by Ellis, Tim
‘Oh, I’m sure he was; joined the Labour Party when he was knee high to a grasshopper, so they tell me. Yes, he must have been there and about when they were making the decision to give Britain to the French and the Germans.’
‘I don’t know why my Bert – God rest his soul – even bothered to fight in two world wars. What was the point, I ask you? No point at all – may as well have gave ‘em the keys to the front door in 1914, and been done with it.’
‘I’ve got this proper fresh liver and kidney today, Mrs Parsons. It’s a little over the quarter, and I’m doing myself a mischief by throwing in some heart, but you can have it on me. You’re one of my special customers and no two ways about it.’
‘You’re a true gentleman, Mr Shanks, and no mistakin’. Just like my Bert – God rest his soul. You should find yourself a good woman and have lots of children. The sign above the shop says Shanks & Son, but you ain’t got no son. Since your father died at Christmas – God rest his soul – you’re the Shanks, and now you need a son.’
Except it was all a fucking lie. He wasn’t Harry Shanks Junior of Harold Wood – never had been, and never would be. In his father’s papers he’d discovered the adoption file, but it didn’t say who he really was. He’d had to do some digging to get to the truth of that.
He passed Mrs Parsons’ meat over in a Shanks & Son plastic bag with the silhouette of a bull’s head on both sides. ‘I could never find anybody as beautiful as you, Mrs Parsons.’
Laughing, she flapped her free hand at him. ‘Get away with you, Harry Shanks,’ she said, and hobbled out of the shop with her walking stick in one hand and the carrier bag of fresh meat in the other.
‘Why do you do that, Mr S?’
‘Do what, Marty?
‘You know, encourage all the old fogies.’
‘It’s called customer relations. Didn’t they teach you about customer relations at college?’
‘Yeah, but not like that.’
‘Then take notice. Mrs Parsons will keep coming back. Do you know why?’
‘Because you gave her free meat?’
‘You need to read the chapter on customer relations again, Marty. She’ll keep coming back because she’s a lonely old woman. When she comes in here I talk to her and make her feel special. Have you ever been made to feel special, Marty?’
Marty squeezed one of the inflamed spots on his neck between thumb and forefinger. ‘No, I don’t reckon I have, Mr S.’
‘What have I told you about squeezing your pustules in the shop?’ Harry Shanks said, picking up the butcher’s axe he had used to chop up Valerie Nichols and Francis Wenham, and would soon be using on Louise Trenchard. He waved it in Marty’s face. ‘Go and wash your hands now, and stop shaving that bum fluff you call a beard, otherwise I’ll make you feel special with the closest shave you’ve ever had.’
Marty sniggered. ‘Yeah, okay Mr S.’
***
Stefan Grell exited the upper station. There were numerous other skiers standing alone, or in friendship or family groups. The Sawyers were huddled together to one side by a wall, putting on their equipment, conversing in low voices, and looking around furtively.
He moved further down the track, placed his skis on the snow, and clicked his boots into the bindings. It was a couple of degrees below freezing and underneath his ski jacket and trousers he had put on his thermals. He wore a beanie on his head, which he had pulled down over his ears. In the cable car on the way up he’d applied sun protection to his face and smeared cherry-flavoured lipscreen on his lips. He slipped his gloved hands through the wrist straps of the ski poles – he was ready.
The Sawyers shuffled past him towards the beginning of the run. There were many other skiers taking photographs or videos, correcting ill-fitting clothing and equipment, or launching themselves over the top of the run like lemmings. He waited until the Sawyers had pushed off, then followed them over the flat. To his right was a small hillock, and to his left guideposts leading him towards the top of the slope. The sky was a clear blue, and the bright morning sun ricocheted off the snow and hurt his eyes. He pulled down his tinted goggles, pushed off and tucked his ski poles under his arms.
His heart rate began to quicken and he felt the freezing wind on his cheeks. It had been over a year since he’d been skiing, but the rush of adrenaline was familiar – like an old friend come to visit for a spell.
The sun was behind him now, creating an elongated shadow in front of him. To his left was the mountain range. He swerved to avoid a snowboarder who had come to a halt – stupid idiot. Who allowed idiots on snowboards on a downhill ski run?
The Sawyers were about a hundred metres in front of him. Skiers from the Weissfluhjoch joined the main run – it was busy. He could see the cable cars high above, chugging inexorably towards the upper station. Pylons were located at one hundred metre intervals to hold up the cable.
He kept to the centre of the run, followed the furrows created in the fresh snowfall by those who had gone before. His elongated shadow – like a yeti – led the way.
His breathing was heavy now, the freezing air hurting his lungs, but he kept the Sawyers in sight. At sixty-five, maybe he was too old for all this exercise. He had in mind a Meerschaum filled with whisky shag, a pair of Haflinger boiled wool slippers, a Schaukelstuhl on which the springs creaked when it rocked, and a German Shepherd to keep him company in his dotage.
The red marker poles whizzed past in the periphery of his vision. He slowed as he eased up a slight incline and onto a flat, and then he was speeding downhill again. The cable run moved from his right to his left as he sped between two pylons. He looked up briefly and saw eager faces pressed against the glass of the cable car windows anticipating their own descent.
He zigzagged to increase his speed. A small, oblong, wooden hut flew past to his right, and a round one on his left. Ahead of him, in the distance, the mountain peaks were shrouded in white clouds. He moved into shadow as the sun dipped behind the Rhinerhorn.
A smattering of conifers, bushes and scrub poking through the white began to appear. Gradually, the trees became more numerous until there was forest on either side of him.
He kept skiing, but he couldn’t see the Sawyers in front of him. His stomach tightened. To his left, camouflaged by trees, was a sheer drop. He knew the Sawyers weren’t there, but he could imagine it would be the ideal place for the Miller-Giffords to have an accident. To his right was the forest proper – he pulled off the track and glided deep into the trees.
He checked his watch. It was ten past ten, and he knew he didn’t have much time. He had to find the British agents and take care of them quickly. Taking a mental note of his location, he removed his skis, poles, rucksack and left them there. Shifting the safety catch of the silenced Glock to the off position, he slowly began to move through the conifers.
***
The waiter came up with the menus and spoke in a laughable French accent when he asked them what they’d like to drink. Parish thought that maybe he’d been using episodes of ‘Allo ‘Allo to practise.
‘I can’t eat,’ Catherine said.
He touched her forearm. ‘You have to eat something.’
‘Stop being nice to me. One minute you’re a pig, the next you’re being nice and touching me.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I’m really a pig in wolf’s clothing.’
She laughed. ‘I can’t go home.’
‘I know. I’ve been giving some thought to that. What about friends or family?’
‘The police would find me, and I couldn’t put my mum at risk.’
‘No. Well, maybe...’ He was thinking about Kowalski or Ed, but they had children. ‘Toadstone’s a possibility.’
He rang him.
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘Can you put Catherine up for a couple of days?’
‘I only have a bed-sit; there’s no privacy. It just wouldn’t work.’
‘You didn’t give that much thought.’
‘I�
��m used to living on my own. I couldn’t possibly share my flat with a woman.’
‘Okay, it was just a thought. Any news?’
‘I phoned Terri Royston, and the message on her phone said she would be away giving a lecture in Sunderland until late Friday.’
‘Bloody woman. We should arrest her for wasting police time, impeding a police investigation, withholding evidence, perverting the course of justice, or... We could break into her house and find the damned reports ourselves.’
‘Not me, Sir. I’m already having trouble eating and sleeping. I’ve gone as far as I can into the dark side, now all I want to do is get back into the light.’
‘Stop worrying, Toadstone. I wouldn’t really break into her house.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
‘Thanks anyway, and I’ll see you later.’
He ended the call as the waiter returned with their drinks.
‘Are you ready to order, Monsieur?’
‘Catherine?’
‘I’ll just have the champignon portabella aux quatre fromages, please.’
His brow furrowed. ‘You didn’t tell me you spoke French.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
He was glad that they’d written the English translations underneath each of the French courses. ‘I’ll have the steak, please.’
‘How would you like your steak, Monsieur?’
‘Medium rare.’
After the waiter had left, she said, ‘So, you’re trying to palm me off on other people?’
‘What would you rather I do- take you back to your flat?’
‘It’s your fault that I can’t go home, that the police are after me, that a psychopath could murder me any minute. You should take responsibility for me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could stay at your house.’
He laughed. ‘With Richards, I don’t think so.’
But what choice did he have? Toadstone had been his only credible option. He hadn’t even thought about Catherine staying at his house. And he’d promised Angie that he wouldn’t bring his work home. Yet here he was, running an illegal investigation into multiple murders from the back room, and maybe putting up a potential victim of a deranged killer in the spare room – Christ, what a bloody mess. If he’d still been at work he could have arranged a police guard, or a safe house, or locked her in the cells for the night, but none of those options were open to him. He racked his brain for an alternative, but no light shone in the dark recesses of his mind.
***
It took him twenty minutes to find the two British agents. The sweat ran in rivulets down his back, and his breathing came in short painful gasps. He watched them from behind a tree. They were looking up the track for any sign of the Miller-Giffords, oblivious to any danger behind them. He knew he didn’t have long.
He walked out into the open. At first they didn’t see him because he was behind them.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
They turned to look at him, a mixture of surprise and confusion etched on their faces. He shot first one, then the other – it was that simple. Two lives extinguished in as many seconds.
The sound of shouting and laughter came from the track. He looked up and saw the Miller-Gifford family glide by.
He relaxed, put the gun back in his jacket and began creating shallow graves for the two corpses in the snow. He wasn’t bothered that a lynx, chamois, or ibex might dig them up. There was no connection to him. His only concern was that the bodies should remain hidden until he had disposed of Arthur Pocock. What he didn’t want was for the British to have time to send someone else to do the job properly.
Once the bodies were buried, he tramped down the snow and then sprinkled fresh snowfall over the top of the graves. Soon it was as if no one had ever been there.
He made his way back to his rucksack and equipment. Before setting off again, he removed the stainless steel flask from his rucksack and poured himself a coffee – he deserved it.
Once he had re-fitted his skis he waited until there was a gap in the people and then rejoined the Weissfluhgipfel. He was in the forest for some time, but eventually he burst out of the trees into bright sunshine, and he could see the town below. A red train went past overhead as he skied under a bridge, and he had to take evasive action as he nearly collided with a skier who had fallen in a tangle of skis and poles.
Then he was in the midst of civilisation again – a plethora of people laughing and joking after their shared adventure – houses, hotels, cars, and a million other taken-for-granted things. He removed his skis, threw them over his shoulder with the poles, and headed towards the bahnhof – he had one more thing to take care of before he could ring Paula and tell her the favour had been fulfilled.
***
‘Hello, darling.’
‘Why are you ringing me at this time of the day and calling me “darling”? What do you want?’
Catherine was sitting in the car. He was pacing the car park with his Blackberry pressed to his ear. His stomach felt as tight as a Gordian knot, and pacing was a habit he’d picked up as a nervous teenager in foster care.
‘What makes you think I want anything? I could simply have rung to say I love you.’
‘You’re so transparent, Jed Parish.’
‘Can you make up the spare room?’
‘Who for?’
He swallowed. ‘Catherine.’
There was a long silence, then: ‘You’d better have a damned good reason for bringing your trollop here.’
He gave a nervous laugh. ‘You know she’s not my trollop, Angie. She has nowhere else to go.’
‘Aren’t there some brothels in Romford?’
‘I’m seeing a different side to you, Angela Richards.’
‘Don’t you Angela Richards me, Jed Parish. So...?’
He told her about trying to do the right thing, the news item on page five, Hertford Police, and the phone call from the killer to the Chigwell Herald. ‘So, you see, it’s my fault she can’t go home.’
‘Until Monday morning, then she’s out on her ear. God knows what Mary’s going to say. You can tell her.’
‘Me? I thought...’
‘Well, you thought wrong.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you...’ but he was talking into a dead phone. What other choice did he have? He hated falling out with Angie. He took the bit between the teeth and phoned Richards.
‘Twice in one day, Sir?’
‘We have a problem.’
‘Oh?’
He told her what he’d told Angie about doing the right thing, and how Catherine had nowhere to stay.
‘You’re not going to suggest what I think you’re going to suggest, are you?’
‘It’s only until Monday, and then she’ll be gone.’
The phone went dead again.
This was not turning into a good day. He climbed in the car and keyed Carole Dobbins’ address into the sat-nav.
‘Well?’
‘You can stay until Monday, and then you have to leave.’
‘I hope you’ve caught him by then.’
So did he. Hopefully, the Chief Constable would be back behind his desk, realise what had happened, wave his magic truncheon, and abracadabra – all would be right with the world! DCC Hilary Devine and DCI Marshall would be sharing a torture chamber beneath Police Force HQ; Sir Charles Lathbury – or whatever his name was – would have revealed everything he knew about Jed Parish – or whatever his name was; the trunk killer would be rotting in a cell, and Hoddesdon MIT would be as it was when Chief Day ran things.
He left the car park and followed the signs for Amwell, beyond which was Stanstead St Margarets, until he joined the A1170 – London Road.
‘I’ll need some things if I can’t go home.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, it’s not as if I’ve brought an overnight bag with me is it? We’re seeing Carole Dobbins at two, but then your appointment with the manager of the Statics Club isn’t until
six o’clock. I was thinking that we could go back to Ware and do some shopping in-between, and I could pick up the things I need.’
‘I won’t be coming; I hate shopping.’
‘Two things: first, you’re meant to be protecting me, and what if the killer is following me?’
‘I hardly think...’
‘And second, you’ve got the money.’
‘Me? Haven’t you...?’
‘If I had I wouldn’t be asking. Journalists aren’t paid as much as detective Inspectors. Think of it as an investment. And anyway, it’s your fault I can’t go home, so you should pay.’
Was anything going to go right today? ‘I don’t have a choice then, do I? But you’re not to say anything to Angie or Mary about me buying you things.’
‘I won’t say a word, and I doubt we’ll be having cosy chats anyway.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
Maybe he could claim it all back once he’d been reinstated, hand the new Chief a slack handful of claims for expenditure incurred during his illegal investigation.
‘You’re to give me all the receipts.’
‘Yes, you should be able to claim the expenditure back if you have a job at the end of all this.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. What exactly are you buying?’
‘Toiletries...’
His face lit up. ‘Of course! Where do you buy your tampons from?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Richards said, “How does he know they’re menstruating?” Well one way would be if he worked in a chemist, or a supermarket.’
‘That’s a bit hit and miss.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t buy them from the same place all the time. Also, I buy them when I’m running low, and that’s not necessarily when I’m on a period. And this is not a conversation I’m comfortable with.’
‘Stop being a prude. How else would a killer know you were on your period?’
‘Well, he wouldn’t. Being on a period is not something women talk about. They’ll discuss it with other women, but not with men.’