Shadow of Death (9781476057248)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘So, the idea that the killer targets women who are menstruating is ridiculous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are two further options. First, he could pick up women in bars until he eventually finds one who is on a period and then kills her, but again that’s hit and miss. Also, how would he know they were on a period unless he asked them? The other option is that he picks a woman up, takes her somewhere and imprisons her until she begins menstruating and then kills her.’

  ‘At the worst he’d only have to wait a month.’

  ‘Exactly. So he must have somewhere he can take and imprison them for however long is necessary. Good, I think we’ve solved that riddle.’

  ‘Glad I could help.’

  ‘You have reached your destination,’ the female voice on his sat-nav said.

  He parked outside 12, Meridian Way in Stanstead St Margarets at three minutes to two.

  Chapter Ten

  Peter Tremain was in the Siberian spruce sauna. He had been there for thirty-five minutes and he thought that if he stayed another minute he would simply be a pool of slushy chemicals draining through the slats beneath his feet. Liquid leaked from every pore, and he had to keep checking that it wasn’t blood slithering down his face, arms and legs.

  Forty minutes the woman had said. Well, he imagined her to be a woman because she’d been wearing a tight-fitting dress, but she had the lumpy face and arms of a Russian weightlifter. He liked her immediately and wondered if she might offer the extra-special massage. She said her name was Porsche, which he knew derived from the Latin Porcius meaning pig, but he thought that to compare her to a pig was being unkind to pigs.

  When he’d arrived in the Wellness Centre, Porsche had seen his swimming shorts and nearly had an apoplectic fit.

  ‘Get them off, Herr Tremain.’ She pointed to a sign in German, which stated: Kleider sind in diesem Bereich nicht zulässig. ‘Can’t you read?’

  He shook his head and looked at his feet like a naughty schoolboy. His German was a bit rusty, to say the least.

  ‘It says that clothes are not permitted in this area. Did you not understand that when you read the brochure and booked your day in the Wellness Centre?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ he said, taking his shorts off with one hand while holding up the towel with the other to protect his modesty.

  Porsche held out a shovel-shaped hand.

  He passed his shorts to her, but the hand didn’t move. He looked at her.

  ‘You do not need a towel in the sauna.’

  Reluctantly, he gave her the towel.

  She laughed and opened the door to the sauna. ‘It was not worth covering up, Herr Tremain.’

  Six other people occupied the sauna when he skulked in, covering his shrivelled penis with both hands, and found a space on the wooden bench. There were two men and four women, and one of the men – about the same age as him – tried to leave, but Porsche barred the door.

  ‘You have another ten minutes yet, Herr Gottfried,’ she said and shut the door.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ Herr Gottfried mumbled under his breath. ‘It’s like being in a prison.’

  The others pulled faces and gave each other sideways glances. The second man appeared to be in his late twenties. He leaned back against the sauna wall as if he owned place, his penis resting on his leg like a sleeping snake.

  Three of the women were between fifty and seventy with pendulous breasts and rolls of excess fat, but the fourth was in her thirties and still had a half-decent figure. He tried not to look, but the more he tried, the more he looked, and the more he looked, the harder his penis became. He should have released the pressure in his testicles earlier when he’d had the chance. Now he was rooted to the seat with an unwanted erection, which was made much worse when Mr Gottfried and two of the older women were allowed to leave, but two younger women came in.

  He closed his eyes and thought of England, but his thoughts strayed to Heather Devine in her leather outfit, which made everything worse.

  Eventually, the door opened and Porsche called his name. He didn’t care that he still had a throbbing erection. He had to get out of there before he melted. He wafted the steam in front of him as he searched for the door.

  ‘Straight into the swimming pool, Herr Tremain.’

  He stopped at the pool’s edge, put his big toe into the ice-cold water, and was about to walk round and take a leisurely stroll down the steps when he felt a hand in the centre of his back give him a push.

  Oh God, he was going to die! He hit the water face-first and felt the cold radiate throughout his body. He’d never been a good swimmer, and he thrashed about trying to find his footing and the surface so that he could breathe. Then he felt someone’s hands grip his upper arm like a lifeline, and he burst out of the water gasping for air.

  ‘Are you a man or a mouse, Herr Tremain?’

  He didn’t know anymore. Porsche stood in the pool with him. She was naked, and he knew he wanted her. Her breasts were like hard round melons, she had a six-pack men would have died for and her thick thighs could have crushed cars.

  ‘Ten lengths of the pool, Herr Tremain,’ Porsche said, climbing out of the pool and standing on the side dripping water with her legs apart and her balled fists on her hips. ‘Then you will go into the steam-bath.’

  Pushing himself off, he began doing the breaststroke, but he felt self-conscious with his penis dangling free in the water. After the second length his arms felt like jelly. All he wanted to do was give up, maybe go to the bar for a whisky, relax and... Why couldn’t he? God, he was Head of Operations at MI6. He had fifty people under him that were located all over the world and could call on thousands of others. Why couldn’t he simply stop swimming, get out of the pool, demand his towel back and go to the bar?'

  ‘Two more lengths, Herr Tremain.’

  ‘Yes, Porsche.’

  She had dried herself and put the white dress back on. It looked like a dental assistant’s uniform with short sleeves, press-studs at the front, and it reached to just above her knees.

  He lay on the steps like a beached whale.

  ‘Come, Herr Tremain. Let us put you in the steam-bath now. You will have plenty of time to rest in there.’

  ‘How long is the steam-bath?’

  ‘One hour.’

  ‘That’s a long time.’

  ‘It will make a man of you. Come.’ She enclosed his upper arm in a vice-like grip and led him to the steam-bath room.

  He knew there was no escape, and he was beginning to enjoy the punishment. He realised that his erection had come back.

  ‘You’re a very naughty boy, Herr Tremain.’

  ‘Yes Porsche.’

  ***

  Parish pressed the intercom of 12, Meridian Way in Stanstead St Margarets.

  ‘Yes?’ a female voice asked.

  ‘Detective Inspector Parish, Miss Dobbins.’

  A buzzer sounded and the heavy security door clicked open. ‘Third floor,’ came over the intercom.

  Parish decided to walk up the stairs.

  ‘I’ll get the lift,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Okay.’

  As soon as he was out of sight he began to take the stairs two at a time. He grinned like a five year old as he reached the third floor and went through the fire door into the corridor. The lift hadn’t arrived yet, so he brought his breathing under control and nonchalantly leaned against the wall as if he’d been there for ages.

  ‘A child as well as a pig,’ Catherine said when she exited the lift seconds later.

  He smirked as he knocked on number twelve. He missed Richards; she would have known instantly it was a race, and they’d have had a laugh. Instead, he was lumbered with Misery Cox.

  Carole Dobbins was in her mid-twenties with long blonde hair pulled back from her face and held with two thin plaits. She wore a pair of tight jeans, a yellow-white-grey striped top halter-top held up by a thin collar that revealed grey bra straps, her upper back and a podgy midriff.
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br />   ‘Come in,’ she said, turning round and walking back into the flat. ‘I suppose I should look at some ID?’

  Parish showed her his warrant card. They sat on the low sofa.

  ‘Okay, what do you want?’

  ‘Can you tell us what happened the night you and Valerie Nichols went to the Statics Club – the 14th wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘I know you’ve probably described it a thousand times, but we’ve hit a wall so we’re re-questioning all the witnesses.’

  ‘Oh, okay, anything I can do to help. Do you want a coffee or something?’

  He didn’t really want another drink, but he knew that it helped break the ice and give witnesses time to relax and think about what they were going to say. ‘Please, milk and two sugars.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ Catherine said.

  Carole went through into the kitchen, but there was a hatch that she could still talk through.

  ‘Lovely flat,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Yeah, but since... Well, I can’t afford the rent on a staff nurse’s salary; I need a flat mate.’

  Parish nudged Catherine’s arm and cocked his head two or three times towards the hatch.

  ‘I’m not living in a dead girl’s flat,’ she whispered. ‘Stop trying to get rid of me.’

  His face adopted a hurt expression, and he wondered if he did lose his job in the not too distant future whether he could be a mime artist, and if the pay was any good.

  Carole Dobbins came back with his coffee and a plate of Hobnobs.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, helping himself to a Hobnob. ‘So, Saturday the 14th?’

  ‘We arrived about eight thirty, had a couple of drinks, danced with a few men, and one of them took a fancy to Val. She liked older men- said they more considerate, and safer. That’s ironic, isn’t it? A guy was chatting me up, and after an hour Val said she was leaving.’

  ‘You didn’t ask where?’

  ‘Didn’t need to; she gave me the thumb’s up.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Doesn’t take a genius to work out that she was going to get shagged.’

  ‘I thought I’d check. So, you had no idea where the man took her?’

  ‘No, but I did know she wasn’t coming back here, so I brought my guy back and got shagged as well.’

  ‘And she didn’t come home on the Sunday?’

  ‘I was on the late shift: started at two o’clock in the afternoon and finished at ten that night. When I got home she wasn’t in, but I thought she might have come back, changed her clothes, and gone out again. I just fell straight into bed and the next morning she wasn’t in again, but I was on the early shift so didn’t have much time. I figured she’d got lucky again, so didn’t give it much thought.’

  ‘But when you arrived home Monday afternoon, you began to get concerned?’

  ‘Yes. I tried ringing and texting her, but received no response. I had a couple of hours sleep, tried ringing and texting her again, but still nothing. That’s when I phoned the police.’

  ‘You didn’t ring or text her on the Saturday?’

  ‘No. I thought she’d message me when she got the chance, but between being completely knackered and working, I didn’t give it much thought. I was operating on autopilot most of that weekend.’

  ‘What made you contact the police on Monday evening?’

  ‘Well, for one I hadn’t seen her, and for two I hadn’t heard from her. I rang her work to see if she was in, but the receptionist said she hadn’t come in, and when they’d rung the flat they’d got no answer. Well, of course, I wasn’t here, and it seemed neither was Val. I waited a bit more, but I was getting worried, so I rang the police.’

  ‘You’re doing great, Carole,’ Parish reassured her. ‘Did Valerie have a computer?’

  ‘A laptop- it’s in her bedroom. She uses it mainly for work. That was another reason I was worried, because she carries it back and forward to work with her.’

  ‘Do you know if she used any of the social networking or dating sites?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. She was far too busy for online frivolity. She used it mainly for work.’

  ‘Would you mind if we had forensics check it out?’

  ‘You’ve come just in time. Her parents are coming on Friday to take all her stuff away.’ She got up, walked along the hallway- presumably to Valerie Nichols’ bedroom- and came back with a laptop in a briefcase.

  ‘Thanks. Do you know if she’d had any threats from stalkers, ex-boyfriends, or unhappy clients?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing that I know about. I had to drag her away from her work to go out with me on that night, so you see it’s my fault she’s dead.’ Tears burst from her eyes and she grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

  Catherine went and sat on the arm of Carole’s chair and comforted her. ‘It’s not your fault at all; you mustn’t think like that.’

  ‘One last question, Carole, and then we’ll leave you in peace. Is there anything that you’ve remembered since you were last interviewed?’

  She dabbed her eyes and brought herself under a semblance of control. ‘I think of nothing else but that night, wondering if there was some way I could have saved her...’

  Catherine squeezed Carole’s shoulder. ‘There was nothing you could have done. It’s always easy in hindsight to think you could have changed the outcome, but you couldn’t.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t stop myself.’

  ‘You should see your doctor.’

  ‘I’m a nurse- I know about these things, but it doesn’t help.’

  Parish stood up. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Carole...’

  ‘No wait- there’s something more I remembered from that night.’

  He sat back down on the edge of the sofa. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He has a friend called Marty. I remember him saying, “My friend Marty would like you.” And he smelled.’

  ‘What, body odour?’ Catherine said, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘No, it was something else, but for the life of me I just can’t put my finger on it. I will, I’ll remember it, but when I do I don’t even know if it’ll help you catch him.’

  Parish gave her his card, but wrote his mobile number on the back. ‘If it does come to you, ring me any time, day or night. It might be nothing, but it also might be the key that unlocks the door.’ He stood up again. ‘Thank you very much for seeing us, and I’m sorry we upset you again.’

  ‘That’s okay. I cry over anything lately.’ She let them out and shut the door.

  ‘Can we go shopping now?’

  ‘Is that all you care about?’

  He didn’t feel like running down the stairs, so he climbed in the lift with Catherine. He checked his watch. It was ten to three. They had loads of time, and he couldn’t see any way of getting out of going shopping. He hated shopping.

  ‘No, there’re lots of things I care about, but at the moment it’s shopping.’

  He shrugged. There didn’t seem any point in making an issue out of it. How did the killer having a friend called Marty help them? If he’d had access to the press he might have been able to ask for help from the public, but he couldn’t do that. God, he hated Marshall, and the Deputy Chief Constable – Heather Devine. How had Lathbury been able to persuade the DCC to help him destroy Parish’s career? Surely, using underhand methods to get rid of a DI was illegal? Maybe Lathbury had something on the DCC.

  The investigation was a bloody shambles, because he didn’t have full access to the gamut of police resources. Maybe he should take what he had to Hertford MIT and let them find the killer. The trouble was there were other people to consider. Toadstone would have to be dragged into it, and probably Kowalski and Ed. Angie and Richards would be affected.

  ‘Are you going to let me in?’

  ‘Oh sorry,’ he said, releasing the central locking. He slid the briefcase with the laptop in under the seat, and climbed behind the steering wheel.

  ‘Wha
t’s wrong?’

  ‘I was thinking whether I should hand the case to Hertford Police.’

  ‘That won’t help me; the killer still knows who I am.’

  ‘Well, I’ve decided not to anyway. There are too many people involved.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good job in there by the way.’

  She eyed him suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just being honest.’

  ***

  After a light lunch in the hotel bar, Stefan Grell returned to his room. He removed the little box of tricks from the secret compartment of his bag and selected one of the unnamed vials of drugs that would induce a heart attack.

  After drawing up fifty millilitres of the drug, he walked up the stairs to the third floor and let himself into Arthur Pocock’s room. The man wasn’t there, but what he did find was a booking form for the Wellness Centre.

  Yes, of course, Pocock would want an alibi for today just in case things went horribly wrong. Well, they had gone awry, but the circumstances of the disaster made an alibi unnecessary. He caught the lift down to the Wellness Centre in the basement.

  Opening the door of the centre, he made his way along the short corridor after making a mental note of the small map indicating the layout. He saw a sign saying no clothes to be worn beyond this point and hesitated – what now? He would be like a white rose in a field of red roses, but if he took his clothes off he would be vulnerable. He found the laundry room, slipped inside and removed his clothes, then helped himself to a towel to hide the syringe.

  The booking form stated that Pocock would be in the steam-bath at this time. He reached the second door and peered through one of the two panels of glass into the swimming pool. There was a large woman with a body a man would have been proud of in a white dress standing on the side of the pool with balled fists on her hips, and three old people were swimming. To his left he could see the small exercise area with cycles and weights, behind which was the sauna. To his right were three massage rooms.

  According to the map, the steam-bath was the first room on the left. He slipped through the door and sidled along the wall to the next door, which was labelled ‘Steam-bath’, if he was in any doubt. He opened the door and let himself in.