked looking around the corridor.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue, Angie. I phoned and left a message, but she hasn’t rung me back. I’ve got Ed finding out what’s happened to her.’

  ‘This Naylor wouldn’t have harmed Mary, would he?’

  He squeezed Angie’s arm. ‘Let’s focus on Jed for the moment. Mary can take care of herself.’ God, he hoped that was true. What if Naylor did have Richards? They’d all seen what the bastard was capable of. And if he didn’t have her, where the hell was she?

  ‘What did they say?’ he asked the Chief.

  ‘That he was stable.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ll go and get some more detailed information,’ Angie said and pushed through the double doors.

  ‘You really think this is Naylor, Kowalski?’

  ‘Who else could be, Sir? This is just the type of thing Naylor would do… Oh, I didn’t tell you about Ed arresting Pete Ranger, and Toadstone examining Parish’s car for evidence, did I?’

  ‘Arresting Pete Ranger… from Vice?

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘On what evidence?’

  ‘My gut tells me that’s where Naylor got the heroin from.’

  ‘You’re an accident looking for a place to happen, Kowalski. After you’re forced to release him through lack of evidence you’ll be suspended and then have to appear at a disciplinary tribunal to explain your actions.’

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  ‘What about Naylor?’

  ‘Crap, I’d forgotten about him. There’s already an All-Ports Warning out for him, but I’d better make sure we get photographs to Standstead, Gatwick and Heathrow.’ He moved along the corridor and phoned central despatch.

  Angie came back out. ‘He’s on a ventilator,’ she said barely holding herself together.

  ‘You mean the machine is keeping him alive?’ Kowalski said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’ll pull through, won’t he, Angie?’

  She broke down. ‘I don’t know. We have to keep him alive long enough for the drug to flush through his system. Only time will tell. You may as well go, there’s nothing you can do here.’

  ‘I’ll stay here, Kowalski, you go and find Richards and Naylor. I want answers.’

  Kowalski nodded. He knew the very place to get those answers.

  ***

  He was a boy of nine in Beech Tree Orphanage again. Mr Pearson, with his rancid breath, gripped his hand and led him down a set of secret steps behind a cupboard in the Manager’s office. He wondered where the fat smelly Mr Pearson was taking him. In his other hand he had a token with Number 55 stamped into it.

  At the bottom of the steps was a dark corridor, and the hand of fear squeezed his chest and mad him want to pee.

  ‘Where are we going, Mr Pearson?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Parish, Graham Pearson will look after you. You’re a good-looking boy, and because of that you get special treatment. The token you’ve got in your hand makes you one of a very select group of boys in this orphanage.’

  ‘Who are the other boys?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that, Parish. What you do need to know is that you will never ever tell anyone about what’s down here. This is our little secret, do you understand, Parish?’

  ‘Yes, but…
you’re not going to hurt me are you, Mr Pearson?’

  ‘No lad, more pleasure than hurting, but you’ll see.’

  He hadn’t been able to remember for such a long time. He could only ever reach the door to the room, and then everything went black. But now, there was a light beyond the door. He entered the room with Mr Pearson and saw a group of men standing round drinking beers from cans and laughing. He had seen two or three of them before, but the others he didn’t know at all. There was a bed with a dirty mattress, a large movie camera and spotlight on a tripod, and chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the bed.

  Mr Pearson stood behind the camera, and made him get undressed and lie on the bed. Most of the men sat in the chairs watching him except a man he didn’t know who also took his clothes off. The man left his black socks on, and Jed thought he looked funny.

  Yes, everything they did to him – time after time – flooded back into his memory. He wasn’t afraid anymore. It was as if he floated above what was happening to him. Floating high above the horror that was taking place on a dirty mattress underneath Beech Tree Orphanage.

  And he remembered a small blue car outside his house that Doc Michelin had noticed… remembered that Richards wasn’t there to meet him in the car park… remembered that he was responsible for her… that his worst fear was coming true. He wanted to float towards the light, but he knew he had unfinished business in the world.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gabriel sat at the kitchen table eating a microwave meal for one. He had no idea what it was, but he thought it might be a roast dinner.

  Mary Richards waited for him downstairs in the secret room. He’d taken her clothes off and marvelled at her beautiful snow-white body, her firm young breasts, and her flat stomach leading down to the palace of heavenly pleasures. He’d unzipped his fly, released his flaccid penis from its tether, and stroked it. An erection had not been forthcoming, but he had felt something strange. He knew that once she was awake, once she saw him, and pleaded with him to give her a baby he would have an erection the size of the Eiffel Tower.