by Tim Ellis
‘We’re not talking about me, Richards.’
‘I’m sure my mum would be happy to be your next of kin if you asked her.’
‘Carry on with the list, and stop rummaging around in my private life.’
Richards’ mobile vibrated on the table. She picked it up. ‘Hello, Paul.’
Parish mouthed ‘Paul’ and smiled.
She listened then disconnected the call.
‘Paul says that Rushdon Property Management’s telephone number is untraceable. He said to tell you it’s routed through China.’
‘Another dead end then.’
‘What did he mean - it’s routed through China?’
‘He was speaking in code, so that you wouldn’t know what he was referring to. In view of that, I’m not likely to tell you, am I?’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘Good luck with that. What else have you got on your list?’
‘Martin Squires’ cottage.’
‘Okay, here’s what we’ll do. After we’ve ransacked Graham Pearson’s house, we’ll go straight to Martin Squires cottage in Abridge and your boyfriend can follow us.’
‘I’m not speaking to you again, Sir.’
‘I’ll look forward to that, Richards.’
***
Richards parked the Mondeo outside 267, Forest Lane in Chigwell. The unmarked forensics van had arrived before them. It hadn’t snowed all day, but now the heavens opened up.
‘It could have waited until we’d got into the house, Sir.’
‘I thought you weren’t talking to me?’
‘I’m not.’
Snow swirled about them as they slithered down the drive and through the open front door. They found Toadstone in the kitchen.
‘How’s it going, Toadstone?’ Parish said.
‘Nothing of interest up to now, Inspector, but…’
‘I like buts…’
‘Mr Pearson has a key on his key ring that opens a safe-deposit box.’
‘Oh?’
Toadstone pulled the keys out of his pocket and juggled the safe deposit key off the key ring. ‘You’ll need a warrant to gain access to it,’ he said as he passed it to Parish.
‘Richards, ring the CPS.’
‘Which bank?’
Parish raised his eyebrows at Toadstone.
‘The Bank of Croatia on the High Street in Redbridge.’
‘Have they got a bank, Toadstone?’
‘Just a small one, Sir.’
‘I hope they’re not covered by diplomatic immunity or anything ridiculous like that?’
Toadstone shrugged.
While Richards rang the CPS and Toadstone continued his search, Parish had a walk around the house. The kitchen was quite spacious and through the window he could see the golf course beyond the long snow-covered back garden. He walked into the hall where a set of golf clubs was sitting in a trolley. Upstairs, there were four bedrooms, but it appeared that only the master bedroom had been in use. The three other bedrooms were used as storage rooms. Parish remembered what Beth Masters had said about Pearson being smelly. A pungent odour invaded his nostrils in the main bedroom. The quilt had been thrown back on the double bed and the bottom sheet was filthy. On the bedside cabinet was what appeared to be a stack of pornographic photographs. He pulled out his latex gloves, put them on and picked up the photographs. After looking at the first three, he put them down, disgusted and horrified. They were photographs of young boys in various states of undress.
Is that what this case was about? Young boys? A lot of the clues seemed to point towards that conclusion: Gregory Taylor worked at a school; Diane Flint worked with children; Evan Hughes kidnapped and sexually abused an eight-year-old boy, and now Graham Pearson, the Manager of Beech Tree Orphanage, with pornographic photographs of young boys. Where did the killer fit into all of this? Was he a victim? A victim’s relative? Did something happen at Beech Tree Orphanage? Were all the victims involved in something between 1982 and 1986? How did Diane Flint fit into that scenario?
He knew they were close to the pot of gold, but a lot of it was guesswork, without any substance. He needed evidence to get into that damned orphanage.
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ Richards said, standing in the bedroom doorway.
‘Is that the best they can do?’
‘Ms Langley is in court all morning. She wants to see you at one thirty to make sure you’ve got sufficient justification to open someone’s safe-deposit box.’
‘Didn’t you…?’
‘I told her everything, but she insisted.’
‘Okay – good job.’ He pointed at the photographs on the bedside cabinet and said, ‘Put your gloves on and tell me what you think of those?’
She did as she was told, then turned and stared at him. ‘They’re all paedophiles, aren’t they?’
‘At the moment we only have evidence that Hughes and Pearson were paedophiles. Taylor was married, although that doesn’t preclude him from being one, and where does Diane Flint fit into your theory?’
They both stared out of the bedroom window at the swirling snow. Everywhere was draped in a mantle of white.
‘Couldn’t she have been a paedophile as well?’
‘It’s possible – twenty percent of paedophiles are women - but I think it’s unlikely in this case.’
‘Then I don’t know.’
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘What about Ridpath and Squires?’
‘I bet they both were.’
‘That’s hardly objective evidence, is it?’
‘Shouldn’t you tell Vice?’
‘What, and have them come in at the eleventh hour and solve the case when we’ve done all the hard work? They’ll take all the credit and we’ll be left out in the cold. No, I don’t think so, Richards. This is our case and we’ll solve it. We’re nearly there – we just need a break.’
‘Won’t you get into trouble?’
‘I…’
His mobile activated.
‘That could be our break, Sir,’ Richards suggested optimistically.
The screen displayed ‘Unknown Caller’.
‘Parish.’
‘This is Peter Rushdon, Inspector.’ The voice sounded as though it was oozing through a crack in an ancient tomb. ‘I’m somewhere over the Atlantic at the moment, but I hope to arrive at Heathrow sometime tonight. I’ve returned to give you the guided tour of Hell, or what we both know as Beech Tree Orphanage. Meet me there at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be the one in the wheelchair wearing an oxygen mask. I also suggest you have a light lunch.’
He was about to say something like: ‘Why now?’ or ‘How did you get my mobile number?’ but the line went dead.
‘Who was it, Sir? You look as though you’ve been listening to a ghost.’
‘Maybe I have, Richards. That was Peter Rushdon. He wants to meet us at the orphanage at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
‘But…?’
‘I don’t know, Richards.’
‘It’ll be dark and scary at that time. Why couldn’t he meet us in the morning?’
‘We’re detectives, not frightened little children. We’ll take torches with us.’
‘If you say so. Did he tell…?’
‘He didn’t say anything other than what I’ve told you.’
‘Okay. I was only asking. Have we finished here?’
Parish walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs. In the living room he found a computer, scanner and photographic printer. He went back into the hall and then into the dining room, where Toadstone was rifling through an expensive antique sideboard.
‘Make sure you take the computer equipment, Toadstone,’ he said. ‘Upstairs, on the bedside table in the main bedroom; there are a heap of pornographic pictures of children.’
‘Have you called in Vice yet, Sir?’
‘No, Toadstone, and I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything to them either. I’ll have this case nailed down by the weekend.’
/>
‘Fine by me, Sir.’
‘Thanks. Have you found anything?’
He turned and opened a lever arch file sitting on the Queen Anne dining table. ‘Bank statements. Mr Pearson also received a substantial monthly payment from Redbridge Council – £5,000.’
‘Bloody hell! £60,000 a year!’ Parish said. ‘No wonder there are so many potholes in the roads, Toadstone. Still nothing relating to Beech Tree Orphanage?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Good work anyway. We’re going to Martin Squires’ house in Abridge. Can you bring your team there when you’ve finished here?’
‘It’ll be a while, but we’ll be there.’
‘If you’ve not arrived by the time we’re ready to leave, I’ll put the key under the mat.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
Parish and Richards headed towards the door, but Toadstone cleared his throat and said, ‘Mary, can I have a word?’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ Parish said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lance Hobart had just woken up from his afternoon nap when the doorbell rang. Coco, his black and white Shitzu, began wagging her tail. Although Coco was a dog, she had an uncanny knack of telling the time and three thirty was usually the time Lance took her for a walk.
He pushed himself out of the armchair and headed towards the door. Yapping with excitement, Coco followed him. Lance Hobart had been retired ever since he’d collapsed outside the newsagents three years go. A kind Samaritan had called 999 and the paramedics arrived within minutes. They gave him a clot-busting drug before rushing him to the Accident & Emergency at King George Hospital with the siren clanging in his ears. The doctors had told him he was lucky to be alive because they’d had to shock him back to life with the defibrillator three times. That night, a team of cardiologists had carried out an angioplasty and inserted bare-metal stents into his narrowed coronary arteries. Now, he liked to think of himself as bionic, but he had to take five lots of drugs so that he didn’t have another heart attack. Trouble was, the drugs sent him to sleep in the middle of the day and if he didn’t go to bed before ten o’clock at night he turned into a pumpkin.
Nursing had been his life until 1981. He had applied to run the medical centre at Beech Tree Orphanage where he would be his own boss. Yes, the doctors would pop in every now and again, but the medical centre belonged to him. He was responsible for all aspects of its operation. It was the job of a lifetime. The pay was good and he had his own flat next to the medical centre.
If he was asked he couldn’t say exactly when things had changed, but it was certainly during the first three months that he realised he was enjoying his job more than he should be. Then, the manager, smelly Graham Pearson, had asked him if he wanted to join the exclusive club. At first he wasn’t sure, but that night he had been given a taster and he knew there was no going back. He was disgusted with himself, but knew he could never stop.
A thin man dressed in black was standing at the door when he opened it. It took him slightly longer than it would have done had he not been taking the drugs, but eventually he recognised the visitor and knew that his life was over. He didn’t try to avoid the strange-looking weapon as it came towards him. If the truth were known, he had been expecting this visit. He didn’t normally watch the news, but he had caught the tail end of a report on Redbridge Council and heard the names: Diane Flint, Martin Squires and Graham Pearson. He had no idea why Diane Flint was murdered, but the other two had been in the club. Then he had looked at the back-issues of the free newspapers he kept in the house for Coco’s little accidents and found the names of Greg Taylor, Brian Ridpath and someone called Colin Jackson, who he suspected was that arsehole Evan Hughes.
His heart exploded and as he crumpled to the floor he thought that the pain was a lot worse than when he’d had his heart attack. He wondered why the bare-metal stents hadn’t saved him. Wasn’t he meant to be bionic?
Coco barked at Terry Reynolds as he leaned over Lance Hobart and slipped token number 55 into his mouth. ‘For Jed Parish,’ he said, and closed the door of 12, Ingleby Mansions in Chigwell Row.
***
Terry Reynolds expected to be arrested as soon as he saw Jed Parish at the council offices. He was surprised when Jed didn’t even recognise him. Admittedly, Jed was the youngest of them all, but they had been friends. Terry had tried to protect him, but he was only nine and couldn’t protect himself. He guessed that Jed had somehow been able to blot it all out, forget about everything that had happened to them. Terry wished he had been able to do that. Instead, his life had been destroyed by the demons at Beech Tree Orphanage.
He knocked on Mr Hobart’s front door and heard the dog barking. As soon as the door opened he saw recognition and resignation in Hobart’s face.
‘A life for a life, Mr Hobart,’ he said as he pushed the marlinspike through the old man’s shirt and into his heart.
Once he had slipped the token into Hobart’s mouth, he closed the door and made his way down the stairs and out into the street.
He could nearly reach up and touch the heavy black clouds, but he knew that if he did a ton of snow would fall out of the tear. He liked this weather; there was a hopelessness about it. For a man without a future, this weather was just perfect.
Terry Reynolds caught the bus back to Redbridge, back to his flat, where he put a heavy black cross through Lance Hobart’s picture.
There was only one token left – only one more on his ‘To Kill List’. How ironic that it was Jed Parish’s job to catch him. Maybe Jed had recognised him at the council offices, but chose not to arrest him. Maybe they were partners again, still fighting the demons of Beech Tree Orphanage.
***
Richards drove into the cul de sac and parked outside 5, Willow Close in Abridge. Mrs Wilson had been right; Martin Squires’ thatched cottage was beautiful.
Parish crunched through the untouched snow, which lay on the path leading up to the front door. He found the key in his pocket, opened the door and went in. He expected the house to be cold, but it was warm. He saw the thermostat on the wall outside the kitchen, which was set at twenty-five degrees and he could hear the boiler working. He looked at his watch. It was five twenty. He expected that the boiler was on a timer and had activated between four and five.
They switched all the main lights on. Parish went upstairs, while Richards stayed downstairs.
There were three bedrooms and a bathroom. The master bedroom was en suite. He assumed that the rooms would have beams and slanted walls, but there were no beams and the ceiling and walls were all right-angled and squared up.
He also expected to find paedophile memorabilia littering the master bedroom, but again he was disappointed. Upstairs, at least, gave him the impression of a house owned by a conservative, middle-aged man. The only evident perversions were a liking for John Grisham novels and blue ties.
Richards started to ascend the stairs as he was descending.
‘Oh, you’ve finished up there?’
‘No, I’m coming down because I’m feeling lonely. Of course I’ve finished. What about you?’
‘I was feeling lonely as well.’
‘So you found nothing?’
‘No, Sir.’
They sat down together on the fourth stair.
‘Isn’t there a computer down here?’
‘Not that I could find.’
‘For an accountant, that’s odd.’
‘He might have been someone who left his work at work.’
‘Mmmm,’ Parish murmured. ‘Okay, let’s go back to the station. I’ve still got a report to write for the Chief Constable.’
‘And my mum’s coming…’
‘What have I said about your mum, Richards?’
‘I was only reminding you.’
‘It’s off limits.’ He headed outside. At the bottom of the steps he turned and said, ‘Put the key under…’
‘…The mat?’
‘Did you find a cellar door durin
g your search of downstairs?’
‘No.’
Parish signalled her to come down the steps, and then he pointed to a thin slit of a window just above ground level with wire mesh welded over the glass. He squatted and tried to see inside, but it was too dark. ‘Let’s go back inside and find the entrance to the cellar.’
They started in the hall, then moved to the kitchen, the pantry, the dining room and the living room, but found no door.
‘Are you sure there’s a cellar, Sir? The window could be a vent or something like that.’
‘I know the difference between a vent and a window. Let’s start in the hall again.’
Parish was on his hands and knees examining the floor, while Richards strained her neck to inspect the ceiling. When they were in the kitchen, Parish found something in the pantry.
‘This pantry is too small, Richards.’
‘Are you thinking of buying the house?’
‘Look inside at the depth and then outside.’
She did as she was instructed. ‘I see what you mean. It’s got a false back, hasn’t it?’
‘It certainly has.’ Parish began touching, pulling, pushing… until he twisted what looked like a large pepper mill and heard a click. The back of the pantry opened. Shelves, tins of beans and packets of rice all swung towards him. He opened the door fully to reveal a set of stairs disappearing into the darkness. His heart began to race uncontrollably. Without a light he knew he could never go down there and looked around for a switch. He found one on the wall to the left of the stairs and flicked it.
He stepped out of the pantry. ‘You go first.’
‘Me?’
‘There’s nobody down there. It’s just that I’m not very good with tunnels and cellars. I’ll be right behind you.’
‘Okay, if you say so.’
She began walking down the stairs. Parish followed her.
The cellar consisted of one large room with a cornucopia of the latest computer equipment. One wall had shelves from floor to ceiling stuffed with books, magazines and stacks of DVDs. There was an alcove that looked like a photographic studio with lights on stands, a muted abstract backdrop on the wall and a Leica digital camera on a tripod. Against the other wall was a single bed. A Sanyo video camera was sitting on another tripod positioned so that it overlooked the bed.