by Tim Ellis
In the flat, he cooked himself a breakfast with four pieces of toast and read the paper. At seven, he switched on the television. He thought the local news crew would have edited out Richards waving at the camera, but they hadn’t. It seemed to trivialise the investigation and he wondered what CI Naylor and the Chief would make of it. She had an excuse because she was new, but he’d have to speak to her about it. Although they were in their little part of England trying to solve these murders, people across the UK, and for that matter across the world, were peering in at them through the window of television. They were specimens under a microscope and she had to bear that in mind at all times.
***
CI Trevor Naylor was sitting behind the Chief’s desk and stared at Parish as if he were a turd someone had thrown into the office as a bad joke. Parish felt extremely uncomfortable as Naylor continued to stare at him and his mind began to wander. He thought the Chief Inspector had the look of Humphrey Bogart, thin and angular with dark hair slicked straight back. All he needed was a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, a double-breasted suit and a trilby hat, and he could get a part in Casablanca.
The Chief had said he’d speak to Naylor, but maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the Chief had forgotten or, worst case scenario, the Chief was dead. Maybe Naylor had been given the Chief’s job – God help them all. Maybe slime ball was enjoying torturing him – but what was he thinking? There was no maybe involved in that. There were too many maybes for his liking. Maybe he should resign and become a taxi driver.
‘I’ve got the press briefing at nine, Sir,’ he said, trying to hurry CI Naylor along. His feet were going numb.
‘You’ve got the press briefing at nine if I say you’ve got the fucking press briefing at nine, Parish.’
‘Have I got the press briefing at nine, Sir?’
‘I haven’t made up my fucking mind yet. You went and bleated to the Chief like a fucking cry-baby. The Chief asked me to leave you alone - note I said ‘asked’. I’m in fucking charge until the Chief comes back, if he comes back. I can’t make up my fucking mind whether to leave you alone or kick your fucking arse so far out of the door you’ll end up on the beat in Yorkshire. I said you’d be fucking history if there was another murder, and as sure as fucking eggs are eggs there was another fucking murder. Now, you know me Parish. Am I a liar?’
‘No…’
‘Don’t fucking interrupt me. You’re a fucking slow learner, Parish.’
‘Sorry…’
‘Jesus fucking wept. How you even got promoted to Sergeant is beyond me. And don’t think I didn’t see that stupid fucking cow you call a partner waving at the cameras like a fucking celebrity. You two are a good fucking match for each other. Together you probably make half a brain. Out of respect for the Chief, I’m going to pretend you don’t exist until he comes back, Parish. I’m going to ignore your fucking stupidity, I’m going to play along with the Chief’s madcap fucking idea that you’re a good detective and I’m going to pray that you stumble over some evidence that will help you solve the case and make me look good. Five murders and a fucking suicide, Parish! A blind man with a fucking wooden leg and a donkey could have solved it by now, but the Chief wants you and that stupid fucking bitch on it. I must be out of my mind. I can hear the Chief Constable asking me why I didn’t put you at the head of the fucking euthanasia queue. And you know what, Parish? I have no fucking idea. I’ll blame the Chief, of course, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is, I’m fucking curious to see how long the Chief will let you bumble along before he does something about you.’ He thrust his hand out. ‘Press briefing?’
Parish put his folded press briefing on the table.
Naylor read it and pushed it back. ‘I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, but you’re not a normal fucking person, Parish. Don’t mention a serial killer.’
‘What serial killer, Sir?’
‘Get the fuck out. Same time tomorrow, Parish.’
‘Have a good day, Sir.’
Outside the Chief’s office he smiled and said into the microphone on his lapel, ‘I hope you got all that, Toadstone?’
He strolled up to forensics. ‘Well?’
Toadstone passed him a memory stick, which he slipped into his jacket pocket. ‘It’s in WAV format, Sir.’
‘You’ve sent it to the Chief Constable?’
‘Sitting in his inbox like a grenade waiting for the pin to be pulled.’
‘They won’t be able to track it back to us?’
‘I’m not stupid, Sir. If anyone puts a trace on it, they’ll discover it came from a region of China that has only one computer, which doesn’t work.’
‘Good job, Toadstone – I owe you one.’
‘On that, Sir… Do you think you could put a good word in for me with your partner?’
‘I can do that, Toadstone, but I think she’s way out of your league. She’s Premiership, you’re Southern Conference.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Definitely, but that’s only my opinion. I’ll say some nice things about you and we’ll see what happens.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
He patted his pocket. ‘Least I can do.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Parish didn’t really need to go to the toilet, but he knew that as soon as the press briefing began he’d be bursting at the seams and then it would be too late, so he went and squeezed a few drops out. As he washed his hands, the man in the mirror stared back at him like a hedgehog caught in the main beam of a car’s headlights.
Amazingly, he was still a DI. The Chief had come through for him again. He wished he had a cure for the Chief’s prostate cancer, but he didn’t. All he could do was solve this case, prove that the Chief had been right in recommending him for promotion and right in continuing to have faith in him.
How CI Naylor had risen to the position he had, and remained there, was beyond Parish’s comprehension. The man was an anachronism who belonged to a time when people didn’t matter. What surprised him was that nobody had done anything about the man. Everyone seemed to be scared of him, scared of how he could ruin their career with a word, the swish of a pen, or a non-recommendation. Parish wasn’t scared of Naylor; the man was a bully. As he straightened the red and white striped tie in the mirror and ran steady fingers through his gelled hair, he hoped the Chief Constable would act on the tape Toadstone had sent him.
He walked along the corridor, down the stairs and into the press briefing room. It seemed that everyone was interested in the ‘goings on’ at Redbridge Council. His report was brief:
‘Yesterday afternoon a man called Graham Pearson, aged seventy-two years old, was stabbed in a lift at Redbridge Council and was declared dead at the scene. As far as we know, there is no connection to the deaths of Diane Flint and Martin Squires, but our investigations are continuing.’
‘Inspector Parish?’ This came from a man with a goatee beard and beady eyes. The man pushed a microphone towards him. ‘Andrew Peterson from the Beeb,’ he drawled like a Texan. ‘Can you tell us, please, whether you have any suspects for either of the two murders? Or whether Mr Pearson’s murder is connected to the missing money? Or if there will be any further murders?’
‘That’s a handful of questions, Mr Peterson. No, we have no suspects, but then it is still early days. We haven’t yet established that there is any money missing from Redbridge Council. Lastly, my crystal ball is in for repair.’
A weak ripple of laughter told Parish he wouldn’t make a living as a stand-up comic.
The young woman with the freckles and the nervous smile from the Chigwell Herald stood up, pen poised over a fat notebook. ‘Catherine Cox, Inspector. A number of sources have provided me with details of three similar murders in the local area. Isn’t it true that you’re really looking for a serial killer and are keeping the truth from us?’
Mayhem ensued. After it had quietened down, Parish said, ‘I don’t know who your sources are Miss Cox, but you have to remember that this
is Essex, not America.’
There was a smattering of laughter again and his tongue wasn’t even bleeding.
‘Answer the question,’ someone shouted from the back.
‘No,’ he responded.
‘No what? No, you’re not looking for a serial killer? Or no, you’re not keeping the truth from us? Or no, you’re not answering the question?’
‘Yes.’ Even as he said it, Parish was admiring how slippery he had become.
The reporter from the Redbridge Times squinted at him through her designer glasses as she stood up. ‘Emma Potter, Inspector.’
Looking her up and down like a client in a lap dancing club, he smiled and said, ‘Yes, Miss Potter, I remember you.’
A rosy tint appeared on her cheeks. ‘Can you tell us why you have obtained a warrant to search Beech Tree Orphanage?’
People swivelled left and right to find someone who might know something about the orphanage, but, apart from Emma Potter, nobody appeared to.
How the hell did they find out these things? He was just glad they didn’t know about the marlinspike and the tokens. He knew he didn’t have long before they found out he’d been keeping the truth from them. Then he’d be front-page news with a stake through his heart.
‘Because the people who own it wouldn’t let us in. Now, unfortunately, that’s all the questions I have time for, but thank you all for coming.’ He stood up to a hail of shouted questions and walked into the corridor where Richards was waiting for him with a mug of steaming coffee.
‘I thought you might need this.’
‘Four…?’
‘Yes, four sugars.’
‘Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Did you…?’
‘Yes. The warrant is in my bag.’
‘Good. We’ll go…’
‘…And see the Chief now?’
‘Yes, and stop finishing my sentences. It’s getting like…’
‘…We’re married?’
‘God forbid. And talking of marriage, did you know that Toadstone is madly in love with you?’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘He asked me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear about him.’
‘He’s ugly.’
‘Well, I did mutter something about Beauty and the Beast.’
‘I hope I was Beauty?’
‘I was hardly going to say Toadstone was beautiful was I? So, I’ll leave you to tell him yes or no.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Did Mrs Taylor turn up?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She knew that her husband had worked at the council as a rent advisor, but it was before they met. He never spoke to her about his time there.’
‘Had she heard of Beech Tree Orphanage?’
‘No.’
‘Not much help then?’
‘No help at all. What did CI Naylor say?’
‘He thinks we’re doing a fantastic job, but he asked that you refrain from waving at the cameras again. He thinks you’re far too beautiful to be grabbing all the media attention.’
‘Did he really say that?’
‘What do you think?’
***
Chief Day looked a lot better. He was wrapped in a hospital blanket and sitting in a high-backed chair positioned by the side of his bed. The tube disappearing up his nose had been removed, but the one in the back of his hand continued to dribble liquid into his emaciated body.
It was ten to ten. Parish didn’t have long before he and Richards had to make their way to Beech Tree Orphanage for the grand opening at eleven o’clock.
‘How are you feeling, Chief?’ Richards asked.
‘Much better for seeing your smile, Richards.’
‘I’m glad, Sir.’
‘You’re still on the case then, Parish?’
‘Just – thanks to you. Chief Naylor is Lucifer in disguise.’
‘He isn’t that bad.’
‘He’s worse, Chief. I wouldn’t speak to a dog the way he speaks to me.’
‘Yes, he does have a way with words, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s putting it mildly. Anyway, enough about the replacement from hell, what have the doctors said? And don’t fob us off with any lies, Chief.’ Over the course of the week, he and Richards appeared to have become Walter Day’s surrogate family.
‘I had a CT scan yesterday. The cancer hasn’t spread to the bones or lymph nodes.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Parish asked.
‘Very good. It means I have a chance of getting through this in one piece.’
Richards sat on the arms of his chair, put an arm around his shoulders and began to cry. ‘I’m very happy for you, Chief.’
‘Thanks, Richards, but you don’t need to cry. We’re past the crying stage; we’re at the praying stage now.’
‘I say a prayer for you every night, Chief,’ Richards said, wiping her eyes with a paper tissue the Chief had given her.
‘Do they know if the treatment is working yet?’ Parish asked.
‘They won’t know for another month whether they’ve caught it early enough. In the meantime, while I’m having the treatment, I feel as though I’m descending through Dante’s nine levels of hell. I’m in limbo at the moment.’
Richards hugged his face to her breasts.
‘I’m beginning to feel better already,’ he said, ‘but I think I just plummeted into the second circle.’
‘Which one’s that, Sir?’
‘You don’t want to know, Richards.’
‘Do you need anything?’
‘I’ve heard marijuana is good for prostate cancer, Parish.’
‘I’ll see what I can do – Vice owe me one.’
‘How’s the case going? Any nearer a solution?’
‘I hope we’re going to get some answers when someone from Rushdon Property Management lets us into the orphanage this morning,’
‘You’ve said for a while that the orphanage is the key to solving the case, Parish. I hope you’re right.’
‘So do I.’
The Chief sucked orange juice through a straw. ‘I saw you on the news last night, Richards,’ he said. ‘Nice wave.’
‘Thank you, Sir. You didn’t think it was too pretentious did you?’
‘No. The news is always so miserable. I’m sure it made people smile and that’s a good thing.’
‘Don’t encourage her, Sir. Right, Richards – say goodbye to the Chief and let’s get going.’
She leaned over and kissed the Chief on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Chief.’
‘Goodbye, Richards.’
***
Parish directed Richards to drive up Vicarage Lane and turn into the disused main entrance to reach Beech Tree Orphanage at five to eleven. A tall, spotty office boy, wearing a grey suit like a coat-hanger, waited for them outside the overgrown entrance.
Suddenly, Parish didn’t feel very optimistic. ‘I hope you’ve got the keys to open this place up?’ he said to the boy as he stepped out of the Mondeo.
‘No, Sir,’ the young man shouted as if he were an American marine, and thrust a folded piece of paper towards Parish.
‘What’s this?’ Parish said, taking the paper.
‘An injunction, Sir.’
‘Issued on what basis?’
‘Evidentiary burden of proof.’
The office boy walked to an Audi TT, did a handbrake spin on the icy road and zoomed away.
‘What does it all mean, Sir?’ Richards asked.
‘Rushdon Property Management has persuaded the old fogies in the High Court that we have no evidence to make them open up the orphanage, and what’s so annoying is that they’re right.’
‘But why would they prevent us from seeing inside?’
‘That’s a very good question.’
‘A better one is: What are we going to do now?’
‘Well, what we’re not going to do is take this lying down. There are answers waiting for us in the
re and we need to get in. Let’s go back to the station. Along the way we’ll drop into the CPS offices and find out what went wrong with the warrant and what we need to do to fix it. Then, out of interest, we’ll go and see who, or what, runs Rushdon Property Management…’
‘What do you mean “what”?’
‘I have an idea that Satan runs Rushdon Property Management, and the orphanage is the gateway to hell that he’s guarding.’
‘And you think I watch too much television?’
‘…And then we’ll go and get some lunch.’
‘Is it my fault? I made a mistake with the warrant, didn’t I?’
‘No, it’s not your fault.’
‘Are you sure? I won’t mind if you tell me what I did wrong.’
‘When you requested the warrant, we expected to gain access. What we didn’t expect was that they would go to the High Court for an injunction to stop us. We might need to provide more compelling evidence to support our request for the orphanage to be opened.’
‘Have we got more compelling evidence?’
‘That’s why we’re going to the CPS, Richards.’
‘We’ve got Mr Pearson now. If he was the manager, he might have some compelling evidence at his house.’
‘Yes, he might. We need to go there as well.’ Parish opened the door of the Mondeo, looked up at the twelve foot high fence wreathed in thorns and snow, and said, ‘One way or another we’ll get into that orphanage, even if it is the gateway to Hades and Cerberus is waiting for us on the other side.’
‘Do you think there really was a three-headed dog?’
‘Why not, Richards? Why not?’
***
The Crown Prosecution Service offices were situated on Orange Tree Hill in Havering-atte-Bower, overlooking Kiln Wood. They arrived at eleven forty, just as Ms Juliette Langley LLB returned from the courts in Redbridge.