by Tim Ellis
He was enjoying answering questions without telling them anything, and he chose another pretty young woman from the third row with a blonde bob and sparkling grey eyes.
‘Ruth Sandland from the Commuter. Do you know how much money was stolen?’
‘At this point, Miss Sandland, we don’t know that any money has been stolen.’
‘It’s Ms Sandland, Inspector.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ he parried and immediately stood up. ‘The next briefing will be at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Thank you all for coming’
***
In the corridor he leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Well, for a first briefing on his own he thought that it went okay. At least nobody mentioned a serial killer, so he didn’t have to lie and his tongue wasn’t bleeding.
What was his plan for today? News of the Chief had really thrown him. He’d have to nudge everything backwards so that he could go and spend some time with him. Then he needed to visit Beth Masters to see what she knew about Beech Tree Orphanage, which meant running the gauntlet of reporters squatting outside Redbridge Council Offices. Unless, of course, he rang her and met her for lunch, which would probably be safer. Yes, he knew a bit about fucking stealth, especially where lunch was concerned!
He walked slowly up the stairs to the squad room. After speaking to Beth Masters, he should go and find out what this orphanage looked like, see what all the fuss was about. He had no idea if the orphanage still existed. Beth Masters would surely know. It seemed to have mythical status: a place shrouded in mystery, like El Dorado or Camelot. Then, of course, they still needed to go and search Martin Squires’ house in Abridge.
‘Morning, Sir.’ Richards was sitting at his desk going through his in-tray. She needed a desk of her own. If he survived until the end of the week and she was still his partner, he’d organise something for her. If not, neither of them would need a desk. ‘Kowalski told me about the Chief.’
‘It’s worse than you think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you later. First, find the number for Social Services at Redbridge Council.’
She rifled through the telephone book and then rang the number.
‘Ask to speak to Beth Masters.’
After a while, Richards thrust the phone at him. ‘She’s on the line.’
‘Miss Masters…’
‘It’s Mrs actually.’ Didn’t you just know it? Somebody with the right authority should fix that. How the hell could anybody tell whether it was Miss, Mrs or Ms. If he was standing in front of a woman the wedding ring was a bit of a clue, but when he was writing a letter or speaking on the telephone it was like throwing darts with a blindfold on.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Parish from Hoddesdon Police Station. You sent me an email.’
‘Oh, yes, the one about the tokens?’
‘That’s right. Can we meet? I’d like to pick your brains about Beech Tree Orphanage.’
‘I have appointments all morning, but you could buy me lunch. You won’t get value for money, though, because I don’t know a lot about the orphanage’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Where?’
‘Do you know the Marianna restaurant on Manford Way in Chigwell?’
‘I’ll find it. Twelve thirty okay for you?’
‘Yes, that will be fine.’
‘See you then, Mrs Masters.’
He passed the phone back to Richards. ‘That’s lunch organised.’
‘Are we going to see the Chief now?’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘I knew we would be.’
In the car, Richards said, ‘Did you take my mum out last night?’
‘I was in bed alone last night, Richards.’
‘You’re not answering my question.’
‘That’s because I don’t have to.’
Her eyes creased up and her lips stretched into a thin line like a bulldog that had found the scent of fresh meat. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you – I did a database search for Brian Ridpath and Colin Jackson while you were briefing the press.’
He knew he should have done that, but what with one thing and another he had forgotten. ‘And…?’
‘There was nothing of interest on Brian Ridpath, but Colin Jackson died in 1981. He used to live at 15, Buckingham Road before he died, but that was a long time ago.’
‘What do you think that means?’
‘Colin Jackson isn’t really the victim’s name.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Give Doc Michelin a ring and ask him to run Jackson’s fingerprints through the National Fingerprint Database; we’ll see who comes back.’
Richards picked up the phone and rang the pathologist.
‘There’s no time is there?’
‘That’s what happens when a murder team consists of one man and a dog.’
‘I’m the dog, am I?’
‘Yes, but a very cute pedigree dog with long silky hair.’
‘Thanks – I think.’
‘We’ll try and get to Squires’ house this afternoon; otherwise it will have to be tomorrow.’
***
Chief Superintendent Walter Day lay awake, propped up with pillows. A thin clear tube disappeared up his nose, and another one carrying liquid ran into the back of his hand. His hair had been incinerated as waste long ago, and his skin was like translucent porcelain with blue cracks. In the office he usually wore a black woollen hat that hid his baldness, but didn’t match his suit and tie. Nobody had the heart to tell him it looked ridiculous.
‘Hello, Parish. I saw you on the news earlier - good job.’ His voice was soft, like tissue paper.
Parish put the bottle of orange juice and the bag of grapes he’d bought on the bedside table. ‘Thanks, Sir.’
‘I see you’re still smiling, Richards?’
‘I was until I heard about you, Sir. Now I’m not smiling so much. I hope you’re going to get better.’
‘I feel like an ass, Richards. I mixed up my tablets last night - nearly killed myself. Of course, they think I did it on purpose, and who could blame me? But it was an honest to goodness mistake. Anyway, as well as everything else, I’m on suicide watch now and I’ve got to have counselling twice a day. They’re going to stabilise me again and make sure I’m not a danger to myself and others, and then they’ll let me out. I should be back at work on Monday.’
‘That’s excellent news.’ Parish said. He had decided in the car not to say anything to the Chief about his meeting with CI Naylor. The man had enough on his plate without Parish bleating like a weakling about being bullied.
Walter Day forced a smile. ‘Come on, Parish – out with it?’
‘Out with what, Sir?’
‘Whatever it is that’s wrung the colour out of your face.’
‘It was hearing about you.’
‘It’s Trevor Naylor, isn’t it?’
Parish couldn’t prevent his mouth from ratting him out. ‘He dragged me into your office and told me my future.’
‘If it’s any consolation, Parish – and you never heard it from me – he won’t get my job when I’m gone.’
‘Unfortunately, Sir, he’s got it now, and he’s made himself very much at home in your office. By the time you come back on Monday, your coffee will be gone and Richards and I will be history.’
‘He’s coming in to see me this afternoon; I’ll have a word.’
‘I can sign a handgun out. It would be better to shoot him in the heart with a silver bullet.’
‘I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humour, Parish.’
‘I’m just being cheerful for your sake, Chief.’
‘So, are you any nearer catching the killer?’
‘Well…’
‘Let Richards tell me, Parish. We’ll see how good your teaching is. Not only that, I prefer her voice to yours.’
Richards grinned. ‘Thank you, Sir - I said to DI Parish you had good taste. We’re meeting a social worker for lunch who knows a
bout Beech Tree Orphanage. We still think it’s the key to what’s been happening. Then, if it’s still standing, we’ll go and have a walk round.’
‘Are you expecting the killer to be hiding out there?’
‘No, but if the orphanage still exists, then there might be some clues left for us to find.’
‘What do you make of the latest victim being killed in the middle of the day?’
‘We think the killer knows all the victims, Chief. He’s been watching them and knows the best time to kill each one. The crime scenes are all isolated, so there’s little chance of him being seen or caught.’
‘She sounds like a presenter on the Crime Channel, Parish.’
Parish smiled.
‘We’re also trying to find time to search Martin Squires’ house, but we haven’t got much of that, Sir.’
‘I wish I could help you, Richards. In here I have lots of time.’
A rotund nurse with bright red hair and a dark blue uniform came in the room. ‘You’ll have to leave now, Inspector. Chief Superintendent Day needs his rest, and it’s nearly lunchtime.’
Parish squeezed the Chief’s arm. ‘Don’t worry about me, Chief; I can look after myself. You just concern yourself with beating this thing. Richards and I will pop back tomorrow to check up on you.’
‘Thanks, Parish. By the way, the Chief Constable has taken a real liking to you. He’s following your investigation with interest and is thinking of using it for training purposes – so keep sending your reports, but to his email address.’
‘Ha!’ Parish mumbled as he walked out. ‘The perfect example of what not to do.’
Richards leaned over and kissed the Chief on the forehead. ‘See you tomorrow, Sir.’ She followed Parish along the corridor. ‘What did this CI Naylor say to you?’
‘He wanted to know how I’d lumbered myself with such a nosy partner.’
***
The Marianna restaurant on Manford Way was a café pretending to be a restaurant. The food and the clientele were both cheap and cheerful, and there were no tablecloths on the Formica-topped tables. Parish ordered a full English breakfast to matching frowns from Richards and Beth Masters, who both ordered salads.
Beth Masters was in her late fifties, thin with spiked grey hair. She wore chunky colourful jewellery and dressed like a hippie. Her clothes looked as though they were all off-cuts from a patchwork quilt.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Masters said when Parish asked her about Beech Tree Orphanage. ‘A couple of months before it was closed down, I think.’
‘Why did it close?’
‘I have no idea, Inspector. I went to the orphanage that one time to see a young girl who was being adopted. We were sitting in the manager’s office and had a chat, and then I left. While I was there, I recall seeing a token on the manager’s desk, like the one in the picture. It was unusual – that’s why I remember it.’
‘Do you recall the manager’s name?’
Parish could see Beth Masters dredging through memories that had not seen the light of day for many years. ‘Pearson, I think. I only remember because his breath smelled terrible. He was fat and sweaty… Oh yes… and his office smelled of sweaty body as well – a really unpleasant man.’
Parish forked a mixture of bubble ‘n’ squeak, black pudding and baked beans into his mouth, and then washed it down with tea. ‘Where was the orphanage?’
‘You mean, you don’t know?’
He wondered why people did that. Why would anybody ask a question if they already knew the answer? ‘No, I don’t know.’
‘After it closed, the orphanage was bought by Rushdon Property Management.’
‘Never heard of it, Parish said.
‘Peter Rushdon was an orphan there apparently, but he’s an old man now living in America. He made his fortune in the 1960s and 70s buying up land and building houses people could afford.’
‘So he bought up the orphanage and built houses on the land?’
‘No. I remember reading an article in the Chigwell Herald at the time. He just put a twelve foot high metal fence around the whole damned place and went to live in America. As far as I know, nobody has seen him since.’
‘So where is it?’
‘Between the cemetery and Chigwell Brook. You can get to it via Froghall Lane, but you won’t get in.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This morning I thought I’d make a slight detour, between visiting clients, to have a quick look. The fence is still there, but it’s hidden behind a forest of brambles, black thorn and hawthorn. You can’t see the orphanage. Nobody knows it even exists anymore. Until I got that email asking about the tokens from you, I hadn’t thought about Beech Tree Orphanage in twenty years, and I’ve never heard anybody talk about it either. I think Peter Rushdon made it disappear.’
‘But why?’
Beth Masters shrugged. ‘No idea. Listen, Inspector, thanks very much for lunch, but I have to go now – more appointments. They treat social workers like slaves these days.’
‘You’re welcome, Beth. Thanks very much for helping us.’
After Beth Masters had left, and Parish had finished slurping his tea, Richards said, ‘Sounds a bit creepy, Sir.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ he said.
***
Graham Pearson had seen the news concerning the murder of Diane Flint and wondered what was going on at Redbridge Council. When he read in the Redbridge Times a couple of days later that police had taken the council’s financial records away, he became increasingly concerned about his pension. First, he tried to contact Brian Ridpath, but found out from the landlord at the Two Brewers that Brian had been murdered. He decided to go and ask Martin Squires what the hell was going on and, more importantly, reassure himself that his pension was safe. It wasn’t so urgent though that he shouldn’t keep his booking at the Hainault Forest Golf Club, of which he was a long-standing member. After he had hit fifty balls down the frozen driving range, he celebrated with a couple of beers at the nineteenth hole, and then caught a taxi to the council offices.
Having taken retirement in 1986, he had put on three stone in weight before taking up golf. Although he had only been forty-eight, he was able to negotiate a good deal with Martin Squires because of the videotapes he had secured in a safe-deposit box at the bank, which allowed him to live quite comfortably and take regular holidays to Thailand. He thought it was a great shame that the orphanage had been bought by that bastard Rushdon and then closed, but he had known that the long-running exclusive after-hours club would come to an end sooner or later.
He hadn’t spoken to Martin Squires since negotiating his retirement package. In fact, he had avoided any contact with the other members of the club as a precautionary measure, but he was about to close a deal on a small place in Spain, overlooking a golf course, and he didn’t want anything to go wrong.
The council offices had been refurbished in 1999, and were a lot more welcoming than the Victorian heavy wooden doors and mosaics he remembered. He went straight to the lifts, stepped in and pressed for the sixth floor.
He found Martin Squires’ pretty little secretary sitting at her desk and said, ‘Mr Squires, please?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but Mr Squires has died.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’ Died? He turned around and left. Died? Now what would happen?
***
Terry Reynolds was on duty. He hadn’t planned to kill Graham Pearson until after work at the old man’s house, but the fat smelly bastard had come into the council for some reason. Terry got into the lift on the fifth floor, and Pearson was there on his own. He nearly didn’t get in, but then changed his mind.
Even after all this time Pearson had recognised him. ‘Well, well, little Terry Reynolds. It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one killing them all. Right from the start I knew you were trouble.’
Terry punched Pearson in the throat, smashing his windpipe. He’d learnt how to do that in prison. The fat bastard slid down
the side of the lift and sat on the floor like a blob of greasy blubber. He used his lift key to override the controls and take it down to the lower basement where he locked it. Thankfully, there was no one about. He went to his locker and retrieved the marlinspike and token number 43 from his bag. Back at the lift, he stabbed Pearson in the heart and slipped the token in his mouth.
‘For Tommy Lonely,’ he said. Then he unlocked the lift and sent it up to the top floor.
He was breathing heavily. Sweat snaked down his back, and he began to think of the CCTV cameras. There were none in the lifts, but there were a number in the lower basement, and one of them overlooked the lift doors. He’d have to go up to the security room and get rid of the computer disc. Trouble was, Ollie Townsend was up there. He didn’t want to kill Ollie, but…
Terry was relieved when he went into the security office and found Ollie dozing with the Sun open on his lap at Page 3. He took the disc out of the computer and put it in his pocket. Then he removed a clean disc from the pile and slipped it in the CD drive. Lastly, he took a lift key off the hook on the board. He knew that once the police had been called and they worked everything out, he would more than likely be searched. He went down to his locker, took out the marlinspike and remaining tokens, and put them in a plastic shopping bag with the CCTV surveillance disc and the lift key. Then he hid the bag in the toilet cistern.
When he returned to the security office, Ollie was still snoring. He helped himself to Ollie’s newspaper, sat down and began reading about the strange ‘goings on’ at Redbridge Council.
***
Richards had driven to the end of Froghall Lane and parked up in front of a wire fence. It was five past three and the light was beginning to fade. The cemetery, like a snow-covered garden of bones, was standing to their left. They were sitting on the warm bonnet of the car looking across a field towards a twelve foot wall of thorns.