by Ellis, Tim
‘Murder?’
‘No, but manslaughter. They couldn’t prove murder. He got three years in Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Thanks a lot, Erin. Can you send the details down to the Duty Sergeant? I’ll get him picked up.’
‘On its way.’
The call ended. He rang the Duty Sergeant’s number.
‘Sergeant Jackson.’
‘Kristina, I was hoping it would be you.’
‘Why, because you’ve got it into your head I still have a thing for you? You think you can flimflam me? Bend me to your will? Get me to do things I wouldn’t do for other people?’
‘I feel as though I’ve been caught with my hands in the honey pot.’
‘You have, Parish. What illegal activities do you want me to do for you this time?’
‘I promise it’s all legal, Kristina.’
A farting noise filled his ear. ‘I doubt that.’
‘That wasn’t very ladylike.’
‘You bring out the worst in me.’
‘Erin Donnelly in forensics is emailing you the file of John Frankl. I’d like him picked up as soon as possible, please. I’m fairly certain he’s just killed a woman at Redbridge Council offices. Also, I’ll require a search warrant for his home address, which will need securing until I can get round to searching it. And when you do have him in custody, put everything he’s wearing into evidence bags and send it up to forensics.’
‘I feel like your stooge.’
‘If you wanted to work for me, I could make it happen.’
‘That’s like the devil asking me if I’d like a room in his hotel.’
‘I can see you now in one of those little red clingy outfits, with a tail, a whip, and some horns.’
‘In your dreams, Parish. I’ll let you know what happens when we go and get Frankl.’
The call ended.
‘You’re such a flirt, Sir.’
‘Moi? I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
***
Well, that was it – No fucking sex for the foreseeable. God, life sucked.
‘Where to, Sarge?’ Stick said as they climbed in the car.
‘Are you incapable of making a decision on your own?’
‘I can make a decision.’
‘Do it then.’
She really couldn’t give a flying fuck where they went next. Head of the suspect list was Ignacio Romero and his son, so they really should go there. She opened the file Doc Paine had given her on Petra Loyer. Belarus! Where the fuck was that? Probably next to Buxton, or some such. Stick was right – the girl was pretty. Eighteen years old! Yeah, it was always the young pretty ones who got killed first. Well, she didn’t have that problem. She wasn’t young, and she definitely wasn’t pretty. Tom had been her first since a drunken shag against a wall in the training centre at Hendon ten years earlier. With her looks she was doomed to another ten years of celibacy and loneliness.
Stick had hit the nail on the head – What the hell was a student from Derby doing lying under a patio in Essex? The first thing that had jumped into her head when she heard it was an eighteen year-old student was Mally Haynes from Buzz Pig. Maybe Petra Loyer had been a groupie, had travelled down from Derby to catch a glimpse of her hero. The band had seen how pretty she was, invited her inside for sex, and then killed her – either by design or accident.
But if that’s how it went down, what about the other four victims? A man and three women – were they all groupies? It was unlikely that the band would let a man into the grounds of the house – unless one of them was a homosexual. And it didn’t explain the spread of thirteen years between victims. Mally Haynes was only in that house for three years between 2005 and 2008.
The only explanation that made sense was that the gardener and his son did it. But had they worked at the house throughout the relevant period?
Stick pulled into a garden centre car park at twelve minutes past four and switched the engine off.
‘Where are we?’
‘Ermentrude’s Garden Centre.’
‘I hope you’ve not stopped to buy some flowers for your fucking garden.’
‘Ignacio Romero and his son own this garden centre.’
‘They’ve done well for themselves.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Come on then, let’s go and spoil their day.’
‘Your boyfriend obviously doesn’t know what a wonderful person you are.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you trying to make me vomit? And not only that, I thought you weren’t fucking listening to my private telephone conversations.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Yeah well, mind your own fucking business.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. I was just...’
‘Will you shut the fuck up. I’m not the slightest bit interested in what you were just... Stay on your side of the fence and I won’t rip your throat out.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Chapter Six
It was seventeen minutes past four when the lift doors opened on the third floor of the Redbridge Council building and they strode along the corridor to the Personnel Department.
A middle-aged black woman with tight curly hair, a big smile, and a bright pink top came to the reception desk. Unless she was wearing someone else’s name badge, her name was Donna Tucker.
‘How may I help you?’
Parish showed her his warrant card. ‘We have a picture of a dead woman, and we’d like to know if she worked here. Who would be the best person to show it to?’
‘Not me that’s for sure. I don’t want to be looking at no dead woman, and I’ve only been here six months anyway. Probably, you want to show it to Mrs Dickie, she’s part of the woodwork I been told and knows everyone. Please take a seat and I’ll see if she’s available.’
They sat on the plastic chairs.
‘You picked the wrong night to ask Toadstone out.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ll be working late.’
‘What do you mean? It’s nearly time to go home.’
‘Do you think this is a nine to five job?’
‘Why not?’
‘You tell me why not?’
‘I don’t know why not.’
‘Oh, I think you do.’
‘You could carry on working, and I could go home and get ready to go out.’
‘Yes, that would be fine.’
‘You don’t mean that, do you?’
‘While you’re at home, you could try on your uniform.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if it still fits. You don’t want to be pounding the beat in Cheshunt in a uniform with all your fat bulging out.’
‘I didn’t think you meant it. What do you mean... all my fat bulging out? What fat? I’m not fat, am I?’ She stood up and began squeezing the skin around her midriff. ‘Oh God, I’m like the Pillsbury doughboy. When did that happen?’
‘Hello, lovey. How can I help?’
Mrs Jane Dickie – as it stated on her name badge – had more wrinkles on her face than were stored in giant crates in the wrinkle warehouse. She had a flat nose and thick lips. Her silver-grey hair was brushed backwards, and stayed there as if she were travelling at a hundred miles an hour. Behind her oval-shaped glasses, the skin of the upper lids of her eyes drooped so low as to cover her eyelashes.
‘I want to show you a picture of a woman who was murdered here this afternoon, and I’d be grateful if you could tell me whether she’s employed by the council or not.’
‘My eyesight isn’t what it was, but I’ll try.’
‘I should warn you that the woman in the picture is dead.’
‘You don’t get to my age without seeing some dead people, you know, lovey. I’m ninety-three and hanging on for the Queen’s telegram. They tell me I’m the oldest person who’s ever worked for the council. People keep coming here to interview me. I was in the Redbridge Echo last week. Maybe you saw me? I’m becoming a bit of a celebrity. Already had two offers of m
arriage. Pretty soon, I’ll have my own television show, and they’ll want me to be a contestant in the Big Brother house.’ She let out a noise like a rhinoceros charging. ‘Come on then, I could pop my clogs at any minute, and then nobody would look at your photograph.’
Richards held the camera in front of Mrs Dickie, who grasped it with wrinkled hands and grappled it away from her.
‘Please don’t drop it,’ Richards said.
‘I may be old, but I’m not senile,’ the woman said. She held it up to the light, covered the small screen with a withered shaking hand, and squinted through her glasses. ‘No, she doesn’t work here. Oops!’ She pretended to drop the camera.
Richards’ eyes opened wide, and she stretched her hands out underneath to catch it.
Jane Dickie mimicked a rhinoceros scream again. ‘Had you going then, lovey.’
‘Very funny,’ Richards said, taking the camera back.
‘You young people today have no sense of humour. In my day we used have so much fun. I can remember – before the war mind – in the haystacks on Grover’s Farm…’
Parish grunted. ‘We’d love to stay and listen, but we’re in a bit of a rush…’
‘Yes. Rush, rush, rush… that’s all everyone does these days. No time to stop and talk. No time for anything but work, work, work. Oh well, I won’t be around much longer then all my memories will be gone. Maybe I should write a book.’
‘We’d like to get the photograph emailed to all the council staff…’
‘You’re in the wrong place for that, lovey. I’m not saying we can’t email people, because we do. We email them the Council newsletters, and…’
‘Who can do it for us?’
‘Oh, you want the IT people. They practise their black art in the basement.’
‘Thanks for your help, Jane. I hope you live another hundred years, and the Big Brother bigwigs give you a call soon.’
‘You’re welcome, lovey. Another hundred years indeed! And those Big Brother people would want me to wear my bikini in the jacuzzi… I don’t think so.’
They caught the lift down to the basement.
‘So, you’re stopping me going out with Paul tonight?’
‘I’m not preventing you doing anything you want to do. All I’m saying is that I’d like you to work. Now, if you want to go out instead of working… Well, all I can say is that there will be consequences.’
‘My one chance of happiness, and you’re ruining it for me.’
‘Ah, I was wondering when Little Miss Drama Queen would make her dramatic entrance.’
‘Huh!’
‘Before we go into the IT department, you let Toadstone know you’ll have to postpone your date, and I’ll phone your mother.’
‘So, what time are we going to get home?’
‘How long is a long walk off a short pier?’
Richards sighed.
The lift door opened in the basement. Richards turned left, and Parish went right.
The phone rang, but nobody answered. It diverted to voicemail. ‘Hello, love. Mary and I won’t be home until later. We’ll get something to eat while we’re out. I love you. Kiss Jack and Digby for me.’ He checked his watch. It was ten to five. Where was she? Maybe she was bathing little Jack. In fact, maybe she was doing a million things with little Jack and couldn’t answer the phone. The baby had changed everything, not least how fast you could reach the phone. It wasn’t as if you could just leave little Jack precariously balanced on a work surface to rush to the phone. Once she’d put little Jack in his cot she’d get the message and ring him.
‘I could tell he was disappointed.’
‘Life is full of disappointments.’
‘Is that another one of your movie quotes?’
‘No, I read it in your diary.’
‘As if. I bet mum wasn’t happy.’
‘No answer?’
Richards checked her watch. ‘She should have answered.’
‘She’s probably bathing Jack, or any number of other things. She can’t just drop what she’s doing to answer the phone now, you know. Social Services would send the child snatchers round at the drop of a hat.’
‘I suppose.’
***
She woke to the baby crying. The clock on the bedside cabinet showed it was four thirty-five. Oh God! Where had the day gone? She ran into the baby’s bedroom naked. The ugly thing was all red and bothered in its cot. She supposed she’d better feed it, but she had nothing prepared. She picked it up and put it against her. It stopped crying. If it had been her baby, she would have talked to it, smothered it in love, but how could she do that with another woman’s baby? She had given it away. It wasn’t her baby anymore.
In her bedroom, she dropped it on the bed while she put her dressing gown on. She needed to get a shower before Jed and Mary came home, but it would have to wait until she’d fed the baby.
Downstairs, it smelled of pooh. Digby was skulking in the corner. She should have let the dog out earlier. He had peed and shit near the back door.
‘Bad dog,’ she chastised it, even though she knew it wasn’t his fault. She had a baby to look after. Jed should have put the dog into kennels until she was able to look after it again. It was just a bloody nuisance now. Maybe it could have an accident or something. Maybe, she would leave the gate open accidentally on purpose, and it would run away.
She opened the back door and pushed it out. Then she cleaned the mess up with kitchen towels and put it all in a plastic bag, tied a knot in it, and slipped it in the flip-bin under the sink. It wasn’t really the place for it, but it would have to do until she found some time. Next, she made the baby’s milk, and then had to wait for it to cool down. She ran upstairs. The baby seemed quite happy on the quilt. She stripped her dressing gown off, turned the shower on, and stepped inside.
The hot water eased the pain in her neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes and imagined herself on the white sandy beach on Castaway Island in Fiji again. Their honeymoon had been just perfect. They should never have come back. They’d had nothing but trouble since returning. She shampooed her hair, and washed herself – even though everywhere was tender. Marveen Hollingsworth had needed to cut her vagina to help the baby out – an episiotomy they called it – and it still hadn’t healed properly.
It was quarter to six when she stepped out of the shower. Oh God! Time kept disappearing. She’d prepared nothing for dinner. The baby was crying again. What clothes could she wear? Nothing fitted her anymore. The clothes she’d had before the baby were all too small, and the maternity clothes were too big.
Eventually, she found a crumpled tracksuit that she’d kicked under the bed the last time she’d worn it. It was baggy, and smelled unwashed, but it would just have to do.
She picked up the baby, ran downstairs, and stuffed the teat in its mouth. The trouble was she couldn’t sit there feeding it for half an hour – she had things to do. In the living room, she propped it on its side with cushions, positioned the bottle so that the teat was in its mouth, and it appeared quite content guzzling away.
She returned to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, then sat at the kitchen table to drink it. What should she do next? How could she save some time? Digby was barking and scratching at the back door to come in. She let him in, and it slunk into its basket.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
The dog didn’t like her anymore, and she didn’t like the dog either. The sooner it was out from under her feet the better.
The baby started crying again.
Bloody thing. Why couldn’t it just shut up and leave her alone for five minutes?
The teat had slipped out of its mouth. She rammed it back in. ‘There. Stop fucking bawling all the time.’
What did she need to do before Jed and Mary came home, so that they didn’t look at her as if she were a bad wife and mother? She washed the pots, vacuumed in the hall and living room. Ran up and tidied her and Jed’s bedroom. Came back down, and put som
e washing in. Before, she would have sorted the washing into piles for different settings, colours, and... Who had the time for any of that crap with a... ‘Will you shut the fuck up?’ she shouted as she strode into the living room.
The teat had slipped out again.
‘If you lose it again, you can fucking well go without.’
What about dinner? Jed could bring home a takeaway. They hadn’t had one for a couple of days.
She went to the phone. There was a message. She listened, relief spreading through her like a virus. She didn’t have to worry about dinner. In fact, she didn’t have to worry about them coming home at all tonight.
The baby began crying again.
‘Right that’s it. You’ve had you’re chance.’ She picked it up, took it upstairs, and put it in its cot. ‘Get to fucking sleep.’ She slammed the door. God, she should have some feelings for it, but she just felt empty – empty and lonely.
Downstairs, she lay on the couch and drifted off to sleep again.
***
They ambled into Ermentrude’s Garden Centre, which was located just outside Hobbs Cross on the northbound road towards Epping. The main entrance led into a shop selling a potpourri of useful and not-so-useful gardening items, such as pot Meerkats on poles, clay plant pots, spades and shears, seeds and hanging baskets…
Xena pushed her warrant card in front of the ginger-haired girl behind the checkout counter whose name badge indicated she was called Cherry. ‘Mr Romero, please?’
‘Hang on.’
‘You’d better hurry, my fingertips are getting sore.’
Cherry smiled as she picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. ‘Hello, Mrs Harper. There’s a police type of person here asking to see Mr Romero… Thanks.’ She put the phone down. ‘Mrs Harper… the manager, is coming over.’
People were queuing to pay.
‘Please excuse me,’ Cherry said, beginning to record a customer’s purchases with her barcode reader.