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

by Tim Ellis

  Parish thanked them for their help and left. ‘Now I need food, Richards.’

  ‘We could go to my house. My mum will be there and she’ll have some roast beef left.’

  ‘Still trying to play matchmaker?’

  ‘Who me? I was thinking more of you eating a healthy meal.’

  ‘I’ll bet. All that talk of pie and chips has made my mouth water. Let’s go and find the nearest fish and chip shop.’

  ‘Sirrr!’

  ‘A man has needs, and fish and chips drenched in salt and vinegar is one of those needs.’

  They left Redbridge Council Offices and walked along the road until they found The Friary. Richards didn’t want the car stinking of fish and chips, so Parish was forced to sit at one of the three tables by the wall opposite the counter and eat his fish, chips and mushy peas with two slices of bread and a mug of tea. Richards was sitting with her chin in her hands watching him devour the meal like a homeless man who hadn’t eaten for a month.

  ‘I’ve decided that cooking a lovely meal for a man is a waste of time. My mum and I cooked that fantastic roast dinner for you yesterday, but you’d have been just as happy with a Chinese takeaway.

  ‘Mmmm, I love Chinese takeaways. Number 55 with egg fried rice and prawn crackers is my favourite.’

  ‘Men are so coarse.’

  ‘Just because that paramedic is an idiot, does not mean that all men should be lumped in the same category. You’re a beautiful woman with a personality to match. The man who gets you will think he’s died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what you just said.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I’ve been eating my chip butties.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so, and I’m the Inspector, remember?’

  He passed her the file and diary. ‘Occupy yourself by reading those instead of watching me poison myself.’

  ‘So, you admit it?’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing without my lawyer present. Now read.’

  Parish finished his meal and washed it down with sweet tea while he waited for Richards to finish skimming. Eventually, she closed the diary.

  ‘Ridpath’s file confirms he worked at Beech Tree Orphanage between 1979 and 1986 as the caretaker. Before that he was a school caretaker. He had no disciplinary problems.’

  ‘And the diary?’

  ‘Mr Squires had only just started it. There were “to do” lists, appointments with people, and committee meetings listed on the working days of this month. He also had a contact list with telephone numbers against people’s names. I think it’s just a work diary. If he had anything to hide, I don’t think he would hide it in his diary.’

  ‘Hiding things in plain sight can sometimes be a good strategy, Richards.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ***

  Colin Jackson emptied the food waste into a dustbin in the alley behind the Pepper Pot café in Redbridge. He’d been employed as an assistant chef on a trial basis two weeks ago. He hated the job. If it hadn’t been for the government threatening to withdraw his Jobseeker’s Allowance, he’d be in the Anchor now having a pint. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Bloody country was going to the dogs. He was sixty years old, for God’s sake, they should let him retire gracefully and enjoy what was left of his life. Since the orphanage had closed down in 1986 he had hopped from job to job. He’d been one of the four cooks at the orphanage, holding a position of importance with lots of fiddles. The fiddles on the side kept him in beers, but were nothing compared to his membership of the exclusive after-hours club organised by the manager. It was a great shame that someone bought the orphanage and closed it down, because his life had been shit ever since.

  He’d made a mistake in 1992 and got ten years in the Scrubs. He was lucky to get out of there with his life and had spent most of the time in protective custody. When he came out in 2000, after eight years of hell, Evan Hughes had become a liability, so he’d paid an acquaintance to change his identity to Colin Jackson.

  He saw the small, thin man dressed all in black walk towards him, but paid no attention until he stopped in front of him. The man had a hood covering his face, but a cigarette protruded from his mouth.

  ‘Got a light?’ the man asked him. Colin was sure he’d seen him in the café earlier.

  ‘Yeah sure.’ He went to retrieve the plastic lighter from his trouser pocket, but there was a massive pain in his chest.

  ‘A life for a life, Mr Hughes,’ the man said to him.

  What did that mean? He looked into the man’s dark eyes as he crumpled to the snow and thought he recognised something he had seen a long time ago. The thought did not have time or momentum to solidify. Colin Jackson’s heart stopped pumping. Oxygen ceased to travel to his brain. In effect, the man - who called himself Colin Jackson, but who was born Evan Hughes – was dead.

  The man in black slipped a token in Evan Hughes’ mouth with the number 4 on it and said: ‘For Frank Landon.’ Then he walked out of the alley.

  ***

  He’d eaten his lunch in the Pepper Pot café in Chigwell and thought he caught a glimpse of Evan Hughes through the plastic curtain leading into the kitchen, but he wasn’t sure. It was a long way to come for lunch and he would probably be late back to work, but he could devise some excuse during the return journey. It wasn’t as if his time-keeping was generally poor. Ollie was an okay guy and would believe him.

  Waiting at the corner of Bichard Street and Twopenny Alley behind the Pepper Pot, he saw Evan Hughes enter the alley via the back door of the café, empty waste into a dustbin and light up a cigarette. Terry Reynolds walked towards him with a cigarette in his mouth and asked him for a light, even though he didn’t smoke. Then he had killed Evan Hughes, who had stolen many things but, most recently, the identity of someone called Colin Jackson. After putting token number 4 in Evan Hughes’ mouth, Terry Reynolds walked to the deserted bus stop on Cranbrook Road.

  The bus back to Redbridge came along within ten minutes. Yes, he would be a couple of minutes late clocking back in. Ollie Townsend, the Head of Security, wouldn’t say much. He knew that Terry Reynolds was a good worker and usually on time.

  Terry Reynolds would tell him his mother was sick, that he’d had to travel to Goodmayes on the bus to visit her, make sure she had her medicine, food and so forth, and that the heating in her house was working. It was a mission of mercy.

  Once he had got back to Redbridge Council Offices and changed back into his security uniform, Ollie was sympathetic when he heard about Terry’s poor old mum. ‘Take as much time as you need,’ Ollie had said, and that was the end of it. Of course, mums were special. If he needed time off to look after his mum, then hell, he just had to say the word. Trouble was, Terry didn’t have a mum, had never had a mum. His mum had died giving birth to him.

  He was looking forward to getting back to his flat when his shift ended. He always enjoyed putting a cross through their faces once he had killed them. It changed nothing, but there was a vague sense of closure. He always had a feeling of satisfaction when he crossed one more off his ‘To Kill List’.

  ***

  Parish knocked on the Chief’s door at one fifteen.

  ‘Come in, Parish.’

  He pushed Richards in first. ‘How did you know it was me knocking, Sir?’

  ‘You have a distinctive knock. I know everyone’s knock in the squad room. So, this is Constable Richards?’ He moved from behind his desk with his arm extended. ‘Welcome to Hoddesdon Police Station, Constable.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘How are you liking it so far?’

  ‘I love it. Thanks very much for letting me work with DI Parish.’

  ‘I felt sorry for him. He needs a woman in his life, even if it is only as a partner.’

  He pointed for them to sit down in the easy chairs and came to join them. ‘Tell me what’s going
on, Parish.’

  Parish explained all that had happened at Redbridge Council that morning.

  ‘How did Paul Traynor take it?’

  ‘Do you know the Town Clerk, Sir?’

  ‘Of course I do. There’re not many people of importance in the area that I don’t know.’

  ‘He took it well. Whatever happened, I think it was before his time. He just wants to get to the truth.’

  The Chief nodded, as if he didn’t expect any other answer. ‘I’ve been keeping the Chief Constable in the loop, Parish,’ he said, ‘and he’s very pleased with your progress.’

  Parish felt uncomfortable. He’d never been any good at accepting praise. ‘Even though there are four dead bodies and no suspects, Sir?’

  ‘You say that as though someone more senior would have already solved the case. I can tell you, they wouldn’t. You’re doing a good job with what’s available and that’s all anyone can ask. And as you’re a newly promoted DI, the Chief Constable will have an experienced DCI shadowing you. So, if he says you’re doing a good job, you can put it in the bank.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Sir. Mr Toadstone from forensics also did a good job in Brian Ridpath’s flat. He found Ridpath’s place of employment, which is what we’ve been looking for and what Martin Squires tried to keep from us.’

  ‘So, do you think this Beech Tree Orphanage is the key?’

  ‘I’m hoping so.’

  ‘What’s your next move then?’

  ‘Richards and I are going to take a look in Martin Squires’ house in Abridge this afternoon, and then come back to consolidate what we’ve got and tie up the loose ends. Tomorrow, we’ll go and find this Beech Tree Orphanage, if it still exists.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to reading your report.’

  ‘What happened at the press briefing?’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, they weren’t happy with the sparseness of information you provided.’

  ‘Have any of them fitted the pieces together?’

  ‘If they have, it wasn’t apparent.’

  ‘I’m sure they will today. The Town Clerk was preparing for a siege.’

  ‘Yes, now that two of the council’s directors have died and accountants are removing boxes of files out of the front door, I think some of the more intelligent reporters might start connecting the dots.’

  ‘When’s the next briefing?’

  ‘Tomorrow at nine.’ He smiled. ‘I thought you could get it out of the way before you go out and then ring me up with an excuse about why you can’t get back.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that, Sir.’

  ‘Right - get back to work, Parish, and stop procrastinating in here.’

  Parish stood up and headed for the door.

  ‘Good to meet you, Richards,’ the Chief said.

  ‘And you, Sir,’ she said. Outside she whispered, ‘The Chief doesn’t look well.’

  ‘Prostate cancer. He’s having chemo- and radiotherapy.’

  ‘He’s such a nice man as well.’

  ‘Unfortunately, cancer doesn’t take niceness into account when it’s looking for a victim.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was ten to two. Kowalski and Gorman, an overweight detective in his forties with a comb-over, were having a game of darts at the far end of the squad room. All the others had their heads down working.

  ‘Come and have a game with us, Parish,’ Kowalski shouted. ‘Ten pounds says Gorman and I can beat you and Richards at a game of three-o-one?’

  ‘I’m good at darts, Sir,’ Richards said, flexing her throwing arm. ‘If you want to take them on, I’m ready and willing.’

  ‘I don’t, Richards. We’ve got three murders and a suicide to solve, remember?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Glad you’ve got time on your hands, Kowalski,’ Parish said, ‘but we’re up to our eyeballs.’

  ‘Up to your eyeballs in bodies, Parish.’ Kowalski’s laughter broke the sound barrier.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Richards said. ‘He’s a moron.’

  Parish sat down at his desk, logged on to the network and accessed his emails again. There were now forty-seven unopened emails. He began ticking those he was going to delete without opening them.

  Richards sat in the chair in front of his desk. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  He passed her the post-mortem reports of Diane Flint and Brian Ridpath, which were sitting on top of his in-tray. ‘Read.’

  She opened Diane Flint’s report and began reading.

  Parish noticed an email with TOKENS in the subject heading. It was a response to his email that Carrie had sent to all council employees. He opened it:

  Inspector,

  I recall seeing a token like the one below in Beech Tree Orphanage. I’m a social worker, and I was visiting the orphanage when I saw the token on the manager’s desk. I remember it because I thought at the time how unusual it was. I never visited the orphanage again, or saw another token.

  Beth Masters

  The email confirmed what he’d been thinking after reading Toadstone’s email. He typed a reply back:

  Beth,

  Thank you for your email; it was very helpful in confirming what we already suspected. Do you have a location for Beech Tree Orphanage?

  DI Parish

  He continued ticking the emails and had reached thirty-two when his mobile rang.

  ’Parish.’

  ‘Are you ever going to solve this case, Inspector?’ Doc Michelin asked. ‘I’m standing in an alley at the back of the Pepper Pot café in Redbridge, freezing my nuts off. Colin Jackson is with me, but he’s already dead from a marlinspike inserted into his heart. I have also retrieved a token from his mouth with the number 4 stamped on it.’

  ‘We’re on our way, Doc.’

  ‘Not another murder, Sir?’

  ‘Yes. It looks as though Martin Squires’ house will have to wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘You said there would be another one didn’t you?’

  ‘I would preferred to have been wrong. Go and get the car warmed up. I’ll let the Chief know our plans have changed.’

  ***

  It was five past four when they arrived at the crime scene. As usual, everyone else was there waiting for them. He noticed the paramedic from the Taylor murder and saw that Richards had spotted him as well. Toadstone was on his hands and knees examining the ground around the corpse.

  ‘Hi, Doc.’

  ‘To keep warm I’ve been doing your job, Parish. I went into the café for a coffee and the people in there saw nothing. Betty, the owner, said Mr Jackson was employed on a trial basis and had worked for her as an assistant cook for two weeks. He lives at 15, Buckingham Road, here in Redbridge, and his National Insurance number is NJ4756899Q. There’s nothing more I’ve got to tell you, so I’m going to sit in my car with the heating on now. When you’re finished, let me know so I can go home.’

  ‘Okay, Doc, keep warm.’

  ‘Huh.’

  The corpse had on a pair of blue and white checked trousers and a white jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A crimson mark over the heart looked like a flower in bloom. Parish squatted and looked into the victim’s surprised face. What did you do, Mr Jackson, which brought a killer after you?

  He stood up and noticed that night had replaced day. The orange streetlights were on, but he still felt as though he was thrashing about in the dark.

  ‘What do we know, Richards?’

  ‘We have four victims that have all been killed in the same way. The killer has put a token in their mouths with different numbers on.’

  ‘And this crime scene - what does it tell us?’

  Richards screwed up her eyes. ‘It doesn’t tell us anything.’

  ‘Think of the other crime scenes. Where were they?’

  ‘The first murder was in Ralston Drive. That’s where you saw me, and…’

  ‘Keep focused.’

  ‘Sorry. Then Diane Flint was killed in Redbridge Council car park, Brian Ri
dpath in an alley, and… They’re all isolated locations.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He’s picked them. He must have been watching them to know where to attack without being seen.’

  ‘So the crime scenes do tell us something then?’

  Richards turned sheepish. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you suppose that all the victims are connected in some way?’

  ‘Oh yes. For one thing, we know that Redbridge Council employed them all. Well… we don’t know about Mr Jackson, but I bet he worked for them as well.’

  ‘And the tokens?’

  ‘We know the tokens might have been used in a school, but it could be an orphanage.’

  ‘I forgot to tell you something in the rush to get here. I received an email from a social worker in response to my email to the council’s employees about the tokens – a Beth Masters. She said that on her one and only visit to Beech Tree Orphanage she saw a token like ours on the manager’s desk.’

  Richards smiled. ‘I love this job. It’s like spending all day finding the pieces of a jigsaw that you don’t have the picture for and then fitting them together at night, like the elves sewing the shoemaker’s shoes.’

  Parish screwed up his eyes and stared at her. ‘Stop babbling.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What do those things tell us about the killer’s motives then?’

  ‘He’s spent a long time watching each one of them. They’re people that he knows. The tokens make the killings personal. It’s about revenge isn’t it?’