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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I have a plan.’

  ‘Will it cost me my job?’

  ‘Probably, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s hear it?’

  ‘We lock the two MI5 officers in cells while we check out their stories, which will obviously take until late tomorrow; we question Hillhouse and George Erikson and try to get them to talk . . .’

  ‘Even if they sing like canaries – you’ll still be left with nothing.’

  ‘I have two dead children, Sir. I probably have two of those responsible for their murders locked up downstairs. We can’t simply let them walk out of here. Those two boys and their parents deserve justice.’

  The Chief rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘I suppose this is a defining moment in our relationship, isn’t it Parish?’

  ‘I would say so, Chief.’

  ‘I was hoping for a bit more time to get my feet comfortable under that lovely mahogany desk, but we don’t always get what we want, do we? I either put my future career as a police officer on the line and back your plan; or I bottle out, take heed of the wise words uttered by the Chief Constable and lose yours, and probably everyone else’s respect, at the station. I’ve never been known as a gambler, but I can see how people might get an adrenaline rush from one roll of the dice – I either win or lose big! Put your plan into effect, Parish. I’ll be in my office kissing my arse goodbye.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘I hope those aren’t the last words you ever speak to me, Parish.’

  The Chief wandered out.

  ‘Go up to forensics,’ he said to Richards. ‘I want the results of the analysis of George Erikson’s jacket and a list of what else they found on his computer and in his house.’

  Richards nodded and hurried out.

  He picked up the phone.

  ‘Custody Sergeant?’

  ‘Listen carefully, Sergeant Kent . . .’

  ***

  He decided to run.

  It probably wasn’t the best decision he’d ever made, but it was in keeping with who he was as a person. He had no idea where he was running to. In the back of his mind he had the idea that he was running with the intention of losing them. However, there was a major flaw in his thinking – they were young and fit, he was old, overweight, had a rickety knee and a heart that would probably explode like a burst balloon if it was put under undue stress. Also, he was carrying a reasonably heavy holdall.

  With those limitations in mind he knew that he wouldn’t be able to run far, so as soon as he saw the Metro sign he realised it was his way out. Ignoring the escalator, he ran down the stairs and into the first tunnel he came to. There was no time to read signs, he sprinted onto the train that was sitting in the station.

  As soon as he did, the doors slid shut and the train began moving forward.

  He saw the three men burst onto the platform.

  Realising that he’d escaped their clutches, they stared at him with impassive faces.

  If they ever caught up with him he had a good idea what his fate would be.

  Sweat dripped down his face, his chest and squelched under his armpits. Twenty years ago he’d have left them for dead, but running anywhere now was a dangerous activity. Maybe he should stop pretending he was still a young man, buy some furry slippers and retire, and slip into old age gracefully.

  He found a seat and sat down. He had no idea where he was going. The train pulled into the next station – Barbès Rochechouart. He checked the Metro map and realised he was on the purple line. Just before the doors shut he jumped off the train, and switched to the blue line.

  ***

  She knew she couldn’t sit back and wait for Kowalski to call her. That’s not who she was – she had to do something. Using her own funds, she organised a helicopter flight with Icarus Helicopters from Battersea Heliport to Versailles with a ten-minute shuttle time to Paris, which would take her an hour and twenty minutes. First, she had to reach the Battersea Heliport, which required her to catch the tube from Highgate to Embankment on the Northern Line, and from there change to the District Line and travel to Fulham Broadway. She caught a taxi from there to the Heliport.

  All told, it had taken her ten minutes to pack some crap into her rucksack, which included the Glock pistol and the handful of papers she hadn’t had time to read yet; five minutes to walk to the station; an hour and fifteen minutes to travel to Battersea Heliport; an hour and twenty minutes to fly to Versailles and fifteen minutes to reach the L’Hotel du Collectionneur Arc de Triomphe in the centre of Paris – a total of three hours and five minutes..

  Now, she was standing on the pavement in front of the hotel when she took out her phone and called Kowalski.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You sound out of breath. Where are you?’

  ‘On the Metro.’

  ‘That’s helpful. Where are you going?’

  ‘To the hotel that you booked for me.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you in reception.’

  ‘You’re here in Paris?’

  ‘Somebody had to come and rescue you. Did you . . . ?’

  ‘Listen, I can’t talk now. There are three men following me – who are also travelling on the Metro – and I’ll have to lose them first before I head to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll help you. Where are you exactly?’

  ‘Hang on . . . just coming into the station . . . Pigalle. I’m changing trains here.’

  ‘Where are you going next?’

  ‘On the green line to Marx Dormoy.’

  ‘I’ll be outside the station waiting for you in a taxi.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you . . . . I don’t know! Maybe in about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘And you.’

  The call ended.

  She hailed a taxi.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘DI Blake,’ Chief Nibley said, when she and Stick entered his office. ‘I was beginning to think that you were one of those shadow people who can only be seen out of the corner of one’s eye, and yet here you are in the light for all to see.’

  ‘It’s good to see you as well, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure. So, take a seat. Do you want coffee?’

  ‘DS Gilbert and I might have to shoot off to London at any minute, so some refreshments to see us on our way would be welcome.’

  ‘LYDIA?’

  ‘His secretary stuck her head round the door. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Two coffees for our guests, please.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ The door closed.

  ‘London? So, what have you two been up to?’

  She told the Chief about Chelsea Small from CHROMATIC on the Isle of Dogs; how she had heard mention of a collector offering ridiculous amounts of money for one-off works of art from a friend called Lincoln Blackwood; how he had led them to Kaleidoscope Promotions; a Body Painting Competition; Kyle Stanton; one of the contestants with a lisp; and a judge called Lisa-Marie Steffenson who identified the man with the lisp as Andrei Markov.

  Lydia appeared with two cups of coffee.

  Stick smiled. ‘Thanks, Lydia.’

  ‘I’m impressed so far,’ the Chief said. ‘So, you’ve not actually identified the killer yet.’

  Xena stared at Stick. ‘It was your idea – you tell him.’

  Stick told the Chief about the dichotomy of good and evil in the body painting of the first victim, which was confirmed by the angel and demon split of the second victim; about the Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome and the idea that the collector might also be the body-painter and therefore the killer . . .’

  ‘I see, so you think this Andrei Markov might have a split-personality?’

  ‘Dissociative Identity Disorder, Sir.’

  ‘No need to split hairs, DS Gilbert.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘Oh! Anyway, when . . .’

  Xena nudged him. ‘I’ll tell this bit of the story.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘To save time and a was
te of valuable police resources, I liaised with a DI Dave Pittman from Greenwich Police Station who visited Markov’s address. Of course, he wasn’t there. It was then that DS Gilbert realised that he’d only had half a thought previously and the second half of said thought began filtering through, which was that a person who was both the painter and the collector would need to have a second place to hang his collection. I told DI Pittman to go back into Markov’s flat and find that second location, which he did. I’m now waiting for a call from Pittman to tell me that he’s taken Markov into custody, that the lock-up garage is full of one-off pieces of artwork and that DS Gilbert and myself can go up to Greenwich to question Markov.’

  ‘Good work, DS Gilbert.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  Xena pulled a face. Good fucking leadership, DI Blake!

  ‘What about the victims?’ the Chief asked.

  She told him how they’d identified the interior designer Bethany Long as the first victim, and how Markov must have obtained the key, his knowledge of the security system and when the house would be empty. ‘We haven’t had time to examine the CCTV footage from Roydon, Broxbourne, Harlow and Rye Hill train stations, but when we do I expect to find Andrei Markov arriving with Bethany Long sometime during Sunday, and leaving on his own. We’re also waiting for forensics and pathology on the second victim.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re close to tying it up, DI Blake.’

  ‘That’s an excellent summary of our current situation, Sir.’

  ‘Seeing as you’re about to travel to London where you’ll arrest Markov, it seems illogical not to postpone the press briefing until tomorrow . . . say two o’clock.’

  ‘You read my thoughts, Sir.’

  ‘LYDIA?’

  The door opened. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Cancel DI Blake’s press briefing until two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The door closed.

  ‘Come and give me a final briefing on the case tomorrow at one o’clock before you announce your success to the press.’

  ‘Will do, Chief.’

  ‘Shut the door on your way out.’

  They stood up and shuffled out.

  ‘I nearly called him Chief Nibbles,’ Stick said.

  ‘You’re a numpty. Anyway, I’m sure he’s been called a lot worse. What about Red Ears? Rudolph had a red nose, didn’t he? Maybe we could modify the song:

  Nigel the red-eared policeman

  Had very red ears

  And if you ever saw them

  It would . . .’

  Stick laughed. ‘They should lock you up.’

  ‘Let’s go to London.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for DI Pittman’s call?’

  ‘He’s taking forever.’

  ‘Maybe you should call him?’

  ‘And appear desperate? No, we’ll just go up there. Even if the idiot doesn’t find Markov, we’ll still need to take a look in the two locations and get forensics in.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  They drove to Woodford station, left the car there and caught the train to Stratford on the Central Line, changed to the Docklands Light Railway and hopped on a train to Greenwich.

  Once they were on the DLR train to Greenwich Stick picked up a discarded Metro newspaper and then quickly sat on it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘I don’t know what.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Show you what?’

  ‘I’m going to wrestle you to the floor, sit on your face and find out what you’re hiding from me.’

  He slid the newspaper out from under him, but held it away from her. ‘You won’t get angry, will you?’

  ‘I will if you don’t give me the fucking paper.’

  He handed her the Metro.

  ‘You’re fucking joking! I’m going to kill him.’

  Splashed across the front page was the headline:

  DI DAVE PITTMAN

  OF GREENWICH POLICE STATION

  SHOWS HODDESDON POLICE OFFICERS

  HOW TO CATCH THE PAINTED LADY KILLER

  There were pictures of a smiling smug bastard outside a lock-up garage. He was in his mid-thirties with close cropped dark hair, a full trimmed beard and a jacket over a white shirt and tie.

  She read the article. ‘He hasn’t even mentioned us, Stick.’

  ‘He’s not such a wimp after all, is he?’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Merely an observation.’

  ‘Well, keep your observations to yourself.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Xena sighed. ‘This changes things.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Of course it does. We’ve done all the work, and he’s blundered in and stolen the glory.’

  ‘As long as the killer has been arrested and he no longer has the opportunity to kill any more women, isn’t that what matters?’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘We’ve not been mentioned.’

  ‘You’ve pointed that out already.’

  ‘It’s not good enough. We have to keep ourselves in the limelight.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, not you. You have a forgettable face. But I don’t want people saying, “DI Xena Blake? No, never heard of her.” I want them saying, “Aren’t you Xena Blake – the DI who caught the Body Paint Killer?” “Why yes,” I’ll say. “Although I did have a smidgen of help from my useless partner Stickynuts.”’

  ‘A smidgen?’

  ‘I’m glad you agree. Now, when we get to Greenwich I want you to turn round and go back again.’

  ‘Go back?’

  ‘You can go home if you want to?’

  ‘Very kind. And what will you be doing?’

  ‘You know what I’ll be doing – I’ll be murdering DI Pittman and getting back control of OUR investigation.’

  ‘No, seriously?’

  ‘I am being serious. You don’t seem to care that he’s hijacked MY investigation, so you can go home. I’m going to have it out with him, and if he doesn’t give me a satisfactory answer I’m going to kill him.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need my help?’

  ‘No. I want you to go home. Tomorrow morning, you can start tying up the loose ends. The one thing we have that Pittman doesn’t is evidence.’

  ‘Maybe he has more evidence than us.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, he has access to Markov’s home, and the lock-up garage. Maybe forensics are already in those two places putting the evidence into bags. Also, Markov must have had a vehicle to transport the second victim to the River Blackwater . . .’

  ‘Once I’ve killed him, I’m going to cut him up into small pieces and throw them into the Thames.’

  ‘That could be messy. You’ll probably need a change of clothes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I want you to give the press briefing tomorrow at two o’clock.’

  ‘Me? Are you sure?’

  ‘When Pittman is dead, and I’m standing over his body holding an axe in my delicate hands dripping with his blood, I’ll call you and tell you what to say.’

  ‘That seems straightforward enough. What will I tell the Chief?’

  ‘You can tell him . . . No, you’d better not tell him that. He’ll probably already know what’s happened, so just tell him I’ve gone to Greenwich to correct the scandalous and false report that DI Pittman had anything at all to do with the Painted Lady Case.’

  The train reached Greenwich and they stepped off it onto the platform.

  Stick hugged her.

  ‘Will you get off me?’ she said, wriggling out of his grip.

  ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’ Stick said.

  ‘Ha! It’s DI Dave Pittman who needs to be careful.�
�

  ***

  It was dark, but she saw Kowalski’s head and body slowly appear as the escalator reached street level at the Marx Dormoy Metro station. The light from a McDonalds caught her eye and made her mouth water. When had she last eaten? Once they were at the hotel she’d order a triple cheeseburger and fries from room service.

  She opened the door of the taxi and waved him over. As he passed under a street light she noticed that his face was red and puffy. He looked a lot older than she’d remembered.

  ‘Avenue Hoche,’ she said to the driver once Kowalski had thrown his bag onto the seat and climbed in after it.

  ‘Where . . . ?’ Kowalski began to say.

  ‘It’s just round the corner from the hotel,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll walk the rest of the way. So, you took your time.’

  ‘It was the train driver’s fault.’

  ‘They all say that.’

  ‘I had to make sure I wasn’t being followed. I lost them at the Gare du Nord Metro station, but they tracked me from London and I didn’t spot them, so I thought I’d make a special effort this time.’

  ‘You’re getting sloppy in your old age.’

  ‘That must be it – I’m losing my superpowers.’

  ‘You didn’t call me?’

  ‘There was no signal from the left luggage place, and then I was running for my life.’

  ‘So, what was in the locker?’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds, another Glock pistol and a journal.’

  ‘Show me the journal?’

  He unzipped his bag, found the book and passed it to her.

  ‘I thought so,’ she said, flicking through it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have a plan to make all this go away.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The taxi dropped them off.

  He paid because she didn’t have any Euros.

  They walked the rest of the way up the Avenue Hoche and turned right down Rue de Courcelles until they reached the hotel.

  ‘Nice,’ Kowalski said, as they stood on the opposite side of the road looking up at the brightly lit hotel. ‘Except . . .’