by Tim Ellis
Net curtains were moving in the windows of houses across the road.
A group of children were sitting on the brick wall of a house diagonally opposite. A woman sitting on the wall with them was chain-smoking as if it was a Saturday matinee at the local cinema.
Eventually, Sergeant Webb signalled them to approach the house. ‘All clear, Ma’am.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant Webb. Hang about for a couple of minutes while we take a quick look.’
‘Of course.’
Xena and Stick entered once the members of the ARU had left the house. They went from room to room, had a look in the back garden, the shed and the garage, but there was nothing of interest.
‘He’s not here, is he?’ Stick said.
‘Are you sure? He might be hiding in one of the kitchen cupboards.’
Stick’s eyes opened wide. ‘Or somewhere else.’ He went outside and spoke to Sergeant Webb.
Two of the ARU took a ladder off the wall in the garage, carried it inside and up the stairs, dislodged the wooden panel in the loft in the ceiling on the landing, and pushed the ladder through the access hole.
‘Good thinking, Stickman,’ Xena said.
The man sent up into the loft eventually reappeared and stuck his head back out through the access hole. ‘All Clear’, he shouted, although there wasn’t really any need to shout.
‘Oh well!’ Stick said, shrugging.
Xena’s phone vibrated.
‘Blake?’
‘It’s me, Ma . . . Inspector.’
‘You’d better have some good news for me, Pecker.’
‘We’ve found Martin Boyd.’
‘Shit! Aren’t you lounging about in Forensics?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. So why are you calling me, and not the person at the farm who found him?’
‘I told them to call me.’
‘Why?’
‘So I could call you.’
‘Are you going back to the farm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gilbert and I will meet you there.’
‘Okay.’
‘Pecker?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did Boyd shoot himself?’
‘Not unless he hid the shotgun somewhere we can’t find it afterwards, and then buried himself.’
She ended the call.
‘They’ve found Martin Boyd on the farm, Stick.’
‘That’s not good.’
‘He didn’t kill himself either. Somebody else shot him and buried him, and the shotgun is still missing.’
‘He was our main suspect.’
‘He was our only suspect.’
‘What now?’
‘Now, you’re going to drive us to Hilltop Farm and put your foot down to the floor.’
‘What about pastries?’
‘You can stop to buy me pastries. I think I need some comfort food around about now.’
***
Well, after his visit to see Lester Belmont in Redbridge he was none the wiser about where the man’s wife had disappeared to. Lester had told a white lie to his son to stop Harry asking awkward questions he couldn’t answer. He might have done the same thing if he’d been in Lester’s shoes.
As for Lester Belmont – the less said about him the better. How could a man keep three women happy? Well, two at least. His second wife – Paige Belmont – clearly wasn’t happy. He might have understood it if Lester had been a young stud with plenty of get-up-and-go, but he wasn’t. He was a middle-aged man on the slippery slope to old age – not unlike himself. And if nothing else, Kowalski knew for certain that two women would kill him, never mind three. So, he wasn’t optimistic about Lester Belmont’s chances of a long and happy life.
Is that what had happened? Had Paige found out about Lester’s indiscretions and decided that enough was enough? It didn’t make sense though. She would have taken great delight – if that was the right word to use under the circumstances – in telling Lester exactly what she thought of him, and dragging him through the divorce courts to strip him of anything that he might have had that was considered valuable. From what he knew about Paige Belmont, she didn’t appear to be a woman that would take betrayal lightly. She’d want payback, revenge, and the full eight pints of blood to drink.
His phone vibrated.
‘Kowalski.’
‘It’s Harry, Mr Kowalski. I haven’t got a lot of time – I’m between double History and Modern Foreign Languages.’
‘I can listen fast if you can talk fast.’
‘Yeah, right! Well, I had a search of the house before my dad got home yesterday, and found my mum’s passport, birth certificate and their wedding certificate. She wouldn’t have left without those, would she?’
‘Here’s what I’ve discovered so far, Harry: Your dad’s telling the truth when he said he had nothing to do with your mum’s disappearance – his alibi checks out.’ He wondered whether to tell Harry about Riley and the twins, but decided not to. ‘Your mum went to work last Thursday. She kept her morning appointments, but disappeared around one o’clock. Before disappearing though, she sent an email to [email protected]. Do you know anyone called Lucy Brown?’
‘No.’
‘The email said that she’d meet Lucy at the usual time and place. She then received a phone text back at twenty to one confirming the meeting, so I think she left of her own free will.’
‘Not with a man though?’
‘I don’t know. Lucy could just as easily be a man, but to deflect any suspicion your mother used a woman’s name.’
‘Or my mum could have run away with another woman?’
‘That’s also possible.’
‘Did my dad know any of this?’
‘No.’
‘Why did he say she’d left him for another man?’
‘It seemed the most likely explanation for why she’d left.’
‘I suppose, but it still doesn’t explain why she left without saying goodbye to me, and without her documents.’
‘No, it doesn’t. But, I haven’t finished investigating yet. We still haven’t found your mother’s car, and there’s some confusion about her parents as well. I’ll know more when I’ve spoken to my partner. Give me a call when you’re free after school, I should know a bit more by then.’
‘Okay . . .’
He heard Harry talking to someone else.
‘Got to go, Mr Kowalski. Call you later.’
The line went dead.
He phoned Bronwyn.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
He hadn’t thought his answer through, so he had to ad lib. ‘I’m sitting on a camel at the Kebd Racing Club in Kuwait. We’re just about to set off, so if my voice sounds a bit up and down – you know why.’
‘Do you think you’ll win?’
‘It’s a strong field, but Bronwyn has a good chance.’
‘Your camel’s called Bronwyn?’
‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a strong resemblance to someone I know. Call me a sentimental old fool, but I couldn’t resist it. Anyway, do you want to have lunch in the camel enclosure after the race?’
‘You’re paying.’
‘Of course, I like to keep my camels well-fed.’
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve, Kowalski.’
‘The Horseshoe on Hainault Road in thirty minutes.’
The phone went dead.
It took him ten minutes to reach the pub. There was a regular at the bar nursing a pint of beer and a middle-aged couple holding hands and whispering in a corner. He sat in a leather easy chair by the open fire nursing half a lager shandy and thought about Paige Belmont. He could understand her leaving Lester, but not Harry. If she’d had time to go back and collect all her clothes and possessions, why had she not taken her passport and birth certificate with her? If she was planning to walk away from the accountancy firm, why hadn’t she told her partner – Jenny Bates?
‘Have y
ou ordered your food yet?’ Bronwyn said, sitting down opposite him with a pint of beer.
‘No, I was waiting for you.’
‘Well, I’m here now, so let’s order before I begin to look like that camel you’re sleeping with.’
The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘I’m sure Jerry would appreciate being called a camel.’
‘If the harness fits . . .’
Bronwyn had her usual burger, chips and coleslaw. He ordered the lasagne with garlic bread.
‘So, any news?’ he said.
She took her laptop out of the rucksack she’d brought with her, put it on the table between them and said, ‘Traffic CCTV from last Thursday – watch.’
He watched a new black Mercedes SLC 200 with the personalised number plate: M100 PNB pull up outside a house . . . ‘Is that the Belmont’s home address?’
‘Yes.’
Paige Belmont got out of her car and went inside the house.
‘That was at twenty-past one last Thursday. She was inside for thirty minutes and then made four trips to load up the car with her possessions.’ Bronwyn put the video on fast-forward and stopped it when Paige came back out of the house for the last time.
‘Okay.’ He watched Paige lock the front door, climb into her car and drive away. ‘At least we now have concrete proof that she left of her own free will.’
‘For a detective you’re not very observant.’
‘Oh?’
Bronwyn moved her laptop out of the way.
The waitress brought their food, put the plates on the table in front of them, then made another trip to the bar and returned with a contraption similar to a joiner’s toolbox containing condiments, paper napkins, cutlery, sauces and toothpicks, and placed that on the table as well. ‘Enjoy,’ she said, and hurried away as the bar was beginning to fill up.
‘We got here just in time,’ Kowalski said.
‘Why? Do you think they’re running out of burgers?’
‘You never know. So, what have I missed?’
She clicked on play and turned her laptop screen towards him. ‘Watch.’
He watched as Paige Belmont drove away. There was nothing for about fifteen seconds, and then a black Mercedes CLS appeared in the picture. ‘She’s being followed?’
‘Yes.’
The number plate could be seen clearly: DE16 OCV. ‘Have you checked it out?’
‘Unlike you, I know how to conduct an investigation. I leave no stone unturned, explore every avenue, go to the ends of the earth . . .’
‘I get the idea . . . And?’
‘It belongs to a man called Tómas Cipriano Castillo. Apparently, he’s a Colombian.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Not while I’m eating thanks. Maybe later.’
‘Well?’
‘There’s not much information about him. He’s a Colombian businessman who’s on the Board of Directors at the Colombian Chamber of Commerce in Ecclestone Place, London.’
‘What in God’s name is a Colombian businessman doing following an accountant from Ilford in Essex?’
‘I’ve looked, but I can’t find any connection between the two of them.’
‘What about travel to Colombia?’
‘No. The Belmont’s last holiday was two years ago for ten days in Costa Almeria, Spain. She hasn’t used her passport since.’
‘Harry phoned me.’ He tapped the screen of Bronwyn’s laptop. ‘Apparently, she didn’t take her birth certificate or passport with her.’
‘Do you mind not mauling my expensive laptop.’
‘It could hardly be called computer abuse.’
‘She was in the house long enough to get everything. Have you considered that she left them on purpose? Maybe she didn’t need them anymore.’
‘What did you find out about her background?’
‘Nothing. As I suspected, everything before August 2000 is made up. I burrowed into the online register for Births, Marriages and Deaths. There was one Paige Singer who was born on March 18, 1977, but died at the age of five from meningitis. The parents are not Arthur and Caroline on the birth and death certificates though, they’re Edward and Pauline. However, I’m not surprised by that, because Edward and Pauline are still alive and living in East Sussex. Whoever brought Paige Singer back to life would have needed to fabricate and kill off her parents, so that the real parents of Paige Belmont couldn’t be questioned.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve come across someone using a dead person’s identity,’ he said.
‘Nor me.’
‘Does the identity you’re using belong to a dead person?’
‘Don’t know. You don’t ask questions like that when you want a new identity – you can’t pick ‘n’ mix. As they say: Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘So, where do we go from here?’
‘Back to the office.’
‘With the case? Presumably, Paige Belmont – or whatever her name is – works for the government?’
‘That certainly seems possible.’
‘We don’t know what she’s working on.’
‘We don’t.’
‘If she’s undercover we might compromise the operation, her identity, or at the very least – get her killed.’
‘We might.’
‘So we should back-off.’
‘We should.’
‘You sound non-committal. The last time we spoke you wanted me to drop the case like a hot potato because it wasn’t generating any income.’
‘I know, but now I’m vaguely interested in finding out what Paige Belmont is up to.’
‘Not only could we get her killed, but I might get killed as well.’
‘A small price to pay for the truth.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘Yes, but it’s a camel’s heart.’
‘That’s true.’
‘I have one more thing to show you.’
‘Oh?’
She pressed “Play” on the CCTV recording again.
He hadn’t noticed that there was still a further three minutes left to run. Nothing of any interest happened for twenty seconds, then a black and silver Range Rover appeared. Again, the number plate was clearly visible: AG59 GBH.
‘That particular vehicle belongs to MI5,’ Bronwyn said, finishing off her pint of beer.
‘So, we have a woman who’s been masquerading as a wife, mother and an accountant for sixteen years with a false identity, being followed by a Colombian businessman, who in turn is being followed by MI5 agents?’
‘It’s like a movie, isn’t it?’
‘I can see why you might be vaguely interested now.’
***
After lunch, in a café run by an Italian who fell in love with Jerry and wanted her to fly away with him to live on a vineyard and tread grapes in the Tuscany hills, they caught a taxi back to Balham station.
‘I thought you were going to accept Nico’s offer for a minute then, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said.
‘I definitely was tempted.’
Joe shook his head. ‘No, you weren’t. Mr K’s the man for you.’
‘They say that variety is the spice of life.’
Shakin’ laughed. ‘I’m a great believer in spice, Mrs K.’
‘They also say that there’s a fine line between love and hate,’ Joe said. ‘If we’d have let you run away with Nico, Mr K’s love for us would quickly have turned to hate. Shakin’ and me would have died horrible and painful deaths.’
‘There is that,’ Shakin’ said.
At Balham station they stayed on the Northern Line and caught the train direct to Kentish Town. The journey took forty minutes, but at least there were plenty of vacant seats. Outside the train station they caught a taxi the short distance down Kentish Town Road and hung a right into Holmes Road to the police station at Number 27.
The three-storey building was a purpose-built Victorian police station with Georgian sash windows, arched doorways and thick wooden doors. There was also a pre-wa
r blue police light suspended over the main door between two wrought-iron curved posts.
‘I love old buildings like this,’ Joe said.
Shakin’ screwed up his face. ‘What for?’
‘They’re old. I mean, look at this place. It’s still the same as when it was built a hundred years ago. Buildings today are rubbish. They last a couple of years and then they fall down.’
‘You should be doing the architectural degree, Joe,’ Jerry said.
‘I know. If I was an architect I’d design buildings like this.’
They walked up the steps and in through the internal wood and glass swing doors.
‘How can I be of service?’ the civilian support officer asked Jerry.
‘Would it be possible to see DI Lucy Tripp?’
‘Can I ask what it’s concerning?’
‘Tell her it’s about Helen Veldkamp, she’ll understand.’
‘Please, take a seat. I’ll see if she’s available.’
Jerry sat down on a wooden bench and checked her phone messages.
Joe and Shakin’ wandered around the room comparing their own looks against the men on the wanted posters, making derogatory comments about the police advice notices and role-playing adverts for the local events.
Within five minutes a door opened and an attractive woman in her early forties with long brown hair, pencil-thin eyebrows and a dimple in her chin appeared. She was wearing a pair of black slacks, a baggy mustard-coloured jumper which didn’t obscure the fact that she had a slim athletic figure, and her Warrant Card on a green cord around her neck.
‘Helen Veldkamp is a name I haven’t heard for a long time,’ she said to Jerry.
Shakin’ and Joe came up grinning like fools.
‘Hi! I’m Jerry Kowalski, and these two are Richard Stevens and Joe Larkin. We’re law students at Kings College, and we’ve been tasked to write a course paper discussing the legal issues, problems and implications of Emily Hobson’s murder, and citing relevant case law should the murderer be caught and prosecuted today.’
‘I see you’re not wearing a wedding ring,’ Shakin’ said. ‘Would you like . . .?’
‘Shakin’!’ Jerry stopped him mid-request.
‘I’m gay, so no I wouldn’t like.’ DI Tripp said to him, and then turned back to Jerry. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to offer these two spotty students as moving targets for our firing range. So, should we get to the point of your visit. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Metropolitan Police Service only has one Detective Inspector and you’re looking at her.’