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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You seem to know a lot about threesome sex positions.’

  ‘I keep my eyes and ears close to the ground, but what concerns me is that you seem to know that I know a lot about threesome sex positions.’

  ‘Women talk to each other, you know.’

  ‘That comes as a shock to my very core.’

  ‘I’m sure. So, you’ll be coming home tonight?’

  ‘That’s certainly my intention.’

  ‘And you’ll send my two boys back?’

  ‘They’re big boys. They don’t need me telling them the facts of life. If it was me . . .’

  ‘Yes, I think I have a good idea about what you’d still be doing.’

  ‘So expect them when you see them.’

  ‘Okay – love you.’

  ‘I love you as well.’ As he was ending the call he remembered the photograph he’d taken of the numbers on the whiteboard in the underground complex.

  First though, he called Amelia Frost as promised, but he was diverted to voicemail. ‘It’s Ray Kowalski. Just to let you know that we’re still on the case, Miss Frost. I’ll contact you soon and provide you with a proper update.’

  He returned to Bronwyn’s room and found her wandering around naked with a towel wrapped around her head.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! It’s like Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve in here.’ She grabbed a crumpled bath towel from the bed and held it against herself. ‘Turn round. Or better still, get the fuck out and go home to your wife.’

  He turned round. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘You’d better have your eyes closed.’

  ‘I’m afraid that horse has already bolted.’

  ‘Yeah well, the mare can still give you a hefty kick in the nuts if it catches you peeking.’

  Just then Shakin’ and Joe burst in through the door.

  ‘Hey!’ Joe said, his eyes opening wider than sinkholes. ‘Will you take a look at that?’

  Shakin’ licked his lips. ‘I’m looking.’

  ‘We’ve left Poo well satisfied,’ Joe said, rubbing his crotch. ‘Do you want us to do the same for you?’

  ‘Everybody out,’ Bronwyn said.

  Shakin’ began backing out. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, babe.’

  Bronwyn picked up one of the Glock pistols from off the bed. ‘I know what you’ll be missing if you don’t get the fuck out.’

  All three of them piled out onto the landing and Bronwyn locked the door behind them.

  ‘That was a bit of a treat,’ Joes said.

  ‘Certainly was,’ Shakin’ agreed. ‘All-in-all it’s been a reasonably productive day, eh Joe?’

  ‘A day to remember, Shakin’.’

  ‘Mrs K wants you back in that lecture hall an hour ago,’ Kowalski said.

  A shadow crossed over Joe’s face. ‘Really, Mr K?’

  ‘Yes, Joe. Spoke to her a couple of minutes ago. She wanted to know where you two were and what you were doing.’

  ‘You didn’t spill the beans on us, did you, Mr K?’

  ‘There are no secrets between my wife and I.’

  Joe glanced at Shakin’ ‘She’s gonna kill us.’

  Shakin’ nodded. ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘I’m grateful for the help you two boys have given Bronwyn and myself, but you can leave us to fend for ourselves now.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Mr K?’ Shakin’ said.

  ‘I’m sure. And not only that, you’ve seen Bronwyn naked, so I’d quit while you were ahead.’

  ‘He’s got a point, Joe. We go back in that room, we might never come out again.’

  Joe eyed Bronwyn’s bedroom door. ‘You’ll tell Bronwyn hasta la vista, Mr K?’

  ‘I will, Joe.’

  ‘And that it was great seeing her?’ Shakin’ said.

  Kowalski laughed. ‘I’m a firm believer in the notion that a man shouldn’t say or do anything that would put his testicles in grave peril.’

  ‘He’s a man after our own hearts, Joe.’

  ‘A legend in his own lunch break, Shakin’.’

  They heard Bronwyn’s door opening.

  Joe and Shakin’ straddled the banister, slid down it and disappeared out of the front door.

  Bronwyn came and stood next to him fully dressed. ‘They’ve gone?’

  ‘Yes. Seeing you naked made their day.’

  ‘I was going to sacrifice them to the Wicker Man.’

  ‘They’d come to the same conclusion. That’s why they ran for their lives.’

  ‘So, what do you want to talk about?’

  He found the photograph on his phone and passed it to her. ‘I took that inside the room where they drugged you. It was a medical laboratory of some sort, and those numbers were written on a whiteboard on the wall. I thought they might be a clue of some sort.’

  She stared at the screen, moved the picture round and enlarged parts of it. ‘No idea, but I know a place at the end of the universe that will.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘People put codes they can’t crack up on a website, and nerds with nothing else better to do, spend hours trying to crack them.’

  ‘That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. On their own, the numbers don’t mean anything.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. Why is it at the end of the universe?’

  ‘That’s what the website is called:

  theanswerattheendoftheuniverse.com

  It’s a reference to two of the late Douglas Adams’ books: In The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything is 42; and the book’s sequel is The Restaurant at the End of the Universe.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘You’re a pinhead, Kowalski. Douglas Adams was a genius on a level with Einstein and Stephen Hawking. He was also a brilliant writer.’

  ‘Einstein! Didn’t he invent the ballpoint pen?’

  ‘That’s the one. So, you can fuck off now and leave me to my work.’

  ‘I’d like my phone back please.’

  Bronwyn returned to her room.

  Kowalski followed her.

  She sent the photograph to her own phone and then deleted it from Kowalski’s. ‘There,’ she said, handing back his phone.

  ‘And have you seen these?’ He picked up the handful of papers he’d taken from the bookshelf in the laboratory and passed them to her. ‘I helped myself to them as well.’

  ‘You’re really embracing the dark side, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m either in all the way, or not at all. Not only that, as far as I’m concerned we’re both on the side of the angels fighting evil wherever we find it.’

  ‘Very poetic. Well, I’ll look through the papers when I’ve put these numbers up on the website – anything else?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I suppose I’ll go home, get a shower, catch up with my sleep and generally get my life back on track.’

  ‘I’ll see you soon then.’

  ‘You’ll call me as soon as you’ve got something?’

  ‘You think I’m going to do all the work?’

  ‘I think you like being a lone wolf. Well, there are no lone wolves in this partnership. So call me when you find something?’ He picked up both Glock pistols from the bed.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can leave one of those.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If they came for me, I’d be defenceless. You’d be happy for them to spirit me away, experiment on me, murder me and throw me in a landfill site, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Ever thought about taking up acting as a career?’

  ‘I’ll give it some serious consideration.’

  He passed her one of the guns – it was less trouble. ‘Be careful with it.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking amateur, you know.’

  She ushered him out and they saw Poo on the landing heading towards the toilet. ‘Hey, Poo!’ Bronwyn said.

 
‘Hey, you. I really liked your friends.’

  ‘They’re no friends of mine.’

  ‘Well, whatever. Any chance of them coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Shame. They were a bit inexperienced, but I think they had some potential.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Poo looked at Kowalski. ‘Have I asked you whether you wanna make out with me?’

  ‘I’m flattered, but I have to go.’

  ‘Okay. Maybe next time.’

  ***

  It took them thirty minutes to reach Theydon Bois train station. From there they caught a Central Line train to Stratford, changed onto the Docklands Light Railway (DLR) and jumped on a train to Island Gardens on the Isle of Dogs – the last station before travelling under the Thames – where they caught a taxi up Stebondale Street to CHROMATIC at 34 Kingfisher Street.

  Xena told the taxi driver to wait.

  ‘How long?’ he asked in broken English with an Eastern European accent.

  ‘About fifteen minutes.’

  ‘No more.’

  ‘You’ll get paid.’

  ‘I also get bored.’

  ‘Go to sleep, read a book or something.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  They climbed out of the taxi.

  ‘I haven’t seen any dogs,’ Xena said.

  ‘Maybe they keep them locked up during the day.’

  ‘There’s no kingfishers flying around either.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Admit it – you have no idea about anything.’

  Stick shrugged. ‘I’m sure that’s true.’

  ‘Well, stop pretending to be the Oracle of Delphi and ring the bell.’

  CHROMATIC was a one-storey building with a flat roof, graffiti tags on the walls and high-level oblong windows that looked as though they’d been blacked-out. It wasn’t like a body piercing shop or a tattoo parlour where they could have simply walked in and announced their arrival by the jangling of a doorbell, Stick had to press the buzzer on an intercom system.

  ‘Hello?’ a female voice said.

  ‘Chelsea Small?’

  ‘You’re not a stalker, are you?’

  Stick glanced at Xena. ‘No – Police.’

  ‘A stalker with a police badge?’

  ‘No – Police.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Xena barged Stick out of the way. ‘Open the fucking door and you’ll find out.’

  ‘A stalker with a female partner! I’ve not had one of those before.’

  The door clicked open.

  They went in and closed the door behind them. Inside it appeared to be a cross between an artist’s and a photographer’s studio. There were paint-splattered seats and couches positioned around the room; occasional tables holding a kaleidoscope of small coloured paint pots; all sizes of brushes; pots of glitter; wigs and other prosthetics; powders; sponges and airbrush guns. On the walls hung backdrops; large photographs of body-painted men and women; and face-painted children with a variety of animal designs; a Hasselblad camera on a tripod; light stands . . .

  There was a naked young woman perched on a stool. She’d been painted to look as though she was wearing a full-body leopard-skin lycra suit open at the front from the neck to the crotch.

  Another woman in her mid-thirties walked towards them. She had long dark hair scooped back in a ponytail, pearl drop earrings dangling from her ears, a thin-strapped azure-blue top without a bra and a pair of multi-coloured leggings. ‘Now that you’ve lied your way into my presence, show me some ID before I have security throw you out.’

  They both produced their warrant cards.

  Xena looked around, but didn’t see anyone who might have resembled security.

  ‘An insanely-beautiful girl can’t be too careful. So, what do you want?’

  ‘Body painting,’ Xena said.

  Chelsea pulled a face, walked round Xena and said, ‘Take your clothes off. Let me take a proper look at you. I’m thinking I could probably make you resemble a grizzly bear, or maybe a beluga whale.’

  She saw Stick grinning and flashed him a look.

  ‘And I could make you resemble a prisoner.’

  ‘Mmmm! I can only imagine what they’d do to an insanely-beautiful woman in a prison. Is it a mixed prison, or full of women?’

  ‘We’re here to pick your brains. We have two murdered women who’ve been body-painted.’ Xena showed her the photograph of the clown.

  ‘You should have said.’

  ‘I just did.’

  Chelsea turned to the painted leopard-skin lady. ‘Okay Polly – take a break. If you want to make yourself useful you could boil the kettle and make some coffee, but remember – don’t move and don’t get water-splashes on your body, especially boiling water. And if you mess up the design I’ll take it out of your money.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money I’ll pay you when I’m famous.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot.’

  She turned back to Xena and Stick. ‘You wanna sit down?’

  They sat on the paint-splattered chairs.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell us about body-painting.’

  ‘It’s derived from the ancient tribal customs of indigenous people in Australia, New Zealand, the Pacific Islands and many other parts of the world. The paint is water-based, non-toxic and temporary. The designs only last for a few hours. Body painting is now seen as an art form, and there are artists such as Jana Sterbak, Rebecca Hom and Alexander Figueroa to name a few, who are famous for their creations . . .’

  ‘If it only lasts for a couple of hours,’ Xena said. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Every creation is captured on film.’

  ‘So you paint someone and then take a photograph of them?’

  Just then, Polly appeared with three mugs of coffee and passed them round.

  ‘That’s basically the idea. Take Polly here. I’ve spent all morning painting that leopard-skin print on her, and as soon as I can get rid of you two I’ll be photographing her in various poses. I have one picture in my mind of her with an arched back on a tree branch. However, there aren’t many tree branches on the Isle of Dogs, so I might have to Photoshop that little item in.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I sell the signed originals of my artwork. I have an online blog and gallery, and there’s also an art gallery on the Portobello Road that displays and sells some of my work.’

  Xena took a swallow of coffee. ‘I was wondering how you kept yourself in paint.’

  ‘I’m getting a following.’

  ‘But you’re not famous yet, are you?’ Polly commented. ‘Otherwise, I’d be able to afford some clothes.’

  Chelsea grunted. ‘You’re a nude model – you don’t need clothes. Now, go and sit still over there until I’ve finished feeding the monkeys.’

  Xena passed Chelsea her phone and said, ‘What can you tell us about the clown?’

  ‘Let’s produce a picture I can see.’ She wandered to the other side of the room, connected Xena’s phone up to a computer and printed out an A3 picture of the dead woman. ‘Okay, now I can give you my opinion.’ She handed Xena’s phone back. ‘Mmmm! Pretty damned good. And this woman’s dead?’

  Xena nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think that either of the two clowns resemble an actual clown?’ Stick asked.

  ‘I’m not any kind of expert on clowns. I’ve never understood how anybody could possibly find them funny – they’re frighteningly scary. So no, I don’t know if they resemble any actual clowns. That eye on the evil clown is good.’

  ‘Probably because it’s false,’ Xena said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The killer removed the woman’s eyeball and fitted a prosthetic one.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve heard stories.’

  ‘Any stories in particular?’

  ‘As with most thi
ngs, there’s a black market.’

  ‘A black market for what?’

  ‘Extreme body painting.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Well, some people aren’t satisfied with the body painting art that’s available. They want more – more beauty, or in some cases more ugliness. It’s amazing what you can do with a brush, some pots of paint and an over-active imagination, but that’s not enough for these people . . . They want one-off creations that only they can enjoy and they’re willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money to own them . . .’

  ‘Isn’t each one of your art works a one-off?’

  ‘Yes and no. As well as the signed original, which I make people pay a high price for, because in a way they are one-offs, I also make prints of my creations and sell them. Then, of course, I display each creation in my online gallery and incorporate it in my catalogue.’

  ‘If a customer asks for a one-off?’

  ‘A Chelsea footballer wanted me to paint his girlfriend as a tree elf. I explained that yes he’d have the signed original, but I’d make prints, put it on my website and in my catalogue, so other people would see her naked. She wasn’t happy, so they went away to think about it. They came back a week later and we agreed a price. I want the world to see my creations. I don’t see the point of creating something that will be hung in a locked room and only one person will ever see. No amount of money would make me compromise my principles like that.’

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying – that someone is creating one-off works of art to order and selling them on to private collectors?’

  ‘That’s the story I’ve heard.’

  ‘Give me names.’

  ‘I don’t have any names. I’ve only heard whispers.’

  ‘Whispers! I thought they were stories?’

  ‘Whispered stories.’

  ‘And who’s whispering these stories?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Come on, Chelsea. You live in the world of body painting. DS Gilbert and I had to look it up. Someone out there is murdering women for the sake of a few quid.’

  ‘If you call a million pounds a few quid.’

  ‘So, someone has even whispered a price?’

  ‘I barely heard it.’

  ‘Give me a name, or I might forget how helpful you’ve already been and make an anonymous phone call to the local Environment Health Department and explain how I came out in pustules after you’d made me look like a grizzly bear.’