by Ellis, Tim
‘He sure is.’
And so they caught up with all the news and the gossip while they ate their paninis and drank their iced lattes, but at five to two Laveen had to go.
‘Once a month from now on. Not a day longer, do you hear? Next month, I’ll want to see the baby, of course, and then there’s the christening...’
They hugged, and then Laveen was gone like a tornado passing through.
Small doses. Yes, once a month was certainly enough. She’d forgotten how wearing Laveen could be. She finished her latte, went to the toilet as a matter of urgency, because something large and heavy was playing football with her bladder, and then left. Maybe she’d walk round for an hour or so window-shopping. There were still things they needed for the baby.
***
‘What can you tell us about Miss Taverner?’ Nash asked Donna Burgan.
They were taking it in turns to play the role of lead interviewer, and Kowalski realised he’d got it wrong. He should have let Nash take Muriel Davies, and then he could have interviewed the lovely Donna. She had dark brown hair to her shoulders, a backless, sleeveless and frontless halter-neck top with no bra, and a barbed wire tattoo around the top of her right arm. She was in her mid-twenties and had legs up to her armpits. He definitely would have voted for her as the “Sexiest Barmaid in Essex”. She certainly ticked all of his boxes.
She saw him looking at her chest, and put her hands up to cover her breasts. ‘Don’t think I dress like this all the time, you know. Miss Taverner told us to make an effort. Show our assets off she said. Get the punters in. We had no choice if we wanted to keep our jobs. She dressed like this herself as well. I’m not saying I don’t like men ogling me, but it never stops there, does it? They always want more – a lot more.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kowalski said.
‘Well, like you. If I gave you the nod, you’d have your ferret out and in my rabbit hole faster than an Olympic sprinter.’
‘I’m married,’ he said, pulling a face.
She scoffed. ‘They’re the worst ones.’
Nash gave Kowalski a look, as if to say, “Stop interrupting”. ‘Can we get back to Lisa Taverner?’
‘Every night she had someone up there, and it was very rarely the same guy twice. Never a single guy, always a married one.’
‘Every night?’
‘Without fail. Definitely liked getting screwed did Miss Taverner. She used to tell us that married men came without complications. There was no fumbling in the dark. They knew exactly what to do, and usually gave a good account of themselves.’
‘Every night?’ Nash repeated.
‘You sound as though you don’t believe me? Don’t you get shagged every night?’
Kowalski leaned closer.
‘We’re not here to talk about us.’
‘This pub is full to bursting every night. Guys come in here hoping they’re gonna get picked by Miss Taverner. Tips were brilliant. Trouble was – a lot of them thought it was a knocking shop, and that the barmaids were on the menu as well. I’ve had offers in excess of a thousand pounds, you know.’
‘I can well believe it,’ Kowalski said like a connoisseur.
‘Are you interested?’
‘I’m on duty,’ he said, as if that meant something.
‘That’s not stopped the local coppers getting their hands dirty.’
‘Do you know if Miss Taverner had any enemies?’
‘You mean like all the wives in Wormley and the surrounding villages?’
‘Who might want to kill her?’
‘I could fill a book with the names of women who’ve threatened to kill her. The wives hated her. Some of the men as well.’
‘Why the men?’ Kowalski interrupted again.
‘Some wanted more than a one-night stand.’
‘Could you give us any names?’
‘Two spring to mind – Steven Hill and Mark Larwood. Both were prepared to leave their wives and marry her, but she wasn’t having any of that. Marriage was for idiots she used to say.’
‘Addresses?’
Donna shrugged.
‘Is there anyone else who you think would have actually killed Miss Taverner?’
‘No, there were lots of wives who said they would, but they wouldn’t have. I’d have thought that most of them would’ve been glad to get rid of some of the deadlegs I saw going upstairs. Yeah, I like a good shag as much as the next girl, but most men are a waste of space beyond that.’
‘Thanks very much for talking to us,’ Kowalski said.
‘You’re welcome. I suppose I haven’t got a job now?’
‘We suggest you ring the brewery. The pub will certainly be closed for the next couple of days.’
‘I’ll have to go on the game then...’ She laughed. ‘I’m joking by the way.’
Once she’d left Nash said, ‘She wasn’t joking.’
Kowalski merely smiled.
‘Did I see her slip something into your hand on her way out?’
He opened his hand to reveal a scrap of paper. ‘Phone number.’
‘She’s hoping she can get a thousand pounds out of you. I bet you would as well.’
He screwed the paper up and put it in the ashtray. ‘You don’t know me very well, Nash.’
‘And when I’m interviewing, stop interrupting.’
His eyes creased to slits. ‘You’re beginning to piss me off, Nash. You don’t seem to understand how the chain of command works. I’m the DI, which is two ranks above you. If I want to interrupt your interviews, I damn well will do. Now, if you feel the urge to object to anything else I do – stop yourself, because you’re very close to getting fired. Are we clear?’
‘Did you talk to your last partner like that?’
‘I didn’t need to. He understood the chain of command. And you should take note that if you mention Ed again, I’ll smack you in the mouth – woman or not.’
She stamped out.
He didn’t need this aggravation. On paper, and in the flesh, Nash was the ideal candidate. On the ground – where it really mattered – she was a fucking pain in the arse. What he wanted was a partner, not a wife moaning at him at every opportunity. Fucking hell – Jerry didn’t do that, so why would he let Nash get away with it. She’d have to go. He’d talk to the Chief when they got back to the station.
He wandered out into the bar.
‘I’m going out to get some lunch,’ he called out to Nash.
‘I’ll come...’
‘No you won’t. You stay here and make sure everybody’s doing their jobs.’
‘But...’
He didn’t bother waiting for her to finish, but opened the main door and stepped out into the street. Heavy snow began to fall and swirl about his feet. For no particular reason, he turned left and walked until he came to the Wormley Cafe on a corner and went in. No sooner had he sat down than he spotted Eileen’s Florists on the other side of the road.
‘Sorry,’ he said to the young Chinese-looking woman behind the counter. ‘I’m just going across the road, and then I’ll be back.’
The main road through Wormley village was quiet. As he walked to the florists he guessed it might be because there was a funeral in full swing at St Laurence Church to his right.
‘Yes, Sir?’ Eileen said. Well, he guessed she was Eileen because there were no other staff in the florists.
‘Do you know what certain flowers mean?’
‘I do.’
‘What about a dead flower?’
‘Oh dear.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t want to send dead flowers to a lady, Sir.’
He grunted. ‘No, I’m a policeman investigating a murder. A dead flower was left on the body.’ He didn’t need to tell her where it had been left.
‘Ah, the landlady of The Snooty Pig?’
‘News travels fast.’
‘It’s a small village when it wants to be.’
‘Please keep the news to yourself. So, w
hat does a dead flower signify?’
‘What type of flower?’
‘A white rose.’
‘If it were a fresh flower, it would mean, “eternal love”. A withered flower, regardless of the type, means, “rejected love”.’
He nodded. Lisa Taverner clearly wasn’t a lesbian. The killer was a man, not a woman. ‘Thank you, Eileen. You’ve been most helpful.’
The woman smiled. ‘No, Eileen doesn’t own the shop anymore. I do. My name’s Frederica, but Freddie’s Florist just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?’
‘I suppose not, but thanks anyway, whatever your name is.’ He walked back across the road and ordered a Greek salad. He hated salad, but Jerry could smell a full English from five miles away.
***
Heavy snow began to fall as they climbed into the car. Parish drove again.
‘Okay, move onto number two.’
‘I don’t know if I want to play that game anymore. If I’m such a bad detective maybe we should just forget about it. I’ll go back to being a plain old constable, and you can go back to being a lonely crab of a man with a bad haircut and a microwave.’
He laughed. ‘Is that how you saw me?’
‘I haven’t mentioned the worn out crumpled clothes, the three-day old beard, and the...’
‘All right, you can stop now. Look, I’m trying to help you. Tell me what number two is?’
‘Shouldn’t we stay focused on the case? Where are we going first?’
‘We’re going to see the father of the missing baby – Kenneth Crafford. Number two?’
‘So, we know who the father is, but not the mother?’
‘Number two?’
‘If you pick on me...’
‘I won’t pick on you.’
She hunted around on the back seat and found the booklet. ‘Number two is: Advise clients on the viability and consequences of carrying out investigations.’
‘You’ll have no problem with that one.’
‘I won’t?’
‘No. Next.’
‘Number Three: Interview witnesses to support investigations.’
‘You shine at talking to witnesses.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘I do?’
‘Most definitely. Next.’
‘Number Four: Interview suspects to collect information.’
‘No problem.’
‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘I am not. Most of the standards you’ll pass with flying colours. We just need to put Digby’s collar and lead on you to stop you running off into the long grass after the lions and tigers.’
‘You think I’m too eager?’
‘What I think is that you need to think before you act when you’re on your own. The Crime Channel does not prepare you for some situations, and for crazy people.’
‘Nothing can prepare you for crazy people.’
‘Exactly. That’s why it’s important to be prepared.’
She turned to look at him. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Think about it.’
He pulled up outside Meldrum, Wyles & Garden solicitors on the London Road in Little Amwell.
‘You can interview Mr Crafford.’
‘If you’d said earlier, I could have been thinking about what questions to ask him.’
They climbed out of the car and walked towards the front entrance. There was a large window with blue lettering “Specialist Property Lawyers” obscuring the view and a blue door.
‘What do you need to think about? Just ask him which woman had his baby, did he kill her and chop her up, and where are the head, hands and feet?’
‘I bet it’s not that simple.’
‘It never is.’
‘But you said I should prepare.’
‘Some things you can never prepare for.’
‘And that’s why I should be prepared?’
‘I think you’re getting the hang of it.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You will.’
A fresh-faced teenager with long shiny brown hair and a mustard-coloured roll-neck knitted top on was sitting behind a counter.
‘Yes, Sir?’
Parish showed her his warrant card. ‘Mr Crafford, please.’
She keyed in a number on a telephone. ‘There are two police officers to see you, Mr Crafford.’
Soon, a man, probably in his mid-twenties, appeared. He had dark curly hair, a five o’clock shadow – even though it was only five to three – and an easy smile.
‘I’m Ken Crafford. What can I do for you?’
‘We need to ask you some questions, Sir,’ Richards said.
There was a twinkle in his eyes, and he smiled at Richards as if she’d agreed to go to bed with him. ‘Please come through.’ He ignored Parish.
He showed them through into what was clearly a meeting room. It had a round light wood table and matching chairs with blue upholstery – otherwise it was empty.
‘What’s this about?’
‘It’s a bit delicate, Sir,’ Richards began. ‘A dead woman has been found, and when the pathologist carried out the post mortem we discovered that she had recently given birth. Tests carried out on the amniotic fluid indicated that you are the father of the child.’
He shook his head as if to dislodge cobwebs. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Richards glanced at Parish, but he didn’t intervene.
‘About ten months ago you went with a woman and made her pregnant. She gave birth to that child approximately six weeks ago, and was then murdered shortly afterwards. Can you tell us what you know about that?’
‘Absolutely nothing. What about the baby?’
‘We have no idea. For reasons we can’t discuss with you, we are having trouble identifying the woman.’
‘And you think I might know who she is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s see, I’ve probably had sex with forty or more women during those ten months. I have no idea who she might be. Even if I saw her I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you her name. After a while they all blur into one.’
‘And you weren’t contacted about being the father of a child?’
‘Nothing. I usually check that the woman is taking the pill or something. If not, I wear a condom. So, I’m a father? And you don’t know where this baby is?’
‘No.’
Richards passed her card over. ‘If you do think of anything, please ring us at Hoddesdon Police Station.’
Parish and Richards stood to leave.
‘Is that it? You come here, tell me I’m a father; that the mother of the child has been murdered, and then you leave.’
‘It’s not about you, Sir. It’s about finding the woman’s killer, and also discovering what has happened to a small baby boy.’
‘It’s a boy?’
‘So the pathologist has informed us.’
‘Will you let me know if you find the baby?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. That would be highly inappropriate. Once the woman is identified, you might discuss the child with her relatives.’
‘What if you never find out who she is?’
‘Then the child won’t be identified either.’
Crafford watched them leave.
Parish noticed that the young solicitor wasn’t smiling anymore, and the twinkle in his eyes had been snuffed out.
‘That was a bit scary,’ Richards said outside.
The snow was even heavier, and it had begun to stick.
‘You did a good job in there.’
‘My heart was going so fast I thought I was going to faint.’
‘I would trust you to interview suspects on your own.’
‘I fancied him, you know.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Until he said he’d slept with over forty women. He was so good looking, and a solicitor as well. That’s the type of man I want – not him though. I realised that he was just a crazy person. Forty women in ten months
! There’s something wrong with him if he needs to do that.’
They climbed into the car to escape from the swirling snowstorm. It was twenty-five to four and the light was fading.
‘I just wonder where he gets all those women from,’ Parish said, and grinned.
She hit him on the arm. ‘No you don’t.’
Chapter Five
She’d been following Angie Parish as she walked around Chigwell window-shopping. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so bored. In fact, if she weren’t going to kill her after taking her baby, she would have killed her for being so damned boring anyway.
If it had been summer it wouldn’t have been so bad, but she was wet and cold. She wondered whether to snatch her this afternoon, but she wasn’t ready. Tomorrow – she just had to be patient.
When Angie hailed a taxi to take her home she followed in her own car, and then watched as the bitch went inside her perfect home with the shopping she’d bought for the baby.
Tomorrow, the home wouldn’t be so perfect. Tomorrow, the very pregnant Angela Parish would leave her home and disappear.
There was a time – not too long ago – when she’d had a perfect home with a perfect husband. That had been until he’d been lured away.
The corner of her mouth distorted into a half-crazed smile. She’d found out where he was staying, and who with. Tonight, she’d give him what he wanted, and the bitch who’d taken him away from her would also die.
Star light,
Star bright,
First star
I see tonight
I wish I may,
I wish I might,
Have this wish
I wish tonight.
***
‘Right, Nash,’ Kowalski said when he got back to The Snooty Pig. ‘Let’s make a move before we get snowed in. We’ve still got people to see before we can call it a day. There’s nothing more for us to do here.’
‘Did you have a nice lunch?’
He noted that she very rarely called him “Sir”. ‘Very nice, thank you.’
‘Where to first?’
‘I think we’ll talk to the two suspects this afternoon – Tony Gardner and Christopher Leamon. I’ll drive. While we’re moving ring the other four bar staff and ask them to come into the station tomorrow morning between nine and ten. That’ll save us a lot of time.’