by Tim Ellis
The twenty chairs in the press briefing room were taken, and there were some reporters standing at the back. The bright light from the television camera shone right in his eyes, and he was beginning to sweat. It seemed that no one had connected the stabbing of Redbridge Council’s Director of Social Services with Gregory Taylor’s murder, but he knew they would soon enough, and then there would be trouble. Diane Flint’s was a high-profile death. People expected answers, and quickly.
He thought his bladder was going to burst and drench all the reporters, lighting crew and cameramen in urine. His big break would be known as the big piss. It would be caught on camera for posterity. He’d have to resign, change his name and go for plastic surgery to alter his appearance.
The Chief read out the press briefing, which he had prepared earlier, based on Parish’s reports. He introduced Detective Inspector Parish as the lead detective on the case, and Parish nodded sombrely. Thankfully, there was no mention of the fact that he’d been promoted today. The Chief fielded all the questions at the end and then, miraculously, Parish was leaning over the urinal holding onto the wall and trying not to faint. The relief was something he would savour forever, and he made a mental note to give himself ten minutes before the press briefing on Monday at eleven o’clock.
***
It was twenty past three when Brian Ridpath fell out of the Two Brewers public house on Lambourne Road in Chigwell, and turned left towards his council flat on Romford Road.
He had gone to the pub at eleven fifteen and parked himself in his usual seat at the bar. Pat, the barman, began talking about the football fixtures on Saturday, especially the match between Chelsea and West Ham. They both agreed that West Ham didn’t stand a chance of even scoring, never mind winning. It was about two o’clock when he started feeling sleepy, and then his head began nodding like a toy dog in a car rear window. Finally, his speech became slurred and he lost count of the number of beers he’d had, but that didn’t stop him ordering one more for the road.
Local residents were used to seeing Brian Ridpath stagger home at this time of day. Often he didn’t reach his flat, but slid down one of the many walls along his route and slept until the early evening when he would turn round and go back to the Two Brewers.
He needed to relieve himself and stumbled into Maypole Alley between the cardboard box factory and the container storage yard, and began pissing up the wall behind a dustbin.
It was in Maypole Alley at three fifty-five that a man dressed in black, wearing a hood and carrying a marlinspike, said, ‘A life for a life, Mr Ridpath,’ and then stabbed Brian Ridpath in the heart as he turned around, still struggling to put his penis back in his trousers. Ridpath’s mouth opened in a silent scream and he crumpled to the ground, dead.
The man slipped a token with the number 14 stamped on it into the dead Mr Ridpath’s mouth and said: ‘For Liam Preston.’ Then he walked away.
When the man reached his flat, he put a cross through the picture of Brian Ridpath. He wouldn’t be able to kill the next one until Monday evening, but he had waited twenty-four years already. What was another two days in the grand scheme of things?’
He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until, much later, the nightmares took him.
***
‘How did the press briefing go, Sir?’
‘I didn’t spot anyone from Paramount or Warner Brothers.’
‘They’re usually standing at the back smirking. You’ll just have to be patient. I’m sure they’ll invite you over to America for a screen test before too long.’
‘Stop humouring me, Richards. Did you send…?’
She passed him copies of the two emails.
He looked at the attachment to Carrie requesting information on the token and muttered, ‘Good.’ Then he turned to the one sent to Arvid Carlgren. The metal content of both tokens was exactly the same, which, he supposed, meant that they were probably produced at the same time:
Diameter: 18 mm
Metal content: Copper 95%, Zinc and Tin 5%
Weight: 2.12 grams
‘Well done. I suppose we’ll just have to be patient now. While we’re waiting, we can look through the two files we acquired this morning, and try to unearth some more leads.’
‘We’ve not got much to go on, have we?’
‘No. Not much at all, but that doesn’t prevent you from making me a coffee.’
Clucking, she stood up and headed towards the kitchen.
‘Don’t forget…’
‘…four sugars. I know.’
‘You’re becoming a right know-it-all,’ he shouted after her. ‘I’ll be in the incident room.’
First, he read Diane Flint’s file and Richards rifled through Gregory Taylor’s. Then they swapped.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘I thought maybe it was me,’ Richards said.
Parish stood up, went to the whiteboard at the end of the room and rubbed off the timeline of Gregory Taylor’s life. ‘Right, let’s go over what we’ve got, and see where we go next.’
‘We’ve got two murders,’ Richards began. ‘Gregory Taylor, killed on 14th January on Ralston Road in Chigwell, and Diane Flint, killed on the 16th January in the basement car park of Redbridge Council.’
Parish wrote the details on the board using a black marker pen.
‘Both victims were killed by a marlinspike, which is a tool used in rope work. And both had an old token inserted into their mouths: Gregory Taylor’s was number 27 and Diane Flint’s was 32. Each token has a diameter of 18mm, weighs 2.12 grams, and is made from 95% copper and 5% zinc and tin.’
‘What do the bloody numbers refer to?’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Keep going, you’re doing fine.’
‘Both victims worked at Redbridge Council between 1982 and 1986: Diane Flint as a social worker, and Gregory Taylor as a rent advisor in the Housing Department.’
‘Could it be just coincidence that they worked at the council together during that period, Richards?’
‘Well, no. We have the tokens and the marlinspike as well. All three things can’t be coincidence.’
‘As you said earlier, the marlinspike and the tokens may simply be the killer’s signature.’
Richards thought for a time, then said, ‘The marlinspike probably. But if the tokens were being used as part of the killer’s signature, wouldn’t he use ones with the same number on, or consecutive numbers?’
‘Maybe what he’s using were the only ones he could get hold of.’
‘Do you think he bought them, Sir? I mean, places where you can buy old tokens aren’t exactly filling up the High Street.
‘The Internet. There are auctions and collectors on the Internet that sell tokens.’
‘If he bought them in a shop or on the Internet, he would be traceable. I can’t imagine why a killer would buy some old tokens to use as his signature; it’s too far-fetched.’
‘You’re the one who suggested it, Richards.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I think that the tokens and the numbers have some specific meaning; we just don’t know what it is yet.’
‘Okay, so we’re still convinced that to unlock the puzzle box we need to find out the connection between Taylor and Flint during 1982 to 1986 at Redbridge Council, and the numbered tokens.’
‘Yes.’
‘What now?’
‘We’re waiting for an email from that man, Carlgren, in Sweden about the tokens, and we’ve also asked Mr Chivers to send an email out to all the council’s employees in the hope that someone will remember the tokens.’
‘And the dates?’
‘We tried to find out what Taylor and Flint worked on during that period, but there are too many records.’
‘Should we let that stop us?’
‘We’d never be able to look through all those records, Sir. And even if we could, there would be no guarantee we’d find what we needed.’
‘So, how else can we find out what they worked on during that period?�
�
‘The tokens.’
‘What about them?’
‘Where would they have been used?’
‘That’s the problem, Richards - we don’t know.’
‘We could guess.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, what I’m thinking is trying to connect Taylor and Flint with the tokens.’
Parish sat on the end of the large oval table that took up most of the room. ‘And…?’
‘Where might the tokens have been used so that both Taylor and Flint would have come into contact with them?’
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Parish said, ‘You might be on to something, Richards. Who were Diane Flint’s clients between 1982 and 1986?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I was wondering if she worked with old people, children or someone else. And it’s also just occurred to me that she might have worked with other social workers who knew what she was doing then that got her killed now. And they also might know about the tokens.’
Richards looked in Diane Flint’s file. ‘She worked in the children’s team. And don’t forget that Mr Taylor would have had work colleagues as well.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Richards. Excellent. We now need to get back on to Mr Chivers and ask him to provide a list of people who worked with both Taylor and Flint between 1982 and 1986.’
‘How would Mr Taylor be involved?’
‘I don’t know, but he clearly is.’ Parish checked his watch. It was four fifteen. ‘I need the toilet - let’s take a break. Go and ring Mr Chivers and tell him what we need. Apologise that it’s going home time on a Friday night, but tell him we’d like the information before the end of the day.’
‘If they’re still there. Councils usually finish early on a Friday.’
‘Then we’ll have to get him back. If he’s not there, ring him at home.’
‘Okay.’
Parish went to the toilet. When he came back, Richards was sitting on the opposite side of his desk still talking on the phone, so he checked his email account. There was one from Arvid Carlgren, which he sent to the networked printer on the other side of the room:
Inspector,
I have forty-five tokens in my collection with the same diameter, weight and metal content as the two you have described. They are numbered 1 – 60, but numbers 4, 7, 14, 21, 23, 27, 32 35, 37, 38, 43, 49, 50, 55 and 59 are missing. I have heard rumours that the tokens were used at a school, but I cannot verify the information. Which school and what they were used for, I have no idea. Finally, I would be grateful if I could purchase the tokens from you when you have finished with them, together with any information relating to them.
Arvid Carlgren
Token Specialist
Stora Herrestad
He sent a reply thanking him and saying he’d do what he could for him about the tokens. Then he collected the email from the printer and put it in front of Richards when he got back to his desk.
She put the phone down and said, ‘Mr Chivers is not at his office, and he’s not at home. His wife said that he’s at Heathrow airport boarding a plane to America. He’s going to a Human Resources Conference in California.’
‘I’ve a good mind to ring the air force and get that plane shot down, Richards. Bloody California! Surfing! And we’re stuck here trying to solve a murder in ten feet of snow. Another council fat cat we should throw excrement on.’
‘Yes, Sir. What about Carrie, his secretary?’
Parish licked his lips. ‘I’ll ring her, shall I?’
‘I’ll do it. If you ring her, we might never find out the information.’
‘Tell her I’ll come into the council offices to help her find the information we need.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Three’s a crowd, Richards.’
‘Then I’ll go on my own.’
‘Okay, you do that. I’ve got to go to Dirty Nelly’s anyway.’
‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t realise paranoia took hold so quickly.’
She looked down and read the email. ‘A school?’
‘Maybe that’s what connects Taylor, Flint and the tokens. Flint’s clients were children and Taylor became a teacher.’
‘I hope there are not going to be another thirteen murders.'
‘So do I.’
‘We’re getting close though, aren’t we?’
‘It feels like it. Are you sure you don’t want me to go and rummage in Carrie’s files, Richards?’
‘I’ll go. You celebrate your promotion.’
Just then, Parish’s mobile rang. It was Doc Michelin.
Chapter Eleven
‘Not another one, Doc?’ Parish said, leaning back in his chair.
‘I’m afraid so, Sergeant.’
‘I’m an inspector today, by the way.’ He still couldn’t get used to the idea of it.
‘Congratulations, but you’d better get your newly promoted arse over to Lambourne Road in Chigwell. A Mr Brian Ridpath has been stabbed in the heart with a marlinspike and the token in his mouth has the number 14 on it.’
‘We’re on our way, Doc.’
He put the phone down and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten to five. Crap! What a way to spend a Friday night. He could send Richards home and go to the crime scene by himself, but he knew she wouldn’t go along with that. It wasn’t fair to treat her any different than a real partner. She wasn’t a detective, but what she lacked in experience she made up for in intelligence and enthusiasm.
‘Come on, Parish,’ Kowalski shouted as he bounded into the squad room. ‘Let’s get down to Dirty Nelly’s and celebrate your admittance into the ranks of the exalted.’
It occurred to Parish, as he went to meet Kowalski, that the man was a loudmouth. ‘I’ve got another murder in Chigwell,’ he said, taking his wallet out and handing over £50. ‘Buy the drinks for me, will you.’
‘You’re joking, Jed?’
‘I wish I were. I could have done with a few drinks tonight, and then woken up with a weekend-destroying headache.’
‘You don’t have to take Richards with you, do you? Let me escort her to the pub. I promise to get her home mostly in one piece.’
‘You can ask her if you like, but I guarantee she won’t go with you, Ray.’
‘Richards,’ Kowalski shouted. ‘Let me take you away from all this. Come to the pub with me and we’ll celebrate Parish’s promotion in absentia.’
Richards’ face turned serious. ‘So you want me to go out drinking with you while my partner goes to a crime scene without any back-up?’
‘Inspector Parish has to go, but you don’t. He can look after himself.’
‘You’re being extremely mean, Sir. I’ll be going with my partner. That’s why they’re called partners.’
‘Another time then, Richards,’ Kowalski said.
‘I doubt it,’ she said, turning back to what she was doing.
Parish smiled. ‘Tell everyone to have a good time on me, Ray.’
‘Will do, Jed,’ Kowalski said, heading for the stairs. ‘Have a good weekend, and thanks for the money.’
‘You’re welcome, Ray.’
‘I’ve decided I don’t like Inspector Kowalski, Sir.’
‘Oh he’s all right, Richards. Like most people, he can be an idiot sometimes.’
‘Where’s the murder this time?’
‘Lambourne Road in Chigwell.’ He told her what Doc Michelin had said as they walked out.
‘What about Mr Chivers’ secretary and the list of people who worked with Taylor and Flint?’
‘We’ll just have to contact her tomorrow and see if she’s willing to give up her Saturday to help us.’
‘Us?’
‘As you said to Kowalski, Richards, we’re partners.’ He grinned at her. ‘I couldn’t let you go on your own, now, could I?’
Parish thought that if snow were money he’d be rich. It had just stopped snowing a
s they walked out of the station. There was a fresh layer of white covering the black ice on the roads. Richards hadn’t taken the pool car back, and he was standing looking at it, undecided about what to do.
‘The pool car, Sir?’
‘Yes, but seeing as you haven’t taken it back tonight, you’ll have to keep it all weekend now. I want to keep the driving to a minimum, so we’ll leave our own cars here and you can drop me off at home when we’ve finished, and then pick me up in the morning.’
‘What, you mean take the pool car home with me instead of leaving it here?’
‘Yes. You may as well.’
‘My mum will be impressed.’
‘You can’t use it for shopping trips and joy rides you know.’
‘I know that.’
It took them forty-five minutes to drive the short distance to Lambourne Road in Chigwell. Toadstone had taped the area off and was rummaging in cardboard boxes and other rubbish next to a large silver dustbin on wheels. Parish assumed he was looking for evidence. An ambulance was parked up with its engine running and all the lights on. The paramedics were sitting inside keeping warm. Neither of them looked like Richards’ paramedic.
‘You didn’t have to finish your five-course meal and have another bottle of wine before you came out here, Parish,’ Doc Michelin said, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands. ‘It’s like living in the Gulag Archipelago with all this snow.’
‘Sorry, Doc, but you do know the roads are lethal, don’t you? We’re just lucky not to be lying on a slab in your mortuary. And that’s no reflection on Constable Richards’ driving abilities.’
‘Let’s get on, shall we, Inspector? I’ve wasted enough of my Friday evening here.’
‘Okay - take me through it, Doc.’
The three of them walked along the alley. The corpse still lay on the concrete, covered in a layer of snow.