by Ellis, Tim
He and Sergeant Myers sat in the two empty chairs on the right facing the panel members. To his mind, the only things missing were the lynch mob, the gibbet and the rope.
Chief Superintendent Haverstock commenced the disciplinary hearing. ‘Under Section 87 of the Police (Conduct) Regulations 2008 you are accused of Gross Misconduct, and under normal circumstances the process would involve three meetings, with the right of appeal after each stage. However, due to the serious nature of the alleged offence, and in the interests of efficiency, the panel has decided to move directly to the third stage...’
‘Excuse me?’ Parish said.
Michelle nudged him with her elbow.
‘I’m sure your representative has advised you not to speak until you are spoken to directly, Detective Inspector?’
Michelle spoke for him. ‘He has been so advised, Ma’am. He won’t do it again.’
‘I certainly hope not; we don’t want to add contempt to the charges. As I was saying, upon conclusion of the hearing a written finding will be produced, which could result in a range of penalties, including dismissal.’
‘But...’
‘Any further interruptions from your client, Sergeant, will result in Detective Inspector Parish being excluded from the hearing.’
‘Sorry, Ma’am.’ She turned to Parish and hissed behind her hand, ‘Are you stupid, or what? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way, which does not require an answer, because we already know the answer - keep your mouth shut, stupid.’
He didn’t know whether he liked being called stupid by a sergeant. It wasn’t too long ago he’d been a sergeant, and he would never have spoken to a senior officer like that... Except for Kowalski, and Trevor Naylor, and Pete Ranger, and... Well, he didn’t like it anyway.
First up was fatty Marshall who described the incident which had led to the charge of Gross Misconduct, and her statement was supported by Rupert Fothergill – the weird guy who was Marshall’s secretary.
Then Michelle gave an Oscar-winning performance describing how DI Parish had been psychologically damaged by the loss of two dear friends, and was undergoing counselling in an effort to combat the destructive feelings he now felt. If he’d have been on the panel he would not only have cleared himself of all charges, but promoted himself to Chief Constable as well.
‘Please wait outside while we reach a decision,’ Haverstock said.
That was it, short and to the point. The protagonists shuffled out and sat in the corridor far enough apart so that eye contact was difficult.
‘Good job, Mi... Michelle. I don’t see how they can do anything but clear me of all charges.’
‘We’ll see. I’ve got a strange feeling about this one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve done hundreds of these, but I got the feeling in there that they’d already made up their minds.’
‘Well, let’s hope their minds were made up in my favour.’
‘That’s what worries me; I don’t think they were.’
He was nervous. He hadn’t been this nervous since meeting Angie that first time at the Gooseberry Restaurant in Chigwell. That was good-nervousness, this was bad-nervousness. And anyway, wasn’t it all a waste of time? The Chief Constable would come back on Monday to right all the wrongs, wipe the slate clean – wouldn’t he?
The door opened like the gate to hell.
‘Detective Inspector Parish?’
It had only been five minutes. They didn’t take long to deliberate. Maybe Michelle was right; maybe it was all cut and dried, done and dusted, case closed.
They sat down in the same two chairs.
‘The panel does not accept your defence. We think you knew exactly what you were doing and we find the charge of Gross Misconduct proven. We have deliberated at some length...’
All five minutes worth.
‘... and have decided to reduce you to the rank of Constable and transfer you to the tiny village of Beck Hole in Yorkshire where there happens to be a vacancy.’
Michelle stood up. ‘May we have leave to appeal, Sir?’
‘On what grounds? Procedures have not been breached and the penalties are within the range available. Permission to appeal is not granted.’
The panel members stood up and filed out. DCI Marshall smirked at him and left.
‘What just happened?’
‘We just got mugged.’
‘We?’
‘This is the first case I’ve lost.’
‘Is that it then? I pack my bags and drive to Black Hole in Yorkshire?’
‘I’m sorry, and it’s Beck Hole.’
‘What if I refuse to go?’
‘Well, that’s a whole new disciplinary hearing.’ She gave him her card and stood up. ‘You’ll need a union representative. Give me a call if you decide to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. Possibly delayed shock, clinical depression- we’ll see what we can do. I don’t handshakes, but good luck with what you decide anyway.’
When Michelle closed the door behind her he felt as though he’d just pulled into the terminus. The track he had been following for thirty-one years had come to a premature end, and he’d just been shunted onto another line. He was travelling somewhere else now, but where?
He stood up and left the building. The first place he was going was King George Hospital car park to meet Richards and Catherine and get some lunch – he was bloody starving.
***
The B194 took them past Galleyhill Wood and straight to Waltham Abbey. They arrived at The Manor House at eleven twenty-five and Martin Collindale – an athletic-looking man with silver hair, cold blue eyes and a smile that was a stranger to his face – stood in the large doorway waiting for them.
The Manor House, according to Lieutenant General Martin Collindale (Retired) who insisted on giving them the guided tour, dated from the early 18th Century. It consisted of six bedrooms, four attic rooms, a drawing room, sitting room, dining room, kitchen/breakfast room, laundry room, spa suite, conservatory, games room with fully-stocked bar and an extensive wine cellar. There were six acres of land, which included a swimming pool, tennis court and stables. Also, various outbuildings housed six classic cars, two boats, and a caravan. There were three barns, one of which had planning permission for conversion into a four-bedroom dwelling.
‘Can I come and live in your laundry room?’ Catherine said. ‘It’s twice as large as the flat I’m renting now.’
‘As long as you’re willing to do the laundry while you’re in there.’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t take me long.’
‘There are seven people in this house, including laundry from the swimming pool, the stables, the spa...’
‘What about the wine cellar?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, my middle daughter would like to live down there as well. So, what can I do for you two beautiful young ladies?’
‘I said you were the person to talk to if the police wanted to find someone who lived in the Essex area during the 1950s.’
‘Really? Well, we had better go out to the clubhouse. I’ve done a little conversion of the second barn to house the Society. Nothing spectacular, but it serves our purpose for now.’
They followed the General into panelled rooms and along a bright hallway. The midday sun ricocheted through stained glass windows, and Catherine said, ‘They’re unusual.’
Indicating the window high up on the right, he said, ‘The house used to belong to a self-styled warlock who practised black magic and established a group called the Order of the Nine Angels. That was their symbol – the Vilnius Thornian.’ He turned and pointed at the left-hand window. ‘That symbol is the Sigil of Baphomet and depicts the goat inside a pentagram surrounded by Hebrew letters, which translated means Leviathan – a monstrous sea creature mentioned in the Bible. My wife hates them, but I think they add character and some history.’
A worktop, accommodating twenty networked computers around the walls of the second barn, was availa
ble for the members of the Essex Genealogical Society, and there were three members sitting at computers doing its work. Tile-patterned terracotta linoleum had been laid on the floor; central heating and spotlight arrays had been installed. In the centre of the oblong room were forty four-drawer filing cabinets back-to-back.
‘Welcome to our little clubhouse.’
‘Hardly little,’ Catherine said. ‘This is three times the size of the Chigwell Herald.’
‘Of course, we hadn’t finished this the last time we met. So, what is it I can do for you?’
Richards was conscious of the time. They had wasted half an hour on the guided tour, and would now probably be late meeting the Inspector. If he was in a disciplinary hearing he would have switched his phone off, so there was no point in ringing him now. She would ring him after they’d finished here.
‘We’d like to find a W.E. St. John who lived in the Essex area in the 1950s,’ she said.
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult.’ He sat down at one of the computers, logged on and typed in St John. ‘Okay, there were seventy-three St Johns in the Essex area.’ He drilled down by keying in W.E. ‘Seven W.E. St Johns living in the Essex area between 1950 and 1960. I’ll send all seven to the printer, and then we can look at their details and decide which one – if any of them – is the one you’re interested in.’
He stood, walked over to a bank of printers and returned with a handful of A4 sheets, which he began separating and stapling together. ‘There you are,’ he said when he’d finished, and passed the seven files to Richards. ‘While Mary is looking through those, Catherine, let me show you our cheese making workshop.’ He put the palm of his hand in the small of her back and propelled her towards the door.
Catherine turned and pulled a face at Richards, who stifled a laugh.
Once they’d gone, she sat down and began reading the seven W.E. St. John profiles. What she noticed, before she found what she thought she was looking for, was that there were a lot of child deaths, and that Mary was a popular name in the 1950s.
William Eric St. John was a plumber and lived at 55, Hoe Lane in Lower Nazeing. He married Susan Gough, a seamstress from Roydon, in 1958 and they had a son called Joseph in January 1962. But in August of that year he killed his wife by strangling her with one of her own stockings. He went on the run, but was caught within three months. After a short trial, during which he pleaded guilty, he was sentenced to death. He was the last man to be hanged at Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentonville, on 6th July 1963. Baby Joseph was taken into care by Essex Social Services and the records sealed.
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ the General asked upon his return. Catherine was loaded down with two heavy bags full of ‘Manor House Cheese’.
‘Yes, thank you, I think I did. It says here that a child was “taken into care by Essex Social Services and the records sealed”. I don’t suppose...’
‘No, only the child would be able to gain access to sealed records once they reached eighteen years of age. I assume, of course, that the child was adopted, and that he or she knew they had been adopted, because some children are never told. The records are kept for a hundred years and then unsealed.’
‘What about the police?’
‘I’m guessing, but I would assume you would need a court order.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Immediately she saw the problem of that. The whole investigation was illegal, and there was no way they would be able to obtain a court order. It wouldn’t even be worth going to Essex Social Services in Chelmsford – no one would tell them anything. She looked at her watch and jumped up. ‘Oh God, it’s twenty past twelve.’
‘I take it you have to leave?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. We have to meet the Inspector at one o’clock, and he hates people being late.’
‘A man after my own heart. Lateness is not something I’m familiar with. In the army lateness is not tolerated.’
‘You’ve been very kind, General,’ Richards said.
Catherine hefted the two bags up. ‘And thank you for the cheese; we’ll have a feast.’
‘It’s been a pleasure being in the company of two such beautiful and charming young ladies,’ he said, and escorted them to the car.
After waving goodbye, Richards headed down the A10 towards King George Hospital.
Chapter Eighteen
‘You’re late.’
‘Three minutes and fifty-five seconds,’ Richards said.
‘Late is late.’
‘Did somebody famous say that?’
‘Yes, me.’
‘How did your discipline thingy go?’
‘It was a hearing, Richards not a “thingy”, and it went well. I received a reprimand, but I’m going to appeal.’
‘So, when are you back at work?’
‘I don’t know. There’s still the problem of fatty Marshall. I don’t think I can work with her.’
‘You’re going to speak to the Chief Constable?’
‘Are you practising your interview skills on me? Let’s walk and find somewhere to eat before I shrivel up and blow away in the wind.’
Richards laughed. ‘As if.’
They turned right out of the hospital and walked along Barley Lane. Richards got a call on her mobile and hung back while she answered it.
‘Who do you know that would phone you in the middle of the day?’ Parish said when she caught up.
‘I have friends outside work.’
‘No, you don’t. Who was it?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘A secret?’
‘No.’
Eventually they reached High Road where they found the Taste Inn.
‘This will do,’ Parish said. ‘Otherwise we won’t have enough time to eat and walk back ready for your appointment.’
Richards sniffed. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘What do they do in there?’ Catherine said.
‘They don’t do anything. I’m sure he goes to sleep while I talk a lot.’
‘Your favourite pastime, Richards.’
‘Don’t tell lies. I don’t talk very much.’
‘If words were money, you’d be a billionaire.’
She turned to Catherine. ‘Do you think I talk a lot?’
‘No more than me.’
Parish grunted as he shuffled round into a booth. ‘My point exactly.’
Catherine’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh, so it’s not just Mary that talks a lot, it’s women in general?’
A waitress with bright red hair and a ring through her nose arrived with the menus. They ordered drinks.
‘Apparently, a book’s been published by a woman in America with lots of research backing up its claim that women use 20,000 words a day, while men only use 7,000. Also, women talk at a rate of 250 words per minute, and men only half that.’
Richards laughed. ‘That’s because we have to repeat everything.’
‘What?’
They all laughed.
The drinks arrived.
‘So, talk-a-lot, what did you find out this morning?’
‘The landfill site was noisy, smelly and a waste of time.’
‘I expected that.’
‘Is that why you didn’t come with us?’ Catherine said.
‘I didn’t come with you because I had a discipline “thingy”.’
Richards carried on. ‘Then we went to The Manor House in Waltham Abbey to see the General. He was very nice, gave us the guided tour, and Catherine went to the cheese making workshop where she...’
‘You don’t have to demonstrate the efficacy of that woman’s research, Richards.’
She stuck her tongue out, pulled a folded piece of paper out of her bag, and put it on the table in front of him. ‘Here.’
The food arrived, but Parish continued to read the details of William Eric St. John. After he’d finished he put salt and pepper on his beef burger and chips, but said nothing.
‘What do you think, Sir?’
‘I think that
you think baby Joseph is the killer.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘There’s a problem.’
‘I know. We need a court order, but we’re not going to get one, are we?’
‘No.’ He carried on eating. The police should have access to everything. He should be able to stroll into Essex Social Services and demand to see the records. If he went to the magistrate, explained the details, he’d get a court order to open the files toute suite, but he couldn’t do that. He’d have to wait until Monday, but Monday might be too late. And he was expected to be on his way to Yorkshire’s Black Hole on Monday – what a mess, what a bloody mess. There was no way in a month of Sundays he should have undertaken this investigation while he was suspended from duty. What in God’s name was he thinking?
‘What are we going to do, Sir?’
‘I know you think I have all the answers, but I don’t. I have no idea what we’re going to do. Have either of you got any suggestions?’
His mobile rang.
‘Parish.’
‘It’s Ed.’
‘Hello, Ed. Where are you?’
‘I’m outside the A & E at the Princess Alexandra Hospital.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve just found out something very interesting.’
‘Which I assume you’re going to tell me about?’
‘Marie Gilchrist informed me that her father had an illegitimate child – a boy named Adrian – in 1962 with a prostitute called Erin Alva, and that’s all she knew. She and her brother found a copy of the birth certificate in her father’s papers after he died. He was named as the father, and she says that’s all they know. They’ve never met their half-brother, never heard from him, and never sought him out. They have absolutely no knowledge of him.’
‘Good job, Ed. You’re going to try and trace him?’
‘I’m on my way back to the station to see if we’ve got anything on CrimInt.’
‘I’ll wait for your call.’
‘What was that, Sir?’
He told them what Ed had said.
‘Now we have two people we can’t find,’ Catherine said.
‘Let’s be positive, shall we?’