by J. E. Mayhew
Cavanagh turned to Blake once they were outside the Superintendent’s office. “Think you’re smart, don’t you Blake? Well, I won’t forget this. You stole a case off me…”
“Don’t panic, Matty, you’ll get all the credit when it’s over. I’ll make sure of that. I’ve had a bellyful of publicity,” Blake said, turning and walking away.
*****
Josh Gambles panted for breath as he peeled back the corrugated iron sheet that covered the bottom of the old chapel window. Outside, the odd car rumbled by but in this boarded-up old building, he could have been a million miles away from anywhere. There were plenty of houses around here, but they were well set back from the road and the nearest building was a shop that never seemed to open or sell anything and that was across the busy road.
He’d managed to get rid of the van last night but then getting back to the church had been a nightmare. He’d walked for what seemed like hours, using an old A to Z. He’d thrown his phone away long ago. As he scrambled over the piled-up pews and fallen beams in the old church, he realised that this was all coming to an end. The fruition of all his plans. So he had to make it good.
Ellen sat in the corner, dressed in the old boiler suit he’d found at the storage yard. He had chained her to a thick, lead pipe that ran up the brickwork. She looked heavy-eyed after the Midazolam he’d given her but she was coming round enough to recognise his face.
“What’re you looking at me like that for?” he panted.
“Ralph? I thought you were dead… I thought…”
He gave a short laugh. Did she think he had come to rescue her? The look on her face was priceless; she was hoping against hope that he wasn’t a hallucination. Then the truth dawned on her.
“Well, you didn’t think hard enough, did you, Ellen? I’m not really called Ralph, by the way. My name is Josh Gambles. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, as if to shake hers and then gave a pained look at her chains. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you can’t shake my hand.”
“You drugged me at the club,” she said.
“Not quite. That idiot Bob Courtney would have kicked me out if he thought I had GHB on me. I put it in your water as we came out.”
“Bastard!” Ellen spat, lunging at him. The chains clanked and pulled her back.
He squatted down, close to Ellen and stroked her head. She winced and shrank away from him. “So much life and energy, even after all these weeks. Impressive. But it doesn’t really matter if you die begging for your life or cursing me to the rooftops. Nobody remembers the victims, do they? Or the arresting officer; who knows who arrested Fred West or Ted Bundy? It’s the killer who gets all the credit!”
Chapter 38
Matty Cavanagh preened himself as the cameras pointed at him and journalists crouched on chairs scribbling down his every word. Blake had to admit, Cavanagh looked quite the policeman when the spotlight was on him. But then, someone had said that to Blake when he was young and ambitious. “This’ll be great for the force, good P.R. A young fella like you, easy on the eye, appealing to the nation’s housewives for help and information…” Blake remembered it all and winced. He’d lapped it up at the time.
Now he leaned against a wall, happy to be at the back of the conference room watching with folded arms as Cavanagh told the assembled press about a new tack they were taking.
“We’re looking for Joshua Gambles,” Cavanagh said, suppressing his scouse accent as much as he could. They had used the still from the Whites’ sex tape and cropped it into a headshot. “But we also have intelligence that Ellen Kevney may well still be alive. We’re imploring the public…” Blake frowned ‘imploring.’ Was that one of Cavanagh’s ad-libs? Where did he come up with a word like that? “…to report anything unusual; old garages that are suddenly being used; disused building that may have been broken into. We’ll be flooding the area around Hilbre Grove with police in order to find Ellen.”
A reporter raised her hand. “What about DCI Blake? Is he still off the case?”
“After the death of his good friend, Ross Armitage, Will Blake is on compassionate leave. He is not actively involved in this investigation at this moment in time.”
He could have just said, ‘no,’ Blake thought as he strode out of the room before anyone saw him.
DS Chinn and DC Kinnear stood frowning at a huge OS map that had been stuck to the wall. They’d had it blown up and it covered the northern half of the Wirral. The operations room was crammed with officers, both uniformed and plain-clothed.
“Good to see you back, sir,” Chinn said, flashing him a smile.
“Yeah, sir, welcome back,” Kinnear said.
“Thanks,” Blake said, clearing his throat. “I owe you.” He turned to the crowded room. “Okay, while DCI Cavanagh is batting his eyelashes at the cameras, we’ll crack on and find Ellen Kevney. Some of you may know that we found her bloodstained clothes yesterday, but we believe her to be still alive. I want everyone to focus on the area around Hilbre Grove and then gradually spread out from there. We’re looking for any likely hiding places nearby. Vikki and Andrew have some new intelligence.”
“Thanks, sir,” Andrew Kinnear said. “We interviewed an acquaintance of Gambles this morning and he said that he’d been held in some kind of dungeon by Albert Green and Gambles when he was younger. He thought it was a shipping container. We haven’t been able to verify this story, but it may be useful to know.”
“So bear that in mind. Somewhere you could keep someone captive for this long without being detected. Garages, lockups, sheds, anywhere you think is suspicious. Be particularly suspicious if you come across any shipping containers being used for storage. Kath has allocated teams and areas in the vicinity. So let’s get out there.” The crowd began to murmur and disperse. “Oh, one more thing. If you encounter any journalists, DCI Cavanagh is heading this case, understand? We want Josh Gambles to think I’m off the case. Thank you!”
DS Chinn turned to Blake. “What are you going to do, sir?”
“Bring Albert Green in for a chat. I want to get to the bottom of this container story if we can.”
Vikki hurried off and Blake stood in front of the map, willing a likely bolt hole to leap out at him. Just to the north of Hilbre Grove and the surrounding roads was the town of Moreton. Blake shuddered as he remembered the chase in the car the night before. Gambles had seemed to know where he was going; leading Blake straight to the level crossing but, what if that was just blind good luck? Where was Gambles heading? Blake traced his finger along the railway line. He’d heard a train in the background when Gambles had phoned him. His finger came to rest next to the Tarran Way Industrial Estate in Moreton. A quick Google search gave Blake a satellite view of the estate. There were storage yards, a caravan storage area, warehouses, and row upon row of shipping containers “Kinnear,” Blake said. “Fancy a trip out?”
Kinnear grinned. “Too right, sir.”
*****
There were two storage yards on the industrial estate. One, was a large affair offering containers to store household contents and also a space to store caravans securely. It seemed well-run and staffed by several people. Judging by the cars parked around it, the place kept busy day and night. Kinnear shook his head. He couldn’t see Gambles heaving a body over his shoulder and hiding it in there. Way too many people.
A man in a hi-vis jacket knocked on the car window. “Can I help you?”
Kinnear showed his warrant card. “I’m wondering if there are any quieter yards around here. Places not used as much maybe?”
The big man rubbed his stubbly chin. “There’s Sanford’s Yard down by the railway line. That’s been more or less closed for years.”
“More or less?” Kinnear said.
The man nodded. “Yeah. Old man Sandford used to run it but he’s not so well now. Some young fella was helping out down there last time I heard.”
“Could you show me where it is?”
“Sure.”
Sandford’s Yard
was a dismal place; a huddle of containers pocked with rust formed a square around a patch of muddy, rutted ground. A rickety portacabin crouched in one corner. The large iron gate that should have barred Kinnear’s entry hung open, the padlock dangling from its chain. Kinnear drove the car into the yard and climbed out, trying the door of the portacabin. It opened, revealing an empty office table and a couple of chairs. It smelt damp and musty. “Nobody home,” Kinnear muttered to himself.
He checked each container, finding them locked or rusted shut. One at the corner of the yard stood, its door yawning to reveal the darkness inside. Kinnear pushed the door further open with his elbow and saw a toilet, dirty plates, and tins of beans. There was also a pile of rope and some chains. “Well, well,” Kinnear said. “Looks like we’ve just missed them. We’re one step behind all the time.”
He phoned Blake with the news. “He must have needed a vehicle to move Ellen Kevney, even if she was alive. The Chimeree Van is pretty distinctive, sir. Maybe there’s some CCTV from last night?”
“It’s worth a punt,” Blake said. “You check that out and I’ll go and see what Albert Green has to say for himself.”
*****
Chinn had brought Green to the Birkenhead Custody Suite as there was a voluntary Interview room available there. It also meant that Blake didn’t have to go to Hilbre Grove where things would be getting busy once again as the press got wind of the increased police activity in the area. Green looked frail and bewildered in the sleek offices of the custody suite. He wore a beret and a long purple overcoat. Blake reminded himself of the snarling old man who had confronted him the other night when Laura had encountered Gambles. Although he had grabbed Laura that night, the case against him was scant and he claimed not to have any memory of it. Now he sat in the interview room, meek and smiling like an innocent child.
Vikki Chinn brought a cup of tea in and Green grimaced after sipping it. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m used to full cream milk.”
“Thank you for coming in to see us, Mr Green,” Blake said, as he entered the room. Green looked up in surprise.
“Blake!” He said. His face went through a thousand contortions as he tried to regain his composure.
“You remember me, then?”
“How could I forget you with such a name?”
“You seemed surprised to see me, Mr Green.”
Albert Green stared at Blake. “It was just that someone told me you’d been taken off the case, that’s all.”
“And who might that be?” Blake asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“I don’t recall. Memory’s a slippery devil in these winter days of my long and blessed life. ‘Old John, with white hair, does laugh away care,’ as Blake wrote…”
“You’d remember me kicking your door in, last night, surely.”
Green gave an apologetic smile and waved his hands in the air. “I thought that was a bad dream. It gets hard to tell the difference some days.”
“Did you know that Josh Gambles had murdered a woman and a man in the houses next to you, Mr Green?”
Green pursed his wrinkled mouth. “I don’t believe for one moment that Josh would do such a thing.”
“He’s quite capable, Mr Green and you know it. The sad fact is, he has done it. The only question is: did he do it alone?”
“I’m sorry, Blake, you’ve lost me. Forgive my befuddled and bemuddled old brain. I was never good at murder mysteries…”
Blake leaned over the table that sat between them. “Okay, you can drop the confused old eccentric act, now,” he hissed. “I saw you the other night. I saw who you really are. I know you, Albert Green.”
A malevolent light sparked in the old man’s eye. “Then you’ll know, Inspector, that I’d never come here voluntarily with the intention of giving you enough rope to hang me, now would I?”
Blake frowned. “Your garden runs alongside the Taylors’, doesn’t it?”
“Why, yes but alas, I’m not a gardener. My roses are all sick ones, Inspector Blake.”
“You see, I was wondering how Josh managed to gain access to the houses without being spotted at the front by Don Pleavin.”
“Delightful, Mr Pleavin,” Albert said, smiling benignly once more. “A veritable Argus Panoptes…”
“Josh could easily have climbed over the fence at the back and then he could access Jean Quinn’s from the Taylors’.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to work that out Inspector but it’s straws you are grasping at,” Albert Green said amiably. “I was probably having a cup of tea with my beautiful cats.”
“Have you heard of Georgie Grant, Mr Green?” DS Chinn said, suddenly.
Albert Green’s face twisted horribly. “That ragamuffin. Good for nothing son of a harlot. Making false accusations…”
“They were true though, weren’t they?”
“No!” Green spat and jumped up, knocking his tea over. “Joshy is a good boy. I’ll not have him dragged into the dirt by scum like Georgie Grant!”
Blake frowned. “Did I mention Josh, in this context, Mr Green?”
Green gave a horrible grin. “I remember what Grant said. His accusations were total fantasy. I live in a modern bungalow. How could I possibly have a dungeon? It’s ridiculous.”
“How about a lock-up at Sanford’s Yard? An old shipping container? Are you going to deny that? All we have to do is look through Sanford’s accounts. Your name will be there.”
“It seems that someone has been held captive there for some time, quite recently,” Vikki added. “Would you care to comment?”
Albert Green’s face fell. “I kept my artwork and paints in it, but I later burnt them. I haven’t been down there for years. I don’t know anything more about it.”
“But why rent a shipping container for all this time and not use it, Albert?”
Green licked his lips. “I do many things for no reason, Blake. It’s my age and dotage,” he said. “Now, unless you’re going to arrest me for something, I want to go home.”
Chapter 39
Ellen Kevney slumped against the rotten old pews and groaned. Every part of her body ached. The cuffs chafed her wrists, her arms ached from being held at awkward angles by the chains and the ground felt hard and cold. She just wanted to go home. High above her some pigeons cooed in the shadows between the streams of weak light that shone down through the holes in the roof. This was an old chapel or church. The shape of the windows and the style of the decaying furniture around her told her that much.
She hadn’t seen Ralph or whatever his real name was for some time. How much time, she wasn’t sure. A small spark of hope kindled inside her. Perhaps he wasn’t coming back. Perhaps the police had caught him, and they were searching for her. A wave of cold dread extinguished her hope. What if they had and he refused to tell them where she was?
She’d seen that on the news once; a killer who wouldn’t tell where he’d left his victims. Didn’t Ian Brady and Myra Hindley do that? She let out a moan of horror. Imagine dying here. Starving to death and nobody finding you. What would they tell her children? They’d grow up never knowing what had become of their mother. And then, one day, someone would find her desiccated remains chained to this drainpipe.
“No,” Ellen Kevney said aloud. “No.” She began pulling at the chain, ignoring the burning pain in her arms and wrists; ignoring the slippery red blood that trickled down her arms. Her shoulders burnt with the effort and the days of poor sleep and poor nutrition were telling on her. Her muscles felt like rubber and, exhausted, she fell, gasping to the floor. But, looking up, she noticed that the pipe had moved ever so slightly.
*****
DS Vikki Chinn had definitely drawn the short straw, when she was asked to drive Albert Green home. She’d given Blake a pained look, but he’d not noticed it. Now she drove through the Birkenhead traffic with the old man in the back of the car. He was looking down at his mobile phone and chuckling to himself. So much so, that Vikki kept glancing at him in the rear
-view mirror. She couldn’t understand him; one minute he played the dotty old codger and the next, he was staring into a state-of-the-art iPhone. Blake was right when he said it was all an act. Vikki generally had a positive view of humanity, but this man was evil; he knew about Joshua Gambles and may even have encouraged him.
Glancing forward, she slammed the brakes on just in time. A taxi in front of her had swerved into the side of the road to let a passenger alight. Vikki had only just seen it in time. Another split second of looking at Albert Green and she would have ploughed into the back of it.
Green gave a grunt as the seatbelt stopped his forward momentum, but the phone took flight from his palm. It hit the passenger seat headrest, bounced off the dashboard and settled in the footwell to Vikki’s left. She stared down at the phone and then picked it up. “What’s this?” she said.
Green had been watching an online live feed from somewhere.
“Give it back,” Green snapped. “That’s my private property. You’ve no right to have that.”
A woman lay on a bed, gagged and tied. The taxi had moved on and cars were blaring their horns as they negotiated their way round Vikki, but she was oblivious. Picking up the phone she stared closely at the woman on the bed. It was Tina White and she looked close to death.
*****
Ellen Kevney gathered her wits and dragged herself to her feet. The realisation that she could be trapped in this crumbling church until she died had spurred her on. Now a new terror seized her.
What if he came back?
The pipe had bent a little and one of the bolts holding it to the wall had lifted; a small trail of stone dust formed around the bolt and some had drifted down on to the floor. The wall was damp and old. It was weary like her. She just had to have more fight.
Bracing her feet against the wall, Ellen leaned back, so that all her weight gave the chain that snaked around the pipe a whipcord tension. She was slight and never physically strong. The last week or so had taken its toll. She gritted her teeth and threw herself backward. The chain jagged her wrists, making her cry out.