Deceit is in the Heart (P&R15)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘A Special Advisor? This is my investigation . . .’

  ‘And you’re going to manage it from the operating theatre and your bed at King George Hospital?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Apart from you being in no condition to lead an investigation, this case needs a delicate touch.’

  ‘Delicate is my middle name.’

  ‘Raymond Delicate Kowalski! Yes, I’m sure your old rugby team mates would have loved that. Also, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Snaresbrook located in London and out of your jurisdiction?’

  He was wondering when the Chief Constable would pull the metaphorical rabbit from his hat. ‘A minor point, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure the Commissioner would disagree with you.’

  ‘That’s his prerogative.’

  It looked as though the investigation was going to be taken away from him. The Chief Constable was right though – he was in no fit state to lead a dog’s life, never mind a complex investigation involving multiple murders, multiple perpetrators and millions of pounds of missing money. At least he still had the photographs that he’d told Toadstone to take as insurance against a cover-up. If the Special Advisor was really a magician who had been ordered to make everything disappear, then he’d have to go-it-alone. It would finish his career, but some things were more important than a job.

  The paramedics returned, gave him morphine for the pain, opened up a vein with an intravenous cannula which was connected to a tube and a bag of clear liquid, and put an inflatable splint around his left leg.

  If he was being honest with himself, the investigation was the least of his worries. Jerry was his main concern. Where was she now? Had the killer caught up with her? Was she dying somewhere with his name on her lips?

  The paramedics carried him out.

  Beyond the wall of rubble there were lights powered by a chugging generator, and a group of volunteers from the local call centre and supermarket dressed in blue coveralls moving rocks from one place to another to clear the tunnel.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then, Sir.’

  ‘A wise decision, Kowalski. And don’t worry about what’s happening here, everything will come out in the wash. You focus on Jerry, and getting better yourself.’

  ‘Thanks for being here, Sir.’

  ‘What are Chief Constables for?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a question on every good copper’s lips.’

  ***

  During the short plane journey, he read Kylie Woodhouse’s journal on his phone, which made his eyes water and his head hurt. If he was going to start using his phone to read maybe he needed glasses. Or, maybe he should buy himself a magnifying glass. And not for the first time, it made him question why they made phones so small? With each new version he was finding that the keys were far too tiny for the end of his fingers. It was all right for women with their index fingernails filed to points like a stylus, but men appeared to have been designed out of the process.

  Soon, humans would take a massive evolutionary leap forward. Children would be born with a stylus-like protuberance instead of an index finger; hands-free communication devices would be an integral part of their skulls; and they’d have the latest broadband technology built into their brains as standard. He was just glad that Jack and Melody had been born before the evolutionary surge.

  Kylie had been thorough in her journal entries. Parish made notes as he read, but these notes were limited. The journal referred to the man who called himself Martin Rollins, and although it was interesting to discover what had happened during the doomed relationship, it didn’t really provide any insight into who Rollins was behind the façade.

  The one thing that Kylie had been good at was retrieval and collection. Besides the keepsakes in the box, the journal was full of small items that had once either belonged to Rollins, or had featured in an episode of their relationship.

  Parish had no doubt that Lauren Perry’s forensic people would find Rollin’s DNA and match it to a profile on the database, but because of the damage this new evidence could do to the Northumbria Police Force he was glad that it wasn’t the only string to his bow. Toadstone’s graduate – Kirsty Nicholls – might also have acquired samples, not just of Rollin’s DNA, but of his fingerprints as well.

  The Family Man was certainly a baffling case, but Parish had the feeling that the file had slipped back from the pending pile to the active pile and that he was moving forward at a snail’s pace. His trip to Newcastle had not been a waste of time. If only the original taskforce had found the box of keepsakes and the journal at the time, Rollins – or whatever his name was – would probably be languishing in Broadmoor now, and two families would still be alive.

  He looked at the list of three things in his notebook. First, of course, was the car registration: YD51 JBM. The YD was Leeds and would probably lead him to Heptonstall in Halifax. The 51 meant that the car had been first registered between 2001 and 2002. The car was at least seven years old. When had Rollins bought it? Once the plane had landed, he’d call the Duty Sergeant and ask them to find out the history of that blue Ford Focus.

  Second was the fact that Kylie had referred to Rollins as a devout Methodist, and the name “Grant Mottram” had been taken from a gravestone in the graveyard of the Methodist Chapel in Heptonstall – surely, that was no coincidence. He knew nothing about Methodism. In fact, he knew no more than what most people knew about religion. He wasn’t religious, and neither were Angie or Richards. Apart from weddings, christenings and funerals, there was little reason to step inside a church, sing a hymn or read the bible.

  The final piece of information that he’d gleaned from reading the journal was a photograph of a photograph that Kylie must have taken using her phone, and then printed off via the computer and stuck in her journal on a page dated: January 14, 2009. And then it had been photographed again by Parish. As such, it wasn’t of the highest quality. The picture was of an austere, but attractive-looking woman, in her early twenties with long dark hair. Underneath it Kylie had written:

  This is a photograph from the side-pocket of Martin’s bag. He must have forgotten to take it out. On the back – in faded blue ink – is written: Beatrice, 1982 (b. 1960). Who is she? She would be around 54 years old now if she was still alive. Is she Martin’s mum? Is that why he carries it round with him? I can’t ask him, because he’ll want to know where I got the picture from and why I was looking in his bag.

  There was no other reference to the photograph. Kylie obviously never got round to asking Martin who Beatrice was.

  The plane landed. He made his way through domestic security controls onto the concourse where he ordered a coffee and a Cornish pasty at Jamie Oliver’s Food Truck, sat down at a vacant table and phoned the Duty Sergeant.

  ‘Sergeant Thomas.’

  ‘Jane Thomas,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d been promoted to Chief Constable and was directing operations somewhere in Yorkshire.’

  ‘If there is a perk to this job, it’s listening to the crap people come out with when they want something. I expected better from you, Inspector Parish.’

  ‘Is it disappointing finding out that I’m just like everyone else?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need a number plate running through the system.’

  ‘I have time on my hands.’

  ‘YD51 JBM.’

  It went quiet for a handful of minutes.

  ‘Registered on September 15, 2001 by Ford Cars of Leeds, purchased by Paul Sanderson from 24 Acres Lane in Heptonstall on October 2, 2001, the registered keeper changed on May 12, 2005 to Monica Littlewood from 17 Mayfield Road in Hebden Bridge, and then again on August 13, 2008 to Brendan Young who still has the car. His address in 26 Hebble End in Heptonstall.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Was there anything else?’

  ‘No, you’ve been very helpful, Jane.’

  ‘That’s what
I’m here for.’

  The call ended.

  Had Mottram slipped up? Was that who he really was – Brendan Young? Or, was it another false trail? When they ran the fingerprints and DNA through the databases, would Brendan Young’s name jump out at him? Tomorrow, he needed to travel to Heptonstall and tie the loose ends together.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As they were driving to see Freda Robinson at Coppice Court retirement home on Glenmire Terrace in Stanstead Abbotts, Stick received a call from the Duty Sergeant – Jane Thomas – to confirm that Kimberley Bannister was living as somebody else with another man. Gary Bannister had physically abused her, and threatened to kill her if he ever suspected her of having another affair, so she had made the decision to disappear.

  ‘Case closed, I’d say,’ Xena said.

  ‘Do you feel smug?’

  She squirmed into her seat some more. ‘It’s not often I feel smug, but today I feel smug.’

  ‘I thought so.’ He phoned Jodi Grammatke in Missing Persons and informed her of the outcome. ‘We still have the names of two more missing women that Jodi gave us,’ he said to Xena when he ended the call. ‘Jessica Hogan who lives at 44 Pulham Avenue in Broxbourne; and Celia Howland from 17 Gosse Close in Hailey.’

  ‘I’m not optimistic.’

  ‘That’s because you’re feeling smug.’

  ‘Could be.’

  After ringing the bell and being let into Coppice Court, they were led up a set of stairs and along a winding corridor by an anaemic Eastern European man with thinning wiry black hair, a sweaty forehead and limited English.

  He knocked on the door.

  ‘Password?’ a woman’s voice came back at him.

  ‘Mistletoe.’

  ‘That was yesterday, you idiot.’

  ‘Milky Way.’

  ‘That’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Two police come to arrest you, Miss Freda.’

  ‘I’d like to see them try. The password for today is: Millionaire.’

  ‘Millionaire – I will never be one. I try to remember password.’

  ‘I won’t let you in next time if you don’t.’

  ‘Next time is dinnertime.’

  ‘What is it for dinner, Hermann?’

  ‘Giant stuffed mushrooms.’

  ‘My favourite. Well, maybe the time after that I won’t let you in.’

  ‘Can police come in now, Miss Freda?’

  ‘I suppose so, but you can’t.’

  ‘I go back to office.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Hermann left.

  ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘Yes, he’s gone,’ Stick called through the door.

  ‘You’re not foreign, are you?’

  ‘No – English.’

  ‘Well, come on in then. I only leave foreigners standing in the corridor.’

  Inside – sitting in a high-back chair with a multicoloured crocheted blanket over her legs was seventy year-old Freda Robinson. She was wraith-like, had short grey hair, tinted glasses and wrinkles that seemed to start and end at her mouth.

  The room was small with an autumn brown-leaf design paper on the walls. There was just enough space for a bed, a cabinet and a chair. A window looked out onto a wooded area at the rear of the property, and there was an internal door that presumably led to a bathroom.

  Stick showed his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Gilbert, and this is Detective Inspector Blake.’

  ‘Sit.’

  There were two blue plastic chairs stacked behind the door. Once they were sitting down, nobody could enter or leave the room.

  ‘So, the woman’s in charge?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stick said.

  ‘Why are you doing the talking instead of her?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Xena smiled. ‘I let him do all the heavy lifting.’

  ‘Quite right as well. That’s all men are good for. So, why are you here bothering an old woman who has paid more than her fair share of taxes?’

  ‘APEX,’ Xena said.

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Oh, I think you have. It’s a company that went bust in 1974, and you used to work there.’

  ‘I did? 1974 was such a long time ago. My memory isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘Your memory is exactly what it used to be. We’re murder detectives. We’ve found a dead woman wrapped in a brown poly tarpaulin with APEX stencilled on one side in silver that was purchased from Arctic Fabrics in Scotland.’

  ‘Doesn’t rattle any bones.’

  ‘You’re being deliberately obtuse.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘We’re guessing that what you were working on was Top Secret, but as you’ve just said: It was a long time ago. So, maybe it isn’t Top Secret anymore.’

  ‘The Cold War,’ Freda said. ‘Nobody owns the geographic North Pole or the Arctic Ocean surrounding it, you know.’

  ‘I thought Russia . . .’

  ‘No. Everybody thinks it’s Russia, but it’s not. Anyway, there was a British-led scientific expedition in 1969, which I was part of. We were trying to raise the British flag on the ocean floor beneath the North Pole – for scientific purposes, you understand. But, instead of oil and a glut of natural resources, we found something else.’

  Stick and Xena were both leaning forward on their chairs.

  ‘What?’ Xena asked.

  ‘Ha!’ Freda said. ‘If you had clearance you’d already know, but you don’t know – nobody knows.’

  Stick stretched his back. ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘I was a young PhD student with ideas about changing the world for the better, but after that . . . Well, everything changed after that.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Xena said.

  Freda looked out of the window at a woodpigeon that had landed on the branch of a tree not far away. ‘Want to and can do are worlds apart, DI Blake. They left me in no doubt what would happen if I ever spoke about it.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘So everybody keeps saying. You go to the nice new building that they’ve built on Albert Embankment and ask them for written authorisation for me to tell you what I know, and then come back. Otherwise . . .’ she hunched her bony shoulders.

  ‘That’s not why we’re here anyway,’ Stick said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We’d like you to tell us about the brown poly tarpaulins – what happened to them?’

  ‘You say the dead woman was wrapped in one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Four of the tarpaulins were lost in the Arctic. Two were still in the store when . . . Well, when APEX was terminated.’

  Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘Went bust, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Sergeant. APEX didn’t go bust – it was closed down. Twenty people went to the Arctic, but only two came back. I was one of the two who came back, but I wish I hadn’t. Oh, I had a life, but I wasn’t the same person anymore.’ A single tear rode the canyons of her face like a white-water raft full of dark memories.

  ‘And what happened to the two tarpaulins that were in the store?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Who was the other person who came back with you?’

  ‘Dr Martin Fuchs, but he’s dead now. He was old then, and he died in 1999.’

  ‘Would he have taken the tarpaulins?’

  ‘I can’t imagine why he would have done such a thing.’

  ‘Was he married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With children?’

  ‘Two I think – a boy and a girl. I remember a family photograph he kept looking at.’

  ‘Any idea where they live?’

  ‘He had an old cottage in Great Amwell, but whether anybody still lives there . . . ?’ she shrugged.

  ‘Who closed APEX down?’

  ‘If you walk into that building on the Albert Embankment and ask them to tell you everything they know about the Deep Freeze Expedition, I’m
sure you’ll get more than you ever dreamed of. Oh! And don’t mention my name.’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s your final word?’

  ‘It’s giant stuffed mushrooms for dinner, you know.’

  Stick stacked the chairs behind the door again.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Miss Robinson,’ Xena said.

  ‘It’s Doctor Robinson, actually.’

  ‘You never got married?’

  ‘After I . . . are you two still here? Don’t think you can trick an old woman into spilling her guts. I’m more than a match for you two.’

  The corner of Xena’s mouth creased upwards. ‘It’s time we went then.’

  Outside, as they made their way along the corridor, Stick said, ‘I suppose we’re going to the Albert Embankment now, aren’t we?’

  Xena’s head swivelled on its axis to stare at him. ‘You’re crazier than a bag of frogs. Do you want to end up dead?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere near the Albert Embankment. What they found in the Arctic is none of our business.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Oh, I grant you, it would be very nice to know, because now I have an itch I can’t scratch. And for a detective – something you’d know nothing about – that’s more maddening than a parachute not opening after stepping out of a fully-functioning aeroplane.’

  ‘Great Amwell?’

  ‘After the press briefing in the morning. It’s getting late now. We’ll go back to the station and bring the incident board up-to-date. I also want updates from Hefferbitch, Doc Paine and the animal whisperer.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call her that.’

  ‘Take it from someone who knows, Stickamundo. Wishes almost never come true.’

  ***

  It was the longest afternoon she could ever remember. When she was out and about with DI Parish, the days seem to whizz by. It was as if she was on a treasure hunt every day of her life – collecting clues, working out what they meant and how they fitted into the overall picture of a murder. She was pitting her wits against those of the worst serial killers in Britain. But here, a second followed a second, a minute followed a minute, and an hour followed an hour. The second, minute and hour hands of the clock defined her life. She was an afterthought in the equation of time.