Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Key?’

  ‘Say you have the key, Sergeant?’

  He hung his head and felt like crying. Today was turning into the worst day of his life. He’d put Pitt’s keys back into the evidence store. ‘I have a password.’

  ‘At least that’s one thing, but without the customer’s key . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘Don’t you have spares?’

  ‘At our main branch in London. It would take at least a week to arrange for a second key to be released and brought here.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Well, I’ll go back to my office to carry on managing a very busy bank, and you return when you have Mr Pitt’s key.’

  ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’

  ‘I’m sure there are many reasons why today hasn’t gone as you would have wished.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They made their way back out through the security door and up the marble stairs.

  Stick thanked Mrs Mitford and shook her hand.

  He’d decided that he needed someone to bring the key to him. If he drove back to Hoddesdon to get the key it would take him twice the amount of time. The question was, who could he ask to bring him the key?

  Asking Judy Moody was out of the question. He switched his phone back on and called Inspector Threadneedle – his only other option.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s DS Gilbert, Ma’am.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you that I think you run a smooth operation?’

  She burst out laughing. ‘What do you want, Gilbert?’

  ‘I need a bunch of keys out of the evidence store.’

  ‘And where are you?’

  ‘Chelmsford.’

  ‘Goodbye, Gilbert.’

  ‘No, wait. I have no one else.’

  ‘Am I renowned for my sensitive nature?’

  ‘Not really, but . . .’

  ‘Goodbye, Gilbert.’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘I’ve heard you do amazing carvings of animals.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘I have a cat.’

  He sighed. If he wanted the key, he had to give in to her demands. If he was going to resign, he’d have the time to make a carving of her cat. He didn’t really do cats, but . . . ‘Two months.’

  ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘We have a deal then. Tell me about these keys?’

  He explained what he needed and where he’d be.

  ‘About an hour and a half.’

  ‘Thanks . . .’ The call had already ended.

  Now that his phone wasn’t busy – it pinged. He had twenty-seven messages from Xena. Listening to her telling him how it wasn’t his fault when he knew it was, wasn’t something he wanted to do, so he switched the phone off again.

  He sat down in the chair next to the silver-haired man again. ‘Rowley Gilbert,’ he said, and offered his hand.

  ‘Hugo McPartlin at your service,’ the man replied, shaking Stick’s hand. ‘Can I offer you a coffee?’

  ‘A coffee would be good – thanks, Hugo.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Two uniformed officers arrived on a blue light with the siren blaring, introduced themselves as Constable’s Smith and Jones and took up position either side of the front door like gargoyles.

  Cookie paced about nervously trying to stay in the shadows.

  The ambulance arrived shortly afterwards. Two paramedics – a man and a woman – hurried into the cottage. Unceremoniously, they pushed him out of the way so that they could get to work.

  They glanced at each other when they saw the state of Jerry and checked her life signs.

  He had seen that look pass between two people before. Crap! He’d even done that look himself.

  ‘It’s going to be touch and go,’ the man said.

  Tears welled in his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Greg.’

  ‘That’s my wife lying there, Greg. She has four children waiting for her at home, I’ve been searching for her for over a week, so you’d better save her. I haven’t found her just to see her die in front of me. Do you understand, Greg?’

  ‘We’ll do our very best, Sir.’

  While the male paramedic put an intravenous infusion of electrolytes into the back of both hands and injected 500 milligrams of penicillin into one of the IV bags of Hartmann’s Solution, the female inserted an endotracheal tube to keep Jerry’s airway open and began pumping air into her lungs with a hand-held resuscitator.

  ‘Isn’t she breathing?’ he asked.

  ‘Barely,’ the woman said. ‘This is to help her.’

  Greg attached the leads of a small heart monitor and then said, ‘Shit! She’s gone into v-tach.’ He opened up the portable defibrillator, waited until it had charged and took hold of a paddle in each hand. ‘Clear,’ he shouted.

  The woman stopped pumping air into Jerry’s nose and mouth, and took a pace back.

  Greg placed the paddles on Jerry’s naked chest, pressed down hard and pushed the button.

  Jerry’s back arched upwards as a hundred and fifty volts passed through her body in an attempt to normalise her heart rate. He’d had that done to him, but he had no memory of it.

  The woman checked the heart rate on the monitor and said, ‘Again.’

  Greg increased the voltage on the defibrillator to two hundred and fifty volts and said, ‘Clear.’

  Jerry flatlined.

  He shocked her, but the monitor continued to whine.

  ‘Jesus!’ Ray said, and clenched his fists until his knuckles began to ache. He wanted to push the two paramedics out of the way and shake Jerry back to life. To tear her chest open, reach into the gaping hole and start her heart with his bare hands.

  Greg had to wait for the machine to charge up.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Kowalski exploded.

  ‘Clear,’ Greg said, and shocked Jerry again.

  There was no response.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m going to call it,’ he said to his partner.

  Ray knew what he meant and said, ‘Keep going.’

  ‘One more try,’ Greg said. ‘But then . . .’ He turned the dial to the maximum of three hundred and fifty volts. ‘Clear.’

  Jerry’s back arched as if she was having a life-threatening seizure.

  The line spiked and the whining stopped.

  Greg stood up. ‘Okay, let’s get into the ambulance before we lose her again.’

  Between them, the two paramedics opened up a stretcher, lifted Jerry with all the attached and unattached equipment onto it and hurried out to the ambulance.

  Apparently, Stapleford Tawney was the smallest village in England with only 103 residents – three quarters of whom had turned out to see what was happening.

  ‘I’m going with Jerry in the ambulance.’ He passed the keys of his car to Cookie. ‘Press “Home” on the satnav, tell Matilda and Bert to come to King George Hospital.’

  ‘What about your kids?’

  ‘Look after them for me?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘They’re good kids.’

  ‘I’ll try, but don’t blame me if they’re damaged when you get home.’

  He climbed into the back of the ambulance and took hold of Jerry’s hand.

  ‘I hope she’s okay, Kowalski,’ Cookie said just before the doors closed.

  ***

  Michaela Mundy was a Police Community Support Officer (PCSO), and she might have been a pleasant enough person if she didn’t talk so much.

  The nearest police station was Tilbury in the Civic Square, and Sergeant Debbie Whitton was only too pleased to let him take PCSO Mundy.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring her back as soon as I can.’

  ‘No need. Keep her as long as you want, take her home with you, feed her to your dog.’

  He’d smiled at the time, but he had stopped smiling a while ago. Digby wasn’t with him, but he was thinkin
g of taking a doggy bag home for him.

  ‘. . . So, I said to my mate Cheryl . . . you remember Cheryl – she’s the one with the bleached blonde hair and the droopy left boob – I said to her, “You’ve got to be joking,” but she wasn’t you know . . . And guess what? Yeah – she’s missed her period, silly cow. I mean, there are after-eight pills now, aren’t there? I bet you’ve impregnated a few women in your time – a good looking Inspector like you. Anyway, you know about these after-eight pills, don’t you? So, I said to Cheryl, “Get one down yer neck,” and yer know what . . . she did and it didn’t work. ‘Parently, they’re no good after a couple of weeks. Did you know that? I didn’t know that. Mind you, I ain’t read the instructions . . .’

  They arrived at 76 Salisbury Road in Chadwell St Mary at two-fifteen, and what struck him almost immediately about Charles Rottman’s house was that it was surrounded by a six-foot hedge of interwoven conifers.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to PCSO Mundy.

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, I could . . .’ If there was a world freckle shortage, Michaela Mundy had freckles to spare and then some. She was slim, with short ginger hair, grey eyes and lips that didn’t need lipstick.

  ‘Stay here. If I’m not out in ten minutes call for back-up.’

  ‘Back-up? You mean like on those American police shows?’

  ‘Exactly like that.’

  ‘I ring Sergeant Whitton and say, “Send back-up”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t mean to nitpick, but who will she send?’

  ‘Some of her team.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who has she got?’

  ‘Well, there’s me, but I’m already here. Then there’s Colin Gadd and Kevin Bishop on shift, but they’re about as much use as potholes, and anyway they’ll be out in the town centre making sure . . .’

  ‘Maybe Sergeant Whitton can come herself?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s not allowed to leave the shop unmanned.’

  ‘Shop?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s meant to be a police station, but everyone calls it a shop. It used to be one of those . . . you know – dirty shops . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Selling dirty videos, ladies underwear with holes in, battery-operated toys that did interesting things . . . I was telling my mate Cheryl . . .’

  ‘Stop talking.’ She was driving him round the bend.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. If I’m not out in ten minutes phone Sergeant Whitton, and then follow me in.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘I was thinking that if you didn’t come out . . . Well, there wouldn’t be much chance of me coming out either, would there? I’ll phone Sergeant Whitton and then wait for back-up – that would be the best thing to do, Inspector.’

  She had worn him down. ‘That’ll do just fine.’.

  He climbed out of the car and walked up the path. When he glanced over his shoulder, Michaela Mundy smiled at him and waved.

  There was a dark-green X-registered Range Rover in the driveway that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned for some time.

  The door knocker was a brass dolphin hanging from its tail. He banged it three times. There were grey net curtains at all the windows and he saw the one on his left in the downstairs bay window move slightly.

  He was just about to knock again when the door flew open.

  A giant of a man in his early fifties filled the opening. He was unshaven, had long wiry grey hair and hands like dinner plates.

  ‘Yes?’

  Parish brandished his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector . . .’

  ‘Have you got a search warrant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, fuck off then.’

  The door banged shut.

  He ran down the list of reasons for a search without a warrant in his head and decided that he had nothing. Yes, he didn’t like the look of the man. Yes, there was a fish-related door knocker. Yes, there was a filthy dark-green X-registered Range Rover in the driveway. Yes, the house looked like the type of house a paedophile would hide in, but the problem was – it wasn’t the man he was looking for. As soon as Charles Rottman spoke he knew he wasn’t Sally Bowker’s killer.

  PCSO Mundy had turned his radio to Magic FM. “Mama Told Me Not To Come” by Three Dog Night was blaring out. She was singing along with her eyes closed and rocking from side to side.

  As he slid into the driver’s seat he turned the radio off before his ears began to bleed.

  ‘Oh!’ She opened her eyes. ‘My mate Cheryl went out with a guy who used to know a roadie whose brother was related to the uncle of a friend of the lead singer’s sister, you know.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yeah. You got out then?’

  ‘With everything intact.’

  ‘Do you want me to call for back-up?’

  ‘No, but I’d like you to make a note of this address in your notebook, so that someone from the drug squad can pay him a visit in the not-too-distant future.’

  ‘Did he try to sell you some drugs?’

  ‘No, but I caught a whiff of something growing, green and illegal.’

  ‘Cool. Did I tell you about my mate Cheryl . . . ?’

  He keyed 29 Dove Close, Chafford Hundred into his satnav and set off. The next person on his list was Owen Daniels, and then he’d have to make tracks back to Hoddesdon so that he arrived in plenty of time for the press briefing.

  ‘. . . Well she accidentally-on-purpose grew some marijuana in her bedroom. I mean, I said to her, “You’re crazy, Cheryl.” And guess what . . . Yeah, you guessed it – the police found out. She went to court and everything, but they let her off with some community service – had to sweep the roads, do some painting . . . and hey, do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She works for a charity now. Earns over a £100,000 a year helping refugees and suchlike. Geez, those charities must be raking in the money if they can afford to pay Cheryl so much. Do you know, she goes on fact-finding trips to Barbados, the Maldives and places like that. She asked me go and work with her, but I like being a PCSO – I just wish they’d pay me now and again.’

  ‘You do know the job is voluntary, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’d be nice if we got paid now and again.’

  ‘Why don’t you join the police proper?’

  ‘I would, but I have a problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A woman’s problem.’

  ‘I don’t need to know.’

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘No, I’m fine not knowing.’

  ‘I have inverted nipples.’

  ‘I don’t really . . .’

  ‘Do you want to see them?’

  ‘I certainly do not.’

  ‘My mate Cheryl says that they can be fixed, but I’m not so sure. She says she was watching an episode of Embarrassing Bodies and they cut this woman’s nipple right off and turned it inside out like a sock. I didn’t know they could do that. Did you know they could do that? Anyway, I’m saving my money for a boob job, and then I might join the police proper.’

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come with me this time?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘But leave the talking to me.’

  ‘Will do.’

  They climbed out of the car.

  The house was situated on a corner plot, and it wasn’t a very attractive dwelling. All the surrounding houses had been built so close together there was no breathing space, and there was a mishmash of styles. The occupant of 29 Dove Close had converted the attached garage into another room with a tiny window.

  Mundy’s youthful eagerness meant that she was in the lead as they began walking down the short path.

  The front door opened.

  A man with short white hair,
a baseball cap and a sawn-off shotgun in his hands was standing there.

  Parish reached out.

  The man pulled the trigger.

  PCSO Michaela Mundy flew backwards through the open gate.

  Parish felt a burning sensation in his right arm.

  ‘Anybody else who comes up that path will get the same welcome,’ Owen Daniels shouted.

  The door crashed shut.

  He dragged Mundy back behind the car, called an ambulance and then CO19.

  Mundy had turned very pale, and she was bleeding heavily from the chest.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll have to worry about my inverted nipples anymore.’

  He gave her a weak smile. ‘They fix them for free.’

  ‘Did I tell you about my mate Cheryl . . . ?’

  ‘No, I don’t think you did.’

  ***

  Before Constable Anne Self arrived at three-thirty with Mathew Pitt’s keys, Stick discovered that Hugo McPartlin was a retired flavorist who used to produce flavours for perfumes, sweets and food for an annual salary of £200,000. He lived alone in a sprawling mansion with six bedrooms, but preferred to sit in the bank all day and watch the people come and go.

  Stick held out his hand for the bunch of keys.

  ‘Thanks, you’re a life-saver,’ he said as she passed him the clear plastic evidence bag.

  The safety deposit box key was not dissimilar to Mathew Pitt’s front door key, or for that matter, any of the other door keys on the key ring. It was hardly surprising that he – or Di Heffernan in forensics – hadn’t identified it as a safety deposit box key. He would have expected an elaborately engraved double-sided key the size of those that medieval gaolers used to hang on their leather belts. Not only that, it should have been clearly marked with “Alpha Bank” and a serial number. If he’d had the urge, he would have lodged a complaint.

  ‘Do you need me, Sarge?’ Self asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need me?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Do you want me to need you?’

  ‘Probably, for an hour, while I take a look around the shops.’

  He smiled. ‘I think I can need you for an hour, Constable.’