by Ellis, Tim
Gabi cupped her hand to Cookie’s ear and whispered something to her.
Cookie laughed.
‘Dad,’ Gabe said. ‘Tell her.’
‘Come on, let’s go into the living room,’ he said to Cookie.
She followed him in. ‘You have some nice kids.’
‘I think so. You ran a check on the five women?’
‘Yes. Nothing much, except . . . I think the Wilkinson’s had a second house.’
‘Either they did or they didn’t.’
‘I found a single payment of £750 in September, 2007 to a firm of solicitors called: Todd Murray & Co. I checked, and they’re specialists in property law.’
‘You got the address?’
‘Unfortunately – no. They must have replaced their computer system in 2011, because there are no records prior to that.’
‘I’ll give them a call.’
‘They won’t tell you anything.’
‘No, I suppose not. Where are they located?’
‘Esher in Surrey.’
‘Crap!’
He stared out of the window. He’d need to get a search warrant and then drive down there again – more time wasted. Unless . . . He took out his phone and called Esher Police Station.
‘Chief Inspector Denise Branton.’
‘It’s DCI Ray Kowalski from . . .’
‘I remember. Have you found your wife yet?’
‘No, but I have a lead.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘I need your help.’
‘Yeah, that figures. You wouldn’t be ringing me unless you wanted something.’
He told her about the firm of solicitors and the Wilkinson’s second home.
‘And you want me to walk along the High Street, threaten to fit them up unless they give me an address for you?’
‘That would be great, but don’t you need a search warrant? I can . . .’
‘No, they’re usually forthcoming with information. I’ll need a couple of hours.’
‘Thanks very much. I’ll wait for your call.’
‘Who was that?’ Cookie asked.
‘A Chief Inspector from Esher Police Station. I met her last night. She’s going to walk along to their offices and rough them up a bit.’
‘Don’t think I don’t believe you.’
‘You have an overactive imagination.’
‘I have an overactive distrust of anyone in authority – especially the police. What about my problems?’
‘I have an idea, but let’s wait until I’ve got Jerry back. You’ve not used your mobile since yesterday, have you?’
‘I’m not stupid. It’s switched off so they can’t track me.’
‘You phoned me.’
‘I have a spare for emergencies.’
‘Good, but don’t tell anyone where you are.’
‘I’m staying here, am I?’
‘Unless you’ve had a better offer?’
‘Well, tell your son to stop staring at me. He should get himself a girl of his own age.’
‘I’ll have words.’
***
‘Is that a Scottish name?’
‘Do I sound Scottish to you?’
Fiona Gebbie had dark corkscrew shoulder-length hair with a streak of grey. She was good-looking with laughter lines and nice teeth.
The satnav had directed him down the A10 with the intention of him joining the North Circular at Kiln Lane, the A12 at Redbridge and the M25 at Junction 28.
‘Not really, no.’
‘The Gebbies were Lords of the Manor in Devon around 1685.’
‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Well, they have some strange names in Devon and Cornwall.’
‘Do they? And you think Gebbie is a strange name, do you?’
‘I’d say unusual.’
‘Really?’
‘Do you know what it means?’
‘Noble youth, bright and famous.’
‘I bet you’ll be glad to get married, won’t you?’
‘Will I? You think I should have a boring name like Parish, do you?’
The conversation wasn’t really going the way he’d imagined it would, so he decided to stop talking. He agreed – Parish was a boring name. When he thought about it he realised that Parish probably wasn’t his real name anyway – and for that matter, neither was Jed. Was his name Zachary? If he changed his name, people would call him Zach. Zach who though? Who was his father? What had happened to Zara? He decided that he’d stay as Jed Parish.
They arrived at Tilbury Power Station at ten fifteen and after shaking hands with Dr Patrick Morgan – the power station director of operations, Mrs Lauren Exley – the Office Manager was tasked to deal with them. She had lovely hair, but her face left a lot to be desired. Her nose wandered off to the left, and her mouth resembled an incision with a scalpel.
Fiona Gebbie was shown to a computer and given access to the staff database. Parish had already provided her with the search criteria based on what they knew about the killer:
35 – 60 years old
Drove a dark green X-registered Range Rover
Ex-fisherman
Lived alone
At least six feet tall
Worked on his own
Had once been married with children
Kept himself to himself
The trouble with having a list was that it ignored everybody who didn’t meet the criteria. He just hoped that it didn’t ignore the killer.
Richards rang.
‘You took your time.’
‘Are you going to change your name to Zachary?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because . . .’
‘Because some crazy old woman tells us a fairytale about secret experiments and genetic manipulation? You’ll be staking out the bottom of the garden next.’
‘Why?’
‘Fairies.’
‘Digby knows the truth.’
‘So, what have you got to tell me?’
‘Valery Jacobs – she was a social worker at Chingford Social Services in the Child Protection Team.’
‘Social workers don’t seem to last very long in Essex. Are you at Hornby’s now?’
‘Nearly.’
‘You’re still swilling coffee in the squad room, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve been waiting for Paul to ring. There was no point in going to Hornby’s without the name of the second victim.’
‘What else have you got for me?’
‘I rang Doc Riley about Sally Bowker’s toxicology report.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘I’m getting there. They found something interesting.’
‘Are you waiting for me to start jumping up and down?’
‘No.’
‘Well, get on with it then.’
‘Exenatide – it’s a diabetic drug that mimics a group of hormones called incretins . . .’
‘Do I need to know any of that?’
‘Probably not, but you need to know that a diabetic takes it through injection just before meals.’
‘So, is Doc Riley saying our killer could be a diabetic?’
‘No, she just told me what they found in Sally Bowker’s bloodstream. She said the drug would have rendered Sally unconscious prior to her being hanged, but if she hadn’t been hung the killer gave her enough to kill her within a short time anyway.’
‘Okay, good. So our killer could be a diabetic?’
‘Yes, but the drug might not belong to him.’
‘I realise that, but let’s not overcomplicate matters. Remember Occam’s Razor?’
‘Do I know him?’
‘No, he was a detective before your time. What about the database search?’
‘It found another three abductions that matched the criteria. Willy Alderson from Ashford, Chrissy Myers from Crowborough, and Belle Willis from Lewes. Also, Hector Willis was a single father. His wife had just died while giving bi
rth to another child. The removal man shot him and left the baby on its own in the house.’
‘Why weren’t these abductions picked up before?’
‘No business card was left.’
‘He must have started using his calling card after the third abduction.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Okay. Are you at Hornby’s yet?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Get your arse moving before . . .’
‘I’m going.’
The call ended.
He told Fiona Gebbie to add “diabetic” to the search criteria.
‘Any coffee going?’ he asked Lauren Exley. He knew that if he sat down for longer than thirty seconds he’d fall asleep.
***
At the Information Desk inside the Alpha bank he waited in the queue – there were two people in front of him beside the person being dealt with. He could have jumped the queue by showing his warrant card and demanding to see the manager, but he’d run out of steam.
Eventually, it was his turn.
‘Can I see the manager, please?’ He held his warrant card up so that she could read it.
‘Detective Sergeant Gilbert?’
‘Yes. From Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘Just one moment.’ She picked up the phone and made an internal call. ‘Mrs Mitford will be with you shortly, please take a seat.’
He sat down next to a silver-haired man who was resting both hands on a walking stick covered with little place-shields and waited.
The next thing he knew, somebody was shaking him awake.
‘Sergeant Gilbert?’
‘Yes?’
‘Fiona Mitford – the bank manager.’
‘Oh yes, thank you for coming.’
‘No, you came to me.’
‘Did I?’ He stood up. ‘I was on a stake-out last night and didn’t get much sleep.’
‘Please come with me.’
She led him through a security door with fingerprint access, along a series of winding corridors to her office. ‘I received the faxed search warrant to access Mathew Pitt’s account.’
‘Good.’
‘But you’ve had a wasted journey, I’m afraid.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last either.’
‘Mr Pitt didn’t have an account with us.’
‘Oh!’ That was the last thing he expected. He stood up. ‘I won’t waste anymore of your time then.’
‘He did have a safety-deposit box though.’
‘Ah! Yes, I’ll take a look in that, please.’
‘I’ve been advised by our solicitors that the search warrant doesn’t cover a safety-deposit box.’
He sighed. It would take a couple of hours for Judy Moody to obtain and fax through a new search warrant. ‘Couldn’t . . . ?’
‘No, I’m sorry. Without the correct paperwork . . . I’m sure you understand.’
‘It’ll take a couple of hours.’
‘I’ll still be here.’
She showed him out. He found a cafe run by Age Concern and rang Judy Moody after he’d bought a mug of coffee.
‘You must think I’m your personal assistant.’
‘I have no one else.’
‘That’s the only reason I’m doing it. Well . . . and the fact that you have a face like a cocker spaniel.’
‘Thanks, I think.’
He rang Xena.
‘Yes?’
‘You wanted me to ring you when I had news.’
‘Go on then?’
He told her what had happened.
‘You have a funny idea of news, numpty.’
She ended the call, but his phone rang almost immediately.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Chief Inspector Marzocca.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I have three people dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘But we killed fifteen of theirs and arrested another twelve.’
‘That sounds like a result. What about the children?’
‘You’re not going to believe this.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve heard of animal battery cages used in factory farming?’
‘Yes.’
‘We found fifty cages in a warehouse, and a similar system in operation for thirty-seven women.’
He was feeling a bit slow-witted, had hoped the coffee might have helped, but it hadn’t. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Young women of child-bearing age are brought over here from the Slavic countries – Bosnia, Serbia, Belarus, Croatia and so on – under the pretext of becoming au-pairs, cleaners, waitresses etcetera.’
‘Okay.’
‘When they arrive, they’re impregnated by artificial insemination, locked in cages like animals until they give birth, and then the cycle begins again . . . do you get the picture?’
‘I understand what you’re saying, but I’m finding it hard to believe.’
‘Believe it – it’s true. Another twelve women were being delivered just as we were raiding the place.’
‘And the children?’
‘We found fifty-nine blonde-haired children ranging from newborns up to six years old.’
‘The ones we found at Pitt’s house were older.’
‘They’ve gone.’
‘Where?’
‘We don’t know yet, but I have my suspicions.’
‘Which are?’
‘Blond, blue-eyed children are seen as pure by other cultures.’
‘So?’
‘Especially men – they’re worth a lot more.’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Yes. We’re tearing this place apart now, so we’ll discover what’s been going on and where the other children are. What did you find out at the bank?’
‘There’s a safety-deposit box. I should be able to open it in about an hour and a half.’
‘Listen, I’ve got to go now, but ring me later, Gilbert.’
‘Will do . . .’
The call had ended.
He phoned Xena, but the number was engaged, so he ordered another coffee and a plate of beans on toast.
Just as the waitress brought the order, his phone vibrated.
It was Xena.
‘Hi!’
‘Are you sitting down?’
‘Why?’
‘Koll’s dead, Stick.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He felt numb. ‘They’ve found her body?’
‘No.’
‘Then she might still . . . ?’
‘No. Tom Dougall said that Pine was full of himself. He never said he’d arranged Koll’s death in so many words, but the bastard made it clear that’s what had happened. Tom thinks that Pine and his cronies will be released within days.’
‘Surely that can’t be right?’
‘Don’t be a numpty, Stick. Since when did right and wrong ever come into it?’
He ended the call. What else was there to say? There were no letters, words or sentences left in his head. He was devoid of thought and the ability to speak. He had regressed back to the primordial sludge. How could Koll be dead? How could he have let it happen?
How could he eat and drink when Koll was lying in a cold watery grave somewhere? He pushed the mug and plate to the other side of the table. It was his fault. They came and took her from under his nose. In fact, he gave her to them. He had no right to be a detective, he couldn’t find his way out of a room with the green and white “EXIT” lights flashing. It was time to submit his resignation. He’d write it out tonight, and hand it in tomorrow. There were other jobs he could do. He could carve his animals full-time, become a guide at the local museum, or a recluse . . .
His phone rang.
‘Yes?’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Stick.’
Tears skittered down his face.
‘It was.’
‘No, it wasn’t . . .’
‘I should have known.’
‘You couldn’t . . .’
‘I’ve decided to resign.’
‘Don’t be a numpty . . .’
‘But I am a numpty, aren’t I? You’ve always called me that, and it’s true – Numpty Gilbert. I’ll hand in my resignation tomorrow.’
‘Then what will I do?’
‘You’ll find another partner . . . one you can rely on, one who isn’t a numpty.’
‘I like having you as my partner, Stick.’
‘You’re just saying that. Remember? I’m the worst partner you’ve ever had – you said so. I’m certainly the worst partner Koll ever had that’s for sure – I got her killed.’
‘You didn’t get her killed. You’re just in shock.’
‘Yes, I am. It’s made me realise that I’m in the wrong job. I need to get out before I kill anyone else.’
‘Stick . . .’
He ended the call and then switched his phone off. Nothing Xena could say would change his mind now. He’d go to the bank, find out what was in the safety-deposit box, let Marzocca know and then go back to the station to write his report.
That would be an end to it then. He’d let Jennifer know what he was doing and why, they’d take a holiday together and he’d decide what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
At least he had a life.
Koll didn’t even have that – thanks to him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Maureen Threadneedle rang him first.
‘A Mrs Vanessa Neupauer called from a tiny village in Stapleford Tawney in the Epping Forest. She says that a woman matching one of the pictures – the short blonde-haired one – in today’s paper has moved into the cottage next door to her.’
He wrote down the address.
‘There have been a million other calls, but very little of interest. Good luck, Ray. I hope it’s the place.’
‘Thanks, Maureen.’
He was just about to leave when his phone vibrated again.
‘It’s Michelle Benton.’
‘Yes?’
She gave him the address. It matched the one Maureen Threadneedle had already given him.
‘Thanks. I’ve been given that address from two different sources now – I’m feeling quietly optimistic.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
He ended the call.