Killer on the Fens

by Joy Ellis

  Joseph did, and he also knew that the next few days with his emotionally mixed-up daughter were not going to be easy.

  * * *

  ‘Mr Carver, sir? Can we meet?’

  Freddie recognised the rasp in the voice, and realised that his “private investigator” did not wish to talk on the phone.

  ‘One hour, Monk. The usual place.’

  Freddie pulled on a long, dark, and very expensive overcoat that he had purchased with the sole purpose of disguising his growing paunch, and called for his driver. He kissed his over-tanned young wife and said, ‘I’ll be out for lunch, angel. Try not to demolish the rest of the bubbly while I’m gone.’

  The Front, a noisy and popular cocktail bar that attracted young wine-swilling and upwardly mobile locals, was a smart move on Freddie’s part. It was his, of course, a nice little money-spinner, but heavily concealed with a shell company. And the two comfortable rooms upstairs were for his exclusive use, one as a private meeting place, and one as a bedroom — a bedroom that his darling wife knew nothing about.

  Monk arrived minutes after him, and readily accepted the offer of a drink.

  ‘It’s to do with the airfield, sir. Michael Finn was definitely out there with the rest of the crew but, as you know, he never made it home to his digs. Michael’s wife in Ireland hasn’t heard from him, and what’s even more worrying, neither has his contact on your other job. Now . . .’ He paused for effect, but seeing his boss’s face, seemed to think better of it and hurried on. ‘I spoke to this kid who lives in a shitty little fen cottage on the edge of the marsh. He was playing there earlier in the day, and he saw a man who, from the boy’s description, had to be Michael Finn. I then showed him a picture of Finn and he positively identified him. The kid said that he had some really fancy handheld computer and seemed to be measuring the land and taking notes and what I understood to be soil samples.’

  ‘So he was certainly there, and working.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. But later on, the same kid saw a truck up on the path at the back of the airfield. The boy said he couldn’t see the driver, but he said that the same dark-haired man was asleep in the passenger seat.’

  ‘Asleep, huh?’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Monk raised his eyebrows. ‘And considering Michael had his own wheels and a lot of valuable equipment on board, he’d hardly be taking forty winks in a stranger’s truck. I’m afraid that whatever happened to put Michael to “sleep” has made sure he won’t be waking up again.’

  Freddie swirled the vodka around in his glass and swore, cursing Karl-fucking-Shine and his property developing. He didn’t know what the hell was going on in that marshy dump, but he did know that Karl was to blame. And that wasn’t acceptable.

  Monk placed his empty glass on the thick beechwood coffee table. ‘So what’s next, boss?’

  Freddie didn’t have to think for long. His anger at Karl was becoming hard to contain. He took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Monk. ‘It would appear that Shine has cost me a good man, a vital man where the other job is concerned. This is for what you’ve done so far. Now we need the services of Mr Fabian.’

  Monk took the money, drew in a long breath, puffed out his cheeks, and nodded. ‘I know where I can find him, Mr Carver. Shall I set up a meeting?’

  ‘Not this time, Monk. You’ll be the go-between. I have no wish to be connected in any way to this transaction, understand?’ He jabbed his glass towards Monk. ‘Do this discreetly and it’ll be worth your while.’

  Monk looked worried. ‘Fabian likes to know who he’s working for, Boss. That could be a problem.’

  ‘Then fucking sort it. Or I’ll find someone who will.’ He saw the other man’s Adam’s apple move up and down in his skinny throat.

  ‘Right, Mr Carver, I’ll do it, don’t worry. Is it the usual fee for Fabian?’

  ‘Yes, the usual extortionate fee. Now, meet me here at seven tonight. I’ll have all the information necessary for our friend to do a good job.’

  Monk nodded and rose from his seat. ‘Seven it is, boss.’

  * * *

  Monk hated working with Fabian. That weirdo’s methods, although effective, made Monk sick to the stomach, but it would mean big money and he’d heard about a special shipment arriving next month. The purest of pure, with a massive street value. If he could raise enough to buy into it, he would never need the likes of Freddie Carver again.

  As he walked back to his car, he considered how he could tackle the sinister Mr Fabian and set up the hit without involving Freddie. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had a fair idea of how he could make it work.

  Monk unlocked the car and eased himself behind the wheel. Carver might be a slimeball, but one thing was certain, if you did the job right he paid well, very well. And if he employed a man with Fabian’s expertise, the rates were even higher.

  Monk tapped thoughtfully on the leather steering wheel. Perhaps he should look at this situation differently. After all, there was more than one way to skin a cat, wasn’t there?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Yvonne was getting used to the organised chaos in the ITU department. She sat close to the bed where William Pike lay, and while she kept one eye on the sleeping man, watched the professionals at work. It wasn’t the kind of job that she would have wanted to do, but she had the highest regard for their expertise and their ability to work so calmly under such high-pressure conditions.

  She stared at Pike and thought it a bit sad that there was no one to sit with him. No family and no loved ones. He might be a toerag of the first order, but for heaven’s sake, the kid’s heart had stopped the night before. Even when he woke up this time, there would only be a crusty old copper sitting beside his bed.

  For a moment she almost laughed. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be that different if it were her in the bed. Certainly she had work colleagues and some of them were her closest friends, but both her parents were dead and her two brothers were married and had moved away. Robin had a Canadian wife and they lived in Alberta with their children, and Harry now lived and worked with his wife in Bali. Yvonne gave a little sigh. And as she had no partner, there would be no loved one to hold her hand and pray for her recovery.

  She allowed her mind to wander. There had been someone once, or there nearly had been. But that was a long while ago, and as Yvonne was far too practical to dwell on “could have beens”, or “if onlys,” she thought of the one soul who truly loved her. But even Holmes was nearing the end of his full and happy life. She smiled to herself.

  She had rescued Holmes as a puppy, and now she “dog-shared” him with her next door neighbour, Ray. Yvonne exercised him, then dropped him off and collected him again after her shift had ended — a bit like a canine crèche. It was a very satisfactory arrangement, as her neighbour, an elderly, retired schoolteacher, was a great dog lover, but couldn’t do long walks anymore. So it suited them both and Holmes got the best of both worlds, he was spoilt rotten and wanted for nothing. But Holmes was close to fifteen, a very good age for a field spaniel, and the thought of losing him made Yvonne go cold. She and Ray both lived alone in adjoining bungalows, and the dog, albeit deaf as a post and very wobbly, was a big part of both their lives.

  Almost automatically, Yvonne checked her mobile. She dreaded finding a message from Ray, and she knew that one day soon it would happen, but . . . she smiled and pushed the phone back into her pocket. Not yet.

  Yvonne glanced back to Pike and saw him stir. Then his eyes closed again and he snored softly, so she took the time to leaf through her notes on the young man’s semi-conscious ramblings.

  It was all rubbish of course. Air raids? Plane crashes? Lights on the fen? Fires? But one thing that probably wasn’t rubbish was the constant mention of his grandmother.

  Pike was now restless, moving painfully and moaning softly. His left temple was multicoloured with bruising, and decorated with a row of even stitches. The face, one that Yvonne suspected had always been thin, was partly cover
ed with a week’s growth of scraggy beard, and deeply etched with pain. His mutilated leg, suspended in some kind of metal cage, was thankfully covered by a light sheet. The very distinctive metallic smell of blood still hung around him.

  ‘Gran . . . Gran, I’m so sorry.’ It sounded like a child’s voice and took Yvonne slightly by surprise.

  ‘William? Can you hear me?’

  The young man’s eyes darted around, settling nowhere for long.

  ‘William, we are trying to find your grandmother. Can you help us?’

  Again the frightened eyes moved swiftly around the room.

  ‘Do you know where you are, William?’ Yvonne tried to make her voice sound soft and compassionate. She did not want to scare the little sod into clamming up on whatever treasures of information were swimming around in his addled brain. ‘We really do need to find your gran. She’s missing and we are worried for her safety.’

  Pike made a strange gasping sigh, then said quite clearly, ‘She’s dead.’

  Yvonne leaned closer. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I heard her die.’

  Yvonne was confused. ‘What do you mean, you heard her die?’

  ‘The nurses and the doctors,’ he swallowed noisily, ‘they said she was dead.’

  Yvonne thought for a moment or two, then stood up and went to the nurses’ station. ‘Sorry to bother you, but did anyone pass away in here recently?’

  A nurse looked across to her colleague. ‘Two in the last three days, isn’t it, Tina?’

  ‘Yes, old Mrs Hewitt, early hours of Saturday morning, and a young RTC victim, earlier today. Why, Officer?’

  Yvonne nodded. ‘It’s all right. I think you’ve answered my question. William Pike must have thought the Hewitt lady was his grandmother. He’s still very confused. Sorry to have bothered you.’ She smiled her thanks and turned to walk away.

  ‘Poor Mrs Hewitt. That was a real shame.’

  Yvonne looked over her shoulder. ‘Why?’

  The nurse called Tina tilted her head to one side. ‘Well, she had a massive heart attack, but instead of calling an ambulance, someone brought her into A&E in a car, then left her. All we knew was that her name was Hewitt and she lived in one of the marsh villages. Now she’s dead, and we can’t trace her relatives.’

  Yvonne thought about it. ‘What about social services? Can’t they trace her?’

  Tina shrugged. ‘Not so far. Perhaps you can help?’

  ‘We are pretty busy, but give the station a ring if you really can’t track her down.’

  ‘Okay, and the doctor says we will be moving your patient onto a ward tomorrow.’

  Yvonne thanked her and returned to Pike. Slipping back into the chair, she said, ‘Do you know where Anson Taylor is?’

  ‘Anson will hate me.’

  ‘Probably. Did you steal drugs from him?’

  ‘He’ll kill me when he finds me!’ The voice had risen several decibels.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I? And he won’t kill you. We are here with you, and besides, Anson seems to have done a runner.’

  Pike looked confused, then started whimpering. ‘My leg! Oh, my leg! The pain! Give me something for the pain!’

  A nurse appeared and checked his charts. ‘Okay, William.’ She turned to Yvonne.

  ‘I think you’d better leave. We need to sort out some stronger pain relief.’ She lowered her voice. ‘His leg is still in a very bad way, if you understand? The surgeon will be doing another assessment shortly.’ She stopped speaking and raised her eyebrows.

  Yvonne gathered from the look that it was still possible that Pike would require an amputation. She nodded, but said, ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘The doctor will give him something to make him sleep until the morning. By tomorrow, if there are no more seizures and as long as he doesn’t have to go back to theatre, he should be pretty alert.’ The nurse accompanied her to the door. ‘Why not leave your questions until then?’

  ‘Okay, but our officers will have to keep watch tonight.’

  As she walked back to the car park she was glad that Pike had started talking sense. No air raids or plane crashes this time, and to mistake a dying old lady for his gran was understandable given his condition. With any luck, by tomorrow he should be able to tell them more.

  As Yvonne sat in her car and waited for DC Dave Harris to answer his phone, she began to wonder what had caused Pike’s mind to hallucinate about air raids of all things. He was far too young to even recognise an air-raid siren. But deep in the recesses of her mind, the story was somehow familiar.

  As she brought Dave Harris up to date, WPC Yvonne Collins started to worry that she was missing something vital.

  * * *

  At seven precisely, Monk entered the side door of the bar. In the room upstairs, Freddie was sitting on one of the two sofas. Monk wondered if that glass was soldered to his hand.

  ‘Have you made contact?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Carver.’

  ‘And you told him what exactly?’ The fat man got up and without asking, poured Monk a drink.

  ‘That I’ve been contacted by a client who preferred to remain anonymous, boss.’

  ‘And he accepted that?’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Carver. So I told him, in the strictest confidence, that I suspected the client was actually the Dutchman.’

  ‘Ah, clever. Fabian has been trying to find a way into that mob for years.’ Carver nodded appreciatively. ‘Very nice, Monk, very nice.’ He picked up a large brown envelope from the table. ‘Everything you need, my friend, is in here. Photographs, full personal details and a down payment. And from now on, I want to know nothing until I read about his sad demise in the daily paper, and then you’ll both be paid.’ He threw the package across the table and Monk picked it up. It was appreciably heavier than previous “down payments.” He swallowed his drink and left, his dream of working for himself just a little closer to fruition.

  * * *

  By nine that evening, Karl had decided that he could no longer put off ringing one of the history society members. He needed answers. It was rumoured that by morning the police would have moved off site, but he dare not invite Freddie’s men back until he was one hundred per cent sure that they wouldn’t be back for a full search if the need arose. And anyway, it wasn’t right that a load of anoraks like Joshua Flower and his geeky friends knew more about his property than he did.

  It took three attempts before one of them offered to meet him at the airfield early the next day and give him a tour. He was almost grateful that it wasn’t Joshua but his brother Simon who had volunteered. At least the slightly younger man wasn’t quite such a boring old fart.

  ‘There really isn’t an awful lot to show you, Mr Shine, just a couple of things that are not immediately apparent. The thing is, Flaxton Mere was meant to be special, and towards the end of 1944, when Britain . . .’

  Karl realised that he’d been wrong about Simon. Immediately bored, he claimed another appointment, thanked the man for his help, verified the time and place of the meeting and hung up. Jesus! He’d only asked for an hour of the man’s time, he didn’t want a bloody history lesson! But at least it was all arranged, and afterwards, when he was certain that the Fenland Constabulary had left his land, he would ring Freddie and endeavour to keep him on side until he was sure they wouldn’t be coming back.

  He walked barefoot over the plush carpet of his lounge, and headed for the drinks cupboard. As he stretched out his arm to open it, he felt a slight draft on his back.

  Forgetting the drink, he wandered back into the hall and looked around. There was no sound, and nothing was out of place. He checked the dining room and the study, but again, all was well. The quarry tiles of the kitchen floor felt cold to his feet, and he realised he had not closed the back door properly. He was not usually careless, but he had a lot on his mind at present.

  Karl shut it and locked it, hearing the levers slip into place, and then went back for his drink.
A long, hot bath and a single malt was what he needed right now, and nothing was going to stop him.

  * * *

  As Karl Shine wallowed in hot, steamy water, with the strains of Coldplay drifting around the house, a dark figure stood in his kitchen. The man, clad in black from ski-masked head to leather sports-shoed toe, was looking for a particular item. It took him two minutes to locate it, then he quietly slipped through the utility door, and into the darkness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Just after ten, Nikki decided that she really should go home, but Knot Cottage was so cosy and comfortable. She had not expected to have another meal cooked for her, but when she got in from work, Tamsin arrived on her doorstep asking her to join them for supper.

  ‘I’m sorry to inflict the veggie bit on you again, but Dad’s gone into overdrive.’ Tamsin had tried to sound indifferent, but Nikki detected a note of pleasure in her voice. ‘We have enough food to open a vegetarian restaurant.’

  And she hadn’t been far wrong. But Nikki knew something that Tamsin didn’t.

  Joseph only cooked on this grand scale when he was stressed. And by the look of the myriad colourful bowls of food that he dished up, right now he was strung out.

  Even so, the meal had been amazing, and although Tamsin occasionally found the need to make some mildly deprecating comment about her father, Nikki had picked up on a remarkable softening in the girl. And Tamsin seemed to have embraced the hunt for Eve with something bordering on fanaticism.

  ‘Two things before you go?’ Tamsin fished around in one of the old boxes. ‘I thought you might like to keep this picture separate. It’s really too beautiful to be stuffed in a cardboard box and left in an attic.’

  Nikki looked at the photograph and smiled broadly. ‘I wondered where that one had gone. It used to have pride of place on the mantelpiece when I was younger. It is stunning, isn’t it?’

  The picture was a studio shot, and showed a very attractive woman with a mane of auburn hair and the greenest of eyes. She was dressed in a simple cowl-neck sweater in a soft primrose colour. Her smile held just the slightest hint of amusement. ‘That’s my mother,’ said Nikki softly. ‘Kathy.’