by Tim Ellis
‘Of course, Sir.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘This isn’t a straightforward murder, is it, Sir?
‘It’s about time you said something sensible, Richards.’
‘Huh!’
***
She decided not to get on the next train to Temple, but to sit down on a platform bench and take stock of her situation. Her whole reason for going to Temple was to meet Shakin’ and Joe, but neither of them were there – they were in the hospital. So there was no reason to complete her journey. And, if she was on her own for the day, she didn’t want to go anywhere that she couldn’t extricate herself from – those days had long gone.
After looking at her list of the things they still had to check she phoned Veronica Darling.
‘Hello?’
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you did to my Joe last night.’
‘We’re both consenting adults. As far as I’m concerned he had a good time. I certainly did, I know that.’
‘He’s in hospital now.’
‘Some people have lower pain thresholds than others – Joe’s was unusually low.’
‘You didn’t need to hurt him so much.’
‘That was the whole point of the evening. I shouldn’t worry though – Joe got what he came for.’
He may have had tortured sex she thought, but he didn’t get what he came for.
‘Why are you ringing anyway?’
‘I need a list of Rebecca and Andrew’s friends when they were living at 28 Lyme Street.’
‘I’ll ask Rebecca to provide a short list.’
‘Also, a list of her massage clients.’
‘All right. Is that it?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll be in contact.’
The call ended.
What possessed some people to hurt other people? Poor Joe! Poor Shakin’. She supposed that it had only been a matter of time before Shakin’ was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Maybe he’d learned a lesson, but she doubted it.
She found Bronwyn’s number in her phonebook and called her.
‘Isn’t it enough that I have to put up with your husband?’
‘Hello, Bronwyn. How are you?’
‘I was good until you called me. I take it this isn’t a social call?’
‘I need to know the transactions that took place in three bank accounts.’
‘You think I run a public service?’
‘I think you love it when I call and ask you for help.’
‘You’re deluded. It’ll cost you.’
‘Charge it to my account.’
‘You don’t have an account.’
‘Maybe I could open one up then?’
‘There’s a three-year waiting list.’
‘As a favour?’
‘Have you ever done me any favours?’
‘Do you want me to list them?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘And then there’s all the times Ray has saved your life . . .’
‘He needn’t have bothered. Since then, all he’s done is made my life a living hell.’
‘Come for dinner on Sunday.’
‘I hate roast dinner.’
‘The children would love to see you again.’
‘I hate children.’
‘Say about one o’clock?’
‘If I’m not there start without me.’
‘You’ll be there.’
‘You’d better give me the details of these bank accounts then?’
‘I don’t really have any . . . details that is.’
‘Of course you don’t. Oh well, it was great catching up . . .’
‘I have names and an address.’
‘Which bank?’
‘Sorry.’
‘No account numbers either?’
‘No.’
‘What about a sort code?’
‘What’s one of those?’
‘It was the worst day of my life when I became involved with you and that deadbeat husband of yours.’
‘We’ll make it up to you on Sunday.’
‘I might have someone with me.’
‘The more the merrier.’
‘Only crazy people say that. What are the names and address then?’
Andrew Crowthorne and Rebecca Hardacre. They lived at 28 Lyme Street in Camden.’
‘That’s something at least.’
The call ended.
She stared at the phone and smiled. Bronwyn was like a stranger in a strange land. She didn’t like to keep asking her for help, but with Joe failing in his mission she didn’t have much choice. The only person she knew who could find out the information they needed without key details was Bronwyn.
Looking down the list again, she decided to focus on Andrew today. She’d go and see his work colleagues at Rasputin’s Pizza Delivery on Kentish Town Road, and then visit his parents. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing them on her own, but it needed to be done.
Now that she wasn’t going to Temple station to meet Shakin’ and Joe at the University, she walked up the stairs and through the tunnels to the westbound platform for the Hammersmith & City Line. From there she caught the next train to Moorgate, and then switched to the Northern Line to reach Camden Town.
Rasputin’s Pizza Delivery wasn’t far from Regent’s Canal and Lyme Street along Kentish Town Road. There were three mopeds outside the shop with extra-large boxes on the back for pizza deliveries.
The bell jangled when she opened the door. The shop’s main purpose was to cater for takeouts and deliveries. It wasn’t really a restaurant, but there were two fixed tables with chairs around them and a shelf where people could stand and eat if they wanted to..
There were two people already in there ordering pizzas to go.
She waited until it was her turn.
‘Yes, please,’ an unshaven man with a crew cut, unusually wide nostrils and an Eastern European accent said.
‘Are you in charge?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘I’d like to talk to someone about Andrew Crowthorne.’
‘Why?’
‘Are you in charge?’
‘No.’
‘Could you ask the manager to come out and talk to me?’
‘You don’t want pizza?’
‘No.’
‘Wait, please.’
He went through a doorway with red and white plastic strips hanging from the woodwork.
Jerry heard raised voices, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying.
The man came back out. ‘She is coming.’
A female manager! ‘Thank you.’
An attractive woman in her mid-twenties appeared. She had long bottle-blonde hair, but her roots were in desperate need of attention. There was a barbed wire tattoo around her neck, and she wore rimless glasses and a camouflaged t-shirt.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is it possible I could ask you about Andrew Crowthorne?’
‘Who’re you?’
‘I’m investigating the facts surrounding his death.’
‘That tells me what you’re doing, but it doesn’t tell me who you are.’
‘I’m Jerry Kowalski. I’m a trainee barrister.’
‘Okay. Who’s side are you on?’
‘I’m working for the defence . . .’
She turned to go. ‘If you think I’m going to help that bitch . . . ?’
‘I don’t think you will be helping her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m a student at Kings College London. I’m assisting Rebecca’s defence team by checking the facts of the case, but the more I discover the less I believe that Andrew abused her.’
The woman stared at Jerry for a handful of seconds and then said, ‘I’m Paula Vernon.’ She pointed to the fixed tables. ‘Should we sit down?’
They seated themselves on either side of the table, which was furthest from the door and the till.
‘You want a piz
za?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t like pizzas.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing. So, what do you want to know?’
‘How long did you work with Andrew?’
‘Seven months.’
‘Was he a good boss?’
‘He was okay.’
‘Did you have a relationship with him?’
‘I’m not going to be called as a witness, am I?’
‘I shouldn’t think so – why?’
‘I’ve got a fiancé.’
‘What was your relationship with Andrew like?’
‘We were in love. We were planning on moving in together.’
‘I thought you had a fiancé?’
‘Now I have. Then, he was just a boyfriend.’
‘So what stopped you moving in together?’
‘That bitch killed him.’
‘Do you think she knew about the two of you?’
‘No, I don’t think so. We never took it out of the shop. After we’d closed we had sex on the work surface in the back and then went home.’
‘On the work surface? Where the pizzas are made?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Jerry stared at her. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
Paula looked out of the window at the start-and-stop traffic, passers-by and low-slung clouds, and dabbed at her eyes with a red and white paper napkin. ‘I found out that I was pregnant the day after I heard he’d been killed – it was a boy. Of course, I had to get rid of it. There was no way I was going to have a dead man’s baby, even if it was Andrew’s.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
She shrugged. ‘Life sucks and then you die.’
‘Rebecca killed him because she claims that she suffered long-term psychological, emotional and physical abuse . . .’
‘That’s complete bollocks. I knew Andrew. He wasn’t that type of person, he just wasn’t. If anything, he was too bleeding soft. That’s why I said he was only an okay boss. People could wrap him round their little fingers – especially me.’
‘He never hit you?’
‘Never.’
‘Did Rebecca ever come in here?’
‘Once or twice. They used to sit here where we’re sitting now and share a free pizza. I always got the impression that there was something not quite right with their relationship.’
‘Such as?’
Paula shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Why didn’t he simply leave her and move in with you?’
‘He said there were reasons that he couldn’t and asked me to be patient. I loved him, so I said I’d wait. I wish I’d forced him to leave her now . . . he might still be alive if I had.’
‘He didn’t tell you what those reasons were?’
‘No.’
‘And you had no idea what they were?’
‘No. I guessed it was financial, or family . . . relationships can get messy and tangled up. You start off with the idea that you’re gonna spend the rest of your lives together and go forward on that basis. All the contracts are in joint names, you get joint bank accounts, families get sucked into the shit . . . Yeah, relationships can get out of hand – especially when children are involved. Which is another reason I got rid of it – I didn’t want to be connected to his parents for the rest of my life.’
‘Did you meet Andrew’s parents?’
‘No. He said they were okay parents, but I got the impression that they were disappointed because they hoped he’d amount to a bit more than a manager in pizza delivery shop.’
She thought of Gabe and wondered what would become of him. ‘Most parents are the same.’
‘Yeah, mine wanted me to go to university, but I always dreamed of working in a pizza delivery shop . . .’ She laughed. ‘Not really. I wanted to be the next Taylor Swift, so you can imagine my life-changing disappointment when I noticed people covering their ears up when I was singing?’
‘That must have been terrible?’
‘So, here I am – the ex-secret lover of a dead man, the murderer of an aborted baby, promoted to fill a dead man’s shoes and with a fiancé who means well, but hasn’t got a clue about anything other than football and nights on the piss with his mates.’ She burst into tears.
Jerry put her hand on Paula’s arm and squeezed. ‘It’ll get better.’
‘Nice of you to say so, but it won’t. Life will go downhill from here on in. If I squint, it doesn’t take much to see the future stretching out before me like a path filled with broken glass.’
She rummaged in her bag, found one of the business cards she’d had made up for Baxter & Kowalski and placed it on the table. ‘If you want your life to change for the better – call me.’
‘What scam are you running, lady?’
‘No scam. I can help you turn your life around. If you want to go to university and be somebody different then we can discuss your options – what have you got to lose?’ She stood up. ‘Thanks for answering my questions, Paula.’
‘Yeah, no problem.’ She held up the business card. ‘This on the level?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Of course. There’s no pressure.’
Outside, it had began to drizzle. She found the collapsible umbrella in her bag, opened it up and headed back towards the station.
Chapter Fourteen
Kowalski and Bolton reached the offices of Baguely-Browne Solicitors just as the Fire Brigade had managed to get the flames under control and stop the fire spreading to adjoining buildings.
The staff were standing around in a group on the opposite side of the road wrapped in blankets and drinking hot coffee provided by local residents.
He recognised Holly the receptionist and walked over.
‘Hello, Holly,’ he said.
There were black mascara streaks down Holly’s face. ‘Oh! Hello, Mr Kowalski.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. We arrived at work to find the building in flames. The Fire Brigade were already here fighting the fire.’
‘I suggest you all go home. It doesn’t look as though anybody will be working today.’
‘I expect you’re right.’
‘Any idea where Mr Browne is?’
Holly shook her head and looked at the other women, but they shook their heads as well. ‘He was still in the office when we left last night. Oh God! You don’t think . . . ?’
‘We don’t think anything, Holly. Go home. I’m sure someone will contact you all when it’s clear what’s happening. Oh, do any of you have any idea what cases Mr Baguely was working on?’
A middle-aged black woman with tight curly hair and big round silver earrings shouldered her way through the group. ‘I’m Rosie. Didn’t Mr Browne tell that other policeman what Mr Baguely’s cases were? Mr Browne told me to make a list, which I did and I done gave that list to him.’
‘Do you remember what was on the list?’
‘I type – that’s all. Remembering is for computers.’
‘Did you make a copy?’
‘Of course I did. I put it in my tray just in case.’ She cocked her head at the smoking building. ‘Well, it looks like my “just in case” didn’t work, don’t it? I also saved a copy to my folder on the network, but it don’t look like that worked either.’
‘Do you know if network back-ups were carried out?’
‘That’s not my area of expertise. You want to speak to Wanda . . . WANDA?’
A short woman in her thirties with blonde hair cut into a page-boy style, chubby cheeks and painted-on eyebrows stepped forward. ‘Yes?’
‘Man here wants to know about computer back-ups.’
‘Ah! Yes, we ran a weekly back-up . . . Or at least I used to. On a Friday morning between one and five in the morning. When I came in on Friday at nine o’clock, I’d take the DVD out of the server and put it in the safe . . .’
‘In the building?’
‘Yes . .
. I know a back-up disc should be stored off-site, but that’s why we had a fire safe installed.’
‘There’s a back-up DVD in a fire safe in the building?’
‘Yes – I put it in there last Friday when I got to work.’
‘And it’s still in there?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘What’s the code for the safe?’
‘There’s a code and a key.’
He held out his hand. ‘I’ll take the key.’
She backed away. ‘I don’t think . . .’
‘We’re investigating the murder of Mr Baguely, Wanda. The reason he was murdered might very well be on that DVD if it’s still in the safe and intact. Don’t worry, it’ll be safe with us and I promise we won’t divulge any of the confidential information we find on there.’
‘I suppose . . .’ She rummaged in her handbag for a set of keys, removed one that was about three inches long with a thin shaft and a different-shaped bit on either side, and placed it in his hand. ‘You look like you have an honest face.’
‘Very kind. And the code?’
‘It’s a five-digit push-button code: 59GH3.’
‘And where’s this safe located?’
‘In the back office concreted into the wall to the left of the filing cabinets. It was behind a picture of Winston Churchill, but I expect he was incinerated.
‘Thanks, Wanda.’
They headed towards the fire crews.
‘I can see why the Chief Constable wanted you to head up this investigation, Sir,’ Bolton said.
‘Don’t think flattery is going to work on me, Bolton. He’s just taking pity on an old man.’
‘A final hurrah?’
‘Exactly.’
There was a soot-streaked firefighter controlling the flow of water from a row of wide-bore hose-connectors at the fire engine.
‘Who’s in charge?’ Kowalski asked him.
He pointed to a man wearing a yellow helmet with two black stripes across the side of it. ‘Sub Officer Oswald.’
‘Thanks.’
He proffered his Warrant Card to Sub Officer Oswald. ‘DCI Kowalski from Hod . . . Romford Police Station.’
‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘We got the call at four-thirty – arrived at seven minutes to five.’
‘Any idea when the fire started?’