by Tim Ellis
The Chief had probably put his hand in his pocket for the cakes, orange juice, coke and lemonade. Ten-thirty in the morning was far too early for alcohol, but the crowd were all going to Dirty Nelly’s at five thirty and he’d been invited to buy the first round.
‘Congratulations, Sir,’ Richards said when he’d spoken to most people, some of whom he hadn’t seen for months.
‘Thanks, Richards.’
‘Does that mean you’re still on the case?’
‘It means we’re both still on the case. Did you do what I asked you to do?’
‘Of course. Forensics said someone will have a look at the disc but they make no promises. Redbridge Council confirmed that Diane Flint worked for them between those dates as a social worker. Mrs Taylor is staying with family in Derbyshire and will be back on Monday for her husband’s funeral, and Doc Michelin is not doing Diane Flint’s post-mortem until ten-thirty tomorrow morning.’
‘Well done. Have we got a contact number for Mrs Taylor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we going to be able to speak to her on Monday?’
‘She’ll be burying her husband.’
‘Is that a no, then?’
‘I would leave it until Wednesday, as a mark of respect.’
‘Wednesday? Okay, I’ll go along with you this time. Give Mrs Taylor a ring and ask her to come into the station at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning to provide us with a formal statement.’
‘All right, Sir.’
‘This morning we need to go to the council offices to find out what happened during those dates that links the two victims together, and we can also take a look around Diane Flint’s abode.’ He checked his watch. It was ten forty-five. ‘Or should I say, what’s left of this morning. I’ve got to be back here for two o’clock for a press briefing.’
‘Are you going to be on the telly?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘I’ll be able to point you out to my mum before Sunday. But you could do with a haircut.’
‘Have you finished having a good time partying?’
‘It’s your party. I was simply joining in.’
‘I hate parties.’
‘I knew you would. As soon as they started organising it after you’d gone in to see the Chief, I knew you’d hate it.’
‘I might have to consider getting a new partner – one that doesn’t keep trying to analyse me every five minutes.’
Richards smiled and flicked the hair out of her eyes. ‘I’m ready to go when you are.’ She went to his desk and started putting on her coat, scarf, gloves and hat.
‘Going so soon, Parish?’ Kowalski said.
‘Work to do, Kowalski. Something you wouldn’t know a lot about. I don’t want to get busted back down to sergeant for partying all day.’
‘You could leave Richards here. I’ll look after her.’
‘Get a life, Kowalski. She’s far too young and pretty for you.’
‘See you at five, Parish. Bring your piggy bank with you. It’ll be a long night.’
Richards followed him out. On the stairs she said, ‘DI Kowalski’s a moron, isn’t he, Sir?’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you that all morning, Richards’
‘Do you really think I’m pretty?’
‘Stop fishing.’
‘Sorry.’
It had been snowing again, and the dark ominous sky promised more of the same. The gritters were out, but they were fighting a losing battle. The snowdrifts made the local area look like the Arctic, but without the polar bears. Some people had abandoned normal modes of transport and were in sledges, on skis or snowboards, and one entrepreneur had opened up a stall at the side of the road to rent out teams of huskies.
‘Everybody goes mad when there’s a bit of snow.’
‘Not everyone, Richards. Keep your eyes on the road.’
***
Diane Flint had lived in a four-bedroom town house on Middleton Road in Redbridge overlooking the frozen wastes of Valentines Park and the golf driving range. Parish opened the UPVC door of number seventeen using the key Richards had obtained from Toadstone in forensics.
There was a heap of post on the hall floor and Parish picked it up and put it on the telephone table. He wondered who would open her post. Diane Flint seemed to be just like him, putting a question mark in the next of kin box on official forms. They’d learned she had no next of kin. He wondered where her money would go. At least he had some distant relatives, both in terms of geography and DNA, and they would probably inherit his debts.
Richards switched the lights on.
‘I’ve noticed that you’re a female, Richards,’ he said, ‘so you can stay down here and look in the bedrooms.’
‘You’re very observant. What am I looking for?’
‘Anything that might give us a clue as to why she was killed. I’ll go upstairs and rummage around in the other rooms.’
‘Okay.’
Upstairs, there were no photographs in frames on the sideboard or the table. The pictures hanging on the walls looked as though they came with the house, much the same as smiling photographs in the clear plastic section of a new wallet or purse. This was a human garage similar to his own flat. A place for sleeping, eating and re-charging batteries between work shifts. He looked in drawers and cupboards, but found only insurance policies, car documents, and other paperwork belonging to a lonely person. There were no letters from loved ones, no fridge magnets with “Smile If You Love a Social Worker” or “Did Someone Say Chocolate?” There was no address book filled with friends and relatives, and no knick-knacks from family days out cluttering up the surfaces.
On the coffee and dining tables were research reports and longhand notes, as well as open books on ethics, anti-discrimination and child protection, with sections highlighted in green, orange and yellow. He switched on a laptop computer, which he knew would contain council reports, budgets and personnel appraisals, and he was not disappointed. In the Internet search history he found only social work terms. It was as if a person with no past or future lived here.
On the bookshelves were books on social work, psychology, sociology, politics and local government. There were no novels or biographies – nothing personal – not even matching bookends.
Richards appeared. ‘There’s nothing in the bedrooms, Sir. If it weren’t for the clothes, I wouldn’t be able to tell you who lived here.’
‘It’s the same down here, Richards. Let’s go. I’m depressed. We’ll find nothing of interest here.’
***
It would take at least a week before he received his new warrant card, and before that happened he’d have to go and get a passport photograph taken. He hated those damned machines – they were designed by idiots for idiots. He couldn’t get the hang of the seat, the flashing light, where to look, or anything else about them. And the photographs that came out always looked as though he was one flash away from the funny farm.
It was a different receptionist at the desk in the council offices. Paula, the new receptionist, was a lot friendlier than Astrid had been.
‘Detective Inspector Parish,’ he said, holding his warrant card up, but with his finger strategically placed over the Sergeant. It sounded so good when he said it that he wanted to say it again, but he also knew that if he did he’d look like an idiot, so he restrained himself. Maybe later, when he was in his flat, he could practice in front of the mirror. It was important to get these things right.
‘Yes, Sir. How can I help?
Paula had red hair, freckles and a wonderful smile.
‘I’m here about the murder of Mrs Flint, and I’d like to see the person in charge of the personnel records.’
She picked up the phone, dialled an internal number and spoke softly into the mouthpiece. ‘Mr Chivers is on his way down, Sir. He’s the Director of Personnel.’
‘Thank you, Paula,’ Parish said.
‘You’re welcome, Sir.’ And she was moving on to the next visitor
as if she was genetically programmed to be a receptionist.
Mr Reginald Chivers, a tall angular-faced man in his fifties and dressed in a three-piece suit, took them up to a rather plush office on the fifth floor with a deep-pile carpet, mahogany desk and brown leather chairs. He offered them real Colombian coffee. Richards declined, but Parish needed a caffeine fix and accepted, asking for milk and only two sugars – he always restrained himself when he was let loose in public.
‘We’re all very shocked about the murder of Diane Flint, Inspector, and the Director of Security has instigated a full review of our security measures.’
‘I understand, Sir, and we’re doing everything we can to bring her killer to justice. To assist us, we need to look at two of your personnel files. A Mr Gregory Taylor, who was employed in the Housing Department during the period 1982 to 1986, and of course, Mrs Flint.’
‘Mr Taylor? Yes, I saw the report on the news. Did he work here at the council? I thought he was a teacher?’
‘According to his personnel records from Chigwell Secondary School, he was employed here during that period before he went into teaching. There was a reference signed by a Mr Micklethwaite.’
‘Ah yes. Herbert Micklethwaite was Director of Housing then. He’s dead now though.’ Mr Chivers leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘So, you think the same person who murdered Mr Taylor killed Diane Flint?'
‘We’re not sure of anything yet, Mr Chivers. That’s why we need to look at the personnel files.’
Mr Chivers went to his desk and pressed the button on the intercom. ‘Carrie, could you bring in the personnel files for Diane Flint, and a Mr Gregory Taylor who worked in the Housing Department between 1982 and 1986, please?’ He came back and sat down. ‘It might take some time. We only keep active files in the office. What, specifically, are you interested in, Inspector?’
‘Whether the two worked together on anything. A project or something they were both involved in. Maybe a client who didn’t like the service he received from either Mrs Flint or Mr Taylor. I suppose we could start with Mrs Flint’s cases and go from there.’
‘You’re making the assumption that we have a record of all the cases Mrs Flint worked on between 1982 and 1986, Inspector. I’m afraid we don’t. It was nearly thirty years ago, for goodness sake. What we do have are all the files that Social Service employees worked on during that period, which probably amounts to between five and ten thousand. Mr Taylor’s files in Housing were destroyed many years ago. I have no doubt that the two may have communicated on cases where Diane Flint’s clients were allocated council housing, but the only way we would be able to identify those instances would be to read every case file during that period – clearly an impossibility.’
This wasn’t going as he’d hoped. In fact, he didn’t really know what he had expected. He’d been optimistic that the answer to the murders lay in the old files, but going through five to ten thousand was clearly beyond his resources - what now? He had no idea. Maybe there were people who had worked with either or both victims, but asking them to recall events from twenty-eight years ago would be hit and miss. Someone might remember the numbered tokens from that period. They were certainly unusual. Maybe he could persuade Mr Chivers to send all council employees an email with the picture of the token. He could ask them if they recalled seeing the numbered tokens between 1982 and 1986 and give his contact details. There would only be a few employees who had worked at the council that long though.
Just then, a striking blonde-haired woman came in with the two files. She was in her early thirties, wearing stilettos, a pencil skirt and a translucent white blouse that showed clearly a silk patterned white bra.
‘Thank you, Carrie,’ Mr Chivers said to his secretary.
She smiled and lit up the room.
Parish couldn’t help but stare as she leaned down and put the files on the coffee table in front of him. He would have watched her walk out, but Richards nudged him.
‘The files, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Richards. I can see them.’
‘Would you like to take them with you?’ Mr Chivers asked. ‘I expect you want time to examine them properly?’
He thought he’d like to examine Carrie properly. Taking Richards by surprise, Parish stood up and extended his hand. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Chivers. I have one request if I may?’
‘By all means, Inspector.’
Mr Chivers confirmed that they had the ability to email all employees at the press of a button, and agreed to send an email out requesting information. Parish needed to compose it first and asked for an email address he could send it to. Mr Chivers gave him Carrie Holden’s email address.
***
It was twelve thirty-five when they walked out into the snowstorm beyond Redbridge Council offices.
Richards squealed, turned away from the direction of the wind and pulled her hood up.
‘Let’s go and have lunch,’ Parish said. ‘I’m famished.’ Looking around he saw an Italian restaurant opposite the council. ‘Italian okay for you?’
‘I like pasta. Let’s just get out of this snow before my face freezes and drops off.’
He took hold of her arm and guided her across the road.
Inside the Signor Carlo restaurant they were seated near the window and were able to watch people struggling through the snowstorm. Parish ordered what he knew, which was a lasagne with garlic bread and a half glass of lager. Richards had shallow fried calamari with rocket and asparagus salad, and a glass of still water.
‘She’ll have no personality you know,’ Richards said when the waiter had brought their drinks.
Parish’s eyes creased up. ‘What are you talking about, Richards?’
‘Mr Chivers’ secretary – she’s all breasts and backside.’
‘What makes you think I’m not a breasts and backside type of guy?’
‘You’re not.’
‘I don’t remember appointing you as my relationship advisor.’
‘When you asked me to become your partner, you got more than an attractive woman with brains, you know.’
Parish laughed. ‘So it would seem. Now, can we move away from my non-existent private life and discuss the case?’
‘The email was a good idea.’
‘I thought so as well. I was disappointed to hear about the case files though. I expected some answers today, but sometimes trying to find a viable clue is like pulling teeth.’
‘Do you think there’ll be more murders?’
‘I certainly hope not. Two is quite enough for me.’
‘What do you want me to do while you’re appearing on the television?’
‘A necessary evil, Richards. I’ll log you on to my computer and you can send the emails to Arvid Carlgren and Mr Chivers’ secretary.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You want me to compose the one requesting information about the tokens?’
‘Can you do that?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do it in Notepad. Copy and paste the picture of the token into the document from the memory stick, ask if anyone knows anything about them, put the number of the station and my email address, and then attach it to the email.’
‘I know how to do it.’
‘Just helping. Oh, and print me a copy out.’
‘Are you going to tell the press about the marlinspike and the tokens?’
‘No. We don’t want any copycats. The press can be useful sometimes, but they can also be a pain in the arse.’
‘They’re sure to find out about the tokens when the email is sent to all the people at the council.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about that, but they won’t know what connection the tokens have to the murders.’
He checked his watch. It was ten past one. ‘Have you finished playing with your food?’
‘Yes, it wasn’t very nice.’
‘It didn’t look very nice either. Come on – I don’t want to be late for my big break. There could be H
ollywood scouts there. They could snap me up for the next Gladiator movie.’
‘You have a weird imagination.’
If anything, the snowstorm had become worse. It was nearly a whiteout. Vehicles were creeping along the road with their windscreen wipers on full, but crossing was easy. ‘Are you going to be okay driving in this?’
‘I’ll have to be. We wouldn’t want to deprive Hollywood of the next Russell Crowe.’
‘I see a bright future ahead of you, Richards.’
Chapter Ten
They arrived back at the station at five to two. It was a mad panic. Parish needed the toilet and to check in a mirror that he looked presentable before the press saw him. Richards forced him to sit down in a chair in the squad room while she combed his hair. The whole time he was wriggling for a pee.
‘You’ll be all right logging in on your own?’ Parish asked her.
‘You’ve given me your username and password. I’ve seen how the intelligent people use computers; I should be able to manage it.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you. You know… ?’
‘…You’re in the press briefing room. Yes, now go. I’ll be all right.’
‘And…’
‘Kowalski’s not even here.’
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. They were finishing each other’s sentences like detectives who’d been working together for years.
The Chief appeared. ‘Come on, Parish. You don’t want to be late for your big break.’ He started laughing, but it turned into a strangled cough. ‘There might even be some Hollywood scouts in attendance,’ he said after he’d brought his breathing back under control.
‘I need the toilet, Sir,’ he said, wishing he hadn’t had a lager with his meal.
‘Too late for that, Inspector. You’ll have to grit your teeth and squeeze. Or you might consider getting a prostate like mine, and then you could have a catheter inserted and go all day without peeing.’