by Tim Ellis
‘Goodnight, Sir.’
***
Saturday, 18th January
He felt like shit. It was only four thirty, but he got up anyway and took a shower. He’d been having a nightmare, and he woke up drenched in sweat. What the nightmare was about he had no idea, but his heart was still racing as he dried himself. If the Chief hadn’t promoted him and kept him on the case, he’d have probably slept in and had a leisurely weekend. Instead, he was fighting unknown demons at four thirty in the morning, and staring at a full day’s work ahead of him.
Outside, it was still dark. From the glow of the orange streetlights he could see that it was snowing again. He put the heating on and made himself a coffee. In the fridge he had eggs, but the bread had gone off again. When you weren’t hungry there was food everywhere, but when you were starving – as he was now – everything was either out-of-date or had fur on it. In the freezer there was a pizza, but he didn’t fancy pizza at five in the morning. He placed four eggs in a pan of water, put it on the cooker, and began to boil them. From the middle of the sliced loaf, he managed to salvage three pieces of bread. He cut the furry edges off and put them in the toaster.
While the eggs were boiling he took out a plate from the cupboard, but then realised he didn’t have an eggcup. He looked around for an alternative, but couldn’t find anything even remotely similar. Then he realised he didn’t have any butter for the toast either. God, he hated living alone. His life had been like this for years, and he still hadn’t mastered looking after himself. He ran the eggs under the cold water tap until he could peel the shells off, but he was no eggshell peeling expert and only one egg looked like an egg by the time he’d finished; the others looked diseased. He threw what he had left of the eggs on the plate, sprinkled salt over them, and began to eat them with a spoon at the same time as biting into the dry toast. He decided, when he'd finished, that it was the worst breakfast he had ever eaten - bar none.
At five thirty he logged on to FindLove.com. He wanted a woman who liked cooking, cleaning and having sex, but not necessarily in that order or one after the other. Up to now he hadn’t found any women like that on the site. There were twenty-four messages waiting for him, and he opened and read each one in chronological order. He deleted all those contacts with children, which left thirteen. He deleted all those that had strange predilections, such as sadomasochism, which left one – Jenny Rennie.
Jennie Rennie was thirty-one and looking for Mr Right. He wondered whether he was Mr Right, and if her name was a pseudonym, like Brad Russell. He sent her a message:
Dear Jenny: I’m looking for Miss Right. Are you her? What about meeting? Brad.
It wasn’t even six o’clock and he was bored. He’d forgotten to write his report for the Chief last night, so he composed one.
I have three murders now: Taylor, Flint and Ridpath. They all worked for Redbridge Council between 1982 and 1986 (Did Ridpath? I’d have to check that out with Carrie). Taylor was a rent advisor, Flint a social worker, and Ridpath a school caretaker (to be confirmed). They were all killed by the same person, the same weapon, and in the same way. All had a token with a different number stamped on it inserted into their mouths. Taylor was number 27, Flint 32, and Ridpath 14. If the killer has the remaining twelve tokens, will there be another twelve murders? Besides these similarities, what connects all three victims? Were they all involved in something between 1982 and 1986 that is getting them killed now? Who is killing them? What do the tokens mean? Why have Redbridge Council been paying Brian Ridpath £2,000 each month? Are they paying anyone else? Is there a cover up?
When he read the report back, he realised it had been written by someone with severe learning difficulties. There were so many questions left unanswered. Well, today he’d better get some of those questions answered. It had been three days since Gregory Taylor was murdered outside number 29, Ralston Drive and they had no suspects – not even the hint of one. He left the report as it was, but added that he and Richards were going to attend Diane Flint’s post-mortem at ten thirty today, and then search for some answers from Carrie at Redbridge Council. He pressed send. All he could do was his best. A determined killer was always going to be two steps ahead of the police, and this seemed to be a very determined killer.
Chapter Thirteen
He heard Richards beep the Mondeo’s horn. The trouble was he still had his dressing gown on. Crap, he must have dozed off. He ran into the bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a jumper. While he was tying his shoes, he took deep breaths to slow his heart rate down. What was he doing? Did he need to take anything with him? Was everything switched off? Locked? He picked up his keys, put his coat on and ran out of the door.
‘You’re late, Richards,’ he said as he climbed into the car and clicked the seat belt.
‘Did you lose your razor and comb?’
He pulled the sun visor down and looked at his reflection in the vanity mirror. The five o’clock shadow didn’t look too bad, but he was clearly having a bad-hair day. Waking up so early and having a shower, and then nodding off again had completely disoriented him. He’d need a map and a compass to navigate his way through the day. ‘It’s Saturday; I’m slumming it.’
‘The mortuary?’
‘Are you insinuating something?’
‘But…’
‘Just drive.’ He put the seat back and closed his eyes. He needed to get his bearings before they reached the hospital. His head was still stuck in the nightmare he’d been having when Richards had beeped her horn. Drowsiness clouded his brain, but he recalled being dragged along dark corridors to a place that filled him with dread.
They arrived at the hospital at ten twenty-five. It was snowing as if it couldn’t be bothered, and the icy wind made them shiver.
‘I need a coffee.’
‘We’ll be late.’
‘It’s not as if we’re going to miss anything important, is it? A few slashes with a scalpel, the removal of every organ, the stench of death and formaldehyde, and Doc Michelin eating his donuts. All we want is the end result. We don’t really need to see the dissection being performed.’
They went up in the lift to the cafeteria. Parish had four pieces of buttered toast as well as a mug of coffee. It was at the till that he realised he’d left his wallet and warrant card on the dressing table in the bedroom.
‘You’ll have to pay today. I’ve forgotten my wallet.’ He left her paying while he found a table in the busy restaurant.
When she joined him with her herbal tea, she said, ‘Is there something wrong this morning?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘You’re not your usual happy self.’
‘Don’t think I can’t recognise sarcasm when I hear it.’ He told her about waking up, showering and dozing off again. ‘In the end I had to rush to get ready, and I hate having to do that.’
‘I hope you’re not going to be grumpy all day?’
‘Grumpy? He was one of the Seven Dwarves, wasn’t he?’
***
It was five to eleven when they walked into the mortuary. Doc Michelin looked up from the nearly empty torso of Diane Flint.
‘Tardiness is becoming a bit of a habit lately, Inspector.’
‘I was mugged, Doc. They took my wallet. Constable Richards had to pay for the coffee and toast in the cafeteria while we were recuperating.’
‘You certainly look as though you’ve been mugged, but I’d say they took your razor and hair brush as well as your wallet.’
‘Never mind the flattery. Have you got anything for me?’
‘As you can see, I’m part way through the post mortem. Be kind enough to wait until I’ve concluded it.’
They waited twenty minutes while Doc Michelin removed the remaining organs, mumbled into an overhead microphone, took photographs, and then closed up the Y-shaped cut he’d made with a 5” curved suture needle and twine. It certainly wasn’t a cosmetic closure, Parish thought.
‘Well?’
Parish said when the Doc looked up.
‘What do you want me to say, Parish? Diane Flint was fifty-three years old, in the early stages of undiagnosed cervical cancer and suffered from lower back pain. The murderer stabbed her once in the heart with the same weapon he used on Gregory Taylor.’
‘You could have rung me and told me that, Doc.’
‘That wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun, now would it, Inspector?’
‘Thanks anyway.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ll get the PM report to you by Monday afternoon. Are you going to be here for Brian Ridpath’s post-mortem on Monday morning?’
‘Is there much point? I mean, we know how he died, and it’s not as if watching post-mortems is one of my favourite pastimes.’ Then he remembered the press briefing. ‘Sorry, Doc. The Chief arranged a press briefing for eleven o’clock on Monday, so I won’t be able to make it anyway.’
‘Up to you, Inspector. If you’re not here and I discover something unexpected, I’ll give you a ring. Otherwise, you’ll get the report Wednesday morning at the latest.’
‘Thanks, Doc. Have a good Sunday, and say hello to your wife and the goldfish for me.’
Doc Michelin waved as Parish and Richards headed for the swing doors of the mortuary.
***
‘What now, Sir?’
Parish checked his watch, but it wasn’t there. ‘What time is it?’
‘You forgot your watch as well?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking you for the time if I hadn’t. Well?’
‘Quarter to twelve.’
‘What do you want to do? We can go back to my flat so that I can recover the pieces of my life I left behind this morning, and then we can go and have some lunch with me paying, or we can go directly to lunch and you pay the bill. Your choice.’
‘I don’t mind paying, but I’ll take you back to your flat because you need to do something with your hair. I’m embarrassed about being seen with you.’
‘Thanks very much. I could go and get it cut. I’ve been meaning to for ages.’
They reached the car and climbed in.
‘That’s a good idea, before my mum sees you tomorrow.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing, but I don’t want my mum thinking I work for a scruffy boss.’
‘Scruffy?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I have no idea, but you’d better take me to the barbers anyway. Go towards my flat. There’s a barbers close by. You’ll have to pay, but I’ll give it you back.’
‘What type of haircut are you going to have?’
‘What do you mean, what type? A normal type with a parting on the left.’
She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘That’s a bit old-fashioned.’
‘You’ve probably noticed that I’m not a teenager.’
‘No, but I was thinking layered and spiked.’
‘I’m a Detective Inspector, Richards, not a fashion icon. I have a certain image to uphold.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to look like a boring old man.’
‘Are you saying I look like a boring old man?’
‘Not this morning. If I said what you looked like this morning, you’d sack me.’
‘All right. I’ll get a trendy haircut, but if I end up looking stupid, you will get the sack.’
They reached the barbers, Richards parked up, and they both went in. There were three people in the queue and two people in the chairs, so they sat down to wait. Richards sat next to him and they skimmed the magazines. After thirty minutes it was his turn.
‘Usual, Jed?’ Wally the barber asked. Wally had been his barber for fifteen years, but Wally was seventy now and long past the age of retirement. He wore glasses like milk-bottle bottoms; everyone was sure that he was blind and cut people’s hair based on experience and intuition rather than sight.
‘Something different today, Wally. My new partner thinks I look like a boring old man. She suggests layered and spiked.’
Richards came up to the chair. He could see her smile and sparkling brown eyes in the mirror. ‘I was thinking about an inch long on top and tapered downwards,’ she said to Wally. ‘And if I’m paying, give him a shave as well.’
Wally nodded. ‘She seems to know what you want, Jed.’
‘So it would seem. I’m not going to look stupid am I, Wally?’
‘Nah, it’ll take ten years off you.’
‘Okay, if you say so.’
Wally gave him a shave first. Parish closed his eyes and dozed off, but the image of being dragged along a dark corridor made him jerk awake.’
‘Whoa,’ Wally said, holding the cut-throat razor in the air. ‘You nearly ended up in the cellar where Mrs Lovett is making her lovely pie fillings.’
‘Sorry, Wally. I drifted off for a moment.’
After Wally had shaved him, he washed Parish’s hair. He tried not to look as Wally began cutting. He felt as though he was undergoing surgery, and thought he should have asked for a general anaesthetic. He closed his eyes and thought about Carrie taking off her clothes, so that he wouldn’t get dragged down that dark tunnel again.
‘There you are, Jed.’ Wally rubbed something in his hair and began moulding it into spikes. ‘You’ll need to put gel on it every morning, otherwise it’ll just lay flat.’ He turned to Richards. ‘What do you think, Miss?’
Richards came up to stand at the back of the chair again. ‘A hundred percent better. I could fancy you myself if you weren’t so old.’
‘You really know how to make a guy feel special, Richards. Pay the man, and let’s go and get some lunch while there’s still time.’
As they walked to the car, he felt the cold wind circling round his head. It was as if Wally had cut his hat and scarf off. Before they reached the car, he saw a photo booth in the 24-hour Mart out of the corner of his eye.
‘Seeing as I’ve got a new haircut and I’m now a DI, I need a photograph, Richards.’
‘My mum’s got one of those digital cameras at home, and I’ve got a camera on my phone.’
He pointed towards the mart. ‘A passport photograph for my new warrant card, not a holiday snap to throw darts at.’
‘Oh, okay.’ She suddenly smiled. ‘We can have some taken together.’
‘Don’t be childish.’
‘Come on, Sir. You’re my first partner. I’ll be able to put them in my album and tell my grandchildren about us when I’m old and wrinkled. Please, Sir. Pretty please…’
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. ‘If you pull faces, Richards…’
She jumped up and hugged him. ‘I won’t – I promise.’
He went first to obtain the serious photograph he needed for his warrant card. While he was waiting for the results to drop into the slot, Richards put her three pounds in, squeezed into the booth and sat on his knee.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Wind the stool down, so we can both get our heads in the window.’
When she was happy with her position, she said, ‘Ready, Sir?’
‘Come on, Richard, let’s get it over with…’
FLASH
‘You didn’t tell me you’d pressed the…’
FLASH
‘I’m going to look a right…’
FLASH
‘I’d shut up if I were you, Sir.’
‘I think…’
FLASH
They had to wait two minutes for his serious photographs, which Richards pounced on before he’d noticed they’d arrived.
She laughed. ‘You look like you’re in shock.’
He snatched them off her. ‘Give them here. Photographs are confidential.’
Another five minutes passed before the second lot of photographs arrived.
Richards snapped them up again and squealed with delight. ‘Ha, you don’t want to see these.’
‘Come on. I’m on them as well.’
She handed them over. He had his eyes closed in the first
and third ones, and his mouth had morphed into something from a horror movie in the second and fourth pictures. In all of them Richards looked beautiful with her sparkling eyes and radiant smile, but she had used the hand of the arm wrapped around his shoulder to give him Indian feathers, an extra ear and a five-fingered splay.
‘I’ve never been very photogenic,’ he said, passing the photographs back to her.
‘Do you want two of them?’
‘I don’t think so. You keep them all, but don’t let anyone at the station see them.’
She grinned. ‘I’ll try not to.’
‘Right, let’s go to my flat. I’ll get my wallet, warrant card and watch, and then we can go to lunch. Where do you want to eat? My treat.’
‘We could go to that Italian restaurant opposite Redbridge Council. That way, we’ll already be there at two o’clock.’
‘Good idea. What time is it now?’
‘Five to one.’
She drove to his flat. He rushed in, collected the fragments of his life and rushed out.
They reached the Signor Carlo restaurant at one twenty. Parish was feeling adventurous and asked for a ragu Bolognese. He had no idea what it was, but he thought - what the hell. It wasn’t as if they were going to poison him. Richards ordered risotto with chicken livers. They’d only just come out of a post-mortem for goodness sake. He knew he had no press briefing today so he asked the waiter to bring him a lager. When the food came, Parish was surprised to find that his meal was spaghetti Bolognese with an Italian name. He stared at Richards’ meal, but the chef had obviously done a good job in hiding the chicken livers.
***
They’d finished lunch and were walking across the road at exactly two o’clock. Carrie was standing waiting for them at the top of the council steps with two young children: a girl of about five and a boy of about eight. Parish was surprised at how fantastic she looked in a green plaid knee-length skirt with brown boots. Underneath her dark green coat she had on a light green blouse and jumper, and covering her blonde hair she wore a green knitted hat worn like a beret. Maybe he wasn’t a breasts and backside type of guy, but…