by Tim Ellis
‘Paige came to visit you last Thursday morning?’
‘That’s right. Arrived about quarter past nine and left at ten-thirty. Had a draft copy of the company’s accounts with her, and just wanted to clarify a few points with Judy – our Finance Officer.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘I always say hello to Paige if I’m here. Lovely person. If I wasn’t knocking on Hell’s door and already married with a hundred grandchildren . . . Anyway, I thought she was a bit distracted last Thursday. I didn’t pry, but she declined a coffee with me, which is unusual. She normally has time for a coffee and a chat, but not that day. Wanted to sort the issues out and get on her way, so I left her talking to Judy.’
‘Is it all right if I talk to Judy as well?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ He led Kowalski along a corridor and into an office where a middle-aged woman with thinning brown-grey hair, pale skin and a sinewy neck was sitting at a desk.
‘Judy,’ Norman Kady said. ‘This is Mr Kowalski. He’s a Private Investigator. Apparently, Paige Belmont has been missing since last Thursday and he wants to know if you’re involved.’
Judy smiled. ‘She found the half a million pounds I’d embezzled from you Mr Kady. I had to get rid of her – what else was I to do?’
He shook his head. ‘Is that all? I already knew about your little retirement fund in the Cayman Islands, so there was really no need to try and hide it.’ He glanced at Kowalski. ‘I’ll leave you with Judy, Mr Kowalski. She’ll tell you where all the bodies are buried. I’ve got things to do now, so make your own way out when you’ve finished.’
‘Thanks for being so helpful, Mr Kady.’
‘I hope you find Paige in one piece.’
Kady left.
‘Can I get you a drink of anything, Mr Kowalski?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’
She pointed to a seat by the side of her desk. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everyone keeps telling me that Paige wasn’t her normal self. You saw her for over an hour last Thursday morning, did she confide in you at all?’
‘I’ve known Paige for four years. She did seem a bit distracted last Thursday. I asked her if there was anything wrong, but she said she was just overworked and underpaid. Although . . . she kept checking her phone every couple of minutes as if she was expecting a call or a text from someone. As far as I know, she didn’t receive any communication while she was here.’
‘So, she obtained the information she wanted from you and then left?’
‘More or less. She did take her laptop out of her briefcase and do some work on that first. After that, she asked me for the password onto our wifi and she sent an email, but I don’t know who it was to, or what it was about.’
‘And why would you?’ He stood up. ‘Thanks very much for your time, Judy. I’ll let you get back to work now.’
‘It made a nice change, Mr Kowalski. I hope you find Paige. Not least, because she has our draft accounts.’
‘I hope I do as well.’
He made his way out along the corridor to the passageway with yellow metal safety rails on the workshop floor to separate visitors from the expensive machinery.
Once he was sitting in his car, he called the office.
‘Abacus Investigations.’
‘You made it then?’
‘We don’t make things at Abacus Investigations, we investigate them. Would you like something investigated?’
‘Got a pen?’
‘Any time you’re ready, Sir.’
He told her about Harry Belmont coming into the office, about the boy’s concern over his mother’s disappearance, about Jenny Bates and her description of Lester Belmont, and about his visit to Bowden-Kady Precision Engineering Limited.
‘All for one hundred and fifty pounds?’
‘From little acorns . . .’
‘It’s a good job I’m here to steady the sinking ship.’
‘I’m glad you’re there as well. I thought I might have to make other arrangements.’
‘Is that why you called – to check if I’d come in?’
‘I called because you have work to do. I want background checks – criminal convictions; telephone and financial records; property ownership; press, media and internet history; and so on – for Paige Belmont and Jenny Bates of Bates-Belmont Accountants in Ilford; Lester Belmont who works at Redbridge Local Authority in the Environmental Health Department as a Senior Food Safety Inspector; Riley somebody or other who works in the same office and Lester had an affair with; see if you can locate a Black Mercedes SLC 200 with the personalised number plate: M100 PNB – PNB stands for Paige Nicole Belmont; she logged into Bowden-Kady’s wifi on Thursday morning and sent an email; and she was expecting a call or a text that morning as well – I’m sure none of that should be too difficult for you.’
‘Yawn.’
‘I hope you’re wearing an acceptable skirt and blouse with . . .?’
The line went dead.
He smiled.
***
She pressed the bell.
‘Yes?’ a man’s voice seeped out of the white box on the wall.
‘Is there someone I can talk to?’
‘Someone in particular, or just anyone?’
She laughed. ‘Sorry. I’m doing a law degree at King’s College and I’m writing a paper on the murder of Emily Hobson.’
The door clicked open.
She turned to Shakin’ and Joe. ‘Don’t harass the nurses as they come and go.’
‘We’ll be model citizens,’ Joe said with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Won’t we, Shakin’?’
‘The very model of a modern English citizen, Mrs K.’
As she pushed the door and entered the Nurses’ Home she hoped that the police weren’t called.
An overweight man in a security uniform was waiting in the lobby for her. He stuck out his hand and said, ‘Elliott Downton – security. Downton as in the TV series, but no ancestral connection unfortunately.’
She shook the hand, but then wished she hadn’t. By the time he’d finished squeezing, crushing and massaging her flesh like a serial groper, her hand was covered in globules of his sweat. She wanted to immediately go and take a shower, wash her hands in the toilets, or at the very least wipe her hand with a tissue. In the end, she decided not to do anything, because she was here to get information. If she chose any of those courses of action she would have been implying that she felt dirty after touching him, which she did.
‘I’m Jerry Kowalski, a second year law student at the Poon School of Law, King’s College.’
He pointed to a brass plaque on the wall. ‘Emily Hobson was murdered on Friday, August 15, 1997. That’s . . .’
‘Nineteen years ago – I know. I was hoping that maybe there was still someone here who might remember what happened on that night?’
Downton pursed his lips and began shaking his head, but then his piggy eyes lit up like pinwheels. ‘Beecher Buckley!’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The janitor – Beecher Buckley. He’s been here since the place was built in the 1970s. Another seven months and he’ll be retired.’
‘You couldn’t tell me . . .?’
‘Downstairs – in the basement. He comes up for air every now and again, but he doesn’t like the sunlight. The nurses think he’s a vampire, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. He gives some of the girls the heebie jeebies the way he looks at them and shuffles around the building early in the mornings and late at night. Yeah, there’s been complaints. I think the NHS Trust will be glad to get rid of him. They’ve tried before, of course, but some fancy lawyer put the kibosh on that. Threatened to sue them for every penny they had, so they backed off.’
‘I couldn’t . . .?’
‘Yes, you could. Who could refuse someone as lovely as you? Not I, said the Walrus.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m practising my lines. We’re performing The Walrus and the Carpe
nter at our amateur dramatics club.’
‘I see,’ she said, but she didn’t. ‘Will you take me to see Mr Buckley?’
‘I’d like nothing better, but I can’t leave the door and the lobby unmanned – it’s more than my job’s worth.’ He pointed to a door with a sign that read: JANITOR ONLY. ‘If you go through there, down the steep concrete steps holding onto the rail in line with health and safety guidelines, turn left at the bottom, carry on until you reach a brick wall in front of you, Beecher’s made himself comfortable in a room at the end.’ Downton checked his watch. ‘Mmmm! He’ll probably be watching “Doctors” on his television at this time.’
‘Are you sure it’ll be all right?’
‘Don’t worry, Beecher’s harmless. He may look and act weird, but underneath all of that he’s a teddy bear really. Although, there have been stories . . .’
‘Stories?’
Downton grinned. ‘Only joking.’
She began walking towards the door, but remembered something else. ‘There was a nurse who was the last person to see Emily Hobson before she left the Nurses’ Home . . .’
‘How weird is that?’
‘What?’
‘I know exactly where Greta Ross is.’
‘Oh.’
‘Calais. I watched her being interviewed on Sky News yesterday.’
‘What’s she doing in Calais?’
‘Providing medical help to the refugees in the Jungle.’
She turned to go. ‘Okay,’ she said, feeling disappointed. ‘Thanks, anyway.’
‘On your way out, you might be interested in finding out how to contact her.’
‘You can contact her?’
‘No, but I know who can.’
‘You’d better tell me now, just in case you’re busy when I’m leaving.’
‘Sure thing.’ He went to his small office, wrote a name and a number on a Post-it note and handed it to her. ‘She’s with Médecins Sans Frontières or Doctors Without Borders UK. Call that number, they’ll pass on a message, and she’ll call you back.’
‘You’ve been very kind, Mr Downton.’
‘Being pleasant and helpful to people costs nothing.’
She felt guilty about what she’d initially thought about him, as she headed towards the basement. He’d been nothing but kind to her, and all she wanted to do was scrub herself clean after being in the same room with him.
Oh well, that’s just the way it was.
The door closed automatically behind her. She found the light switch, held onto the safety rail and began climbing down the concrete steps.
***
‘I’ll have the skewered halloumi kebab, please,’ he said to the barman. ‘Last chance, Richards?’
‘No, I’m fine with the lime cordial.’
‘A man would be lucky to have you – you’re cheap at half the price.’ He paid, and they strolled over to the table in the Jolly Brick Layers on Flamstead End Road in Waltham Cross. They were pointing in the right direction up Turner’s Hill for Cheshunt Community Hospital accessed via King Arthur Court Close, which was opposite the Library in Guinevere Gardens.
‘I can be expensive.’
‘Most women can.’
‘I’m just not hungry, that’s all.’
‘It’s important not to let your work affect your appetite, Richards.’
‘You don’t have any problems in that respect, do you?’
‘If I did, I’d be as thin as DS Gilbert.’
‘He is thin, isn’t he?’
‘Each to his own. Some people are born thin, others handsome. No prizes for guessing what I was blessed with.’
‘Mmmm! You’re not thin, and you’re not handsome . . . Wait! I think I have it. You were blessed with a beautiful stepdaughter.’
‘No wonder you’re a detective.’
‘I am good, aren’t I?’
‘Too good to be on your own. Do you know that they have a police dating website now?’
‘Where I could meet like-minded people?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t think I want to go out with a police officer.’
‘Do you have a preferred career for Mr Right?’
‘I’ve not given it much thought.’
‘Maybe you need help.’
‘Psychological help, you mean?’
‘Definitely, but I was thinking more of a Love Guru.’
‘There’s a film called that, isn’t there?’
‘Do you think a film with Mike Myers in it will help you?’
‘I’m desperate.’
‘You need relationship advice from an expert.’
‘I would need to be in a relationship, wouldn’t I?’
A waitress brought his food. ‘Enjoy.’
He began eating. ‘Not necessarily.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘I wonder how a person becomes an expert in relationships. Do you think there’s a university degree, or maybe courses that accrue credits? Maybe you have to have so many failed relationships to qualify for the entrance exam. In fact, I could already be an expert myself without knowing it. I could tell people how . . .’
‘You can stop right there,’ Parish interrupted her.
‘Why?’
‘The only thing you could offer advice on is how to keep yourself amused in a revolving door.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You continue to make the same mistakes over and over again.’
‘I do not.’
‘You’re like a moth attracted to the light. And do you know what happened to the moth that fell in love with the light?’
‘Is it a children’s story?’
‘It’s a revolving door story. Well?’
‘Does it die?’
‘And do you know why it died?’
‘Because it wouldn’t leave the light.’
‘You’re that moth. You’ll be flapping around that light until your love shrivels up and dies.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Who’s your ideal mate?’
‘If I knew that I’d be the happiest moth in the jar.’
‘That’s what I’m talking about. When the light is turned off, what do moths do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And they don’t know either. They fly around aimlessly looking for another light to love.’
‘And that’s what I do, is it?’
‘The very same. The most important decision of your life and you have no plan.’
‘Did you have a plan?’
‘You know I did. I’d joined a dating site. I was being matched to compatible women. If your mother hadn’t abducted me, tied me up and made me marry her . . . Well, who knows where I’d be now.’
‘More like the other way around.’
‘Either way – we both had a plan. It was just that your mother was more ruthless in pursuing her plan than I was. You, on the other hand, have no plan. You’re like a toy in a child’s toy box waiting to be picked. “Please pick me,” the toy says, but the child picks another toy instead . . .’
Richards laughed. ‘What toy does he pick?’
‘A tractor.’
‘What toy am I?’
‘A scary clown.’
‘I am not.’
‘What toy do you want to be?’
‘The one that’s always picked.’
‘Then you need a plan. Love is far too important to leave to the fickle finger of fate. Did you know that the Greek Gods used to play dice to decide a person’s fate? That’s where the saying: “In the hands of the Gods” comes from. In the end, fate is what happens to us if we do nothing. In all other aspects of your life you make decisions – you plan. You decided what degree course to do; which university to attend; to join the police instead of being a hairdresser; to buy a clapped-out old Volkswagen Beetle and so on. In the matter of love though, you seem to think that love will find you. I have news for you, Richards. Love isn’t even looking for you. You have to go out there, hi
t your mate on the head with a big club, and drag him kicking and screaming back to your cave.’
‘You’re right, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m always right.’
‘I should listen to you.’
‘You should always listen to me.’
‘Okay, I’ll think about it and make a plan.’
‘And then we’ll seek out a relationship expert.’
‘There’s still hope, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, Pandora.’
They didn’t speak for a handful of minutes and then Richards said, ‘What about BetaStats and the fraud?’
‘I’ve changed my mind about sending Toadstone undercover to search out the truth.’
‘I’m glad. If we’re right, these people murdered Abel Winter. Paul isn’t trained to go undercover.’
‘My very thoughts. In fact, I can imagine he’d be useless as an undercover operative. I’ve decided to contact the Kent and Essex Serious Economic Crime Directorate.’
‘Economic?’
He shrugged. ‘I have no idea why two people from BetaStats would be committing fraud to massage the criminal statistics, but money is one possible reason. So, I’ll pass what we’ve got to them, which isn’t much, and see what they have to say. My worry is that we could be asking the police to police the police, and that’s never a good idea.’
‘What about the Independent Police Complaints Commission?’
‘As the people at BetaStats aren’t police, the IPCC wouldn’t be interested. The same goes for Professional Standards. The issue is whether they’re acting alone, or someone at the National Audit Office and/or the Met is also involved.’