by Tim Ellis
‘You’ve got a point. I’ll definitely think about it.’
‘The very least you can do. So, Sutherland Road won’t be our case after we’ve interviewed the Kingdoms and collected as much evidence as we can. And with that in mind I want you to speak to Toadstone and find out what progress his team have made. Tell him that I know forensics are a long way from wrapping things up at the crime scene, but we need everything he’s got so far before we interview them. I definitely need the results of the comparison of DNA with Hayley Kingdom . . . It wouldn’t take much of an imagination to picture your brilliant career going up in flames if we got that simple fact wrong.’
‘My career! What about yours?’
‘They expect a back-of-the-woods Detective Inspector to get it wrong now and again – it’s built into the system. But a high-flying glory-hunting Detective Sergeant who wants a big money transfer to a premier league team . . . No, getting the basics wrong could easily scupper the deal. So, we definitely want the results of the comparative DNA analysis.’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Good. Next, we want the details and photographs of what they’ve found in the house and back garden so far . . . As I said, I know they haven’t finished by some margin, but he can give us what they do have.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’d like to know if they found anything on the computer hard drive, the analysis of the Kingdom’s online activity, telephone and bank records.’
Richards wrote everything down on the whiteboard and would transfer the list into her notebook once they’d finished.
‘Now, getting back to Hayley Kingdom, which is our case and continues to remain unsolved . . . Speak to Peckham in Forensics. I want to know if he’s restored the deleted files on Hayley’s computer and if so – what he’s found. I also want to know whether he’s been able to piece the shredded documents back together again. And then, of course, there’s also the analysis of her bank and phone records.’
‘Got all that.’
‘Oh, and while you’re dancing the Paso Doble with Toadstone, ask him if he’s had any luck identifying who the ONS sub-contractors were . . . Don’t write that on the board.’
‘No, of course.’ She pulled out her notebook and wrote it in there instead. ‘Is that it?’
‘Nearly. Also, remind Toadstone that the distinct lack of forensic evidence at our two crime scenes hasn’t gone unnoticed, and ask him what he plans to do about it.’
‘If there’s no forensic evidence – what can he do?’
‘You might be willing to accept that pathetic excuse, but tell him I’m made of sterner stuff. I want results, not excuses.’ He took a long swallow of his coffee and checked his watch. He had five minutes before he was scheduled to brief the Chief, and he should probably visit the little boys’ room during that time as well. ‘Find out which schools – if any – Hayley Kingdom attended, whether she was on any Social Services lists and so on.’ He stood up. ‘Right, we’re done. I’ll see you back in the squad room at about half-past nine.’
‘Okay. Say hello to the Chief for me.’
‘Will do.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come to the press briefing with you?’
‘I’m sure.’
***
‘It’s about time you got here,’ Xena said.
Stick glanced at the clock on the dashboard and then at his watch. ‘I’m here at the same time I am every morning.’
‘Do you want a medal?’
‘That would be good.’
‘Come on then. What are you waiting for? Let’s get going.’
‘Are you in a rush?’
‘Time waits for no woman.’
He looked in the rear-view mirror and then in the side mirrors, and was about to put the car into gear and set off to the station when he saw someone exit Xena’s building. ‘Someone just came out of your building.’
‘I’m not the only one who lives there, numpty.’
‘He looks familiar.’
‘Probably the man you see every morning coming out of . . .’
‘Isn’t that . . . ?’
‘We have work to do. You know I don’t like being late.’
‘That’s because I’m always here on time. Yes, I thought so! Detective Inspector Peter Roundhouse from the Mets’ Marine Policing Unit, unless I’m a monkey’s uncle.’
‘You’re a monkey’s uncle, Stickleback. It looks nothing like him. Roundhouse resembled an ape, that guy looks more like the Elephant Man.’
‘I didn’t know DI Roundhouse lived in your building?’
‘Are we going to sit here all morning watching complete strangers and discussing the many stupid things you don’t know?’
He moved his hand towards the door handle. ‘Maybe I’ll ask him if he wants a lift.’
She grabbed Stick’s arm. ‘You will not.’
‘I mean, if he doesn’t live in your building, where did he spend the night?’
‘All right . . . He called me.’
‘So it is DI Roundhouse?’
‘I’ll admit there’s a vague likeness.’
‘And he called you last night?’
‘Five minutes to midnight. He said they’d raised the boat, had signed it over to Forensics and that they were on their way back to London.’
‘Okay. So, how did he end up here sneaking out of your building at seven-thirty in the morning?’
‘He said he needed a shower . . . I took pity on him. And then he was too tired to continue his journey, so I let him sleep in my coal bunker.’
‘You don’t have a coal bunker.’
She scratched her head. ‘Don’t I?’
‘He slept in your bed and you had sex with him more like.’
‘I think you’re forgetting who answers to whom here, numbnuts. Put this fucking heap of junk into gear and let’s get going.’
‘I could give him a lift to the station?’
‘Drive. Anyway, what about you?’
Stick set off the short drive to the station.
‘Me?’
‘Is Jenifer pregnant yet?’
‘She’s still on the pill.’
‘And?’
‘We don’t want a drug-addled baby.’
‘You don’t half talk some hogwash. Did you have baby-making-sex last night?’
‘I hardly think that’s relevant.’
‘Believe me, Stickynuts – it’s relevant. If you want a baby you’ve got to have baby-making-sex.’
‘Is there a difference between that and normal sex?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘No wonder you’re childless.’
‘I haven’t been . . .’
‘With normal sex – you just have sex, and that’s an end to it. All those millions of eggs and sperm are sacrificed for the greater good. Baby-making-sex, on the other hand, entails a stop-and-start method . . .’
‘How does that work?’
‘It’s not hard to grasp – you stop and then you start again.’
‘Stopping could be difficult. In fact, I don’t think starting again would be a stroll in the park.’
‘Nobody ever said making babies was easy.’
‘How long do you stop for?’
‘Not long – maybe thirty seconds.’
‘Like an intermission at the cinema?’
‘Exactly. It’s always handy to have some ice cream ready to go.’
‘Ice cream?’
‘Chocolate preferably. It’ll give you a second wind. And then when the thirty seconds has passed, you start up the motor again.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘It could hardly be called a method if you only stop once and then start again.’
‘How many times do I have to stop and start?’
‘Some men can do it all night long.’
‘I’m not one of those men.’
She looked at him and pulled a face. ‘No . . . Okay, well probably about
three or four times for you.’
‘Three or four times!’
‘You have to build up the pressure.’
‘How come you know so much about the male part of making a baby?’
‘I wasn’t always the barren spinster you see before you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Look, I did my research before nature played its cruel joke on me. So, you have to build up a head of steam. You keep shovelling in the coal, so that you get the maximum amount of pressure in the engine room.’
‘You’ve lost me. Where did the steam engine come from?’
‘The sidings. Having sex is like driving a steam train. You start off slow – chug, chug, chug. The pressure begins to build – chuggety-chug, chuggety-chug, chuggety-chug. And then, as you come round the bend you’re travelling uphill at full steam ahead and the whistle blows: Choo! Choo! You enter the tunnel. The wind is sucked out of you. You lean into it. The pressure gauge is in the red and touching critical. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. You can see it up ahead. You sound the whistle again: Choo! Choo! You know that if you don’t release the pressure soon the engine will crack and shatter into a thousand pieces, so you open up the valve – just a crack at first, but then gradually you let all of your six hundred million sperm out to ravage and pillage . . .’
‘Six hundred million sperm!’
‘Well, probably not in your case. We’re probably talking about one or two stragglers, which makes it more imperative that you use the stop-and-start method. You need to give your weak and ailing sperm every chance of getting into the fallopian tube and burrowing into an egg.’
‘Well, we didn’t have any sex last night – I had a headache.’
‘Jenifer would probably be better off going to the sperm bank anyway.’
‘From what you’ve been saying, you’re probably right. It doesn’t sound like I’d be much good at the stop-and-start method.’
‘And let’s be perfectly honest, shall we? You don’t really want to produce a child who looks like you, do you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘One of you is bad enough.’
‘So, you had sex with DI Roundhouse in the shower last night?’
‘I think you should stop talking while you still have a mouth and teeth to talk with, numpty.’
Stick pulled into the station car park. They made their way across the tarmac, through the back door and up the stairs to the squad room.
‘Make the coffee,’ Xena said.
‘Where will you be?’
‘Here looking at AC Nunn’s personnel file.’
‘Okay.’
After shrugging off her coat, she hung it on the hat stand by the entrance to the squad room and sat down in her executive chair. Her desk was cluttered with rubbish – internal and external envelopes, memos, letters, draft regulations, post-it notes with cryptic messages on, catalogues on police equipment . . . She found the password the Chief had left for her, and then scooped up the rest of the rubbish and piled it haphazardly on Stick’s desk. Then she switched on her computer, logged into the network and clicked on the internet shortcut where she navigated to the Mets’ website. From there she clicked on the “Human Resources” webpage and keyed Sarah Nunn into the search box. It prompted her for a password, which she just happened to have in her possession: XCF678GHS569Q.
AC Sarah Nunn’s personnel records appeared with a recent passport-sized photograph of her in uniform.
Xena began reading the page, but she didn’t get very far. One thing she hadn’t realised was that Sarah Nunn was from Roydon. Why hadn’t the AC mentioned that minor fact on the telephone, or at their meeting? She was born in River Maternity Hospital in Sawbridgeworth, which was closed during the cut-backs twenty years ago. She went to Roydon Primary School and Burnt Mill Secondary School . . .
Stick appeared with the coffees.
‘Did you get lost?’
‘I don’t know who’s responsible for buying supplies, but there was no coffee. I had to walk down to Vice and borrow some of theirs.’
‘God knows where their coffee’s been.’
‘Let’s not think about the possibilities.’
‘You’re a wimp.’
‘So, do you know who is responsible for buying the supplies?’
Xena pulled a face. ‘I’m a senior officer – why would I know?’
‘I thought . . .’
‘Well, you thought wrong, but the missing coffee certainly has all the hallmarks of a mystery.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? Have you looked at AC Nunn’s records yet?’
‘Yes. Unlike you, I’ve been working my fingers to the bone.’
‘Are you going to keep me in suspense?’
‘There’s something seriously strange about you, Stick.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Did you know she was born and brought up in Roydon?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. I’m surprised she never mentioned it.’
‘You and me both. She went to Roydon Primary School and Burnt Mill Secondary School.’
‘Are her parents still alive?’
‘It doesn’t say.’
‘What about siblings?’
‘Same answer.’
‘You want me to ring the schools and find out where she lived and if she had any siblings, don’t you?’
‘Stop reading my mind.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It also says here that she was married for eighteen months to a Daniel Nunn, but that he was killed in 1992 in South Africa.’
‘Was he murdered? Or was it an accident?’
‘Same answer.’
‘What was her maiden name?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘Beagrie?’
‘I knew you were going to say that, but no – it wasn’t.’
‘It would have been good if it had been, wouldn’t it?’
‘Since when did we ever get a break, numpty?’
‘Never?’
‘That’s right – never. Her maiden name was Dawson – Sarah Dawson. So call the schools and let’s find out a bit more about her.’
‘I’m onto it. Why is there a lot of stuff with your name on it piled on my desk?’
‘How would I know? I hope you’re not suggesting I put it there?’
‘I never would.’
Chapter Twenty
She made her usual journey after parking up at the train station: Chigwell to Mile End, change to the District Line and catch the next train to Temple. It was straightforward and usually took her about forty-five minutes, which gave her time to study, read case law, make notes and so on. Sometimes she had to stand up from Mile End to Temple, but mostly she was fortunate enough to get a seat.
‘How are things going at the office?’ she’d said to Ray last night when they were lying in bed.
‘Bronwyn told you, didn’t she?’
‘It would be good if you pretended – just once – that I didn’t know anything.’
‘Good! In what way?’
‘Well, let’s try it and see, shall we?’
‘Okay – I’m game. Things at the office are good, darling.’
‘What case are you working on now?’
‘Still the same one – Tom Baguely.’
‘And how’s that going?’
‘We’re on the right track.’
‘I thought Mr Baguely had been murdered and that you’d handed the case over to Dan Wozniak – a real police detective?’
‘Ah!’
‘So, what’s going on, Ray?’
‘Nothing’s going on, darling.’
She shuffled across the bed, turned over and sat astride him. ’You know I’ll wheedle it out of you.’
‘Never. Do your worst. My lips are sealed.’
She kissed him. ‘Still sealed?’
‘Mmmm!’
But he began singing like a canary long before the main event.
‘It’s just for a month,’ he
said.
‘I’m sad about Dan and his wife.’
‘Me too. We meet again after all these years and then he gets himself murdered.’
‘I was looking forward to meeting him again and his wife.’
‘And me. She’d have had to have been someone special to have domesticated Dan.’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘Exactly like you, darling.’
‘So, you have a new partner.’
‘DS Esmeralda Bolton. Everyone just calls her Bolton though.’
‘And what’s she like?’
‘Small, fat and ugly.’
‘Really?’
‘She should be on the ugly farm, well-away from good-looking people who are easily offended.’
‘Poor you! Well, it’s only for a month.’
‘Thank God!’
She stroked his hairy chest. ‘Do you want to go backwards?’
‘Being a DCI again is like wearing a familiar old overcoat.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘No – I don’t want to go backwards. I like the idea of a new challenge. It’s just that . . . Murder is so much more interesting than infidelity.’
‘Some of your cases will be interesting.’
‘That’s true. Have I told you about the prostitutes?’
‘This isn’t the time for confession, Ray.’
‘Bronwyn’s boyfriend thinks his superior officer on HMS Westminster is a serial killer who’s been murdering a prostitute in every port.’
‘There you are then. That’s interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And you’re familiar with the case I’m working on?’
‘Long-term domestic abuse and the seventeen knife wounds.’
‘That’s the one. Well . . . I have a favour to ask.’
‘Correct me if I’m way off the mark here, but wasn’t using police resources for personal reasons the exact cause of my enforced resignation from the police force?’