by Tim Ellis
‘Good. Revenge for what?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘Well, we don’t know that yet. If we knew the why, we’d know the who.’
‘Sometimes, I feel as though I’m talking to a presenter on the Crime Channel.’
Richards giggled. ‘Sorry.’
‘Do we know anything about why the killer has picked these people?’
She was quiet for some time.
Parish waited patiently while she went through the evidence in her mind. He loved this part of the job, teaching others to find a way through the forest.
‘They’re all old people. And something happened between 1982 and 1986.’
‘Where?’
‘Probably at Beech Tree Orphanage.’
‘Excellent. What do we need to do now?’
‘Tonight?’
‘No, not “now” now, but the “general” now.’
‘We need to find out about Beech Tree Orphanage. As you said to the Chief, that’s probably the key.’
‘And that’s just what we’ll do tomorrow morning. I’ve got the press briefing at nine o’clock. While I’m doing that, you can pick up the pool car and then we’ll be ready to go by nine thirty.’
‘Go where?’
‘To Martin Squires’ house in Abridge, and then to find Beech Tree Orphanage.’
‘Okay.’
***
They went back to the station via 15, Buckingham Road, but the people who lived at the address – a Mr and Mrs Steven Petri – had never heard of Colin Jackson and didn’t know where he lived.
It was six twenty when they arrived back at the station. Parish told Richards to return the pool car and then go home. He went up to the squad room, which was deserted, to write his report for the Chief. He smiled as he remembered what the Chief had said earlier. The Chief Constable thought he was doing a good job. A bit of praise made everything bearable. He listed all the things that had happened today. If the Chief was keeping the Chief Constable in the loop, then he’d better make sure the DCI shadowing him had all the information. He wrote about the suicide of Martin Squires, the destruction of financial data, Brian Ridpath’s file, the email from Beth Masters and the murder of Colin Jackson – if that was his name. Then he told the Chief that they were going to visit Martin Squires’ house tomorrow morning (after the press briefing). He thought he’d add that so the Chief knew he hadn’t forgotten. Then they would find out about Beech Tree Orphanage
He checked his emails again. There were another twenty-one from various departments. Didn’t they have anything better to do than keep sending him rubbish? If he tried to read everything they sent him, he’d never leave his desk, and he’d have to claim ten hours overtime a week as well. He deleted all of the emails except one about travel claims. There was no response from Beth Masters. Maybe he’d have to go and see her tomorrow morning. In fact, he decided to do that. If she had been to Beech Tree Orphanage, then she had information he needed, quite apart from where it was. She had been in the manager’s office, so she could tell him the manager’s name. If anyone knew what had happened there, surely it would be the manager.
Bloody hell! Where had the time gone? It was five past seven. He had to go home, get showered and changed and then drive to Chigwell by eight o’clock. He did a dirty shut down of his computer, grabbed his coat and left.
***
Parish was standing outside the Gooseberry restaurant at five to eight, pacing up and down like a sentry and nibbling the nail on the little finger of his left hand. He’d stuck his head in the restaurant and spoken to the maïtre d’, but Angie hadn’t arrived before him. At first he was glad, but then he began thinking that maybe she’d had second thoughts. Maybe she’d changed her mind, spoken to her daughter and realised Jed Parish didn’t measure up. Maybe Richards had found out about Carrie, about how he’d been unable to control his lust. If Angie did turn up, he swore silently that he’d be a better man in the future. What would he do if she didn’t turn up? Richards would know what had happened. He’d be embarrassed knowing that she knew he’d been stood up. Why did he let these things happen? He should apply the same caution and logic to his private life as he did to his detective work. But no, where relationships were concerned, he was a complete amateur. They should run training courses. He’d go on all of them.
‘I’ve not kept you waiting have I, Jed?’
She’d crept up behind him while he was pacing in the opposite direction. ‘No, I got here early.’ By the skin of his teeth, he thought. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Let’s go in before we freeze to death.’
He let her go in first. They were shown to a table amongst the other diners, mingled in with the quiet conversation and the polite laughter. The waiter took their coats.
‘You look beautiful,’ he told her. She had on a dark green silk dress that plunged at the front and the back, with matching shoes and bag. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Strands of her hair had been braided at the temples and pulled backwards to keep the rest of it in place. Later, whenever he was asked, he would tell people that it was in the Gooseberry restaurant that he had fallen in love with Angela Richards.
She smiled, but said nothing as he held the chair for her to sit down.
The waiter came back with the menus. Parish let Angie choose a bottle of red wine. Like relationships, he knew nothing about wine. In fact, when it came to dating and socialising, he knew very little about anything. He had spent all his time working and, apart from the few sorties into pubs and clubs as a student where he’d been mostly anonymous, he couldn’t recall ever having had a social life.
He spent all day making decisions, yet when it came to choosing food from a list on a menu he was like a child faced with too many flavours in an ice cream parlour. They didn’t make it easy for him because there were no fish and chips, no Chinese 55 or Indian 33. He didn’t see a kebab on the whole menu and the only pizzas were in the children’s section. He should have checked the menu, carried out a reconnaissance. He’d left too much to chance. He should have come prepared, as if it were an armed raid on a warehouse full of drugs.
‘What are you having?’ he asked her, wondering whether he should order the same thing.
‘Why, is there some way you can produce a criminal profile of me from what I eat?’
They both laughed. He knew this was going to be a good night. He should relax, open up and be himself. ‘If someone could do that,’ he said. ‘I’d be the worst criminal on the planet. My diet consists of…’
‘Mary has told me what your diet consists of. You eat heart-attack food all the time.’
‘It’s like having my own dietician.’
‘Mary thinks you’re wonderful. She wants to protect you from yourself.’
He didn’t want to talk about Mary. ‘What about you? What do you think?’
‘Fishing for compliments, Jed? I think my daughter has good taste.’
They both ordered prawn cocktail as a starter. For the main course Angie had a chicken Milanese salad; he ordered an 8oz grilled rump steak covered in peppercorn sauce. As the shadow of a frown crossed her face, he asked for new potatoes instead of chips.
Angie wanted to know about him, but he kept moving the conversation back to her. ‘Have you always been a nurse?’
‘Yes, I never wanted to be anything else. What subject did you take at university?’
‘Criminal psychology. Why haven’t you married a doctor?’
‘They have God-complexes. Why haven’t you married?’
‘Married who? The only women I meet are suspects, victims or criminals.’
‘I’m none of those.’
‘That’s why we’re out having dinner.’
For pudding he wanted a hot chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream, but he ordered a tangerine cheesecake instead. He smiled. He wasn’t being himself at all; he was trying to impress her by choosing what he thought were the healthier foods instead of what he would normally have selected.
She put her hand on his. ‘Why are
you smiling?’
‘Because I really like you and I’m ordering food that I wouldn’t normally choose. I don’t want you to think I’m an unhealthy person even though I am, and you know I am. I think it’s the first time ever that I care what somebody thinks of me.’
‘You’re trying to talk me into bed, aren’t you?’
‘It’s not a bad idea, but I want us to start off as we mean to go on. Yes we could go back to my flat and share a night of passion, but I think it’s too soon. I think we’d both be doing it because we thought the other one expected it. I’m in no rush. I’d like our relationship to be about more than sex.’
‘Keep talking Jed Parish - you’re measuring up nicely.’
They were the last couple to leave the restaurant. He drove her the short distance home. They kissed as if they meant it and agreed to meet the next night at his flat. Although he had parked along the road from where she lived so that Mary wouldn’t see his car, he stayed and watched her enter the house. He was just about to drive off, when the bedroom light came on. She was standing in the window undressing. He knew that she knew he was still sitting there watching her. He felt like a voyeur, but he still wished he had his binoculars with him. After the light went out he stayed for another half an hour thinking about how beautiful she was.
When he arrived home, he decided to leave the Chief’s report until the morning. He thought he might be in love and he didn’t want details of the case erasing that thought.
***
Tuesday, 21st January
What the hell had happened? He couldn’t remember the last time he had overslept. In fact, he didn’t think he had ever stayed in bed beyond six o’clock. He’d never had an alarm clock because the nightmares had always woken him up. This morning, though, there were no nightmares, or he’d slept through them. When he woke at seven thirty he had an erection like a flagpole and a picture in his mind of Angie naked at her bedroom window. Even though he was late, he didn’t have the usual feelings of annoyance that accompanied getting up late. He sent his report to the Chief and then took his time getting ready. As long as he was there for the press briefing at nine o’clock, what did a few stolen minutes matter? The Chief wouldn’t mind - probably wouldn’t even notice.
As he made himself presentable for his first press briefing in charge, what he was going to say ran through his mind. He knew he couldn’t palm the press off with platitudes anymore. Two directors at Redbridge Council had died. One had been murdered and the other had committed suicide. He’d directed police accountants to remove all their financial records. Discretion was hard to maintain when the removal men were traipsing in and out with boxes and leaving muddy boot prints on the carpets.
He turned on the television in the kitchen for the eight o’clock news while he ate his buttered toast. As he expected, the television crews were camped outside Redbridge Council Offices speculating on the ‘goings on’ inside. The report was from yesterday afternoon and showed police officers transporting boxes full of files from the building and putting them into unmarked vans. The Town Clerk, Mr Traynor, appeared and said he had no idea what was going on. The police had informed him that there were irregularities in the accounts related to the murder of the Social Services Director, Diane Flint, and the suicide of the Finance Director, Martin Squires. He was sure the matter would be cleared up soon. In the meantime, the council would be open for business as usual, which was not strictly true because their bank accounts had been frozen.
Representatives from the three main political parties and some independent councillors appeared, but were even more in the dark than the Town Clerk.
Yes, he expected a grilling from the press this morning. They would want to know what was really going on. It was in the public interest to tell everyone the truth, especially if it was gory, scandalous or juicy. The truth sold newspapers and increased television ratings. But there was only so much of the truth that he could tell them without it interfering with his investigation. He wouldn’t tell them about the tokens or the marlinspike. Those juicy details were for police eyes only. As far as the press was concerned, there had been one murder and a suicide. If he told them that the murders of Gregory Taylor, Brian Ridpath and Colin Jackson were connected to Diane Flint’s murder, he’d have to discuss the way in which each was killed, what linked them together, and about Beech Tree Orphanage. There would be a hue and cry about a serial killer, which would cause him serious problems. The press would start second-guessing him and he couldn’t be doing with that. No, he would keep it focused on Redbridge Council: on one murder and a suicide, probably related to the financial irregularities. Money was always a good smokescreen, he thought with a smile.
***
He arrived at the station at eight thirty-five. The squad room was unusually subdued. Richards hadn’t appeared yet.
‘What’s going on?’ he said to Kowalski, who seemed to have run out of stupid quips.
‘You’ve not heard?’
‘Would I be asking if I had?’
‘The Chief was rushed into hospital last night.’
Parish swallowed with difficulty. ‘Is he…?’
‘No, not yet. Chief Inspector Naylor is acting Chief at the moment. He came in earlier and said he’d rung the hospital. The doctors weren’t optimistic apparently. Naylor wants to see you, by the way.’
In the back of his mind, he had known this day would come. After all the Chief had done for him, he wanted to spend some time thinking of the man, probably go to the hospital and give him some words of encouragement, but all he could do was think of himself. He hated CI Trevor Naylor and the feeling was mutual. Everyone knew that Naylor was a slime ball who had got his promotions by trampling on the backs of the people who worked for him. He knocked on the Chief’s door.
‘Come in.’
Naylor was sitting in the Chief’s chair, getting his feet comfortable under the Chief’s desk, drinking the Chief’s coffee. Parish wanted to leap over the desk and thump Naylor in the face a few times until he bled profusely from the nose. He wasn’t normally a violent man, but Naylor brought out the worst in him.
‘What fucking time do you call this, Parish?’
Parish opened his mouth to reply.
‘Don’t fucking interrupt me. A week as a DI and you think you can come in anytime you fucking well please. Well, I’m here to tell you that the honeymoon period is well and truly fucking over. You’ve got five dead bodies now. How many more does he have to kill before you fucking well catch him? I’m giving you ample warning: if he kills again, you’re off the case. Just give me an excuse. Do I make myself crystal fucking clear?
‘Yes…’
‘I haven’t fucking well finished yet. And that stunt you pulled at the council yesterday - Jesus fucking wept. I’ve had the Mayoress and the leader of the council on the phone complaining. Have you never heard of tact, diplomacy or fucking stealth? No wonder the Chief’s in hospital fighting for his life. Where’s your fucking press briefing?’
Parish took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the desk.
CI Naylor read it. ‘If anybody mentions a fucking serial killer, or even hints at one, you’d better deny it until your tongue bleeds, if you know what’s good for you. You should never have been promoted as long as you had a hole in your arse. I can’t imagine what the Chief was thinking of. If the Chief kicks the bucket and I get this job, you’ll be out on your fucking ear, Parish. I don’t like you, never have. As far as I’m concerned you’re too much of a loner for my liking. Now, get the fuck out and catch the bastard before hell freezes over.’
The Chief’s secretary, Debbie, pulled a sympathetic face and shrugged as he walked past her. He could see she’d been crying. The Chief was well liked throughout the station and Debbie had worked with him for fifteen years; she was his work-wife.
The meeting with CI Naylor had gone much as he had expected, although he was surprised to be still on the case. There was no room for manoeuvre now. If he
made a mistake, or the killer struck again, Naylor would be adding his name to the transfer list and Richards would be back on the beat.
Chapter Eighteen
The press briefing room was stuffed to overflowing. Outside, the temperature had plummeted to –7oC, but in the briefing room it was like a sauna. With the spotlights and television cameras aimed directly at him he felt like a target. If he were destined to die of a heart attack, now would be a good time for it to happen. His cardiac pump was thrashing about like a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig in a sty without food.
Parish sat down at the table and unfolded the paper in front of him. He could hear his hair growing it was so quiet. Once he had read the briefing, the shouting began. The Chief should have warned him about the damage to his hearing. He wondered whether he should wear ear defenders in future.
His hands went up in surrender. ‘Please, one question at a time.’ He pointed to a young woman with reddish hair and freckles standing up on the left by the wall.
‘Catherine Cox from the Chigwell Herald. Are you investigating a connection between the two deaths at Redbridge Council and a number of other murders in the local area?’
Here we go, he thought. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Cox, without knowing which murders you’re referring to I’m unable to answer your question.’ He was glad that no one seemed to grasp that the implication of non-denial was that they were investigating a link to other murders.
‘Yes?’ Parish pointed to a pretty young woman with glasses in the first row.
‘Emma Potter from the Redbridge Times. ‘Is it true that Mr Squires killed Mrs Flint, and then took his own life?’
It sounded like an accusation in Cluedo. He had to work hard not to smile as he finished the sentence: using the candlestick in the conservatory. ‘We are still investigating what happened at Redbridge Council, Miss Potter. More than that, I’m not at liberty to say, but thank you for your question.’