Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Yer know?’

  ‘No, I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Great. Are the girls fine?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you got anything to tell me?’

  ‘Why? Have you heard something?’

  ‘No, I haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘Then I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe . . .’

  ‘Okay, dad. See you then.’

  The phone went dead.

  He wondered if he’d been as uncommunicative as an eleven years old.

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘Kowalski.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Maureen Threadneedle! I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘Don’t even go there, Kowalski. Do you realise that the station has ground to a halt because of the amount of phone calls we’ve had in relation to those pictures in the newspapers and on the television. My staff think they’re working in a call centre and have been asking for more money.’

  ‘There’s been a lot of calls, have there?’

  ‘A lot is what you get in a large bag of crisps. The amount of calls we’ve had is like everybody in China, America, England, France, Spain and Italy ringing here one and three-quarter times.’

  ‘That’s an enormous amount of calls, Maureen. Did you have somebody counting them?’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that I’m exaggerating, are you?’

  ‘That’s hardly the action of a sane man now, is it? So, from the sea of calls you’ve received were there any that might be considered useful in locating Jerry?’

  ‘No serious sightings of your wife or Julie Wilkinson, but three names have surfaced.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The callers swore that the unknown woman was either Bambi Bradford, Tiffany Mara or Viki Cole. When I carried out a background check on those three people, I found that they’d all been reported missing. Also, being the superb police officer that I am, I stuck pins in a map – guess where the trail leads?’

  ‘London?’

  ‘A girl can’t have any fun with you, Kowalski.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to the wrong people, Maureen.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘So, it would seem that she’s stealing people’s identities and living their lives.’

  ‘I would say so. And in view of the fact that four women have now gone missing – excluding your wife – I would say you have a serial killer on the loose.’

  ‘I think – in my worst nightmare – I already knew that.’

  ‘I have the names and addresses of the people who reported those women missing – do you want them?’

  ‘Does a thirsty man want water?’

  ‘I guess the answer to that is yes.’ She read off the three names and addresses.

  He wrote them in his notebook. It would be a long drive home tomorrow, he thought. ‘Thanks for all your help, Maureen. And thank your call centre staff for me. Tell them I’ll take them all down to the King Alf’s Head when I’ve found Jerry safe and sound.’

  ‘I’ll tell them. Good luck, Ray.’

  The phone went dead.

  Maureen Threadneedle calling him “Ray”! She was getting soft in her old age.

  He was just about to go down to his car and get the road atlas when his phone jangled again.

  ‘Kowalski.’

  ‘Yeah hi. It’s Harry Hawkesby.’

  ‘Oh yes. What can I do for you, Mr Hawkesby?’

  ‘I spoke to Charlie . . . my boss. He said I can have the morning off.’

  ‘Okay. Are you coming with me, or have you got your own car?’

  ‘Do you want to drive me back here?’

  ‘Not really, I’ve got a long tortuous drive ahead of me tomorrow, and I don’t really want to double back on myself.’

  ‘I could follow you to Social Services in the garage’s courtesy car.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the garage at eight-thirty then.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He ended the call.

  Before someone else rang, he left the hotel room and headed down to the car park to get the atlas. On his way back through reception someone else did call.

  ‘Kowalski.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  He stepped into the lift. ‘That’s a strange name, Cookie.’

  ‘At least I’m not the bastard son of a Polish immigrant, Kowalski.’

  ‘Are you this nice to all police officers, or is it just me?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’m being extra-special nice to you.’

  ‘I feel blessed.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I’ve found out?’

  ‘Is a starving man hungry?’

  ‘I hear you can get therapy for free in the police. If I were you I’d take advantage of it.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘As expected – nothing on the credit cards or the phones. God I’m good. You should worship me from afar.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’

  ‘Make sure you keep it up, Kowalski. I found a stray satellite that was doing nothing. I made friends with it, and it showed me what it had been looking at. To cut a long story short – I found Jerry’s car in the car park.’

  ‘I’ve already found that . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but you can’t travel back in time. I found the woman parking it up.’

  ‘Was Jerry . . . ?’

  ‘No, Jerry wasn’t with her.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I tracked the woman by piggy-backing on a combination of satellite and CCTV images . . . Did you know they have CCTV on tube trains?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I never knew that. It’s getting like a fucking police state. Anyway, this woman jumped off the tube at Theydon Bois and got into a car in the station car park with the registration plate TB12 EKE. I lost her when she turned right out of the car park.’

  ‘Why aren’t you working for the police?’

  ‘This will probably come as a bit of a shock to you, Kowalski, but . . . I HATE THE FUCKING POLICE.’

  The line went dead.

  He phoned Maureen again.

  ‘You must really love me, Kowalski.’

  ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. Well?’

  ‘Can you tell me who owns the car with the registration TB12 EKE?’

  He heard click-clacking as she typed in the alphanumeric characters.

  ‘Got a pen?’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘It’s a VW Polo, which belongs to Erica Bull, 27 Blackacre Road, Theydon Bois.’

  ‘Have you . . . ?’

  ‘Wait . . . she was reported missing three days ago.’

  ‘Can you . . . ?’

  ‘Wait . . . I’ve put out an alert for the vehicle and despatched a squad car to the address.’

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t made Chief Constable yet, Maureen.’

  ‘You and me both, Kowalski. I’ll be in touch.’

  The line went dead.

  Could it be the break he needed? God, he hoped so. Was the woman Harry Hawkesby’s sister? Why didn’t Harry know he had a sister? Had it been her who had saved him from the fire all those years ago? How had the fire started? Why had she disappeared? Why hadn’t Social Services known about his sister? Why had she begun killing and living other people’s lives? A picture-book story was beginning to form in his mind, but was it the truth or another lie?

  Chapter Seven

  On the way back to the station they called in at the Dog & Partridge in North Stifford. Parish had a blue cheese and red pepper burger with chips and a salsa dip. To drink he decided on half a Guinness. Richards and Gold had water.

  When his food arrived the two women helped themselves to his chips and salsa. He kept a tight hold on his burger.

  ‘I’m glad you two aren’t hungry,’ he said.

  ‘Comfort food
,’ Gold offered in explanation.

  Richards picked up the little glass pot the salsa had come in and scooped up the last of the dip with a broken chip. ‘If it wasn’t for men we could live normal lives.’

  ‘You’re not still on about men, are you?’

  ‘Do you want to know what that bastard did?’ Gold asked.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Not only has he been seeing his secretary behind my back for eighteen months and telling me everything was fine between us, but he was shagging her in our bed. Do you believe that?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe that,’ Richards said. ‘Do you believe that, Sir?’

  ‘It’s not something I would do.’

  ‘All men are the same,’ Gold said.

  Richards nodded. ‘Did you hear that, Sir? All men are the same.’

  ‘And then,’ Gold continued as if there was no one else in the pub, ‘. . . to add insult to injury, my partner decides that he doesn’t want to be my partner anymore.’

  ‘Did he say why?’ Richards asked squeezing Gold’s arm.

  ‘He said he was fed up of listening to me moan about men. Can you believe that? Me? I don’t even know what the word means.’

  ‘Do you believe that, Sir?’

  He didn’t feel that an answer was in his best interests.

  ‘All men are pigs,’ Gold said.

  ‘How many times have I said that to you, Sir?’

  The veins on Gold’s neck began to protrude and throb. ‘They say they love you, they use and abuse you, and then they throw you away like yesterday’s rubbish.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ Richards chanted like a disciple. ‘I should join a convent. Do you think I should join a convent, Sir?’

  He carried on eating his burger. There was no way in hell he was going to get sucked into the conversation.

  Gold took hold of Richards’ hands. ‘It’s too late for me, but you might still have a chance,’ she said with the fervour of a zealot etched into her face. ‘Get out now while you still can. Yes . . . a convent. That would be like a sanctuary . . . an island of calm in a storm-tossed sea. Go home, pack only the things you need. I’ll help you break out tonight . . .’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘There’s no time for buts, Constable Richards. It’s now or never . . .’

  ‘What do you think, Sir?’

  He stood up, threw the last of his Guinness down his throat and said, ‘I think it’s time to go. Are you two ready?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ Gold said.

  ‘What about making a break for it, Ma’am?’

  ‘It’s too late, Richards. I thought I could save you, but I can see now that I was grasping at what might have been. They’ve got to you already – you’ve been seduced by the dark side.’

  ‘Oh!’

  It took them an hour to get back to the station.

  The stand-in DCI – Raif Bonnard – was waiting for them. ‘I was beginning to think I was the Captain of a ghost ship,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we’re a bit short on the ground at the moment,’ Parish said. He should have ended his comment with a “Sir” or a “Chief”, but the salutation got stuck in his throat.

  DCI Bonnard was younger than him, better looking than him, more educated than him and moving upwards faster than him. He decided that he didn’t like Bonnard as a matter of principle.

  He introduced Gold and Richards.

  Richards looked like a lovesick black widow spider.

  He nudged her. ‘Coffee.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Do you want coffee, Chief?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Gold?’

  ‘Water for me, please.’

  Richards shuffled up the corridor.

  ‘We’ll be in the incident room,’ he called after her.

  ‘I’ll sit in,’ Bonnard said. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to repeat yourself, Inspector.’

  He’d heard of Bonnard. The man had a PhD from the Institute of Criminology at Cambridge University. He was twenty-seven years old – the new face of policing so the posters informed the world. Theoretically, Bonnard was streets ahead of Parish. In fact, he was so far ahead of everyone at the station that they needed binoculars to see him, and he was still disappearing into the distance. The one thing that Bonnard was lacking though was practical experience. Is that why the Chief Constable had sent him to Hoddesdon? Was he going to start interfering in the investigation? Was he going to take over the investigation to prove he had what it took?

  They moved into the incident room.

  Gold threw the files relating to the previous abductions involving the removal man down on the table and flopped down in a chair.

  His phone went.

  It was Richards.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you come up to the kitchen?’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Excuse me, Richards has a problem.’

  He walked up the corridor. ‘What’s going on, Richards?’

  ‘Can you carry your coffee? I’ll carry the two bottles of water.’

  ‘You didn’t need to drag me all the way up here to carry . . . It’s the new Chief, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You know very well what I mean. I saw the way you licked your lips and devoured him with your eyes. You don’t want him to see you struggling with my coffee.’

  ‘You have some strange ideas.’

  ‘I thought you were running away to become a nun?’

  ‘Maybe I still am.’

  ‘Do you think a DCI moving faster than a speeding bullet is going to take any interest in a constable with a gammy leg?’

  ‘My leg will get better.’

  ‘Forget it. He’s not for you.’

  ‘You don’t know. He could be.’

  ‘He could never be. For one, I don’t like him. For two, his career would be over if he even looked twice at a member of his own team. For three, he’s looking at the horizon not at . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you like him?’

  ‘I just don’t.’

  ‘It’s because he’s younger and better looking . . .’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If you look closely you’ll see a whole host of imperfections . . .’

  ‘You’re so petty.’

  ‘We’re not talking about me, Richards. Keep your mind on the job. Tomorrow, we’ll find you a nice convent to run away to.’

  ‘As if.’

  He nudged her as he opened the door.

  ‘Sorry about that, Chief. I keep forgetting Constable Richards isn’t very good at juggling mugs of coffee and bottles of water with her gammy leg.’

  ‘Huh!’ Richards muttered.

  ‘That’s all right, Inspector.’ He looked at Richards. ‘How did you injure it, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘Tell Chief Bonnard how you injured your ankle.’

  Richards’ face reddened. ‘It was in the line of duty, Sir. Shall I do the board?’ she asked picking up a marker pen.

  Parish sat down and smiled.

  Richards murdered him with her eyes. ‘Should I put Sally Bowker in the middle?’ she asked.

  Parish thought about it. ‘Our day started with Sally Bowker, but she’s just one of a number of victims . . .’

  ‘She’s our only murder victim,’ Gold said.

  ‘That’s not strictly true, Ma’am,’ Richards corrected her. ‘She’s the first child to be killed, but her parents were murdered when she was taken.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about them.’

  ‘Also,’ Parish said. ‘We only know about Sally, but there might be other dead children. Put the removal man in the centre of the board. Off to the right – write “Victims”, and put Sally Bowker – 8 as the first victim. Next to her name write Andrew and Jemima Bowker.’

  He picked up the first file. ‘Underneath Sally Bowker’s name write down the other seven victims: Josh Adams – 8; Esme Rob
bins – 7; Helen Merriman – 6; Mathew Lee – 9, and next to his name his mother – Cora Lee; Morgan Bush – 5; Jane Watson – 6; and Chelsea King – 8.’

  ‘What about . . .’ Richards began to say.

  ‘Are you in a hurry, Richards?’

  ‘Well no . . .’

  ‘Good. Once we’ve finished putting everything on the board, I want you to draw up a timeline from the first abduction until today, and then plot all the locations on a map of the southeast. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Excellent. Also, the removal man didn’t break out of the egg fully formed. Write in your notebook for tomorrow morning – I want the details of every child abduction in the southeast over the past year.’

  ‘Using what search criteria?’

  Gold jumped in, ‘Abducted from houses, between midnight and 6am, and aged between four and ten . . .’ She glanced at Parish. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Adults murdered?’

  Lily nodded.

  ‘Okay – let’s list the evidence. We have a recording of Sally Bowker talking to a police dispatcher and the man who more than likely killed her . . .’

  ‘Do you think the man who abducted Sally Bowker – the removal man – and the killer are the same person?’ Bonnard asked.

  ‘It’s a good question, Sir. Richards, tell the Chief what we were talking about in the car on the way to Hangman’s Wood.’

  ‘Oh! Well, we think that they’re not the same person, that the removal man is hiring himself out just like a removal man. Paedophiles tell him who they want, and he goes out and re-locates them from one house to another house.’

  Bonnard’s forehead furrowed. ‘That’s an interesting hypothesis. Are you thinking that the paedophiles live local to where the children are abducted from?’

  Richards shook her head. ‘No, Sir. We think that the paedophiles are selecting the children online.’

  He pointed at the board. ‘You have a five year old up there.’

  Parish interrupted. ‘They start early these days, but there are other ways that images of children can get online.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Many parents upload pictures of their children onto the internet – on Facebook, Twitter and a dozen other social networking sites. Also, they’re on school websites, in online catalogues, on child modelling agency websites and so on.’

  ‘So, you think that a paedophile picks the child he wants, communicates this to the removal man who goes out during the night and takes the child from their homes, then delivers them . . . for money?’