by Ellis, Tim
Kefalis nearly choked on his water. ‘Impossible. Her family have lost a daughter and you now want me to take her from her grave. I will not do it. You have no justification for such a request.’
The Cypriot was right – Parish hadn’t even looked at the post mortem report yet. ‘Your forensic people still have all the evidence, I hope?’
‘Of course they do. We are not complete amateurs, you know.’
He thought about getting everything sent to England, but the chain of evidence would be broken. ‘I need to make a phone call.’ He slipped out into the corridor and called Toadstone.
‘Are you by the pool drinking beer?’ Toadstone asked.
‘No, that was yesterday. This morning I’m out seeing the sights and taking photographs for the virtual album.’
‘What’s Mary wearing?’
‘I hope you’re not turning into a pervert, Toadstone?’
‘I was merely asking.’
‘Well, you can come out here and satiate your own curiosity. I need you to review the evidence.’
‘You want me out there?’
‘Have I started speaking Greek all of a sudden?’
‘Has Chief Kowalski authorised it?’
‘Tell him you’ll be out here for two days at the most.’
‘Me?’
‘I expect you on the next plane that leaves Stansted. We’re staying at the Four Seasons Hotel in Limassol, so book yourself a room.’
‘You want me to tell . . . ?’
‘Let me know which flight you’ll be on and what time you’ll be arriving. See you tonight, Toadstone.’
After ending the call, he returned to the office, sat back down and glared at Kefalis. ‘My head of forensics will be here in the morning. I’d like you to give him full access to the evidence, so that he can review the findings.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Also, I’d like a complete list of all the witnesses and where they live.’
He pressed a button on a battered old intercom sitting on the corner of his desk. Two black wires left the back of the box, trailed round the room and snaked out through a hole in the wall. Parish was reminded of two tin cans connected by knotted string. Kefalis spoke in Greek to the person at the other end and then said, ‘A copy will be brought in.’
‘Then, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to see Major Durrell now?’
‘Of course.’
An old woman wearing a headscarf and a cardigan came in and handed Kefalis a sheet of paper.
He passed it to Parish and stood up. ‘Shall we go?’
Parish handed the sheet of paper with two names typed on it to Maddie and followed Kefalis out.
***
They were just reaching the end of a discussion on battered women who killed their sleeping tormentors in the context of the theories underpinning criminal law. She was all for it – not guilty. Anybody who battered women deserved to die, that wasn’t a hard theory to understand.
Now it was time for lunch, and she’d be able to phone Ray and Charlie and find out what was going on.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – if I may call you that – thank you for turning up, and thank you for staying with me. Have a lovely day.’
There was a ripple of clapping, but most of the students knew that Professor Lewis-Payntor wasn’t a very good lecturer. Oh, he tried, and he knew his stuff, but for a large chunk of the two hours he was boring. He spoke to the whiteboard instead of to them, he had a whining high-pitched voice that never seemed to vary and he wasn’t humorous – there were no jokes. Essentially, he filled a two-hour slot in the timetable, and that’s all that could be said for him.
‘Not you, Mrs Kowalski.’
She was beginning to hate him. She flopped back down into the seat.
‘I’ll wait outside for you,’ Julie said.
‘Don’t bother,’ she replied.
Once all the students had gone Lewis-Payntor said, ‘Talking to a senior lecturer the way you did is unacceptable.’
What was she going to do? She could tell him where to shove his unacceptability or apologise. He started it by talking to her the way he had. Didn’t he know Newton’s third law – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction? Maybe now was the time to eat some humble pie. She was here to get her law degree, not campaign for the rights of women.
‘I apologise, Professor. It won’t happen again.’
‘Yes, well. Make sure it doesn’t.’
‘And I enjoyed the lecture.’
‘Really? Which part?’
‘Oh, all of it. I’m a firm believer in women’s rights.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘As you probably guessed.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I think I got the gist of what you were saying. Maybe I was a bit of a Neanderthal castigating you in public. I apologise also.’
‘Thank you, Professor.’
‘You wouldn’t like to go out for a drink sometime, would you?’
‘I’m married with four children, Professor. And, I see you’re wearing a wedding ring also.’
‘It was merely a drink as a way of burying the hatchet.’
‘I’m sorry, Professor, all my time is swallowed up with being a wife, mother and student.’ She laughed. ‘You shouldn’t give us so much work to do.’
He half-smiled. ‘No.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have a nice day, Professor.’
‘And you, Mrs Kowalski.’
She shuffled out from the row of seats and made her way outside. Julie wasn’t waiting for her – she was glad.
A mug of tea, and then she’d make her phone calls before the next lecture.
Julie waved at her as she walked into the open-plan cafe. ‘I bought you a tea.’
‘Thanks,’ she said and sat down.
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted to know if I’d go out for a drink with him.’
‘Really? The letch! What did you say?’
‘What do you think I said?’
‘Yes?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t fancy him then?’
‘He’s bald with a pot-belly and bad breath.’
‘Aren’t most men?’
‘I have a husband and four lovely children – well, most of the time they’re lovely – I don’t need any more complications in my life. Anyway, thanks for the tea, but I have to make some phone calls.’
‘You can make them here, I don’t mind.’
‘I don’t think so – they’re private. She stood up, made her way outside and found a free bench to sit on.
She phoned Charlie first.
‘Don’t you have lectures to attend?’
‘Sometimes, but mostly I sit around texting my friends and making phone calls to ungrateful people who don’t deserve the time of day.’
‘And then there’s me?’
‘Well, tell me what’s happening.’
‘The police can’t find Mr Muleford to take part in an ID parade, so it’s been put on hold for the time being.’
‘Do you think he knows that you saw him?’
‘How? The only people who know are the police.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You talk as if all coppers are bent?’
‘Not all – Ray isn’t. But I’d like to know why they can’t seem to lock Mr Muleford up and keep him there.’
‘Maybe he isn’t guilty of the crimes he’s been arrested for.’
‘Maybe a meteor will crash into the earth today and end all life as we know it.’
‘So, you think he’s paying bribes to the police?’
She gave a laugh. ‘You ask that as if it’s never happened before.’
‘I know it happens.’
‘Now all Mr Muleford needs to do is get rid of you and he’ll be free and clear.’
‘Mmmm, I see what you mean.’
‘Keep your wits about you, Charlie Baxter.’
‘I’ll be fine. Ho
w are the lectures going?’
‘They love me here. I’m the perfect student.’
He grunted. ‘I can imagine.’
She ended the call and rang Ray.
‘Yes, Boss?’
‘I like that. Maybe I’ll change my name by deed poll.’
‘I could call you that in bed if you want?’
‘Why do men always think with their penises?’
He laughed. ‘Evolutionary throwback to the days when men were real men.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s it. I just have the weird feeling that evolution has passed men by. Well . . . you at least.’
‘Just wait till I drag you into my cave, wife.’
‘Well, did you talk to people?’
‘Tug Muleford is under surveillance.’
‘That’s interesting, because the police are telling Charlie that they can’t find him to take part in an ID parade, which they’ve cancelled.’
‘Yes, that is interesting.’
‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m going to have a coffee, contemplate my navel and then make some more calls.’
‘What if Muleford gets someone else to do his dirty work for him?’
‘We’ve tapped his phone.’
‘What if he uses his girlfriend’s phone?’
‘Trust me. We’ve got people out there doing what they’ve been trained to do.’
‘What about the coppers he’s got in his pocket?’
‘The people who are watching Muleford are not crooked.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay. Will you call me if anything happens?’
‘Are you trying to get me the sack?’
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I’m listening.’
She ended the call and immediately it began vibrating – an unknown number.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Jerry?’ a female asked.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Leanne . . . Leanne Pettigrew.’
‘I remember. What do you want?’
‘You said you’d help me.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve been warned off by Social Services. Ring your Social worker and explain . . .’
The call had ended. She was talking to herself.
The light went out on her phone. She saw her reflection in the glass, and there was also someone else as well.
She twisted round.
Julie Wilkinson was standing directly behind her.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I just came out to tell you it was time to go back in.’
‘I know what time it is, thank you. I’ll come in when I’m ready.’
‘Okay.’ She moved back towards the building.
How long had she been listening? What the hell was wrong with that woman? She shivered as if someone had walked over her grave wearing a pair of stiletto heels . . . Mmmm . . . red ones . . . from Louboutins.
Chapter Ten
Michelangelo sat with his feet on the table. He was drinking a bottle of Budweiser at the Ancient Mariner club in Point Clear. It was his local. This was where he did his best thinking. Not that he had a lot to think about, but when he did – this was the place he did it.
Detective Inspector Adam Pincher was sitting across from him, and Michelangelo was thinking about how life was like a country road with its twists and turns.
‘This is a bit of a turn up, Mr Pincher. Since when did I become a hitman for the police?’
It wasn’t a handful of years ago that he’d been sitting outside the Barbican tube station begging for change with his mutt Razor. Admittedly, he hadn’t gone short of a bob or two, but it was all a bit demeaning, mind-numbingly boring and he guessed his life wasn’t really going anywhere. Then, it had been reported on the television news how beggars earned thousands of pounds a week. A hot-looking woman with a camera crew had appeared out of nowhere wanting to interview him, so he’d obliged – worst thing he could have done. After that, instead of money, the commuters gave him looks of disgust – he and Razor were forced to move on. It was never the same again. The gravy train had broken down and nobody knew how to fix it. After a short while he decided that a change of scenery was best all round and had ended up in Shrub End.
At first, he’d fallen into begging from the locals, the daytrippers and the tourists, but it wasn’t the same – he could hardly make ends meet. Then Razor had been crushed under a bread delivery truck. The driver had been going way too fast because the streets were empty at five-thirty in the morning.
‘You should’a kept the thing on a lead, pal,’ the driver had said to him when he’d climbed down from his cab.
Pal! As far as he was aware, a pal didn’t run over another pal’s dog. And Razor wasn’t a thing, he was the only friend he’d had for a good many years.
There was nobody about, so he’d picked up a rusty old iron railing and killed the bastard. God the man was a mess. There was blood and brains everywhere. He must have hit him at least twenty times. Nobody, but nobody was ever going to recognise him.
There’d been tears in his eyes as he’d picked up Razor. He loved that dog. In fact, everybody had loved the mongrel. Razor had a way of looking at people that tugged at their heart strings and opened their wallets. He walked into the sea with the dog and let him go, then he washed the blood and brains from his filthy clothes and sat on the beach to dry off.
After that, he’d had to re-invent himself. Without Razor, nobody was ever going to give him any money. He discarded his given name – Clive Poyner-Hayes – and became Michelangelo. Not because he was a painter of Sistine Chapels, but because he was a sculptor of dead bodies. After murdering a few tourists with those stupid zip-up belly bags full of money, car keys, cigarettes, passports, wallets, credit cards and everything else they had nowhere to put, he got himself a room above the Ancient Mariner.
It took a while to build up a reputation as someone who could be trusted to kill people – no questions asked. But eventually he had, and now here he was – being asked by the police to kill someone. Yes, life was definitely a winding country road.
Pincher looked around, but no one was taking any interest in what they were talking about. If they were local, they knew better than to hear anything Michelangelo ever said. If they were strangers who had wandered in off the street – the sight of a six foot three inch man with a grotesque hair lip soon put them off sitting within hearing distance. ‘She’s a copper,’ Pincher said, and slid a photograph of Koll face down across the table.
Michelangelo picked up the picture. ‘Mmmm.’
‘Yes, we all thought so too. We’d like you to treat her real special before you kill her – a message to other like-minded individuals.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying whatever you want to hear.’
‘Twenty thousand.’
‘Let’s not be stupid.’
‘I’m anything but stupid, Mr Pincher.’
‘Five thousand?’
‘I see we have a way to go before we reach a consensus. Let’s just meet in the middle and then we don’t have to haggle like fishwives at the market.’
Pincher nodded and passed a brown paper bag over as if it was a happy meal. ‘Half now, half after the job has been done.’
‘You’ve been watching too many crappy films, Mr Pincher.’ He picked up the bag and dropped it on the floor next to his chair.
‘Aren’t you going to check it?’
‘Why, can’t you count?’
‘It’s all there.’
‘I believe you. I don’t think it would be in anyone’s best interests for you to cheat me.’
Pincher gave a nervous smile. ‘She’s at Hoddesdon Police Station in Essex.’
‘Is it a rush job?’
‘Yes. The sooner the better.’
Michelangelo nodded. Te
n thousand! Maybe he’d book himself in for cosmetic surgery. The hair lip was useful in his current job, but in all other areas it was a distinct disadvantage. He hated the way people were horrified by his face. He was even more horrified by his own reflection when he looked in the mirror – which he tried not to do too often. That was the one thing about Razor – and dogs in general for that matter – his love had been unconditional. Razor hadn’t cared what he’d looked like. God, he still missed that damned dog.
‘Consider it done, Mr Pincher. I’ll expect you back in here at the same time on Monday with the rest of my money.’
‘How will . . . ?’
‘You’ll know.’
***
Like a vision of the archangel Gabriel, Tom Dougall appeared in the doorway of her room. It was wishful thinking on her part, of course. She was drifting in and out of consciousness like an addict – the side-effects of the drugs they were giving her.
After what she’d had done, she shouldn’t be thinking of sex, but she was. It had been months since the last time she’d had any sex. In fact, she couldn’t even remember when it had been, it was so long ago. It was all right thinking about it, having dirty dreams about it and wanting it like the worst kind of nymphomaniac, but could she actually do it anymore?
She knew that they’d taken everything out of her that had made her a woman, that she’d never get pregnant and have babies, but what else couldn’t she do? Would her voice change to a deep baritone? Would long black hairs start to sprout in obscene places? Would she be able to have sex like she used to do? Could she still have an orgasm? Oh God! Who the hell was she now? What was to become of her? Tears leaked from her eyes.
She felt a hand stroking the tears away.
‘Hey, I didn’t come all this way to watch you blubber like a big baby.’
She opened her eyes and tried to push herself up. Her mouth tasted like a gorilla’s armpit. ‘That’s typical of you, Tom Dougall. You could have warned me you were going to surprise me. I must look like shit . . .’
He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You don’t need to get up on my account. I’ve already seen you at your worst remember.’ He grinned. ‘Christ, you do look like shit.’