by Tim Ellis
That had all happened four months ago, and Parish decided then that he’d do without a partner for a while. Of course, that was until the Chief had given him this case and he’d co-opted PC Mary Richards.
***
It was three thirty-five when they climbed back into the Mondeo in the hospital car park.
‘The school, Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘That wasn’t very pleasant, was it?’
‘It never is, but you did a good job in there – well done.’
‘Thanks. I nearly became a nurse like my mum, but in the end I decided on the police.’
‘Nursing’s loss is our gain. Is your mum still a nurse?’
‘Yes. She works in the intensive care unit in the hospital.’
‘You could have gone up and seen her if you’d said.’
‘She’s not there; she’s on night duty. Finishes Friday night.’
‘Just in time to make my Sunday lunch.’
Richards grinned. ‘Yes.’
They were five minutes early, but the gates of the school were unlocked and the front door was open.
A natural blonde-haired woman, with more than her fair share of breasts, met them just inside the door. Another man, who was either her husband or the caretaker, was standing to one side like a bodyguard, but wasn’t introduced.
‘Can I see some identification before I hand over the file?’ the woman said.
Parish produced his warrant card.
‘Thank you.’ She gave the file to Parish and glanced at Richards. ‘You used to be a pupil here, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss Lovitt. I’m Mary Richards.’
‘So you are – and a policewoman now? Well, I hope you’re going to catch whoever killed Mr Taylor?’
‘We will, Miss Lovitt.’
She turned back to Parish and adopted a stern expression. ‘When can I have my file back, Sergeant?’
‘When is the school going to be open again?’ he countered.
‘When it stops snowing.’
‘That’s when you’ll get your file back then.’
‘Oh!’
Chapter Seven
‘Back to the station, Richards.’
She pulled away from the front of Chigwell Secondary School and headed towards Hoddesdon Police Station. It was nearly dark and the streetlights had come on.
‘What does the file say?’
‘This is not a speaking file, and I don’t like reading while I’m a passenger in a car; it makes me feel sick.’
‘What are we going to do when we get back to the station?’
‘We’ll create an incident board and try to make sense of what we’ve got so far. And when we do find a suspect, I’m going to let you interrogate him. I have a feeling no one could hide anything from you for long.’
‘If you want me to stop asking questions, you only have to say so.’
‘A detective that doesn’t ask questions is like an elephant without a trunk.’
She glanced sideways at him and said, ‘If you say so.’
They reached the station at four thirty-five. Richards dropped Parish off, and he told her to take the car back to the garage and then come up to the second floor of the station. It was time he introduced her to everyone.
After telling PC Susan Meredith on the desk to let Richards up to the squad room, he made a detour via forensics before they closed up for the night. When he got there Toadstone had his coat on and was heading for the door. Parish told him he wanted the metal content of the token analysed, and Toadstone said he’d do it first thing in the morning and email him the results by nine thirty.
The squad room was beginning to empty for the night as Parish walked in.
‘Sergeant Parish, as I live and breathe,’ DI Ray Kowalski said. ‘Just got back from your holidays?’
The two were old friends and regularly swapped banter in passing.
‘I haven’t had a holiday since 1990, Ray - you’ve taken them all.’
Ray Kowalski was often mistaken for the side of a house. He was thirty-eight, had cropped blond hair, and had begun to sag around the jowls and the waist, but he still looked like a formidable opponent. Criminals didn’t argue with DI Kowalski. ‘Rumour has it that you’ve got a new partner at last?’
‘You’ve obviously got nothing else better to do if you’re listening to rumours.’
‘A good looking constable, so the rumour goes.’
‘She’ll be here in a minute. You can take a look for yourself, but if you hit on her, I’ll tell her about how you like wrinkled old grannies – the older the better.’
They both laughed.
‘You just want her for yourself.’
Just then Richards walked into the squad room.
‘You didn’t tell me she was a supermodel, Parish. Are you going to introduce me?’
Richards began to inspect her fingernails.
‘This is DI Ray Kowalski, Richards. Take no notice of him; he talks rubbish most of the time.’
‘You don’t think I look like a supermodel then?’
‘Stop fishing for compliments, Richards.’
‘Sorry.’
Richards introduced herself and shook hands with Kowalski.
‘Have you been promoted and nobody’s told me, Sergeant?’
‘Come on, Richards. You’re not sashaying down the catwalk now; we have work to do. Go and arrest someone Kowalski, and leave PC Richards alone.’
‘You know that if you need some help, Parish, you only have to ask,’ Kowalski leered at Richards. ‘You as well, Constable. In fact, especially you.’
She smiled at Kowalski. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Richards,’ Parish called.
‘Coming.’
Parish found a training room with a white board and marker pens. Richards followed him in and closed the door.
‘Don’t…’ he began.
She touched his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Sir. I know what DI Kowalski was after. I’ve met his type before.’
Parish busied himself moving the whiteboard into position and collecting up the marker pens. ‘Yes, well just so long as you do know. And remember, you’re under my protection now, so don’t hide things from me. If any of those idiots out there step over the line, I want to know about it. Okay?’
Richards sat down at the table. ‘Okay.’
‘Right, let’s get this wrapped up. I’m going out tonight.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Need to know.’
‘And I don’t need to know?’
‘Correct. Right, first of all let’s do a timeline of Mr Taylor’s life.’ He passed Richards the personnel file while he was standing at the whiteboard, marker pen poised.
Richards opened the file and began skimming. ‘He was born in West Ham to Elizabeth and Albert Taylor on 4th February 1961. Went to St Nicholas Church of England Primary School, and then to Standahl Grammar School. He did a degree in History, which included a Post-Graduate Certificate in Education, at Bristol University between 1979 and 1982. He then joined the Housing Department of Redbridge Council as a rent advisor until 1986. His first teaching post was in the history department of Ravenscroft School in September of 1986, which, as Mr Bell said, closed and was amalgamated with Chigwell School in 1994.
Parish said, ‘Has he got a disciplinary record in there?’
Richards riffled through the pages and eventually said, ‘No.’
‘What about complaints?’
‘Nothing.’ She pulled the India tag through the holes of the file and started making piles.’
‘Mrs Lovitt isn’t going to like you, Richards.’
‘I know. I’ll get expelled for this.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making sure we don’t miss anything. I’m putting the pages into piles based on content, such as training, references, annual reports and so on.’
Parish sat down and waited until she’d finished. ‘Okay, go through each pile and see if there’s
anything in there.’ He picked up the smallest pile.’
‘I knew you’d pick that one.’
‘Someone had to.’
They found nothing but glowing reports. Greg Taylor was the perfect teacher.
‘At least we found out that he worked for four years at Redbridge Council,’ Richards said. ‘We didn’t know that before.’
Parish picked up the pile containing references and found the one from Redbridge Council. It was a standard reference dated 12 July 1986 and said nothing useful. The signature block stated: Herbert Micklethwaite, Director of Housing. He passed the reference to Richards. ‘We’ll go to Redbridge Council again tomorrow, see if anyone remembers Greg Taylor, and find out what his work entailed.’
‘It doesn’t sound promising.’
‘What else have we got? Everything we’ve read and heard indicates that Gregory Taylor was an exemplary teacher with no enemies. If that’s the case, then he either upset someone outside teaching - but according to his wife he had no outside interests - or he upset someone in his past, and that’s what we need to investigate next.’
‘Maybe we’re wrong?’
‘Wrong! That’s not a word I want you to use near me, Richards.’
‘Sorry, Sir, but maybe it was a random killing and the token is a signature of some kind.’
‘Let’s not give up until we’ve exhausted all other avenues of inquiry. If you’re going to be a good detective, you need perseverance. In most cases you turn down blind alleys, reach dead ends, and stumble around in the dark before you find something that helps everything else make sense. All we’ve got at the moment are fragments of the whole. We need to be patient. Right, go home, and remember – nine thirty tomorrow morning. Get the pool car, and then come up here. I’ve got to send an email to our man in Sweden, and then see the Chief before we go anywhere. While I’m doing that, you can arrange an appointment with someone in Housing at Redbridge Council, and find out whether Mrs Taylor is up to answering our questions yet.’
Richards got up and put on her coat, scarf, hat and gloves. ‘See you tomorrow then, and have a nice evening tonight, wherever it is you’re going.’
‘I will, and don’t think about following me.’
‘Good night, Sir.’
‘Good night, Richards.’
Parish went to his desk in the squad room. While he was waiting for the login screen to appear, he skimmed through Gregory Taylor’s post-mortem report. Doc Michelin was right: there was nothing more of interest. He put the file in his pending tray, logged onto the computer and wrote his report for the Chief. It was a short report. Maybe Richards was right, he thought. Maybe they had taken a wrong turn. He’d give it tomorrow and then review where they were.
It was six thirty when he switched the lights out in the squad room and made his way out to the car park.
***
Diane Flint had been preparing her quarterly report for the Council’s Social Care –Children & Health Committee – all day long, only to be informed at six thirty that the scheduled meeting was cancelled due to the inclement weather. It wasn’t the first time she had been the last to know. As Redbridge Council’s Director of Social Services, she expected a certain level of respect from the council’s elected members, but since Mrs Emily Catchpole had been appointed as the new Chairperson of the Committee, that level of respect had declined to an unacceptable level and she had no idea why.
As she packed her briefcase and then put on her coat, she wondered whether it was time to take early retirement. At fifty-three years old she had been a social worker all of her working life, and she wasn’t getting any younger. She had no life to speak of – her husband had left her long ago. There were no friends, and no family. She was alone. All she had was her work, and if they took that away from her, well, what was left? Lately, she had been wondering what it was all for. Maybe now was the time to go. Maybe she had reached that crossroads in her life and it was time to make a decision.
It was six fifty as she entered the lift and descended four floors to the basement car park. There was no one about that she could see, and only a few cars remained. Although there were CCTV cameras in the car park, she still felt nervous at this time of night.
What would she do when she arrived home but work? Yes, she had a cat, but one cat did not a life make. She had squandered her life helping other people, although some would say it was meddling in those people’s lives. Her intentions had been honest. She had worked within the rules. It was clear that some parents didn’t deserve to have children, and that some children didn’t deserve to have parents. She had done her best, and that was all anybody could ask of her. In that moment she smiled, and knew in her heart that she wanted to retire, to enjoy the autumn of her life. In fact, have a life.
The locks on her Lexus GS 450h SE sighed open as she walked towards it. She didn’t hear the man, dressed all in black with a hood covering his face, move from behind a concrete pillar and follow her.
‘Excuse me?’ the man said.
Diane Flint’s heart might have leapt into her mouth as she turned around if it hadn’t been for the marlinspike, which had pierced her thoracic cavity between the fourth and fifth thoracic ribs, entered the left atrium and severed the aorta. Her mouth opened to call out, to scream, but she was already dead as she slid down the rear door of her silver Lexus GS 450h SE. She didn’t even hear the man whisper: ‘A life for a life Mrs Flint.’
Neither did she feel the man place a token on her tongue, close her mouth and say: ‘For Joseph Dobbs.’ She also didn’t see him walk out of the empty car park.
***
He caught the bus back to Chigwell, back to the cold dreary flat, back to the confines of his life.
He put a black cross through the newspaper picture of Diane Flint’s austere face that he’d stuck to the wall above his bed. It had all started with her. She had been the one who had altered the course of many lives. But for her, he could have been an astronaut exploring distant galaxies, or an aircraft pilot shooting down enemy planes, or a teacher like Mr Taylor. He could have been someone different: someone who didn’t have a rucksack full of guilt, pain and regrets strapped to his back; someone who liked people, and who had a future; someone who could see the footprints of a life to follow stretched out before him. But he was a ghost, had been for as long as he could remember. A ghost of someone he might have been.
It had taken him twenty-four years to keep his promise – a life for a life. That was what he had sworn to himself and the others. It was simple arithmetic, cancelling out both sides of the sum.
He lay down on the bed and waited for the nightmares to come, as they always did. Brian Ridpath’s picture mocked him from the wall. Anger welled up inside him, but he controlled it. What was the point of anger now? The time for anger had long since passed under the bridge. Now, it was time for revenge. Tomorrow, Brian Ridpath would die. A life for a life, he chanted inside his mind until the darkness came.
Chapter Eight
By the time Parish got back to his flat he only had fifty minutes to shower, get ready and travel to the Ram Inn in Chigwell to meet LoopyLou. Ripping off his clothes, he called a taxi for twenty to eight, and then dived into the shower. He was ready to go by seven thirty, so he had a quick tidy up of his flat, just in case it went the distance. He didn’t want anyone thinking he was a slob.
It was two minutes to eight when he walked into the Ram Inn. A real log fire crackled in the hearth, and thankfully the music was low and easy to listen to. He saw the yellow dress immediately. She was sitting at the bar with a horde of admirers. Her laughter was soft, and her long light brown hair sparkled like tinsel in the firelight.
‘Extra cold Guinness,’ he said when the barman asked him what he wanted. He felt embarrassed, and didn’t know how to let LoopyLou know he was there. The pub was quite crowded for a Thursday night. Then, as if by magic, her admirers faded away. He cleared his throat and she turned around.
‘Brad Russell?’
&n
bsp; ‘LoopyLou?’
She smiled.
He was glad he had decided to meet her. There had been moments earlier in the day when he’d thought he was being foolish, that he was too old for dating.
His mobile activated. He didn’t want to answer it, but he knew he had to. ‘Sorry,’ he said to her, and pressed accept.
‘Yes?’ There was a resigned quality to his voice.
‘Is this a bad time, Sergeant?’ It was Doc Michelin.
‘Will you go away and bother someone else if I say yes?’
‘I could, but then you’d be in the shit.’
‘Why are you ringing, Doc?’
‘I’m in the basement car park of Redbridge Council. Mrs Diane Flint, the Director of Social Services, is lying next to her car with a hole in her heart and a token in her mouth that has the number 32 on it.’
‘Shit. Okay, Doc, I’m on my way.’
He turned to LoopyLou, shrugged and walked outside to ring Richards.
‘Hello, Sir. Are you having a nice time?’
‘I’m at the Ram Inn on Curzon Street, Richards. Come and pick me up. We’ve got another body.’
‘I’m in my pyjamas.’
‘If I were you I’d get changed first. And don’t be long; it’s bloody freezing out here.’
Stamping his feet outside the pub, he rang the duty sergeant and told him to get a SOCO over to the council offices.
He could hear her VW Beetle coming towards him before he actually saw it. She was right; it was a rustbucket. He climbed in and fastened the seatbelt. She had music he’d never heard before playing softly in the background.