A Life for a Life: (Parish & Richards #1)

by Tim Ellis

  Parish’s forehead creased. ‘Is that…?’

  ‘Yes,’ Doc Michelin said. ‘Brian Ridpath was urinating against the wall behind the dustbin. As he turned round, still fumbling to put his penis back in his trousers, he was stabbed in the heart. Needless to say, the penis never made it back into the warmth of his trousers.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ Richards said, screwing up her face.

  ‘Death usually is, Constable,’ Doc Michelin said.

  ‘Who found him?’

  The pathologist handed Parish a piece of paper. ‘I didn’t see the point in making him wait around in this weather. That’s his address, but he said he’d be in the Two Brewers from six until eleven. If I was you, I’d interview him sooner rather than later; he reeked of whisky.’

  Parish was thinking the same thing. ‘Besides taking a leak, what was Ridpath doing here?’

  ‘A man of habit apparently. Goes to the Two Brewers pub just up the road at approximately eleven o’clock every day until about three o’clock, when he can hardly stand. Then he tries to walk home to his flat in Romford Road, but from what the man who found him said, he usually ends up sleeping it off somewhere between the pub and his flat.’

  ‘The man who found Ridpath wasn’t surprised to see him in the alley then?’

  ‘No. He spotted Ridpath lying on his back and thought he’d check that he was all right. Obviously he wasn’t, and that’s when he called 999.’

  ‘Much the same as the others then?’ Parish said.

  ‘Same murder weapon, similar token left in the mouth. Yes - apart from the location, Inspector, I would say much the same as the others.’

  ‘Do we know anything about Mr Ridpath?’

  ‘He’s retired and spends his pension in the Two Brewers. More than that, I can’t help you.’

  ‘Have we got an address for his flat?’

  ‘Number 62, Loftus Towers.’ The Doc pointed to a tall high-rise towering above them. ‘I would assume it’s on the sixth floor.’

  ‘What about a key?’

  Toadstone came up and gave him a bunch of keys in a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Okay, let’s wrap it up,’ Parish said. ‘What about you, Toadstone? Anything for me?’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant. I’m just going through the motions here, but there’s nothing of any interest.’

  ‘It’s Inspector now, by the way. Have you drawn a blank on the other crime scenes as well?’

  ‘There are some black fibres on the clothes embedded in the blood around each of the wounds, but there’s nothing distinctive about them. I assume they come from a glove, but it’s a cotton/polyester mix you can buy anywhere.’

  ‘I thought forensics was meant to find evidence, Toadstone?’

  ‘It’s not through the want of trying, Sir.’

  ‘Richards, go and tell the paramedics they can take the body away now.’

  Richards stomped over to the ambulance and banged on the bonnet. ‘Shift your arses,’ she shouted.

  ‘I see you’re training her well, Parish,’ the Doc said, smiling.

  ‘That’s Kowalski’s influence, Doc. You know I’m not like that. When are you thinking of doing this post-mortem?’

  ‘Probably Monday now. I’m going to take Sunday off to spend with my wife and the goldfish.’

  ‘Goldfish?’

  ‘Hey, don’t knock the Carassius auratus auratus; they have excellent memories and always welcome me home.’

  As a foster child, Parish wasn’t allowed to have a pet He’d wanted a puppy, but his foster parents wouldn’t let him have one. At eighteen he’d left foster care to go to university, and then joined the police. Now it wouldn’t be fair to leave an animal in his flat alone all day – and night sometimes.

  ‘We’ll see you at ten thirty tomorrow morning, Doc, and thanks for all your work tonight. Give the goldfish a hug from me.’

  Doc Michelin chuckled. ‘There’s more chance of getting a hug from the goldfish than the wife, that’s for sure. Goodnight Parish. Goodnight Constable.’

  ***

  ‘Do you want a drink while we’re here, Richards? It is Friday night after all.’ They were in the Two Brewers to talk to Larry Mogg before he became too drunk to interview. The whole place reeked of the past and had not been decorated since the smoking ban came into force. The ceiling was yellow, the parquet floor was sticky and the pictures on the walls were old and faded.

  ‘A cup of tea?’

  ‘You could get arrested for enjoying yourself too much, but I’ll ask.’ Parish went up to the bar and asked for a tea, a coffee, and which one was Larry Mogg.

  Larry Mogg was an anorexic-looking man in his mid-sixties with greasy hair, bat ears and a filthy donkey jacket. He was leaning on the corner of the bar beneath a lopsided picture of the Queen Mother.

  ‘You a copper?’ Mogg asked.

  Parish pulled out his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish, Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘What about you, love?’ he said to Richards.

  ‘Yes, I’m a detective as well.’

  ‘Have you got some identification then? You can’t be too careful these days.’

  Richards pulled out her warrant card and waved it in front of Mogg. ‘…Richards.’ The word constable was mumbled and distorted until it nearly sounded like detective.

  The barman brought their tea and coffee in two cups. Parish paid, passed Richards her tea and scooped four sugars from a sugar bowl into his cup.

  ‘That’s a sacrilege, that is,’ Mogg said. ‘It’s like pissing in church, drinking tea in a pub.’ He took a huge swallow of his beer in protest at what they were doing.

  ‘We’ve not come here to talk about the merits of drinking tea or coffee in a pub, Mr Mogg. You were the one who found Mr Ridpath in the alley?’

  ‘I was.’ Mogg swallowed the last of his pint, moved the glass along the bar towards Parish and looked at it.

  Parish realised what Mogg expected and signalled the barman to refill the pint glass.

  ‘Yeah, I found him. Saw him lying on his back in the alley and didn’t want him to choke on his own vomit, so I went to turn him on his side. We had a youngster in here not long ago who…’

  ‘You turned Mr Ridpath on his side, then?’

  ‘No, I did not. When I saw the state of him, I nearly shit myself. I had to come back here for a whisky on the house, and to call you lot.’

  ‘You didn’t take anything off the body?’

  ‘What do you take me for? I don’t go around robbing dead bodies. Yeah, I did a bit of time for burglary once, but even criminals have a code of conduct, you know. We don’t take stuff off dead bodies.’ He finished his pint and slid the empty glass along the bar.

  This was turning into an expensive night one way or another, Parish thought, and it wasn’t as if he was getting any enjoyment out of it.

  ‘Did you see anyone near the body - in the alley or walking away?’

  ‘Not a soul - just Pete with his staring eyes and his dick hanging out. Whoever killed him could have waited till he’d put the mouse back in the house. He took another long swallow of his beer. ‘Can’t get it out of my mind. Do you think I need counselling or something?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine in a few days, Mr Mogg,’ Parish said. ‘Do you happen to know what Mr Ridpath did for a living before he retired?’

  Mogg’s empty glass came sliding along the bar towards him again. Parish worked out that he was averaging three questions per beer.

  ‘He told me once. Said he worked for the council as a caretaker.’

  ‘Which council?’

  Mogg ran dirty fingers through his hair. ‘No, don’t recall.’

  ‘Do you remember where he was a caretaker?’

  ‘I suppose a school.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘It was a long time ago and my memory isn’t what it used to be.’ The empty glass reappeared.

  ‘Thanks very much for your help, and I hope we don’t have to
bother you again, Mr Mogg.’ Parish gained some satisfaction from leaving the empty glass on the bar, but he still felt as though he’d been mugged.

  Outside, Richards said, ‘Do you think Ridpath will have worked for Redbridge Council?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to bet against it. Let’s go to Ridpath’s flat. We should be able to find out more there.’

  ‘Don’t we need a warrant?’

  ‘You’ve been watching the Crime Channel again, haven’t you?’

  She turned her eyes away. ‘No.’

  He smiled. ‘I bet. Well, we don’t need a warrant because we’ve got a key. And let’s face it, Mr Ridpath is hardly in a position to complain to the Police Complaints Commission, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The lifts were out of order in Loftus Towers. They had to walk up the six flights of graffiti-covered urine-smelling stairs to reach Brian Ridpath’s flat.

  Richards pressed a perfume-drenched handkerchief over her nose and mouth with one hand, and held on to Parish’s arm with the other.

  On the sixth floor, they found number sixty-two and Parish unlocked the door. The stink from the flat was as bad as the foul-smelling stairs.

  ‘You can stay out here if you want to, Richards?’

  ‘That’s very chivalrous of you,’ Richards mumbled through the handkerchief, ‘but I’ll be all right.’

  Parish switched the hall light on. There was cracked and broken linoleum on the floor and mould climbing up the walls. In the living room – the first room on the left – a chocolate brown carpet, that Parish was sure had never been cleaned or vacuumed, covered the floor. In front of a threadbare easy chair was a worn-out oblong coffee table. A television was standing in one corner, and in another there was a mountain of squashed beer cans.

  ‘How can people live like this?’ Richards said through the handkerchief.

  ‘This is a five-star room compared to some of the places I’ve seen.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Pension book, bank statements, letters - anything that could tell us where he worked.’

  ‘I’ll look in here,’ Richards said. ‘I don’t think I could face the bedroom.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll look in the other rooms.’ He moved back into the hall. The next room on the left was the kitchen. An army of cockroaches ran for cover when he switched the light on. Pizza cartons, fish and chip wrappings, Chinese take-away boxes and other fast-food leftovers covered the floor. He switched the light off and carried on. At the end of the hall was the bathroom. The sink was heavily stained with green lime scale from a dripping tap. Black mould was everywhere, and the bath had clearly never been cleaned. Parish saw no toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, or towel, and he wondered how Ridpath had kept himself clean. He moved back up the hall to the last room – the bedroom. There was a double bed with urine-stained rags on it. A heap of assorted papers filled the gap between the right-hand wall and the bed. Parish picked up a handful and began to sift through them. A bank statement, dated a week ago, showed a balance of £129,567. Parish couldn’t imagine someone living in a hovel like this, and having that amount of money. Maybe, besides his alcoholism, Brian Ridpath had mental health problems, he thought. He examined the bank statement further and discovered that, at the beginning of the month, £2,000 was paid into the account from Redbridge Council. Apart from gas, electricity and the usual monthly bills, Ridpath had very few outgoings. Every couple of days he would take out a hundred pounds in cash, probably for his drink and the takeaways. Parish found another bank statement from November showing a similar pattern.

  What a grim life, Parish thought.

  ‘Hello, Sir?’ a nervous Richards called from the hall.

  ‘In here,’ Parish said.

  Richards came in and stood beside him. ‘You’ve found something then?’

  ‘And very interesting it is, as well. Do you know that Mr Ridpath had a £130,000 in the bank?’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Here, take a look for yourself.’ He passed the bank statement to her.

  She took it between thumb and forefinger. ‘But, that doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What doesn’t make sense, is that a caretaker was being paid £2,000 each month by Redbridge Council.’

  Richards pulled a face. ‘It didn’t do him much good did it?’

  ‘That’s another issue entirely.’

  ‘It’ll take us the rest of the night to go through all that paper.’

  Parish rubbed his stubble. ‘I think we’ll let Mr Toadstone from forensics take on that lovely job. One thing’s for certain though, Redbridge Council is at the centre of our investigation.’

  They left the flat and locked the door.

  ‘I’m glad that’s over with,’ Richards said as they walked down the stairs.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t the perfect Friday night you’d dreamt of, was it?’

  ‘Oh it was, Sir, but without the smell. I love being a detective. I wouldn’t swap what we’re doing now for all the tea in China.’

  They stepped out of the concrete monstrosity into the freezing cold.

  ‘We’ve not finished yet, Richards.’

  ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Do you fancy a kebab?’

  ‘You’re trying to feed me up and then sell me to the carnival as the elephant woman, aren’t you?’

  ‘One kebab won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Not for me, and you shouldn’t either. Kebabs are the absolute worst you can eat for saturated fats. Why aren’t you married with children, Sir?’

  ‘That’s a rather personal question.’

  ‘If you were married, you wouldn’t be eating crap all day. Well?’

  ‘The only women I get chance to meet are victims, suspects, or coppers. That’s why Carrie increased my heart rate.’

  ‘Don’t lie - that was lust.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Richards.’

  They reached the car and climbed in.

  ‘Before we knock off for the night I want a kebab, and then, while I’m eating it, you can drive to Redbridge Council. There’s a security guard on at night who will let us in. He’ll have some emergency contact numbers. We need to ring Carrie and persuade her to come into the office tomorrow to provide us with the information we need.’

  Richards drove to Chigwell town centre and parked up outside Ugar’s Kebab House.

  He began salivating at the thought of his evening meal. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one, Richards?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Once Parish had bought his kebab and climbed back into the car, Richards headed towards Redbridge Council Offices.

  He began munching the kebab, careful not to get the double extra chilli sauce on the front of his coat.

  ‘That stinks.’

  Parish slurped, licked his lips and said, ‘I know.’

  ***

  It was ten past nine when Parish banged on the glass entry doors of Redbridge Council. Paul Cummins arrived in his dark blue uniform and let them in.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Have we had another murder?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Mr Cummins. I need the home contact number of Mr Chivers’ secretary, Carrie.’

  ‘You’d better come in then.’

  He let them in and locked the doors. ‘Follow me - I’ll have a look for you.’

  After looking through a variety of folders for five minutes, he shook his head. ‘Sorry, there’s not much call to contact a secretary from personnel out of working hours, and they haven’t provided her number in the list.’

  ‘I really need to contact her tonight, Mr Cummins. Can we go up to her office and see if there’s anything up there?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, but it is time I did my rounds and if you were to follow me up to the Personnel Director’s office, well…’

  Parish smiled and nodded. ‘You stay here, Richards,’ he told her. ‘Mr Cummins might hear t
wo of us following him.’

  ‘Make yourself a cup of tea if you want, Constable,’ Cummins said.

  They went up to the fifth floor in the lift, and Cummins let Parish into Mr Chiver’s office. He found Carrie’s home number in a drawer of the mahogany desk, sat in the real leather executive chair and rang the number using the Director’s telephone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Carrie?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Parish. I was…’

  ‘Yes, I remember you. What do you want?’

  ‘I need information. Is it possible you can come into the office tomorrow?’

  ‘What type of information?’

  ‘I need a list of people who worked with Mr Taylor and Mrs Flint between 1982 and 1986. We’ve also had another murder: a Mr Brian Ridpath, who was retired but was previously employed by the council as a school caretaker. I’d like some information on him if that’s possible.’

  ‘I’m sure I can provide that information. What time do you want me, Inspector?’

  What jumped into his mind was not very professional, and if his imagination had been monitored they would have locked him up and thrown away the key. Instead, he redirected his thought patterns to providing Carrie with an answer. Diane Flint’s post-mortem was scheduled for ten thirty. He didn’t really want to start rushing about on a Saturday morning. ‘What about two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’ he suggested.

  ‘My husband is away on business, so I’ll have to bring my two children with me. I hope it doesn’t take too long because they have the attention span of gnats.’

  Husband! Two children! His bubble of her had burst. Richards would be happy. ‘I hope so too. Thanks very much, Carrie, and I’ll see you at two tomorrow.’

  The phone went dead.

  ‘All sorted?’ Cummins asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Parish said and smiled. ‘All sorted.’

  They thanked Paul Cummins for his help, and Richards drove Parish home.

  When she pulled up outside his flat, he said, ‘Thanks. Pick me up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He climbed out. ‘Oh, by the way, Carrie has a husband and two children.’ He saw her smiling. ‘Drive carefully, Richards.’