by Tim Ellis
‘I guess you’re not happy with the current economic outlook?’ Quigg said.
‘Don’t get me started on economic outlook. I’m thinking of re-training to become unemployed – they earn more than me these days.’
Dwyer asked the questions. ‘You’ve heard about the dead woman who was found in Highgate Cemetery on Monday morning?’
‘Who hasn’t?’
‘When the body was moved we found shoeprints belonging to a child aged between six and eight years old with the BESO maker’s mark on them . . .’ Dwyer showed Jager a photograph of the shoeprints. ‘We believe you still use the BESO mark.’
‘That’s correct.’ The cobbler took the photograph, turned it to the light entering through the window and studied it for a time. ‘Yes, that’s my mark.’
‘Can you give us any information about the shoes?’
Jager laughed. ‘Shoes! What shoes? You’ve shown me a photograph of two vague shoeprints belonging to a child. Do you want to know how many children’s shoes I have made?’
‘Yes.’
An old woman came in and requested two copies of a key.
The cobbler cut the keys on a machine at the end of the counter as he spoke. ‘Oh! Well, not so many as it happens, but that’s not the point. The point is that the BESO mark has not changed since my grandfather began using it a hundred and fifty years ago. Those shoes could very well have been made by him in 1870, my father in 1970, or me in 2007. The other additional problem is that because they are so well-made the shoes are also sold second-hand. The older shoes made by my grandfather are very rare now, and are sold in antique shops and fairs.’
‘I see.’
He handed the woman the keys. ‘Any problems, be sure to bring them back. Ten pounds fifty, please.’
She gave him the exact money and left.
‘Wait here,’ he said to Dwyer, disappeared through a doorway into the rear of the shop and returned with a ledger. ‘I can’t comment on the shoes my grandfather made, but I have records of the shoes made by my father and myself.’
‘Work backwards. We’re obviously looking for a pair of shoes made for a child aged between six and eight years old.’
He flipped through the pages and then said, ‘Ah! Here. My father made a pair of children’s shoes in 1963 for a family in Surrey . . .’
‘1963! Is that the best you can do?’
‘Sorry. I don’t make children’s shoes anymore. Sometimes men’s shoes, rarely women’s shoes. Key cutting I do all the time, but I don’t keep any records of the keys I cut.’
‘Oh well,’ Dwyer said. ‘Thanks for your time anyway.’
‘Time – I have lots of time. My time is . . . There is someone . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I have a biographer.’
‘That’s very nice for you.’
‘A collector of BESO shoes. In one way, I can understand why someone might want to collect old shoes. In another way, I think there are some strange people in the world. She has made herself known to me, offered to write a history of my family if she is given full access to my records.’
‘You said no, of course?’
‘I said yes, of course. I’m a cobbler on a high street in London – a nobody. My father’s brother was Joseph Stalin. Now that makes me somebody. We all want to be somebody, so I said yes. She is writing the history of my family. Soon, I will be known the world over as the son of Joseph Stalin’s brother.’
Quigg interrupted. ‘My understanding is that Joseph Stalin wasn’t a particularly nice guy.’
‘Old news. Anyway, as well as being my biographer, she’s an avid collector and knows more about BESO shoes than I do . . .’
‘I don’t see how that helps us,’ Dwyer mumbled.
‘Her name is Jenny Steffensen. She knows the current location of surviving BESO shoes – their provenance, who owns them now, how much they were purchased for and so on. If anybody can tell you about a pair of child’s shoes – she can.’
‘Her address?’
Jager wrote it down on a piece of paper and passed it to Dwyer.
‘Thanks.’
The cobbler smiled like an automaton. ‘My time is your time.’
Outside Dwyer said, ‘Looks like you got a parking ticket.’
‘Me? You’re the one who parked on the pavement over double yellow lines using an unofficial police sign.’
‘On your orders, and I used an unofficial sign because there are no official signs.’
‘There’s a reason for that. And as you quite rightly pointed out – it’s your car.’
‘I’ll be glad when this case has finished and you crawl back to Vice Dwyer.’
‘The feeling’s double mutual.’
Quigg removed the illegal parking notification from under the windscreen wiper.
Dwyer’s phone vibrated as they climbed into the car. ‘‘Dwyer? . . . Oh yes! . . . Really? Thanks, Steve.’
As she ended the call, Quigg’s phone played: What Kind of Fool Am I? ‘Quigg?’
‘It is Doctor Solberg. I tried to ring Sergeant Dwyer but her phone was busy.’
‘Hi, Doc. Yeah, she was taking a call. Will I do?’
‘It is about the pregnancy.’
‘I didn’t know you were pregnant.’
‘Not me – the victim.’
‘Ah! So, had she given birth?’
‘After a woman has given birth her body changes. During the post-mortem I examined the corpse for these changes. There was no obvious increase in hair loss; no skin discoloration, which is called the “mask of pregnancy” due to a tan-coloured area around the eyes; her breasts did not sag, and there were no stretch marks on her breasts or stomach; because she was so young when she gave birth, there were no spider or varicose veins; there was no evidence that she’d undergone an episiotomy, and there were no discoloration or textural changes to the nipples or areolae. However, a closer examination of the uterus revealed microscopic signs of involution – the shrinkage of the uterus to its pre-birth size. As such, I will amend my post-mortem report to state that there was evidence the woman gave birth between five and ten years ago.’
‘You got it wrong then?’
‘I would not have put it so bluntly, Quigg.’
‘I don’t see why not. You carried out the post-mortem and then missed what could prove to be the motive for the murder.’
‘You know where to find me when you wish to apologise.’
‘That’ll be the day.’
The call ended.
‘She hung up on me.’
‘Not everybody’s as perfect as you, Sir.’
‘That’s true. So, what was your call about?’
‘Constable Steve Wright from traffic rang to tell me that the number plate Mrs Lucifer gave us belongs to the Metropolitan Police Service, which has been allocated to Assistant Commissioner Michael Scott-Simpson and means . . .’
‘. . . We’ve still got some work to do.’
‘Aren’t you going to call the Chief and tell him . . . ?’
‘Tell him what?’
‘That Assistant Commissioner Scott-Simpson killed the woman.’
‘Is that what you do in Vice – leap to fantastical conclusions based on the mere sniff of evidence?’
‘We have more than a sniff.’
‘Go on then, Sergeant – enlighten me?’
‘The orgy – we have evidence he had sex with her and ejaculated into her mouth. The DVD also shows him leaving the LC Club three minutes after the victim left. We have a witness who watched the victim go into the house where she lives. That same witness can place the AC’s car at the house, state that he went inside and then he and the victim came out of the house. She either got into the car of her own free will, or was forced in against her will. The car then drove away at approximately three forty-five a.m., and the woman was dead within fifteen minutes. That’s what we call a slam-dunk in Vice, Inspector. Now, are you going to call the Chief, or am I?’
Chapt
er Nineteen
His penis felt as though it was on fire. Not because he’d overused it, or accidently brushed it against a hot stove, but because of the chilli dip Sheila Howe had slathered over it.
Before he’d realised what was happening, she was scraping tortilla chips along the length of his chilli-covered penis and having herself a snack.
‘It’s burning.’
‘It’s meant to – it’s chilli.’
He scampered to the bathroom, placed his penis and testicles in the sink, turned the cold water tap full on and gingerly began removing the chilli dip.
While his jewels were floating in the cold water everything was just fine, but as soon as he tried to remove them his penis thought he was the Human Torch: “FLAME ON!”
‘Aaargh!’
‘Stop being a baby, Rodney. Here, let me rub some of this on it?’
‘Not more chilli?’
‘After Sun lotion.’
She rubbed the soothing cream up and down and all around his throbbing shaft. Against his will, an erection shot up from the burning embers like a phoenix in full flight.
‘Don’t think you’re putting that thing inside me.’
‘But . . .’
‘It has chilli on it.’
‘Which you applied.’
‘It was an experiment that went awry, but you’re still not putting it inside me.’
He looked down at his penis. Not only was it engorged with three-quarters of his life’s blood, but it also looked as though it was suffering from eighty degree burns. ‘What am I supposed to do with it now?’
‘I understand that a cold shower works wonders in situations like this.’
The thought of hot water near his penis brought on a panic attack, so he stepped into a cold shower and directed the spray at his tortured member.
Now, he was on his way to speak to Sergeant Thomas Elder who was retired and lived at 114 Dittons Mews in St Leonards-on-Sea – twenty minutes as the crow flies west along Fairlight Road.
His penis was still throbbing and uncomfortable, but he was glad to say that it was easing slightly. Chilli dip! What in God’s name was she thinking of putting that on his penis? And he must have been as crazy as a bag of frogs for letting her do it? Well, it would be one for the scrapbook, that was for sure. Something to tell his children – if he could still have them after that – on cold nights while roasting marshmallows on long wooden sticks in front of a log fire.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to get married and settle down, Rodney?’ she said before he left. ‘I think we make a good team.’
‘Especially in bed?’
‘My very thoughts.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I’m not ready to settle down yet.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am. And, of course, you can come visit anytime you want – I promise I won’t try the chilli again.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Sheila.’ He’d made his own way down the stairs and out through the post office. Megan and two old women with hair rollers under patterned scarves were in a huddle at the counter and gave him knowing looks as he shuffled out.
He knocked on the door of the small detached bungalow. The lawn had been mown within an inch of its life, and there was a tree that had been trimmed to resemble a dwarf tree. He had no idea what type of tree it was meant to be, but he thought the effect was pretty good.
The door opened. A bald-headed man with glasses and a full trimmed grey beard was standing there holding an open book he was obviously reading.
‘Sergeant Thomas Elder?’ he said.
‘Just Mister Elder now, son. Although you can call me Tom like most other people round here. And you are?’
Rodney showed his made-up ID card. ‘Rodney Crankshank, senior investigator at Bulldog Investigations. I’m working with DI Erica Holm from Shepherd’s Bush Police Station. She’s investigating the murder of three of my colleagues.’
‘And what do you think I can do for you, Mr Crankshank?’
‘You investigated the deaths of Leonard and Fanny Tomkins in Fairlight Cove in 1993?’
‘I was wondering how long it would take before someone came knocking at my door. You’d better come in, son.’
He followed Tom inside. The bungalow was small, but cosy. On the wall in the hallway hung a wedding picture of a young Constable Elder with a pretty girl in a white lace and satin wedding dress. The living room was clean and tidy, everything was in its place and the smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the air.
‘Get you a coffee?’
He sat down on a two-seat green velvet sofa. ‘Cold water would be good.’
‘Or a beer?’
‘No – just water, thanks.’
‘Ice?’
‘Please.’ He wondered about asking for a couple of ice cubes to slip into his boxers, but decided against it. Tom was an ex-copper. He didn’t want the man getting the wrong idea about him.
Tom returned with a bottle of beer for himself, a glass of clear water with a half dozen ice cubes clinking about in the top for Rodney and sat down in an armchair. ‘What can I do for you, son?’
‘You concluded in your report that Leonard and Fanny Tomkins had committed suicide?’
‘That’s right.’
‘There are people in the village who believe they were murdered.’
‘Which people?’
‘Just people.’
‘Well they’re wrong.’
‘I don’t think they’re wrong, and I think you know they’re not wrong.’
‘My wife was dying from a rare form of cancer. I was told that a specific drug made by a drug company in America would give her another year, but the NHS wouldn’t fund it. The only way I could give her that extra year was to pay for the drug myself. Do you want to know how much they wanted for a year’s supply of the drug?’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty-thousand pounds. I had six thousand pounds in savings. Oh, I could have re-mortgaged the bungalow, but I wouldn’t have been able to afford the repayments . . .’
‘So they made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?’
‘Leonard and Fanny were dead. Nothing I could have done would have changed that. Oh, it would have been good for their killer to have been brought to justice, but that was never my job anyway. I was the local Bobby, not a detective. My original report concluded that they had died of foul play, which had been made to look like a suicide pact. As supporting evidence for that conclusion I pointed to the fact that neither Leonard nor Fanny had the skills to fashion a proper noose, and the that the two chairs used by them to reach those nooses weren’t actually high enough. I was called to Hastings Police Station. A senior police officer I’d never seen before outlined a number of possible futures based on the content of my report. Needless to say, I chose the future where Mary – my wife – was with me an extra year. I re-wrote my report concluding that Leonard and Fanny Tomkins had committed suicide. Within two weeks, a year’s supply of the cancer drug arrived in the post. I never heard anything more about it.’
‘Who was the senior police officer?’
‘Chief Inspector Nicholas Myers. I believe he’s a Commander at the Met now. Don’t ask me what it was all about, I have no idea. Obviously, Myers wasn’t the killer, he was asking me to change my report on behalf of someone else, but I never knew who that was.’
‘Why come clean now?’
‘I was always an honest cop until this tainted my whole life. I thought I did it for Mary, but if I’m completely honest it was really for me – I didn’t want to live without her and that’s the truth of it. Yes, I had the extra year with her, and given the chance I’d make the same decision again. But Mary’s been gone a few good years now. It’s time to come clean, to right that wrong and get my self-respect back. So, you can tell DI Holm to come and arrest me. I’m ready to spend my last days in jail – it’s what I deserve.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, Tom.’ He took a swallow
of water, and an ice cube slipped into his mouth and clattered against his teeth. ‘We’re investigating the people who murdered Leonard and Fanny Tomkins. Have you ever heard of an organisation called Lancer Communications?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No.’
Rodney stood up. ‘Well, thanks very much for answering my questions, Tom.’
‘What happened to their little girl – Sally, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to piece together. She was taken into foster care and then adopted, but she never was. Instead, she disappeared, only to re-appear years later with a stolen identity. She then married a police officer who’s now a Detective Inspector at Hammersmith Police Station, they had a daughter, the marriage broke down and she disappeared with the daughter. I was employed to find them, and discovered that she’d been murdered. I’m still trying to find the Inspector’s daughter.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out.’
‘Which has been made slightly easier with the name you’ve given me, so thank you for that. We’re called Bulldog Investigations for a reason – we never give up.’
‘Well, I hope you find out who murdered Leonard and Fanny . . .’
‘Oh, they weren’t the only ones who were murdered. I’ve found a whole trail of dead bodies, and I suggest you keep our conversation to yourself. People who find out about Lancer Communications seem to end up dead.’
‘I’m certainly not going to tell anybody else what I’ve done, and you can tell DI Holm that if she does decide to arrest me I’ll be here waiting for her. Maybe if I hadn’t changed my report in 1993 all those people would still be alive.’
‘I doubt that. From what I know about them it’s more likely that you would have been murdered yourself; your report would have falsified by someone else; your wife would have spent the time she had left alone and the people who were killed would still be dead. Nothing you could have done would have changed anything for the better.’