by Ellis, Tim
‘I want a superior room?’
‘Of course you do.’
‘And have you seen what’s included?’
‘I’m sure they poke you and prod you, and make you feel wonderful. Has your mother told you we’re coming as well?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, I see she hasn’t.’
‘And I was hoping...’
‘...To meet a man?’
‘Well...’
‘It’s a good job we are coming then, or you’d be returning with a broken heart again.’
‘But...’
‘Anyway, I didn’t get up in the middle of the night to talk about health spa and your disastrous love life.’
‘Why did you get up?’
‘I had a phone call.’
‘At this time of the morning?’
‘Ask me who from.’
‘Who from?’
‘Carole Dobbins.’
Sitting back on her heels, she clapped her hands and said, ‘She remembered what the killer smelled of?’
‘Yes she did.’
‘I love this part of an investigation. You know, when we find the pieces and they begin to fit together.’
‘You say that every time.’
‘I know. So, are you going to tell me?’
‘Do you want me to tell you?’
She hit him on the leg. ‘It’s too early to be mean to me.’
‘Meat.’
‘Oh my God, Sir, he’s a butcher or something, isn’t he?’ She began checking the board and writing on the flipchart. ‘He uses a butcher’s axe to chop them up, and draws a bull’s head silhouette on all of his bank notes. I wonder if he simply draws the silhouette – you know – like doodling, or if it actually means something?’
‘Well...’
‘Sshhh, I’m thinking. And he smells like a meat worker. If he carries the smell about with him, even after he’s probably had a shower and used aftershave, he’s obviously been doing the job a long time: a meat processing factory, a butcher’s shop, or a slaughterhouse.’
‘That’s still a lot of places.’
‘I know. He’s got a friend called Marty.’
‘That could be at work, or more likely outside work.’
‘We could include it in the information we put in the Chigwell Herald. Someone is bound to recognise him now. God, I wish it was Saturday, and someone had phoned in telling us who and where he is.’
Parish finished his coffee. ‘I’m going back to bed; you should as well.’
‘In a minute, I just want to see if we’ve missed anything.’
‘Don’t be long, or you’ll look like a zombie tomorrow.’
‘I won’t, and it’s already tomorrow.’
He trudged upstairs in the dark. Digby was curled up in the space he’d vacated. He didn’t have the heart to kick him out, and manoeuvred himself so that the dog was in the crook of his legs. Angie had her back to him, and they were like two abutting jigsaw pieces. He put his hand on her belly – on the child growing inside her – and drifted off to sleep again.
What the hell was he doing? He had joined the criminal fraternity. The Chief Constable would throw the book at him – which book? Was the Police & Criminal Evidence Act (PACE) still a book? Maybe it was a CD now, or a website or a series of sound-bites delivered to your mobile phone. Yes, he’d probably spend the rest of his natural life in prison. They’d re-open Alcatraz just for him. Could he attract birds to his window like Burt Lancaster? His son would grow up without him, only knowing that he’d once had a father who tried to do the right thing. Maybe Angie would engrave that on his tombstone: The fool tried to do the right thing. Would the Chief Constable...
***
Disorientated, he sat up in bed.
‘Have you seen the time?’
‘It’s early, go back to sleep,’ Angie mumbled. ‘Oh, God!’ She jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom holding her hand up to her mouth.
He kicked Digby out from under the quilt. The dog’s beard was all squashed up and he still had sleep in his eyes.
‘I’m two hours late getting up, Digby.’
He put his dressing gown on and went down stairs. Why hadn’t Richards woken him up? He stuck his head in the backroom; Richards was sprawled out on the floor like a murder victim surrounded by flipchart paper and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He knew it was no good shouting her, so he walked into the room, crouched down, and shook her.
‘Richards?’
‘Go away.’
‘You’re sleeping on the floor.’
Opening her eyes, she jerked her head up. ‘Ow! My neck hurts.’
‘Sleeping on the floor will do that.’
‘Are you a sleep consultant now?’
‘It’s five to eight- time to get up.’
Digby licked her face.
‘I feel like a warmed-up corpse, and Digby’s smelly breath isn’t helping.’
‘You should have gone back to bed like you said you were going to. Now you look like a zombie.’
‘I don’t know how I’ve survived all these years without you, Sir.’
‘Nor me,’ he stood up. ‘You have the carpet pattern imprinted on the side of your face and an hour to get ready, so get your arse moving.’
‘I wouldn’t employ you as a wake-up call.’
Catherine was already up, showered and dressed, and sitting at the breakfast table with toast and a cup of tea.
‘Are they doing a re-make of Land of the Dead?’
‘I was up at three thirty.’
‘Oh, not another body?’
‘Carole Dobbins.’
‘The smell came to her?’
‘Meat.’
‘Makes sense. I’ve been thinking he’s probably a butcher or something like that.’
He filled the kettle and flicked the switch, so that the light came on and illuminated the water blue. ‘Oh?’
‘Well, I don’t think there are many people who could hack parts off a human being with an axe. I know I couldn’t do it, and I don’t think you could, and Richards couldn’t, and...’
‘I get the picture.’
‘Has Mary told you about Ragdale Hall?’
‘Yes. Angie and I are coming as well.’
She pulled a face. ‘That should be fun.’
He put two pieces of brown wholemeal bread in the toaster and shrugged. ‘Preparation for the wedding, apparently.’ He hated brown bread, but Angie wouldn’t buy white.
‘I phoned Gary last night. He’s willing to run the front page special tomorrow, but needs the photographs by five o’clock tonight at the latest.’
‘Toadstone will come through.’
‘And... We’re seeing Martin Collindale from the Genealogical Society at eleven thirty.’
‘You’ve got a postcode?’
‘I only have to be told once. I’m a fast learner.’
‘Good.’
***
He was just about to climb into the car when his mobile rang.
‘Parish.’
‘You need to be here by ten o’clock so that we can go through your defence,’ Michael Myers said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Tell me you got the voicemail I sent you yesterday about the disciplinary hearing at eleven today?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve got the letter from the Head of Human Resources?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It matters not. You still need to be here by ten.’
‘But...’
‘Unless, of course, you’re happy to join the million plus jobless souls wandering around aimlessly looking for handouts from honest hard working...’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Good, I’ll see you then.’
He stuck his head through the driver’s door. ‘I’ve got to go to the station.’
‘Are we coming?’ Richards said.
‘You can’t come; you’re meant to be sick.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You really mean it?’ Richards said, and grinned.
‘Its not as if it’s dangerous, or you’re going to get yourselves into trouble, is it?’
‘No, you can trust me, Sir.’
‘I hope so, Richards. You’re to do exactly those two things and meet me in the King George Hospital car park at one o’clock, and then we’ll decide where to go for lunch.’
‘What about the cafeteria?’ Catherine said.
‘No, we don’t go in there since Doc Michelin died. That’s where we used to meet him. It brings back too many memories, doesn’t it, Sir?’
‘Yes, we’ll find somewhere else in Goodmayes. And remember, you’re not to deviate from the plan. If there’s even a hint of deviation, you’re to phone me – Is that clear?’
‘Clear. It’s clear, isn’t it, Catherine?’
‘It’s clear.’
‘Good. You can get in your own car now, Richards.’
She laughed. ‘Oh yes.’
They climbed out of his car and headed towards the hire car parked on the road.
‘See you at one, Sir.’
‘And don’t be...’
‘...late. Yes, I know.’ To Catherine, she said, ‘He gets really grumpy when anyone’s late.’
‘I heard that.’
Chapter Seventeen
Richards keyed the Bumble’s Green landfill postcode into the built-in satnav.
‘You like him a lot, don’t you?’
‘I love him. Not in that way, but as a dad. He’s the best.’
‘I wish I’d met him first.’
‘If you had, then I probably wouldn’t have, so I’m glad you didn’t.’
‘It’s all right- I won’t chase him anymore, but if he falls out with your mum, I’ll be waiting.’
‘You’ll have a long wait. If I was you, I’d find someone else and settle down.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Chalk him up as the one who got away.'
‘You know they’re coming with us to Ragdale Hall?’
‘Yes, he told me earlier.’
‘You’re not bothered?’
‘Why should I be? Your mum’s pregnant and piling on the weight; I’ll be nearly naked most of the time while we’re there. He’ll be able to see what he’s turned down.’
‘I thought you weren’t chasing him anymore?’
‘I’m not, but I can’t help it if he’s a man with needs and I’m a woman with a body to die for.’
‘My mum was right- you’re a scheming cow.’
They both laughed.
‘I’m looking forward to two days in a health spa,’ Catherine said.
‘It’ll be fun. We might even be able to find some decent men. I have no love life at all.’
‘Me neither. We’re both fantastic looking women and we have no men – there’s something wrong with the world, that’s what I think.’
Richards told Catherine about Rick Murcer.
‘And Jed and Kowalski went round there and beat the crap out of him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I love him even more, and Kowalski’s not bad as well, but a bit old for me.’
They arrived at the landfill site at ten twenty, and sweet-talked the manager into letting them use his office to interview the ten workers. It was a wasted journey. None of the men knew anything, and seven of the workers were immigrants and didn’t speak a word of English.
Richards input Martin Collindale’s Waltham Abbey postcode, and as she navigated her way around the mud-filled potholes and out of the landfill site, Catherine said, ‘I’m glad to be out of there. No wonder that boss of yours found something else to do and sent us here on our own. I’ve gone deaf, and I smell like a compost heap.’
‘What?’
‘I said...’
Richards turned her head and smiled.
They both laughed.
‘Do you like being a detective?’
‘I’m not a detective yet, but nearly. I think it’s the best job in the whole world.’
‘A bit scary sometimes though. Especially having to deal with all those murderers – they’re really sick.’
She grinned. ‘I know. Do you like being a reporter?’
‘Most of the time. I like reporting crime, but being with you two these last couple of days, I don’t think I like being this close to murder.’
‘Well, we’re not going to be close to it today.’
‘Thank God. Being chased by the killer in the cellars of the hospital nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘I’ve thought about it and, if you were to ask me, I don’t think he wanted to catch you. I think he just wanted to scare you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I have the feeling that if he’d wanted to catch you, he would have done. Mind you, you’ve only got yourself to blame. If you hadn’t run off in front of us, then no one would have chased you.’
‘So you think it’s my own fault I nearly got chopped up and put in a trunk?’
‘I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is don’t run off again.’
‘Yeah, I should have stayed with both of you. Don’t worry. I won’t be going down into that basement anytime soon.’
***
‘You remembered where we were then?’ Michelle Myers said as he walked into the room where she had her desk.
‘Only just. I had to ask for directions, and somebody else drew me a map.’
‘We’ll make real copper out of you yet.’
He went to sit down.
‘No, don’t sit there. We’ll find an interview room. Don’t want everyone knowing your business. Coffee?’
‘Love one – four sugars and milk.’
‘Patterson?’
A thin baby-faced Constable shot to attention near the back of the room. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘Get the Inspector a coffee with two sugars. You know what I have.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said, moving towards the corridor.
‘Patterson?’
He stopped in his tracks and turned round. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘When you come back carrying two steaming mugs and we’re not here, where are you going to bring the drinks?’
‘Interview Room 3, Sergeant?’
‘Have you been rifling through my files, Patterson?’
‘I wouldn’t dare, Sergeant.’
‘Well, why are you standing there?’ To Parish, she said, ‘That is one scary kid.’
‘Maybe he heard you say which room you were using,’ Parish suggested.
‘I didn’t even know myself until a split second before I asked him to make drinks.’
‘Maybe you regularly use IR3, and he took an educated guess?’
She picked up a thick file and began walking towards IR3. ‘Yeah, you detectives throw maybes about like confetti. Well, we’re not dealing in maybes this morning- we’re dealing in hard cold facts, and the hard cold fact is that your career is on the line.’
They sat down in two of the four chairs on opposite sides of the wood-effect Formica table in the otherwise bare mahogany-coloured room of IR3.
Sergeant Myers was a head shorter than his six feet one, and obviously spent time in the gym. She had short brown hair with blonde streaks, brown staring eyes and thin lips- that always seemed to be parted- over good teeth.
‘You’ve made sure the audio and CCTV are off, and no one’s selling tickets for the show behind the two-way mirror?’
She stared at him. ‘The counselling isn’t helping with your paranoia then?’
He smiled. ‘I suppose not.’
Patterson brought in the drinks and left.
For the next forty-five minutes Michelle briefed him on the disciplinary process, and
the strategy she planned to adopt at the hearing.
‘You okay with that?’
‘You’re the expert.’
‘Yes I am, and don’t say anything.’
‘If they ask me a question?’
‘You leave me to answer, or we put our heads together to discuss it, and then I give the answer.’
‘You’re afraid I’ll put my foot in it?’
‘No, you’ve already done that, Sir.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go. It’s being held in a conference room on the fourth floor.’
Patterson was standing outside the door.
‘What are you doing, Patterson?’
‘Waiting to clear the dirty cups away, Sergeant.’
‘Are you stalking me, Patterson?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
Parish followed her up the stairs, but half way up wished he’d caught the lift.
‘You’re trying to kill me before we get in there, aren’t you?’ he said, breathing heavily as he sat down next to her outside the conference room. He looked along the line of chairs in the corridor and saw the man who occupied Debbie Shinwell’s chair outside the DCI’s office. Today he wore a loud check-patterned jacket with a matching dickey bow, and licked his lips when he saw Parish eyeing him.
Parish gave him a look of disgust.
‘You should get down the gym more often. I could count on no fingers the number of times I’ve seen you down there, and I’m always down there working off my frustrations.’
‘Yeah, I bet you have a lot of frustrations?’
‘What have you heard?’
The door opened. ‘Detective Inspector Parish,’ the female clerk said. ‘The panel are ready for you now.’
The conference room had been set up like a courtroom. Facing him were four tables pushed together and behind them, from left to right, were Superintendent Alan Driscoll, Chief Superintendent Maureen Haverstock - the chairperson - and Mrs Tania Writtle who was Head of Human Resources. On the far right table sat the clerk taking a verbatim record of the proceedings. To his left were DCI Marshall and her representative – a female Inspector he didn’t know. What he did know was that Driscoll and Haverstock had both been supporters of Trevor Naylor, so he wasn’t expecting any favours from the panel.