by Tim Ellis
‘Maybe all we need is for her to remember the past.’
Xena grunted. ‘Then we have a sixty-six percent chance that today’s going to be a good day.’
***
Jerry went into the CPS building on Kemble Street on her own.
‘Mr R Bailey, please.
The receptionist looked through a stapled printed list. ‘Ah, here he is: R Bailey in the Accounts Department. Is he expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘And your name?’
‘Mrs Jerry Kowalski.’
The woman pointed to a row of easy chairs. ‘Please take a seat.’
She sat down, and could see Joe and Shakin’ pulling faces at her through the smoked glass window.
It wasn’t long before a bald-headed man was standing in front of her. ‘Mrs Kowalski?’
She stood up. ‘Yes.’
He offered his hand. ‘Robert Bailey.’
She shook the hand.
‘How can I help?’
‘I’m working for the Forster League for Penal Reform . . .’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I have a question I’d like to ask you.’
Other than the receptionist there was no one else in the lobby, but he said, ‘You’d better come to my office.’
She followed him into the lift.
He pressed for the third floor.
Once there, he led her to a small office. On the door was a name sign: Robert Bailey, Senior Accountant.
‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
He directed her to one of the two chairs in front of his desk and sat down in his own chair opposite. ‘Now, what’s this about, Mrs Kowalski?’
She told him about being a student at the Dickson Poon School of Law, King’s College; about the pro-bono case of Rebecca Hardacre for the Forster League; and about the two hundred and fifty pounds that he was paying Rebecca on a weekly basis for “massage services”, which she emphasised with double quotes using the index fingers of both hands.
‘And how do you know that?’
She couldn’t possibly tell him that she’d commissioned someone to hack into Rebecca’s bank records. ‘I’ve seen Rebecca’s bank statements, and your name kept cropping up.’
‘As far as I’m aware bank statements, and the details therein, are confidential.’
‘Except where murder is concerned.’
‘Let’s say that I did pay Miss Hardacre for weekly massage services to ease my bad back – what business is it of yours?’
‘Your payment is five times that of her other clients. Either she was a really exceptional masseur, she was overcharging you, or you were getting a lot more than a weekly massage for your money?’
He stood up. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’ He walked round the desk and opened the door. ‘Please leave.’
‘Was she providing sexual services, Mr Bailey?’
‘You know where the lift is.’
‘Do your bosses know what you spend your money on?’
His office door closed.
She made her way to the lift.
Well, that wasn’t very illuminating. Although, as she was questioning him, another explanation for the weekly payments came to mind – maybe Rebecca was blackmailing him. A thousand pounds a month wasn’t small change.
The boys were annoying passers-by outside.
‘We thought we might have to come in and rescue you, Mrs K,’ Shakin said.
‘Neither of you are in any condition for heroics, are you?’
Joe grimaced. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’
‘And I appreciate it. In fact, while I am thinking about it, you’re both invited to my house for Sunday lunch.’
Joe’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really?’
‘Yes – really.’
‘What about partners, Mrs K?’ Shakin’ said.
‘As long as you behave yourselves. Remember I have three young daughters.’
Shakin’s eyes narrowed. ‘How old did you say they were again?’
She glowered at him.
He grinned. ‘You know I’m only joking.’
‘Yeah! Shakin’s only joking, Mrs K. We’ll be on our best behaviour.’
‘You’d better be. You know what my husband is like?’
‘We certainly do.’
‘Oh, and Bronwyn will be there as well.’
Shakin’ licked his lips. ‘Really?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
It took him twenty-five minutes from Romford – along the A12 – to reach the nearest underground station at Barkingside. He caught the Central Line train to Bank, and then switched to the Docklands Light Railway Line to Westferry. The journey took him fifty minutes, which was enough time to read the report on the Jodie Wilkins murder in 2011 and make a call to Jerry during the changeover at Bank.
‘Hello, Ray.’
‘Your voice is like the early-morning call of the Nightingale.’
‘I’m sure. Did you get the report?’
‘I certainly would have done if there had been one.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. No such murder took place at 28 Lyme Street in Camden involving Andrew Crowthorne or Rebecca Hardacre. I have one question, darling.’
‘Which is?’
‘What have you got yourself mixed up in this time?’
‘Professor East at the university gave us this case for our pro-bono work.’
‘Well, maybe you need to ask the professor what the hell’s going on.’
‘We’re on our way to the Forster League for Penal Reform in Sussex Gardens, Paddington to speak to the Barrister in charge of the case. Maybe we’ll get some answers from her.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Shakin’ and Joe are here.’
‘A fat lot of good they were last time.’
‘I’ll see you later, Ray.’
‘Okay.’
The call ended.
A murder that never happened. But it did happen. He’d even read the post-mortem report. He hoped she wasn’t wading in the swamp with the alligators.
Westferry station was an overground station built around 1987. Its only claim to fame is the nearby St Anne’s Church with the tallest church clock tower in London.
Outside, the sky was overcast and threatening rain. He was going to walk the short distance to Limehouse Police Station on West India Dock Road, but he didn’t want to get caught in the rain, so he caught a taxi which cost him nine pounds fifty to travel half a mile. He gave the Muslim driver ten pounds and told him to keep the change. The man appeared to be suitably impressed that there were still philanthropic people in East London.
At least Limehouse Police Station was a proper building, he thought. It was all brick with Georgian windows on the ground floor. He climbed the steps and entered through the double hard wood doors.
There was grey-haired man behind the glass. ‘Yes, Sir?’
He held his Warrant Card up. ‘Here to see DI Carlyle.’
‘Please take a seat, Sir. I’m sure he won’t keep you long.’
He’d been sitting down for an hour, so he decided to wander round the lobby and look at what was on the walls. There were wanted posters of five men who looked like criminals; a public service announcement poster warning parents not to tell children that the police will drag them off and lock them up – children should not be scared of the police; a warning poster about recent drug death due to people taking pills they thought were ecstasy; if you don’t remember to lock up your valuables, all you’ll have is memories . . .
‘DCI Kowalski?’
He turned to see a man a couple of inches shorter than him with large ears, a beak of a nose and a jutting chin. ‘Yes.’
‘DI Carlyle,’ the man said offering his hand.
They shook.
‘Please, follow me,’ Carlyle said and led him through the access door, along a corridor and to a desk in an open-plan room. ‘Take a seat. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I�
��m fine.’
‘Kowalski! I know that name from somewhere.’
‘Think of a three million pound helicopter sinking to the bottom of the North Sea.’
‘Hey people!’ Carlyle shouted. ‘This is the guy who totalled that helicopter.’
There was general applause and whooping.
‘Awesome,’ Carlyle said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Sir.’
‘I didn’t realise I had such a following.’
‘Oh yeah! Most of us down here on the shop floor thought it was an impressive piece of destruction. We approve of anyone who sticks it to the man.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Didn’t I hear you’d retired?’
‘A sacrifice was required.’
‘And yet here you are back in the saddle. It’s like a political retirement where you withdraw from public life to spend time with your family, and then three months later you’re given a ministerial position?’
‘No. It’s a temporary situation only. I’m investigating the possible murder of a DI from Romford.’
Carlyle pulled a face. ‘Forgive me if I’m a bit slow, but I don’t understand how the murder of a prostitute in 2011 has anything to do with that.’
‘It has absolutely nothing to do with that – they’re separate cases. It’s a convoluted story. Let’s just say that I’ve come across some information that might help you solve the murder of Jodie Wilkins.’
‘Okay.’
‘I read the file on the way down here – you had no suspects?’
‘No suspects, no evidence, no leads.’
‘Did you consider the crew of HMS Westminster?’
‘The Royal Navy frigate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It was in India Dock at the time and the crew were on shoreleave.’
‘Interesting, but no – the crew were never considered as suspects. To be honest, HMS Westminster didn’t even come up in our investigation.’
‘I noticed.’
‘So, what’s this information you’ve come across?’
Kowalski put the foreign-language newspaper reports down on the desk.
‘They’re in foreign languages,’ Carlyle said.
‘I know.’
‘I don’t read foreign languages.’
‘Nor me, but you have the wherewithal to get them translated.’
Carlyle screwed up his face. ‘The question is: Would I want to?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, pardon me if I’m not dancing about on the table here, but we’re talking about the five year-old murder of a prostitute. Prostitutes get murdered all the time. It’s a high-risk occupation, and we very rarely solve those cases. You know yourself Sir, that resources are tight . . . Well, in fact they’re more than tight . . . or should that be less than tight? Anyway, the unofficial and unwritten word from the gods on Mount Olympus is that we don’t throw resources at cases we have very little chance of solving. We go through the motions. Sometimes we get lucky. But mostly we don’t. If the pegs don’t fall into place from the off – we throw it on the unsolved pile and move on.’
‘That’s a cynical outlook, Inspector.’
‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, Sir.’
‘No. So, what you’re saying, is that you’re not interested in the possibility that we might have a serial killer on HMS Westminster?’
‘Interest doesn’t come into it. If it was purely my decision I’d team up with Clarice Starling . . .’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘From Silence of the Lambs.’
‘Oh!’
‘Anyway, the DCI wouldn’t sign off on any foreign language translation services. He’d send me to the sin-bin for even suggesting the idea. If it was a high-profile murder – like a Member of Parliament, or maybe a celebrity . . . Well, there’d be no stone unturned, but a prostitute . . .’ He shrugged. ‘What’s the point? I’ll grant you, the scarf round her neck and the flower in her hair was a novelty, but as there were no other similar murders . . .’
He could see that he wasn’t getting anywhere. Bronwyn was right – the murder of a lone prostitute came way down the list. DI Carlyle was also right – the police had neither the time nor resources to waste on a protracted investigation that had very little chance of success. He stood and scooped up the foreign language reports. ‘Thanks for your time, Inspector.’
‘No problem, Sir. Sorry I couldn’t be more accommodating, but thanks for thinking of me.’
He made his way out of the station. He’d been hoping to hand over the information to Carlyle who would grasp the opportunity to clear up one of his cold cases with both hands, but he was being naive. Five years on, nobody cared about solving the murder of Jodie Wilkins. Now, he had to decide what he was going to do with the case.
It had started raining. There were no taxis about. He guessed he was going to get wet walking to the King Charles pub.
***
‘Did you miss me?’
‘Like the Bubonic Plague. So, did you do everything I asked you to do?’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well?’
‘Peter Peckham . . . that’s a strange name, isn’t it? It makes you want to recite: Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers . . .’
‘You’re not going to recite the whole nursery rhyme, are you?’
‘No. We have to go up to Forensics, so that Peter P . . . can show us what he’s found.’
‘And what has he found?’
‘He said he’s recovered the deleted files from Hayley Kingdom’s computer and that she was in contact with someone on the Dark Web.’
‘What about the shredded documents?’
‘Yes. He said they’ve pieced together a lot of those as well and it looks like a diary.’
‘And?’
‘He wouldn’t say. We have to go up there, so that he can show us how it all fits together.’
‘Bank and phone records?’
‘The same.’
‘Why couldn’t he come down here?’
‘I suppose he has everything in his lab.’
‘Did you tell him that we won’t be able to go up there until after we’ve interviewed and charged the Kingdoms?’
‘I told him. He said he was prepared to wait.’
‘That’s generous of him. I’m surprised he’s had no complaints from DI Blake – I feel like complaining now.’
‘Stop being grumpy. We haven’t got time now anyway. Even if you had the information in front of you, you couldn’t do anything with it.’
‘All right, let’s get to the Kingdoms.’
‘DNA analysis confirms that Hayley is their daughter.’
‘As we expected.’
‘I couldn’t find any evidence of Hayley ever having gone to school, or coming to the attention of Social Services. I phoned Zebra Events where she worked and told them that we were hoping to come down to London to see them this afternoon. They said they’d make sure someone was available to talk to.’
‘Good.’
‘Also, I asked them about her Curriculum Vitae and what she’d written under Education. They said she’d put Acorn Primary School, Oak Tree Secondary School – both of which were closed seven years ago by Walthamstow Local Authority . . .’
‘Any university?’
‘Hayley stated that she had a Bachelor of Arts degree in Business and Marketing from Mayfield University.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘That’s because it’s an online university where you can buy your degree.’
‘Zebra Events didn’t check her CV, did they?’
‘No.’
‘The Kingdoms must have kept Hayley locked up and hidden for most of her childhood – until she was able to escape.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘It wasn’t much of an escape, was it?’
‘Out of the frying pan
and into the fire springs to mind.’
She put a stack of fifteen eight-by-ten inch coloured photographs in front of him.
He rifled through the pictures of female bodies at various stages of decomposition, and in different locations in the house and the back garden. ‘Fifteen?’
‘So far.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Paul thinks there could be at least another ten bodies there.’
He shook his head. ‘How did they get away with it for so long, Richards?’
‘Doesn’t it say something about the community they live in as much as it does about them?’
‘It says a lot about society in general. Who were these young women? Why did nobody care that they were missing? What were the police doing? Where were the parents? . . . He checked his watch. ‘We have to go. Anything else?’
‘Forensics checked his online activity and found that he regularly visited pornographic sites that specialised in bondage, torture and rape. Apparently, his activities were being monitored . . .’
‘Monitored! Very helpful.’
‘Neither of them had worked for at least five years, and both of them were claiming various benefits . . .’
‘From which they paid for their obscene activities, no doubt?’
‘I guess so. Also, Forensics discovered thousands of images and videos on the computer hard drive, which also included the torture and rape of many of the dead women found in the house and garden.’
‘You asked whether they’d talk, Richards?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope they don’t say anything. What can either of them possibly say that would explain or justify what they’ve done?’
‘It’s interesting though, isn’t it?’
‘Interesting!’
‘How their minds work in comparison to normal people.’
‘I’ve got news for you, Richards. The Kingdoms are normal people. Come on, let’s go.’
As they walked down to the Interview Suite Richards said, ‘Paul also said that he’s found the company the ONS outsourced the criminal statistics to.’
‘And?’
‘They’re called BetaStat and are located in Cambridge.’
‘What about the two sets of initials?’