by Ellis, Tim
Chapter Twenty
Kowalski pulled into the petrol station on Chingford Lane to fill up, but when he went into the shop to pay his card was rejected. There was an ATM outside. He checked his account, which previously had boasted over three thousand pounds, it was overdrawn up to his overdraft limit of five thousand pounds. Over eight thousand pounds had disappeared from his account. It must be a bank error, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it at seven o’clock in the morning.
He pulled out his mobile and tried to ring Parish, but all he could get from it was a message stating that the service had been disconnected. What the hell was going on? He returned to the shop, flashed his warrant card, and said he needed to use the phone.
The Asian man behind the counter wasn’t happy because there was a long queue forming, but he had little choice.
Richards answered.
‘Ask Parish to come to the phone.’
‘Did you have a good course, Sir?’
‘I’ll chat later, Richards. Is Jed there?’
‘Just a minute.’
‘You’ve heard?’ Parish said when he came on the phone.
‘Heard what?’
‘Angie woke up last night.’
‘That’s brilliant news, but that’s not why I rang.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m at the petrol station on Chingford Lane.’
‘There’s been a murder.’
‘I certainly feel like it, but no. I’ve filled up the car and my credit card got rejected. Get your arse down here and pay the bill for me.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘And hurry, I’m embarrassed as hell.’
He had no choice but to explain to the Asian shop assistant and half a dozen customers in the queue that there must be a bank error, but that someone was coming with the money. He would move his car from the petrol pump and park up until his friend arrived. The shop assistant nodded, but Kowalski could see the man thought he was a hardened criminal.
‘Hey, we’ve all been there, mate,’ a man in the queue said. ‘Banks get away with murder these days, and I’m sure that if it is their fault you won’t get any apology or compensation – bastards.’
After moving the car and parking up he tilted the seat back and closed his eyes. There were a couple of times in his younger days that he’d had to suffer the ignominy of a rejected card, but it was over twenty years ago. Jerry had also rung him a few times from various supermarkets asking what had happened to the money, but again it hadn’t happened for many years.
Now, here he was – a DCI earning nearly £55,000 a year – with no money in his bank account. And what the hell had happened to his phone?
He sighed, pulled out his phone to warn Jerry... ‘Shit.’
There was a knock on the window. He opened his eyes to see a uniformed copper staring at him. Had that jerk in the shop called the police? He lowered the window.
‘Could you show me your driving licence and vehicle documents, please, Sir?’
If rage could be measured on a ten-point scale, and if someone had asked him just then to give his rage a number between one and ten, he would have said, ‘TWELVE!’
He showed the officer his warrant card instead.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir.’
‘There’s no need to apologise for doing your job. Why me?’
‘This car has been flagged as stolen.’
‘Okay, thanks, but as you can see, it’s not been stolen. Someone is taking the piss. Contact the Duty Sergeant and let them know.’
‘Will do, Sir... Sorry.’
The officers left. So much for going on the offensive. It seemed like someone was out to make his life a fucking misery... and succeeding.
Parish turned up.
‘Morning, Ray,’ Parish said with a beaming smile.
‘Yeah. Thanks for coming, Jed. Come on, let’s go and pay the fucking bill and get out of here. I’ve had enough shit for one morning.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I wish I knew. My bank account has been cleared of eight thousand pounds.’
Parish whistled. ‘I’m clearly in the wrong rank.’
‘Yeah, you should be a Constable.’
‘You’ll write a reference?’
‘As soon as you’ve paid.’
Parish paid Kowalski’s outstanding petrol bill.
‘Good news about Angie,’ Kowalski said.
‘I’m over the moon. We’re not there just yet, but hopefully it won’t be long.’
‘When you get to the station...’
‘Richards and I are off to the hospital first.’ Parish told him about Father Rosario and Richards’ rogue memory. ‘I also want to go down to the mortuary and examine the bodies again in the light of it being a serial killer.’
‘Have you got five minutes now?’
Parish nodded.
They climbed into his car.
‘You look worried, Ray.’
‘Someone’s out to get me.’
Parish gave a short laugh. ‘I know that feeling.’
‘On Tuesday night at the hotel I was drugged and raped...’
‘Not...?’
‘No, thankfully by a woman.’
‘It wasn’t too bad then?’
‘Except I can’t remember a damned thing about it, but whoever set me up sent me a DVD as a keepsake.’
The smile disappeared from Parish’s face. ‘Bloody hell, Ray.’
‘Yeah... And this morning, my bank account has been cleared out, my mobile has been disconnected, and I’ve just had two uniforms turn up here saying that my car has been reported as stolen.’
‘Someone’s doing a number on you.’
‘No wonder you’re a detective.’
‘What’s your plan, besides insulting your friends and alienating everybody you know?’
‘I was going to go on the offensive this morning, but it looks like they beat me to it.’
‘Get Toadstone to look into it.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Anyway, enough about me. That’s really good news about Angie. When’s she coming out of hospital?’
‘Not yet. I think it’ll be a while yet.’
‘I bet Richards is beside herself?’
‘Happy as Larry.’
‘What about visiting?’
‘I’ll let you know. At the moment she’s too fragile.’
‘Understood. Right, are you sitting here waiting for something?’
Parish opened the passenger door. ‘I’ll come and brief you later. There’s something else I need to tell you about as well.’
‘Oh?’
‘Later.’
He started the car and half-smiled. Parish! Always had to leave you fucking guessing.
***
‘You’re in the wrong profession,’ Carter said to her as they were stuffing themselves with everything that was on offer at the breakfast buffet. ‘You should have been a con artist.’
‘All I can say,’ Xena said, squashing another croissant in her mouth, ‘is that they shouldn’t let rats in their rooms.’
‘Which they did when they let you in.’
Xena nearly choked to death on her croissant.
‘Poetic justice,’ Carter said.
After the free breakfast, they made their way to York Police Station, introduced themselves to DCI Walter Wallis, acquired Tracey Rush’s file, and then began the journey back to Hoddesdon.
***
Stick wondered why Xena had sent him a short video of a rat running around a room. He shrugged and archived it.
This morning he was on his way back to 117 Hobbs Cross to find out from David Rushforth who his current gardeners were – if he had any, of course.
If he only did one thing today, it was to find out who the people in the picture were. There were five men in a group standing some distance behind Louise Marsden. Two of the men were waving and smiling, but three weren’t. It was difficult to see their faces because they were so far aw
ay in the picture.
It rankled that he had a picture of the killer in his pocket, but couldn’t do anything about it. He’d thought about phoning Xena last night to tell her what he’d found out, but guessed what her response would be:
‘What do you want this time?’
‘I’ve got a picture of the killer.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s a group of five gardeners at Hobbs Cross – The killer is one of them.’
‘And you know which one?’
‘Well, no not yet, but...’
‘For fuck’s sake, Stick. I said call me when there’s news. Instead, you’re ringing me every five minutes telling me what you’re doing like a fucking talking clock. Get a life.’
After that conversation echoing in his head as he was carving the facial features of an otter last night, he decided that it would be less painful to hold off on the phone call until he knew which one of the men in the photograph was the killer.
When he arrived, he decided to slip round the back and see if Di Heffernan had arrived yet.
He found her sitting in the conservatory in a foldaway chair drinking tea from a steaming mug. ‘Did you get the chocolates?’ he asked her.
‘And very nice they were to.’
‘How’s the body search going?’
‘We’ll be finished this afternoon as promised.’
‘Great.’
‘Is that what you came here to ask?’
‘No, I came to see the occupants... of the house, not the graveyard.’
‘Yeah. “...the dead know not anything, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten”.’
‘A bit profound for this time of the morning.’
‘Ecclesiastes 9, verses 5 and 6.’
‘You’re religious?’
‘No. I just remember it from somewhere, and it stuck. The idea that once you’re dead you’re soon forgotten is a bit depressing.’
‘And it’s too early in the morning to be depressed.’
‘Working with the dead, you get like that sometimes.’
Stick smiled. ‘Well, here’s something that should cheer you up... I know who the killer is.’
‘Oh?’
‘It can only be a gardener. Someone who had access to the grounds all year round, and during the years the bodies were buried.’
‘I thought the gardeners had changed in 2005.’
‘Yes, they did, but I’m betting one of them carried on working here, merely changing who he was paid by. It seems logical to keep someone on who knows the grounds.’
‘You mean you think you know who it might be, but you don’t really know?’
‘Rowley Gilbert is on the case.’
‘Who’s Rowley Gilbert?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Not Stick?’
‘That’s just what DS Blake calls me.’
‘Because you look like a stick?’
‘I suppose.’
‘She’s a piece of work.’
‘Anyway, got to go. You’ll ring me...?’
‘No, I don’t think I will.’
‘Good, I’ll wait for your call then.’
‘There’s not much else you can do really Rowley, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’
He walked round the front and rang the bell.
Mrs Rushforth came to the door looking like mutton dressed as lamb in a leopard skin three-quarter length fur coat – which Stick hoped was fake, but had an idea that it wasn’t – a large hat with pheasant feathers, and shoes made from either alligator, crocodile, or snake. She looked like a taxidermist’s model.
‘What do you want now? We’re just on our way out to a grand opening.’
‘The name of your gardener.’
‘No idea.’
‘Could I speak to your husband?’
She sighed. ‘Wait here. The last time I let you in that awful woman made a mess of my carpets.’ She shut the door and turned the lock.
He didn’t go along with a lot Xena said and did, but sticking it to Mrs Rushforth seemed like a good thing to do.
David Rushforth came to the door. ‘Sorry about my wife. She doesn’t really like the little people. What is it you want?’
‘The name of your gardeners.’
‘Squibb... Ian Squibb. I said to him, with a name like that you should have been a writer. He said he’d heard it all before. Apparently, the name also refers to a type of sailboat, an explosive, something in Harry Potter, creatures in Star Wars, a type of kick in football, and a firearm malfunction. I said he could be a schizophrenic, but he didn’t laugh. In fact, I’ve noticed that gardeners don’t have much in the way of a sense of humour. How’s the investigation...?’
‘Are you coming, dear?’ Mrs Rushforth’s voice seeped out of the house.
‘Oops, there’s my clarion call to action.’
‘Where might I find Mr Squibb?’
‘North Weald Bassett, he has a place on Vicarage Lane East.’
‘Thank you. Have a nice grand opening.’
‘You’ve heard?’ He leaned towards Stick and lowered his voice. ‘Anybody would think we’d been invited to the opening of the new British Library – it’s a tiny independent book shop swimming against the current. We’ll probably be the only people there.’
He walked back to his car. At last, he had a name, something to clamp his jaws onto, something to worry like a dog with a rat.
The satnav led him up Hobbs Cross Road – parallel to the M11 – onto Steward’s Green Road, a right through Fiddler’s Hamlet, and up to the B181 – Epping Road. There, he turned right past the airfield, and carried on to Tyler’s Green roundabout, where he turned left into Vicarage Lane East. Squibb Landscapes was on the right just before the A414.
He parked up, and went inside the metal container that appeared to be doubling as an office.
‘Hello,’ a woman working at a desk said. She wore a black and white striped top, her bottle-blonde hair had been cut in a page-boy style, and her eyes were heavy with make-up.
He showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Gilbert. I’d like to speak to Mr Squibb, please.’
‘Not here, darling.’
‘Oh! When will he be here?’
‘Maybe about six tonight.’
Stick’s face creased up. ‘That’s not the answer I wanted. Maybe you can help.’ He took out the photograph and passed it to her. ‘I’m interested in the group of men behind the woman. Do you know any of them?’
She squinted at the picture, and then took out a magnifying glass from a drawer in the desk. ‘It’s not a very good photograph, is it?’
‘The best I’ve got, unfortunately.’
‘When was it taken?’
‘2009.’
‘’Mmmm, that looks like Harry Hall,’ she said pointing to the young looking man wearing a baseball cap. ‘He joined the Army in 2010. I think he’s serving in Afghanistan now with the Essex Regiment.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘He came to work for us. This looks like the summer of 2009, and he joined us in the November. He was only with us until September the following year.’
‘Who did he work for before?’
She stood up and walked over to a filing cabinet, pulled a drawer out, and riffled through the files. ‘Here we go.’ She withdrew a file and shuffled through the pages inside. ‘Portman Landscapes.’
‘And they’re located where?’
‘Theydon Bois, on Coppice Row near the railway station.’
‘Thanks very much, you’ve been extremely helpful.’ He headed for the door, but then turned back. ‘How old was this Harry Hall?’
‘Twenty-one when he went in the Army.’
‘Great, thanks.’
He made his way out to the car. And then there were four, he thought. Harry Hall was far too young to be the killer. So, Portman Landscapes looked after the grounds at 117 Hobbs Cross in 2009. Did they take the contract over from t
he Romeros? He would probably have the killer in a cell at Hoddesdon by the time Xena and DI Carter got back. Ha! He’d like to see Xena’s face if he could do that – it would be a picture that was for sure.
‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘Nope. In cell number seven. Go and take a look for yourself.’
‘How the fuck did you manage that?’
‘I used my initiative.’
And he’d laugh. He’d laugh so hard his teeth would hurt.
***
‘Chief Scientific Officer Paul Toad...’
‘Toady, get your arse down here.’
‘Yes, Chief.’
After five minutes there was a soft knock on the door. He knew it was Toady shuffling his feet outside. Chief Day had been right, you could definitely tell who was loitering outside your door by their knock. He smiled. Chief Day had been a brick, and he hoped he was half as good as Walter Day.
‘Come in, Toady.’
Toadstone shuffled in and sat down in the hard-backed chair in front of his desk.
He stared at the cosmetically re-designed Toadstone for a few seconds. They’d done a good job on him – fixed his nose, his ears, his teeth – yeah, not a bad job at all considering it was an uphill struggle to start with. He looked nearly human now.
‘You wanted to see me, Sir?’
‘I’m working up to it, Toady... Someone’s out to get me.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you?’
‘I’m sure I will once you tell me what it’s all about.’
He described what had happened in the hotel room, about the DVD he’d received, the bank account, and the mobile phone. ‘I want to know who’s doing it, Toady.’
‘I’ll get Erin onto it. What about the DVD?’
Yes, the DVD. He’d shown it to Jerry last night. She’d cried. It had taken him three hours to convince her it was a set up. He’d had to point out his sluggish movements, the disguise the woman was wearing, the drugged champagne, the faraway look in his eyes.
‘Since when do I just lie there and think of England? I’m a player, a participant, someone who gives as well as takes. Look at me. It may look as though I’m enjoying the experience, but believe me I’m not. If I had to register it on the Richter scale, it would come up as a zero.’