by Ellis, Tim
‘And you want praise, a pat on the back or maybe a pay rise?’
‘All of those would be good.’
‘Any of them would be a miracle. Have you recovered the data from the SIM card yet?’
‘What do you think I’ve been working on?’
‘I presume that’s a rhetorical question?’
‘I’ve isolated two numbers . . .’
Brightmore waited. He’d been playing Tetris for seven hours, and his hands were beginning to cramp up. He imagined that the game could be played forever if it wasn’t for the frailty of the human condition. Sooner or later Powell would give him the information. He could have tortured him, but that would have meant stopping the game. Waiting was a necessary part of the job.
‘You’re gonna love this. I’ve tracked one of the numbers to a disused pumping station in Woodford Green, Essex.’
He paused the game and looked up. ‘Group323?’
‘That’s what the others think.’
‘Is that it?’
‘There’s another number as well . . . in London.’
He waited.
‘Yeah. It’s a squat in Wanstead, but we don’t know who’s living there – they’re not on the electoral roll unfortunately.’
‘Tell the others we’ll leave at four.’
‘What about the London address?’
‘It can wait until after we’ve dealt with Group323. I’m sure Hell will persuade one of their number to tell us who we should be looking for.’
‘Will do, boss,’ Powell said and left.
He switched the Gameboy off. Saving the game was an option, but what would be the point? If he ever reached the end he’d have to throw the console away – there was no point doing something you’d already done.
The thought of knocking on Dr Völker’s door, swaggering in there with a smug grin on his face and telling her he’d found the activist group crossed his mind, but he thought he’d savour the moment. There was also the possibility that whoever was at the disused pumping station wasn’t Group323. Then, of course, although it didn’t bear thinking about, there was the chance that the group members could escape. No, it was best to keep his cards close to his chest until success was guaranteed.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I wish you’d make up your mind,’ Parish said. ‘You caused mayhem up there.’
‘People should understand that sometimes women change their mind.’
‘I think that’s what they call a truism, isn’t it?’
‘Yes well.’
She’d selected a plate of pasta, but when they reached the till she decided she wanted a Waldorf salad instead, so she had to fight her way back through the queue to make the switch, and then make her way back again. It was like watching a game of American football.
‘Did you hear what that man said?’
‘No. Was it something unpleasant?’
‘I don’t think cows are stupid. Misunderstood maybe, but not stupid.’
Seeing as it was Parish’s turn to pay, which he disputed in the strongest possible terms, he’d sent Megan Riley on ahead to secure the table in the midst of circling diners.
‘It’s crazy in here today,’ Parish observed.
‘Old aged pensioners get a meal deal on Tuesdays.’
Parish grunted. ‘This is a hospital restaurant not the local fish and chip shop.’
‘Times are hard,’ Doc Riley said. ‘Every bit helps. NHS Trusts have had their budgets squeezed like everyone else.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that OAPs are funding their hip replacements by eating in the hospital restaurant?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s obscene.’
‘I blame the Spanish,’ Richards said.
Parish laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a very good explanation on how the Spanish became responsible?’
‘It was on the news. People retire, go and live in Spain and then spend their pensions there – Spain has all our money.’
He stuffed a curly fry with a splodge of mayonnaise on it into his mouth. ‘Faultless logic. So, what’s the news, Doc?’
Doc Riley moved the interim post-mortem report from the seat next to her and onto the table. I carried out the post mortem of Sally Bowker this morning. She was a healthy eight year-old child before her death. External examination revealed deep impressions from the rope around her neck. She had bruising and swelling on the left side of her face. There was a needle puncture in her upper arm and some blood smearing her inner thighs, which was found to belong to the victim. Examination of the external genitalia revealed an abrasion wound on the vulva, and a shallow laceration at the posterolateral aspect of the vaginal wall, which provides evidence of sexual assault before death. Also, the hymen was completely absent and suggests repeated penetration.’
‘Bastard,’ Richards said.
Parish pulled a face. ‘That’s not very helpful.’
‘It helped me.’
‘Carry on, Doc.’
‘Internally, there was a dislocation of the spine at C2 with a two-inch gap and transverse separation of the spinal cord at the same level. Both wings of the hyoid bone, and the right wing of the hyoid cartilage and larynx were also fractured. These injuries are wholly consistent with the manner of her death. There was no evidence of inflammation, exudation or haemorrhage in the pleural, pericardial and peritoneal cavities. When I examined the reproductive organs I found that the uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries were present and of a normal configuration. Also, no microscopic visualization of spermatozoa were found, which suggests that the killer might be a vasectomised individual.’
‘Couldn’t he have worn a condom?’ Richards asked.
‘Then there would have been evidence of a spermicidal lubricant, but there was none.’
‘Oh.’
Parish had a slurp of his tea. ‘So, apart from what we already knew, all we’ve got is that the killer might have had a vasectomy.’
‘Except . . .’
Richards grinned. ‘Don’t you just love it when she says that?’
‘It depends what comes after.’
‘. . . We discovered something in-between the toes of Sally’s left foot.’
‘Something?’
‘Mud.’
‘Mud?’
‘More specifically, mud that is only found around Tilbury Power Station.’
Parish’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I see. How does that help us?’
‘You want me to do your thinking for you?’
Richards opened her mouth, closed it again and then opened it . . .’
‘Are you pretending to be a fish?’ Parish said.
She half-laughed. ‘No. I was going to say that Sally wouldn’t have been walking around the power station in her bare feet.’
‘Okay, so what does that leave us with?’
‘The killer must have transferred the mud from the power station to his home and Sally trod in it.’
Doc Riley smiled.
Richards clapped her hands together and said, ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ Parish said. ‘Here’s another scenario. A worker at the power station visits the pub in his muddy boots on his way to the football match. Our killer comes along and picks up said mud on his own boots and then takes it home.’
‘Which pub?’
‘It doesn’t matter which pub.’
Which football match?’
‘Chelsea versus Hoddesdon Harriers.’
‘Does he support Chelsea . . . ?’
‘Get on with it.’
Richards’ forehead creased up. ‘That’s not good.’
‘And it’s not very likely either,’ Doc Riley offered.
Parish nodded. ‘No, it’s not. Hoddesdon Harriers didn’t make the Champions League this year.’
Richards’ face lit up. ‘So I am right?’
‘It’s a decent lead. Thanks, Doc.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Richards stuck her
bottom lip out. ‘What about me?’
‘You’re simply doing the job you’re being paid to do.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘If you want fair, join a human rights group. So, do you know how many employees Tilbury Power Station has?’
‘Three?’
‘That’s a good guess.’
‘It is?’
‘If it had three noughts on the end . . . three thousand might be closer to the mark.’
‘Oh!’
‘Have you seen the size of Tilbury Power Station?’
‘Not lately.’
‘We’ll have to think about how we’re going to narrow those three thousand down to a manageable suspect list. It’s a job for tomorrow. Anything else, Doc?’
‘I’m still waiting for the toxicology report to come back, but that could take another twenty-four hours.’
‘It’s been a worthwhile visit – hasn’t it Richards?’
‘It certainly has.’
‘Say “thank you” to Doc Riley.’
‘Thank you, Doc Riley.’
‘You’re welcome, Mary.’
Parish stood up. ‘Come on, before they mistake you for an escaped geriatric patient.’
‘You more like.’
As they were dodging through the crowds Richards said, ‘Should we go and see mum?’
‘Have we got time?’
‘Not really.’
‘There’s your answer then.’
‘We could go up and see DI Blake and ask her about the box.’
‘Do you think she’ll be forthcoming with the information?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘You’d have more luck swimming the Orinoco River wearing a giraffe costume and a party hat.’
‘I could do that.’
‘Young people think they can do anything, and then reality kicks in.’
He took a left instead of a right.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see your mother.’
‘You mean your wife. I thought we didn’t have time.’
‘We can cobble together five minutes if you get a move on.’
‘You want to know what she’s found out about the files, don’t you?’
‘I’m simply going up there to tell her I love her and give her a kiss to remember me by.’
‘As if! And don’t be disgusting.’
‘This is your mother we’re talking about.’
‘Your wife.’
They reached the Intensive Care Unit.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Angie said when she saw them.
‘He’s come to say he loves you,’ Richards chipped in.
Angie looked at Parish. ‘Go on then?’
He went round the nurse’s station and swept her up in his arms. ‘I love you, Angela Parish,’ he said and kissed her as if they were rehearsing a scene from Casablanca.
‘What are you doing? You’ll get me the sack. We’re not allowed to have romantic assignations during working hours.’
‘Any luck with those files?’ he said.
‘Ah! That’s what you really came up for.’
‘I told him that,’ Richards said. ‘Men are so transparent.’
‘Misunderstood,’ he said in rebuttal.
‘I’ve heard nothing yet, so you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Seeing you is never a waste,’ he said.
Richards started gagging. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
Parish pushed her towards the exit. ‘Get your fat arse moving – we have work to do.’
‘I’m going, I’m going.’
***
He was sitting in his car outside Talgarth Psychiatric Hospital.
At least now he knew what and who he was dealing with – a woman who stole people’s identities as and when she needed them, lived in her own reality and had no conception of right or wrong. He wasn’t sure whether knowing would help him though.
What was she doing taking Jerry? She hadn’t stolen Jerry’s identity, so why take her? Jerry was a married middle-aged woman with children – all the other women were young and single. Had Rose Needle kidnapped other women whose identities she hadn’t stolen? If so, what for? And what was she doing to them?
‘Where are you Jerry?’ he said out loud, and put his head in his hands and wept. ‘Where are you, my love?’
The only thing he could do was carry on and hope that Rose was keeping Jerry alive for some purpose unknown to him.
The more he thought about what Rose had done since escaping from Talgarth, the more he saw the need for a task force to catalogue her crimes and find all the bodies. This woman had been operating in the shadows. None of the police forces had connected the crimes – she had fallen through the cracks – and even though policing had moved forward in leaps and bounds since the early days of beating confessions out of suspects, there were still plenty of cracks.
He needed to go back towards Chester to reach Droitwich Spa, but he knew he had no choice. The one place he missed could very easily hold the vital clue that he needed to find Jerry.
It took him two hours through Hereford and Worcester to reach his first stopping point – 17 Corbett Avenue – the address of Sally Gisborne who had reported Tiffany Mara missing.
By rights, he should have been tipping his hat to the local police stations, but he didn’t have time for etiquette. If Jerry was still alive, then he needed every second he could lay his hands on.
Sally Gisborne had long dark hair, a square chin and was about eight months pregnant.
He showed his warrant card.
‘Have you found Tiffany?’
‘No, I’m sorry. Can I come in? I’ll explain what I can.’
She ushered him into a cosy living room with a green-patterned carpet, matching suite and a collection of two-inch porcelain dolls in a glass display case.
‘Would you like a drink?’
He didn’t really want any more coffee. ‘Any orange juice?’
‘Sure.’
She left the room and returned shortly afterwards with a glass of orange juice.
‘Not long now?’ he said like a gynaecologist, as she sat down facing him.
‘You’ve got children?’
‘Four.’
‘You’re an expert then?’
‘An expert observer, worrier and pacer.’
‘I should think four is more than enough for your wife.’
‘Definitely, and for me.’
‘So, if you haven’t found Tiffany, why are you here?’
‘What’s your relationship to Tiffany?’
‘She’s my younger sister.’
‘Do you have a photograph of her?’
She went to a sideboard, pulled out a photograph album from the left-hand cupboard and sat back down. It didn’t take her long to find a picture of her sister. ‘There,’ she said passing it to him.
Kowalski took Rose Needle’s photograph out of his pocket and compared the two pictures. He then passed them to Sally.
‘Who is it?’
‘A young woman who went missing from a psychiatric hospital in 2006. Do you think there’s a similarity between the two women?’
She held the two pictures up side by side. ‘The hair is different, but there’s definitely a similarity. Why are you asking?’
‘I think that she stole your sister’s identity.’
‘Identity theft! Yes, I’ve heard of that, but why did my sister disappear?’
‘In a way it is identity theft, but this is different. I’m sorry to say that your sister may be dead.’
‘I resigned myself to that fact long ago. If Tiffany had been alive she would have found some way to contact me. I’m still at a loss as to why you’re here.’
He took the newspaper article from his pocket – it was beginning to look a bit the worse for wear – opened it out and pointed to the three women. ‘That’s the woman in the photograph you’re holding, that’s someone else whose identity she stole, and that’s
my wife.’
Sally Gisborne looked up at him. ‘How did your wife get involved?’
‘I wish I knew. That woman kidnapped her last week. Why?’ He shrugged.
‘And you can’t find her?’
‘No, I’ve lost the trail. We discovered a DNA match in my wife’s car to her brother in Chester, so I went there and found out who she is – or at least who she used to be. Now, I’m following in her footsteps, and trying to get a lead on where she might have taken my wife. Can you tell me how Tiffany went missing?’
‘She’d just got her own flat in the town. I didn’t hear from her for a week, and I thought that maybe she was busy making the place a home. Anyway, when she didn’t answer my calls, I went there to find her – but there was no answer. It was just over two weeks before we broke down the door . . .’
‘We?’
‘My boyfriend at the time – Greg. He became my husband in 2007, and my ex-husband in 2010.’
Kowalski nodded at her bump.
‘Not his, I’m happy to say. I have someone now who wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on me. Have you ever hit your wife, Chief Kowalski?’
‘Me? No. I could never do that. I’m merely a servant to her majesty, sometimes a court jester, but definitely not anyone of importance.’
‘Which is just how it should be.’
‘So?’
‘So, we broke down the door. Nobody was living there. All her clothes and shoes, all her toiletries, her make-up . . . everything had gone. The big items were still there – like a boogie box Greg and I bought her, but all the rest . . . gone. It was as if she’d decided to leave without telling us, but there was no reason for her to have done that . . . no reason at all. I reported her missing. The police came round, saw no evidence of foul play, and added her to a list or something. She was eighteen – an adult – they weren’t really interested. That was it. One minute I had a sister, the next I didn’t.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. At least now I have some explanation of what might have happened. Have you any idea where Tiffany might be?’
He shook his head. ‘None. I’m not even sure she’s dead, but as you say, if she was alive she would have contacted you.’
‘Maybe, if you find this woman, she’ll tell you where Tiffany is.’
‘Maybe.’ He wasn’t very hopeful that would happen. ‘Where are your parents?’