by Tim Ellis
‘Oh, just so there’s no confusion – I’m Naomi Taylor, Frank’s wife. We’ve been married for fourteen years.’
‘He doesn’t remember you’re his wife?’
‘Sometimes he does, but most of the time I’m his mistress. One of the effects of the memory loss is that he creates stories to fill in the gaps. I don’t mind. I know I’m his wife, even if he doesn’t remember that small detail. And anyway, I always had this crazy fantasy about being someone’s mistress, so in a way we’re both winners. I shouldn’t say this to a complete stranger, but it’s also improved our sex life, because he thinks he’s going to bed with his mistress. So, what’s this about Paige?’
‘She went missing last Thursday and . . .’
‘Missing! As in nobody can find her?’
‘That’s right.’
‘We had an appointment at one o’clock that day, but she didn’t show. I called her phone, but was diverted to voicemail and left a message for her to contact me. I then called her office, but they had no idea where she was. Since then . . . Well, I’ve been waiting for Paige or someone else to call me and tell me what’s going on with our accounts, but no one has, and now you’re saying she’s gone missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope she’s okay.’
‘We both do. So, she didn’t keep her appointment with you?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve had no contact from her since then?’
‘No.’
He stood up. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time then, and I hope your husband’s memory begins to improve.’
‘Thank you.’
She showed him out.
Outside, he walked back to his car. At least now he knew when Paige Belmont went missing. Did it help him? Only time would tell. What it did mean though, was that he could focus his energies on a specific time period between Chocoholics and Bongo Illustrations.
Chapter Eleven
When she got outside, Shakin’ and Joe were nowhere to be found. It was still drizzling, so she guessed they might have taken cover in a cafe or a doorway somewhere, but when she looked up and down the street she couldn’t see anywhere obvious that they might have ducked into. She took out her phone and called Shakin’, but was diverted to voicemail.
‘Where are you both? Call me.’
She was at a loss. The last thing she’d expected was to find the boys missing.
Thankfully, she had a collapsible umbrella in her bag and put it up to keep herself dry. She’d give the boys as long as it took to call the telephone number Mr Downton had given her for Médecins Sans Frontières UK to contact Greta Ross.
Using the crook of her arm to steady the umbrella, she held the Post-it note with the number on it in one hand and her phone in the other as she keyed in the digits with her thumb.
It rang for what seemed like forever, but eventually a man said, ‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hello. Is it possible to speak to Greta Ross?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘Jerry Kowalski.’
‘And what’s your business with Greta?’
‘I’d like to speak to her about the night Emily Hobson was murdered.’
‘Give me your number.’
She said the number and the man repeated it.
‘I’ll pass it on. If Greta wants to speak to you she’ll call. If you haven’t heard anything within twenty-four hours, don’t ring again.’
‘Thank you . . .’ but the call had already ended.
She thought about Morton – who was he? Why hadn’t he come forward as a witness? Was it because he was Emily’s killer? Already, she’d discovered three clues that weren’t in the file, that the police had overlooked or ignored during their original investigation – the window entry into and exit from the Nurses’ Home to avoid signing in and out, and also smuggling in and out male or female visitors; the hidden gap in the outer palisade fencing; and crucially that Emily hadn’t been on her own. Perhaps, if they could find Morton, he’d be able to clarify exactly what happened and how Helen Veldkamp’s DNA had got under Emily’s fingernails.
‘Hi, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ called as he and Joe ambled down the street towards her like two ginger Toms returning home after a night on the tiles and looking as though they’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.
‘Where have you two been? I’ve been standing here waiting for . . . ‘She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘. . . At least three hours.’
‘Methinks the lady doth exaggerate too much,’ Joe said.
‘It’s a good job you’re not taking English Literature, Joe. Well, where have you been?’
Shakin’ grinned. ‘That’s not a subject we wish to discuss, Mrs K. All you need to know is that there’s a back entrance into and out of the Nurses’ Home.’
‘And how would you two know that?’
Joe elbowed Shakin’. ‘We can’t reveal our sources, can we Shakin’?’
‘Absolutely not. Joe would rather die than reveal our sources.’
‘Nobody said anything about dying, Shakin’. And why me? I’m always the one who dies. What about you? Surely it must be your turn to die this time?’
‘Do you trust me to make sure you die well, and that people remember you as a hero afterwards?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘There you go then. Somebody has to organise these things.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’ve been into the Nurses’ Home, haven’t you?’
Joe shuffled his feet. ‘See, I told you she’d find out, Shakin’.’
‘Well, she didn’t find out from me.’
Jerry’s forehead wrinkled up. ‘I specifically said you were not to go into the Nurses’ Home, didn’t I?’
‘It wasn’t our fault, Mrs K,’ Joe said.
‘Well, I’m listening?’
Shakin’ stepped forward. ‘We were sitting on the wall waiting for you to return when a dozen female nurses . . .’
‘I think there was a male nurse there as well, Shakin’.’
Shakin’ pushed him in the arm. ‘When eleven female nurses and one male nurse appeared. They asked us why we were there, what we were doing, who we belonged to . . . You know, the usual intelligent discourse.’
‘That doesn’t explain how you managed to finagle your way into the Nurses’ Home.’
‘One thing led to another. You know how these things go?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Okay. Well, they smuggled us in as part of the group. We didn’t ask them to, and to be perfectly honest we wished they hadn’t, don’t we, Joe?’
‘Definitely.’
‘We were treated abominably, weren’t we, Joe?’
‘Abominably.’
‘They passed us around like playthings, didn’t they, Joe?’
‘Playthings.’
‘I mean, what gave them the right to treat us like that? We were victims, weren’t we, Joe?’
‘Victims.’
‘They used us for their own licentious ends and then threw us away like unwanted sex toys, didn’t they, Joe?’
‘Sex toys.’
‘Maybe we should call the police?’ Jerry said.
Joe threw a glance at Shakin’. ‘What for?’
‘You were abducted, sexually assaulted by eleven women and then thrown out with the rubbish.’
Shakin’ shook his head. ‘Do you think anyone would believe us?’
‘Do you think I believe you?’
‘Every word is the gospel,’ Joe said.
‘Anyway, enough of our horrendous ordeal . . .’ Shakin’ said.
‘Horrendous.’
‘. . . What did you find out, Mrs K?’
‘The same as you. Did you two leave via the window and the gap in the fence?’
‘Yes. And then we walked to the main road and circled round.’
Jerry’s mobile vibrated.
It was an unknown number.
‘Jerry Kowalski.’
‘It’s Greta Ro
ss. Why are you calling me about the night of Emily Hobson’s murder?’
‘I’m a second year law student and I’ve been tasked to write a paper on what happened that night and the subsequent police investigation. Is it possible you can tell me what you remember?’
‘Have you read my statement?’
‘Yes. I have it here in front of me.’
‘That’s what I remember.’
‘It would help if you could go over what you remember again.’
‘Everything I remember is in my statement. Now, if there’s . . .?’
‘What can you tell me about a man called Morton?’
The line went dead.
She stared at her phone.
‘Who was that, Mrs K?’ Joe asked.
‘Greta Ross.’
‘The nurse who saw Emily Hobson in the kitchen?’
‘Yes. She now works for Médecins Sans Frontières UK and she’s currently in Calais helping the refugees.’
‘More to the point, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said. ‘Who’s this person called Morton?’
‘Apparently, Emily left the Nurses’ Home through the ground floor toilet window just like you two just did, and she was assisted in climbing out by a man called Morton.’
‘And you know this because?’
‘It’s a long story. All you need to know at this point is that I found an eyewitness who saw her leaving the Nurses’ Home at quarter to one in the morning.’
Joe’s eyes opened wide. ‘An eyewitness!’
‘That the police didn’t find?’ Shakin’ added.
Jerry grunted. ‘The police didn’t seem to find much considering it was a murder investigation. Up to now, I can’t say I’m very impressed with the way the investigation was conducted.’
‘It was a long time ago, Mrs K,’ Joe said.
‘That’s no excuse.’
‘Oh, okay!’
She rifled through the file until she found what she was looking for. ‘The man in charge of the investigation was Detective Chief Inspector George Hill. It would be useful if we could talk to him. Do you think your young lady doing the computing degree would be able to find him, Shakin’?’
‘Leave it to me, Mrs K. Little Miss Muffet’s in for a surprise, and it won’t be the spider that sat down beside her either.’
Shakin’ and Joe nudged each other and laughed.
‘What did Greta Ross say?’ Shakin’ asked.
‘She said that what she remembered was in her statement, and she wasn’t going to go over it again.’
Joe pulled a face. ‘That’s not very community-spirited of her.’
‘No. And when I mentioned Morton she ended the call.’
‘That might be interesting if we knew what it meant,’ Shakin’ suggested.
Jerry’s phone vibrated.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry about cutting you off,’ Greta Ross said. ‘I had a medical emergency.’
How convenient, Jerry thought. ‘Okay.’
‘You wanted to know about Morton?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s dead, I’m afraid. He was killed in a hit-and-run incident a three days after Emily was murdered.’
‘And you didn’t go to the police?’
‘Why would I? As far as I was aware the two deaths weren’t connected? I didn’t even know Emily and Morton were together that night – Morton was seeing someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘Lisa Porterfield.’
‘Have you any idea where she might be now?’
‘The last I heard she was a midwife at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Wing in University College Hospital on Grafton Way near Euston Square station.’
‘Okay, thanks. Do you know Morton’s full name?’
‘Morton Gillespie.’
‘Was he a nurse as well?’
‘No. I only met him a few times, but I didn’t like him. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he loved himself too much – thought the sun shone out of his own arse. He was a junior doctor at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery on Cleveland Street. Lisa thought she’d struck lucky, because we all wanted to marry doctors and she’d snagged hers in the first year. She was crazy about him.’
‘Did you know that Emily had left the Nurses’ Home via the ground floor toilet window?’
‘I didn’t know for sure, but I guessed.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’
‘Nobody told the police. If we had, our escape route would have been compromised. It was a closely-guarded secret that had been passed from nurse to nurse down the years. Those of us who knew about the escape route had a discussion on whether we should inform the police or not. In the end, we decided that in the scheme of things it probably wasn’t important in finding Emily’s killer.’
‘Surely that was for the police to decide?’
‘Now, I think we’d probably make a different decision, but back then . . . We were young and selfish. We convinced ourselves that Emily would understand.’
‘Have you ever heard of a woman called Helen Veldkamp?’
‘Sorry – no.’
‘Where do you think Emily might have been going when she left the Nurses’ Home that night?’
‘Before, I would have said The Atrium Lounge in Russell Square, but if she was with Morton I have no idea. What was Morton doing there?’
‘If you don’t know, I’m sure I don’t.’
‘No, I have no idea. Maybe Lisa was there as well?’
‘From the way it was described to me, it sounded as though Emily and Morton knew each other intimately.’
‘Then I really don’t know. Morton had been going out with Lisa for at least a year – they were inseparable and practically engaged. When he was run over, she wanted to kill herself as well. In fact, we removed everything dangerous from her room and took turns in babysitting her for over a month to keep her safe.’
‘And presumably, no one knew about Morton seeing Emily that night?’
‘No. This is the first I’ve heard about it.’
‘Okay, thanks. If you do think of anything that might help, I’d be grateful if you could call me.’
‘I’d be more inclined to do that if you’d volunteer to house a family of refugees?’
‘I already have my parents, a husband and four children in the house – we’re like sardines in a tin.’
The line went dead again.
She decided that Greta Ross was not a very pleasant woman.
‘So, what’s going on, Mrs K?’ Shakin’ said.
‘What’s going on boys, is that the worms seem to be escaping from the tin we’ve opened up.’
Joe pulled a face. ‘I hate worms.’
***
The Crocodile in Cheshunt was a big place with extensive lawns incorporating picnic tables with parasols that were fully utilised during the hot summer months. In February, however, they were like abandoned ships in a floating graveyard.
‘Look,’ Richards said, pointing to a plastic banner. ‘A three-course meal for ten pounds.’
‘That ship has sailed, Richards. You were offered lunch, but declined. The next meal is dinner that your mother will have lovingly repaired . . .’
‘Don’t you mean prepared?’
‘Do I? Oh yes! So I do. A simple Freudian slip – nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Mum’s a good cook.’
‘She is. One of the best.’
‘But?’
‘But what?’
‘You’ve always loved mum’s cooking.’
‘I have.’
‘But?’
‘It’s that man at the gym.’
‘What man at the gym?’
‘He’s taken an unnatural interest in your mother.’
‘You mean your wife?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Mum wouldn’t cheat on you.’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘She has a
better pre-baby body than before she had Jack.’
‘She does look great, doesn’t she?’
‘Like a Greek goddess on steroids.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Health food.’
‘You mean healthy food?’
‘Isn’t it the same thing?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘My body isn’t designed for healthy food.’
‘Rubbish. You just want to eat kebabs, beefburgers, Chinese and Indian takeaways, and fish and chips all the time?’
He licked his lips. ‘Can you remember the last time we had a Chinese takeaway?’
‘It was a while ago.’
‘Your mother and I used to get a meal share and pig out.’
‘She’s looking after her body for you.’
‘I know. Call me selfish, but I’d sell my soul for a decent meal.’
‘Where does the man at the gym come into it?’
Parish clenched his right hand into a fist and pressed it to his open teeth like someone in pain. ‘He’s been giving her recipes for healthy food.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘We’ll see. You eat healthy food anyway, but I’m being starved from the inside out. I’m so weak I’d struggle to crush a grape.’
‘That’s normal for you.’
They entered the pub.
It was the grey area between lunch and dinner.
There was a group of mothers sitting down at a table with drinks and mobile phones who had screaming toddlers in the ball pit. Outside was a play area with climbing frames, ropes, swings and a tree house, but it was far too cold to let the children play outside. Instead, they were inside making any intelligent conversation between adults almost impossible.
‘Yes, Sir? Madam?’ the barmaid said. She had white dyed hair cut into a page-boy style, lashings of blue eye shadow, bright red lipstick and an impressive cleavage.
Parish showed his Warrant Card. ‘The Manager, please?’
‘Is that real?’
‘Does it not look real?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen a real one.’
‘You just have.’
‘So, it is real?’
‘Yes, it’s real.’
‘I’ll go and get the Manager then. You know he’s only three years old, don’t you?’
‘A child prodigy?’
‘Hardly, but I’ll get him anyway.’ She disappeared to the other end of the bar and ducked through a swing door.