Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Good luck to you. You’d get on well with my wife. After bringing up a family of four she’s now training to become a barrister.’

  ‘Good for her. Are you still married?’

  ‘Yes. What about you?’

  ‘Divorced a good few years ago now. Where do you get off?’

  ‘Liverpool Street.’

  ‘And me. So, I’ve told you all about me – what about you?’

  ‘I’m quite sure there’s much more to know about you, Sarah. As for me, I’m nobody – a retired builder.’

  ‘A bit young to be retired.’

  ‘Not so young.’

  ‘So, what’s in Liverpool Street?’

  ‘I’m meeting an old friend for a drink. What about you?’

  ‘Evening class at Kaplan Financial.’

  ‘I can feel myself yawning already.’

  ‘And me.’ Sarah’s phone rang. She stood up, picked up her bag and shuffled into the aisle. ‘Excuse me, I need to take this.’ She moved further along the train so that he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  After a couple of minutes, she returned. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘No need to apologise. We all have calls we need to take sometimes.’

  For the rest of the journey they talked about everything and nothing until the train pulled into Liverpool Street.

  ‘Are you walking up to street level?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’m meeting my friend on one of the other platforms.’

  ‘Oh!’

  He noticed that she looked disappointed.

  Her hand moved towards her bag, but then she changed her mind. ‘Well, I’ll probably see you again, Ray.’

  He smiled. ‘It’s a small world. And good luck with your accountancy training.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She made her way to the door.

  He stood behind her.

  The doors opened and they edged out onto the platform.

  ‘Goodbye, Ray.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sarah.’

  He moved to the side of the platform, stood still and watched until she entered the exit tunnel. He then jumped back onto the train before the doors slid shut.

  Meeting her was too convenient. Early on he had the feeling she wasn’t who she said she was, and as a result he began fabricating his own life story. And then when he told her he wasn’t going up to street level with her, he saw panic in her eyes. It was then that he knew she’d replaced the two men. Well, he hoped he’d given her the slip, but he needed to make sure.

  He stayed on the train until he reached Oxford Circus, switched to the Victoria Line and travelled to Finsbury Park. From there, he changed to the Piccadilly Line and jumped on a train to King’s Cross St. Pancras where he walked up to street level. Outside the station he caught a taxi to Euston station where he sat in a cafe, had a coffee and watched the people coming and going. Once he was happy that there was no one watching him, he re-entered the underground and caught the train to Highgate on the Northern Line.

  Outside the station he caught another taxi to Oakeshott Avenue – mainly because he had no idea where it was, Throughout the short journey he kept glancing out of the rear window to make sure no one was following them.

  At the top of Oakeshott Avenue the driver said, ‘Seven pounds fifty.’

  He gave the man a ten pound note. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Do you know if there’s a squat on this road?’

  ‘No understand. You speak Arabic?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The man shrugged.

  Glancing at the satnav, he noticed that all the writing was in Arabic. ‘Thanks, anyway,’ he said, climbing out of the taxi.

  On the pavement he looked up and down the road – it was a long road. There were houses on both sides and those behind him backed onto the cemetery. Is that what Bronwyn had meant? He began walking along the road trying to find a sign that would have indicated one of the houses was a squat – an unkempt garden full of litter, dirty or boarded-up windows, graffiti-daubed walls – but there was nothing like that. It was the tail-end of a long hard winter and most of the gardens were overgrown and unkempt, the windows streaked and grimy, and the paintwork in desperate need of some maintenance.

  He chose a house at random, walked up the path and knocked on the dirty door.

  It took a while, but eventually a stooped old woman with long hairs sprouting from her chin appeared. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Madam. I’m looking for a squat.’

  She looked him up and down as if she was sucking on an onion. ‘Wife thrown you out?’

  ‘Oh no! Not for me. I’m a detective looking for a missing girl.’

  The woman pointed left along the road. ‘Number forty-seven. There’s four of the buggers living there. Why the council can’t do anything about them beggars belief. In my day they’d have been dragged into the street, had their heads shaved, and then covered in tar and feathers. The law doesn’t mean anything these days. People seem to be able to do what they want without any regard for others, and if anyone tries to stop them they claim it’s an abuse of their human rights. Human right my . . . Yes, well – number forty-seven is the one you want.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Madam.’

  ‘Huh! Now I’m all riled up.’ She shut the door.

  He made his way to number forty-seven and knocked on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ a man’s voice seeped through the door.

  ‘I’d like to see Bronwyn.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Can you open the door?’

  He heard the rattling of keys, chains and bolts before the door opened a crack.

  ‘She’s still not here.’

  ‘Any idea where she is?’

  ‘Wait.’

  The door closed.

  Shortly after, it opened a crack more and a thin young woman with short brown spiky hair and pointed ears like an elf was standing there wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of panties. ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘Do you know if she’ll be back soon?’

  ‘Doubt it. She was dressed all in black. That usually means . . . Well, it means she won’t be back for a while.’

  ‘Did she have her backpack with her?’

  ‘Who are you again?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘She hasn’t got any friends.’

  ‘When she gets herself into trouble I’m the one she calls.’

  ‘Kowalski?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘ID?’

  He showed her his driving license.

  ‘Yes, she’s got her rucksack with her.’

  He nodded. ‘I think I might know where she’s gone. Thanks.’

  ‘You wanna come in and make out?’

  ‘Very kind, but I’d better go and get Bronwyn out of trouble again.’

  ‘Okay, no worries. Maybe later.’

  ***

  They caught the train back to Theydon Bois and reclaimed the car from the car park.

  ‘Where to?’ Stick said.

  ‘Back to the station, I’d say. We need to gather up all the information we’ve got so far and try and make some sense of it.’

  ‘And we have the press briefing at five o’clock.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You, but I could do it if you’re not feeling up to it.’

  ‘Why? Do I look as though I don’t feel up to it?’

  Stick half-laughed. ‘I don’t know how you feel.’

  ‘That’s right – you don’t. If there’s ever a time I don’t feel up to a press briefing, you’ll be the last to know.’

  ‘Understood.’

  She tipped the seat back, stretched her legs out and closed her eyes.

  The next thing she knew was Stick shaking her as if the car was plummeting over a cliff and about to burst into flames.

  ‘Do you want a poke in the eye?’

  ‘We’re here.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’
r />   ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘I was resting my eyes.’

  ‘You were snoring?’

  ‘A gentleman wouldn’t tell a lady that?’

  ‘A lady wouldn’t lie to her partner. Have you not been sleeping well?’

  ‘I thought we were here?’

  ‘We are.’

  She opened the car door. ‘Then why are you pretending to be my sleep consultant?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They made their way up to the squad room.

  ‘Coffee?’ Stick asked.

  ‘To help keep me awake?’

  ‘To drink.’

  ‘Take it to the incident room. I’ll sort this shit on my desk out and meet you in there.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Once Stick had sauntered off to the kitchen, she separated out the stuff that related to the case and the stuff that didn’t. It was always the fucking same – people expected you to be out and about investigating a case, and dealing with administrative shit via post, email and internal memos. Well, those people could go fuck themselves. As far as she was concerned she was investigating a murder. If the shit wasn’t related to that it could wait until she had the time and inclination to deal with it. She scooped up the shit relating to the case and made her way to the incident room.

  ‘We’re in incident room two?’ she said to Stick.

  ‘That’s what it says on the door.’

  ‘Are Parish and Richards in one?’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I never noticed. I came straight to this room. I like this incident room much better . . .’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget we’ve got the painted lady case.’

  ‘And look how that’s turning out.’

  ‘It’s only the first day.’

  ‘Next time, we’ll establish a foothold in IR1 before we go out anywhere.’

  ‘A foothold?’

  ‘A bridgehead, headquarters, base of operations.’

  ‘You make it sound like a military operation.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good, because I’d hate to think you were the enemy.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m on your side of the fence.’

  ‘Beachhead – not fence.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Should I start the board? . . . It is still called a board, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, we can still call it a board.’

  Stick began writing on the board, making a list and mumbling at the same time. ‘We had an anonymous report of a dead body at 167 Hamlet Hill in Roydon Hamlet – the home of Professor Harry and Mrs Valerie Tyndall. There was no forced entry, which meant that access was gained by key. There are only five keys and all the keys were accounted for except the spare key contained in the old cigar box, which was kept in the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. When that key was examined it was found to have the dead woman’s prints on it, which means the killer and/or victim were familiar with the inside of the house. How else could they have got hold of the key? That was also evident because the CCTV system was disabled and the hard disk drive from the computer removed . . .’

  Xena picked up a piece of paper. ‘Write down next to the CCTV that it was installed by Swann Security International based in Harlow on September 15, 2014.’

  Stick did as she instructed and added it to the list. ‘As such, we’re going to interview Mrs Tyndall tomorrow afternoon to see if she can’t provide us with a list of people who knew about the spare key and the CCTV system . . .’

  ‘Don’t forget the fiasco with the erroneous identification of the dead body, the wasted trip to King’s College London and my subsequent embarrassment telling a Professor that his wife had been murdered when she fucking hadn’t.’

  ‘I was just getting onto that.’

  ‘Carry on then.’

  ‘We originally thought the dead body was Mrs Valerie Tyndall, but then found out that she’s four months’ pregnant and staying with her mother in Worcester, which means that we now don’t have an identity for the dead body . . .’

  ‘Which is the fault of Hefferbitch . . .’

  ‘I don’t think we need to write that down.’

  ‘You’re a limp-wristed wet fucking weekend.’

  ‘Thank you. When we found the body we discovered that it had been painted as two halves of a clown representing good and evil . . .’

  ‘I’ve got a note here from Julie Hooley saying that most of the body painters seem to be face painters who do children’s parties and such like, but she did find a person who does body painting in East London. Write down: CHROMATIC – Chelsea Small who has her business at 34 Kingfield Street on the Isle of Dogs.’

  ‘Done. Also, half the woman’s hair had been shaved off and the left eyeball removed and replaced by a prosthetic eye, which possibly costs up to four thousand pounds and may have a serial number on it. Also, a hidden binary code was found on the body under ultraviolet light, which stated: FOLLOW ME on the front of the body, and START and END at either ends of a squiggly line on the back, which might or might not relate to a local map . . .’

  ‘You can go and get one after we’ve finished and we’ll see if we can’t . . .’

  ‘We haven’t got the squiggly line.’

  ‘It’s not good enough that we don’t have it. Ring Paine-in-the-arse and tell her we want the squiggly line.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll answer this time.’

  ‘If she doesn’t, I’ll get her the sack as well. Put it on loudspeaker.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to be sure – that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Stick pulled out his phone and called Doc Paine.

  ‘What is it this time, DS Gilbert?’

  ‘The squiggly line.’

  ‘I’ve faxed it to you.’

  ‘About fucking . . .’

  Stick turned the loudspeaker off. ‘Thanks, Doc . . . No, she was talking to me, not you . . . Okay, see you tomorrow.’ He ended the call and said, ‘She’s faxed it to us.’

  ‘You think I’m deaf?’

  Stick continued with his analysis: ‘The house-to-house enquiries came up blank, except for a woman who was walking her dog. She swears that there were no unknown vehicles – cars or motorbikes – parked on Hamlet Hill, which led us to wonder how the killer and the victim reached the house. As such, we’ve requested the CCTV footage from four surrounding train stations: Rye House, Harlow, Broxbourne and Roydon. Interestingly, Mrs Tyndall uses Roydon train station herself, so it might be worth taking a look at the security footage of that first. ’

  Listen to anonymous call;

  Key access – interview Mrs Valerie Tyndall;

  Visit Swann Security International in Harlow;

  Visit CHROMATIC on the Isle of Dogs;

  Identity of body – photograph from Doc Paine;

  Is there a serial number on the prosthetic eye?

  What is the message in the good/evil dichotomy?

  Is there any resemblance to existing clowns?

  ‘Okay, I think I’m done. Shall I go and get the fax?’

  ‘And leave me to walk all the way down to the map store? I don’t think that’s a game I want to play. You go to the map store first, and then collect the fax on your way back. I’ll stay here and think about the complexities of the case.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I hope that’s not an attempt at sarcasm?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

  ***

  ‘Expecting too much of you is my favourite crime Toadstone, and disappointment is always my punishment.’

  He’d left Richards in the squad room and walked up to forensics. He wasn’t feeling hopeful, but he was obligated to ask.

  ‘Well, today you don’t need to punish yourself, Sir.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘You’re not going to disappoint me?’

  ‘I’m not.�
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  ‘I’m glad, because disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy – the bankruptcy of a soul that expends too much energy in hope and expectation.’

  ‘The American moral and social philosopher – Eric Hoffer said that. Don’t you get tired of losing all the time?’

  ‘Winning provides happiness, but losing provides wisdom.’

  ‘The entrepreneur – Neil Patel.’

  ‘Come on then, Toadstone. Make my day.’

  Toadstone opened up his hand to reveal a small gold button in an evidence bag.

  ‘Very interesting – a metal button.’

  ‘One of my people found it in the spinney.’

  ‘It’s still only a button.’

  ‘But not any old button.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Take a look at it.’

  Parish lifted up the bag and peered at the button inside. ‘Is that a lion?’

  ‘Yes – the Lion of Chaeronea.’ Toadstone took the evidence bag back and turned it round so that Parish could see what was written on the back of the button.

  ‘Gaunt. London, England.’

  ‘It’s called a manufacturer’s backmark, and that particular one by JR Gaunt dates from the 1950s onwards.’

  ‘Okay, so we have a gold button made by Gaunt of London, which has the Lion of Chaeronea on the front and their brand on the back – what has it got to do with us?’

  ‘There was a battle at Chaeronea in 338 BC in which the Sacred Band of Thebes – an elite Greek fighting unit consisting of 150 soldiers and their male lovers – were defeated by the Macedonians under Alexander the Great. Fast-forward a couple of years and we find that in 1899 the Order of Chaeronea – a secret English political organisation for gay men – was created in their memory by a man called George Cecil Ives as a means of communicating without fear of persecution. Apparently, Oscar Wilde was also a member.’

  ‘What does a Victorian secret homosexual society have to do with our current investigation?’

  ‘The order was thought to be extinct, but in the late 1990s there was a revival, and they have a Grand Lodge in Ware. Now, I’m not saying they have anything to do with what’s happened to Adam Weeks, but we did find that button at the crime scene. Also, the principle of secrecy of the society is conveyed by the metaphor of a three-link chain.’