by Tim Ellis
In her early thirties, Juliette Langley had long unruly brown hair that looked as though she had tied it up with parcel string in exasperation. Parish wondered how she made the obligatory wig look presentable in court.
They were shown into Ms Langley’s office. Parish accepted a coffee, while Richards sipped iced water.
‘You want to know how we’re going to overturn the High Court injunction,’ Ms Langley asked. ‘Am I right?’
‘You’re right,’ Parish said.
‘They have argued, successfully, that you have insufficient evidence as justification to search Beech Tree Orphanage, so you need to find the evidence to overturn the High Court decision. Have you got more evidence?’
Parish emptied his cup and poured himself another coffee from the pot on the table in front of them. ‘What did we put on the warrant as justification for the search in the first place?’ he asked.
Ms Langley went to her desk and found the warrant. ‘Yes, here it is. All you had was that someone – a Mrs Beth Masters – saw something similar to the tokens that are being left on the victims in the manager’s office of the orphanage twenty-four years ago – a bit tenuous, to say the least.’
‘What more do we need, Your Honour?’ Richards said.
Juliette Langley laughed like a hyena. ‘I’m not an old fossil like those judges in the High Court, Constable. Ms Langley will do just fine.’
‘Sorry, Your… Ms Langley.’
‘You need more evidence linking Beech Tree Orphanage to the murders.’
Parish began to think that he was never going to get into the orphanage or solve the murders. ‘The last manager of the orphanage was murdered yesterday. Will that do?’ he said.
‘The fact that he was the manager of the orphanage twenty-four years ago is hardly evidence linking the murders with the orphanage. Talk me through the murders. Let’s see what we can come up with.’
‘Go on, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘You like talking.’
Richards’ top lip curled upwards. ‘Are you sure, Sir? I might forget something.’
‘That’s why I’ll be listening.’
‘Okay. The first murder was Gregory Taylor. He was a teacher at Chigwell Secondary School, but we found out that he also worked at Redbridge Council between 1982 and 1986.’
‘Is there a link to Beech Tree Orphanage?’ Ms Langley asked.
‘Only the token put in his mouth.’
‘Let’s forget about the tokens for the moment, shall we?’
‘Next, there was Diane Flint. She was the Director of Social Services at Redbridge Council, and she also worked there as a social worker at the same time as Mr Taylor.’
‘You’d have more chance of getting a warrant to search the council offices than the orphanage,’ Langley said. ‘Did the council control Beech Tree Orphanage before it was closed?’
Parish interrupted. ‘Yes, but they didn’t just close it; they sold it to Rushdon Property Management, and they closed and sealed it up in 1986.’
‘A strange sequence of events,’ Langley said. ‘And apart from the manager being murdered, none of the other victims are linked to the orphanage?’
‘I haven’t finished yet, Ms Langley,’ Richards said.
‘Oh, sorry - please carry on, Constable.’
‘Brian Ridpath was murdered next and we thought he was a school caretaker, but we found a letter in his flat from someone at the council asking him to remove his effects from a locker in the caretaker’s lodge at Beech Tree Orphanage.’
‘Hardly evidence that would stand up to judicial scrutiny,’ Langley said.
‘Then Mr Colin Jackson was murdered and we don’t know anything about him because Colin Jackson is not his real name. We’re waiting to see who his fingerprints belong to.’
‘Nothing there then,’ Langley said.
‘Oh, let’s not forget Martin Squires who killed himself and destroyed all the council’s financial records held on computer, including the backups.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Because Mr Ridpath was being paid £2,000 on the first of every month by the council, and we wanted to know why. Ridpath was only a caretaker, after all.’
‘And as a result of that, you seized the council’s paper-based financial records, and forensic accountants are examining them now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have no suspects?’
Richards looked at Parish who merely shrugged. ‘No.’
‘So all you really have that points you in the direction of Beech Tree Orphanage are possibly the tokens, and possibly two victims that used to work there twenty-four years ago? Getting an injunction was a no-brainer. Anything else I can do for you, Inspector?’
‘But…’ Richards looked at Parish again. ‘Can’t you do something, Sir?’
‘Like what, Richards? Ms Langley is quite correct. We need considerably more evidence than we’ve got. We were trying to take a short cut, but let that be a lesson to you; there are no short cuts in police work.’ Parish stood up and proffered his hand. ‘Thanks for seeing us, Ms Langley,’ he said. He thought she might have asked him to call her Juliette, but she didn’t. ‘Come on, Richards - time to get our hands dirty.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Outside the CPS offices, Parish rang Toadstone. The time was twelve twenty and it had just started snowing again.
‘Is that you, Toadstone?’
‘Yes. Hello, Inspector. What…?’
‘Listen, Toadstone – do you work in forensics?’
‘Well… yes, but…’
‘And what’s your job in forensics?’
‘I…’
‘Isn’t it to collect and analyse things and then provide the detectives with evidence that will stand up in court?’
‘Some…’
‘What I’d like to know, is why I have no evidence linking the murders to Beech Tree Orphanage and what you’re going to do about it?’
‘Me…?’
‘Yes, you, Toadstone. Have you been to Graham Pearson’s house yet?’
‘No, but…’
‘Richards and I will meet you there at two o’clock. Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes…’
‘Good. I’m also going to interrogate you about this lack of evidence. So make sure you’re able to tell me why you’ve been firing blanks since we began this case.’
Parish disconnected the call.
‘You weren’t very nice, Sir,’ Richards said.
‘There you go with that “nice” word again, Richards. When CI Naylor hauls me in and asks, in similar words: “Why haven’t you solved the case yet, Parish?” Do you think he’ll consider how “nice” I was? Do you think he’ll grade me along a number of continua such as: ability to solve cases – zero; ability to find evidence – zero; ability to ferret out suspects – zero; ability to be nice – ten. And then he’ll say, in similar words: “Oh you’re such a “nice” person, Parish. Everybody says so, especially those who work for you. Toadstone, the man in forensics who has found no evidence at all, particularly thinks you’re a really “nice” person. As a detective you’re completely useless, so I’m only going to give you easy cases from now on, but well done for being such a “nice” person.”’
‘Now you’re not being nice to me.’
‘Get in the car, Richards, and drive to Chigwell. For the rest of the day you’re banned from using the word nice.’
‘I’m not going to speak to you at all.’
‘Don’t make rash promises you can’t keep.’
‘I…’
‘See.’
‘Huh.’
Parish opened up the injunction and said, ‘Rushdon Property Management is located on Station Road, opposite Chigwell tube station.’
Richards’ lips were screwed up tight. She didn’t look at Parish, but focused on her driving.
He sat back and closed his eyes. Who was this Peter Rushdon? Why did he buy the orphanage and then shut it down? Why did he surround
it with a twelve foot high fence and plant thorns all around it? Why didn’t he demolish the orphanage and build houses on the land? Why was the orphanage so different from all of his other building projects? Why force them to get a warrant and then block it with an injunction? What was behind that fence that Peter Rushdon didn’t want him to see?
Questions, so many damned questions! He knew he shouldn’t really go and harass the people at Rushdon Property Management. They were only following the instructions of Peter Rushdon, but he was curious about who they were. In the ten years he had been at Hoddesdon he had never heard of Rushdon Property Management, had never seen any signs, or building projects, or reports. What did they do? Why did they need premises in Chigwell?
He’d get Richards to drive past slowly, peer in through the window; maybe stop, get out and look at the houses for sale or the advert for their services. Under no circumstances would they go in. The office boy with the Audi TT would recognise him, call the police and he’d get taken to court for harassment. No, they wouldn’t go in.
Richards nudged him.
He opened his eyes as she pulled in opposite Chigwell tube station.
‘Drive past slowly, Richards. Let’s see what the premises are like.’
To the annoyance of other drivers, Richards crawled past the building, but Parish saw no sign up for Rushdon Property Management.
After completing a triangle involving Hainult Road, High Road and Station Road, Richards returned to where she’d started.
‘Park the car,’ Parish said. ‘We’ll amble past nonchalantly and find somewhere to eat lunch.’
Richards did as she was told, but Parish could see she was struggling with her vow of silence.
They walked along Station Road until they reached a doorway, which had an obviously new brass sign – with Rushdon Property Management engraved on it – screwed on the wall.
Parish peered through the grubby glass, but saw only stairs covered in a worn-out carpet leading upwards. He knew he had to go in. ‘We’ll have to go in.’
Richards shook her head violently.
‘Stop being childish. We’re grown-up detectives trying to solve a multiple murder case and you’re refusing to talk to your partner. How ridiculous does that sound?’
‘All right.’
Parish laughed. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep it up.’
‘I’m going to tell my mum what you’re really like,’ Richards said, jutting out her bottom lip like a petulant child.
Parish mimicked her, and then pushed her through the door. ‘Get your backside up those stairs and stop being a spoilt brat.’
‘You… You…’
‘Some kinda wonderful?’ Parish suggested.
‘…Horrible person.’
They reached a small landing with a door.
‘Open it then,’ Parish said.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘I’m sure. We need to look the enemy in the eyes.’ He wasn’t sure at all. In fact, he knew it was going to end in disaster, but he was here now and he had to take a look inside.
Richards opened the door slightly and peered through the crack. Then she opened it fully and stepped inside.
Parish followed her.
They were standing in an empty room. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet. There were no people, no furniture and no Rushdon Property Management.
‘Why is there no one here?’
‘I expect they needed an address for the injunction: this is it.’
‘But who was that skinny man that gave us the injunction?’
‘I assumed he worked for Rushdon, but, now I think of it, he probably worked for Rushdon’s solicitors.’
‘So, Rushdon Property Management is just a telephone number?’
‘So it would seem. We’ll…’
‘…Find out who the number belongs to?’
‘Ring your boyfriend; ask him to do the honours.’
‘You know he’s not my boyfriend. Can’t you do it?’
‘Haven’t you spoken to him yet?’
‘I haven’t had chance.’
‘Now would be a good time, then.’
Richards clucked and pressed Toadstone’s number in her contact list.
Parish could only hear Richards’ side of the conversation and she kept it short and to the point.
‘You didn’t tell him he’s too ugly for you, then?’
‘I thought I’d better not. Maybe I’ll tell him when the case is over. If he thinks I don’t like him, he might not be as quick analysing things as he would if he thought I did like him.’
‘And you talk about me being mean, Richards? Let’s go to lunch - you’re paying.’
‘Me?’
‘Your reward for re-establishing communications.’
‘Reward?’
‘You’re getting the hang of it. All this tutoring makes me hungry.’
‘Tutoring?’
‘Stop pretending to be a parrot, Richards.’
***
In the Subway café, Parish ordered two bacon toasties with brown sauce and a large coffee. Richards had a bottle of water and turned away saying, ‘I can’t watch.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Richards,’ Parish said, wiping the grease running down his chin with a paper napkin. ‘A bacon toastie is akin to nectar from the Gods.’
‘Sulphur from Satan, more like.’
‘Right, enough about my eating habits. Where are we? And don’t say the Subway café in Chigwell.’
The café was busy. They’d had to fight for a table with two chairs. People were queuing at the counter for takeaways and the door kept opening, letting in the cold. They both kept their coats on and tried to ignore the noise from the other customers.
‘We’re no further forward than we were this morning, are we? In fact, we’ve wasted a whole morning chasing shadows.’
‘Not necessarily. We know that we need a lot more evidence to link the murders to Beech Tree Orphanage if we want to get in there. We also know that Rushdon Property Management doesn’t really exist; it’s probably a telephone number going back to Peter Rushdon himself. I’d like to talk to him face-to-face, I know that.’
‘You’d have to go to America.’
‘That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. If the local politicians can swan off on all these conferences and fact-finding missions, I’m sure that I could go to America to question a vital witness.’
‘I could come with you.’
‘There’s someone else I’d much rather take.’
‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about my mum. And, anyway, if you took her it wouldn’t be a working trip, would it?’
‘Who said I was talking about your mum?’
‘Sirrr…!’
‘We wouldn’t be allowed to go to America anyway, so stop going on about it. What loose ends have we still got to tie up?’
She took out her notebook and flipped through the pages until she reached the one she had the information on. ‘I made a list last night while I was watching Ed Gein on the Crime Channel.’
‘Is he one of the presenters?’
‘You’re teasing me. Do you know he made trophies out of skin, such as a belt studded with women’s nipples?’
‘Do you mind? I’m still eating,’ Parish said, pushing the last of the bacon toasties in his mouth. ‘And what have I said about watching the Crime Channel?’
‘I like to watch it.’
‘We all have our vices I suppose. I have bacon toasties and you have the Crime Channel.’
‘At the top of my list are Colin Jackson’s fingerprints.’
Parish pulled out his phone and found the mortuary in his contact list.
‘Michelin?’
‘Hello, Doc.’
‘Parish! You don’t love me anymore. You don’t ring me. You never visit. Is it something I said?’
‘You’re not my type, Doc.’
‘I’m heartbroken. What can I do f
or you?’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘I want a large chocolate donut next time you’re visiting.’
‘You’ve got news?’
‘Big news – came back half-an-hour ago. Colin Jackson was really Evan Hughes.’
‘Not someone I know personally.’
‘He got ten years in the Scrubs for kidnapping and sexually abusing a boy of eight.’
‘The pieces are beginning to fall into place, Doc.’
‘I thought you might be pleased. He was released in 2000 and promptly disappeared.’
‘Now we know how. I’ll drop by later with a box full of chocolate donuts. Thanks, Doc.’
‘It’s my mission in life to make your life easier, Parish.’
‘What did he say, Sir?’ Richards asked when Parish had disconnected the call.
‘Colin Jackson was a man called Evan Hughes who got ten years in the Scrubs for kidnapping and sexually abusing an eight year old boy.’
Richards’ mouth dropped open like a drawbridge. Parish was sure he could hear the cogs whirring, chains crunching and blocks shunting into place.
‘Beech Tree Orphanage! Crap… oops sorry, Sir. It’s all beginning to make sense isn’t it?’
‘So it would seem. I think we have our breakthrough.’
‘It’s still not enough to get us into Beech Tree Orphanage, though, is it?’
Parish shook his head. ‘No. Even if we find out that Evan Hughes worked at the orphanage before it shut down, there’s still no evidence that what’s happening now is related to then. What’s next on your list?’
‘Graham Pearson’s house, which we’re going to see soon, so I can tick that one off.’ She made a tick in her notebook.
‘Very efficient.’
‘It’s important to be organised.’
‘Keep going.’
‘Did you know that only Mr Taylor was married?’
‘Meaning?’
‘I was just saying. It seems odd that most of the victims lived alone. They had no partners, no relations and no next of kin.’
‘There are lots of us that have no next of kin.’
‘Ah, don’t you have anyone, Sir?’