by Andy Maslen
‘We’d need warrants to get medical records, wouldn’t we, boss?’ Cam asked.
‘Yes. But I’m thinking of a lower-key approach.’
‘It’s like Will and I worked it at Holt’s,’ Roisin said. ‘Ask to use the loo and have a poke around in the medicine cabinet. You see tranquilisers, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, any shit like that, it’s a fair bet someone has the odd bad day.’
Cam nodded her thanks.
‘That leaves me, Garry and Cam. Right, Cam, can you run point here for today, please? I want you to talk to Lucian about the rope. It looks as though that’s the murder weapon. I want to know what kind of rope it is, who makes it, if there’s anything unusual about it. If you can put a list of UK suppliers together, we can start looking at potential CCTV, customer lists, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Garry? I need to set up a press conference for later with Callie. We’ve also got Sarah Sharpe’s post mortem scheduled for 2.00 p.m., which should be fun given the state the body was in. Until then, can you help Cam, please?’
‘Sure, boss.’
‘OK, everyone. Thank you.’
The detectives, uniforms and police staff stood up to return to their desks. Morgan’s voice sailed above the shuffling and chat.
‘One last thing before you disperse, please.’ He caught Stella’s eye. ‘If I may, DCI Cole?’
Not trusting herself to speak, Stella waved her hand, palm upwards, as if beckoning a guest. Come on then. Get on and get it over with.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I just want you all to know that as Deputy Mayor for Policing and Crime, I am hugely supportive of your work. I know this is a big case for you and I want to pledge, here and now, to give you all the support I can.’ He turned to Stella and smiled, though she thought it looked as genuine as one of the fake Rolexes in the exhibits room. ‘That was all.’
Garry continued chatting to Baz, but he watched as his boss slumped at her desk. She looks done in, he thought.
Morgan was peering at the whiteboards displaying the crime scene photographs. Then he sauntered over to Garry and Baz.
He held his hand out to Garry, who shook it reflexively. Baz did the same. Morgan smiled.
‘It’s DS Haynes, isn’t it?’ he asked, then turned to Baz. ‘And DS Khan?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.
Morgan laughed, though it came off as a fake to Garry.
‘Oh, no need for that, lads. Just call me Craig. So, listen, I just want to say, I’m massively proud to see that two BAME officers are working at the heart of one of the biggest murder cases London’s seen in recent years.’
‘Sorry,’ Garry said, his pulse quickening. ‘BAME?’
In fact, he knew perfectly well what the acronym stood for, but he didn’t particularly like it, or Morgan’s patronising attitude.
‘Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic,’ Morgan said, apparently oblivious to Garry’s disbelieving expression.
‘I’m not a BAME officer, I’m a detective,’ Baz said, straight-faced.
‘Yeah, and I’m Jamaican,’ Garry added.
Morgan blushed. He touched his flaming cheek with the fingers of his right hand.
‘Of course. Sorry. Political correctness gone mad.’ He rolled his eyes. Another bogus move, in Garry’s opinion. ‘So, I just wanted to check, are you getting enough time off?’
‘Well, it’s a big case. Craig,’ Garry said. ‘You do the hours, don’t you?’
‘Of course, of course. But I want to make sure you’re being treated fairly by DCI Cole.’
‘What do you mean?’ Baz asked, raising his voice. ‘The boss is literally the hardest-working officer in this station and she treats us like family.’
Morgan held up placating hands.
‘I don’t doubt it. And your loyalty is commendable. But sometimes senior officers forget what it’s like for those lower down the ladder. Has she offered you access to counselling, for example?’
‘What?’ Garry asked.
‘Counselling? It’s in your contract and you’re entitled.’
‘Look, it’s fine. Really.’ He turned to Baz. ‘Nothing we haven’t seen before, is it, Baz? Remember the Soup Dragon?’
He winked with the eye turned away from Morgan.
‘Tell Craig,’ Baz said.
‘OK, so there was this one case last year, Craig. We called the killer “The Soup Dragon”. You see, what he did was, he murdered his victims, blokes about your age, funnily enough, and he cut them up with a cordless chainsaw in his bath. Then he poured lye all over them. You know what lye is?’
‘No.’ Morgan’s face had lost the pink tinge of the blush, and he was looking pale.
‘It’s basically a solution of sodium or potassium hydroxide. Extremely caustic and perfect for digesting animal tissue. You know, flesh?’
Morgan nodded again.
‘Mm, hmm.’
‘Yeah, so he topped up the bath with lye, like I said, and then left it to get to work. It’s supposed to dissolve the flesh until all that’s left are these really powdery bones in a sort of brownish liquid. Looks like coffee. Then he would’ve pulled the plug out and let the, you know, stuff, run out before he crushed the bones. But the neighbours complained about the stink and called the police, didn’t they, Baz?’
Tag-team, his eyes said to Baz, who picked up the story.
‘We got the call about midday on a Sunday. I was just about to sit down to my Sunday lunch. Roast lamb, roast potatoes, Yorkshires, gravy, the works. Anyway, the lye had sort of half-worked. The bath was full of this, kind of, what would you call it, Garry? Gloop?’
Gary waggled his head from side to side.
‘Nah, mate. Not gloop. He wasn’t called the Gloop Dragon, was he? It was soup! You know, Craig, like one of those hearty soups with lumps in. Only the meaty bits were rotten and the carrots were body parts or whatever. Yeah. A really lumpy, stinky soup. I tell you what, though.’
‘What?’ Morgan said, his cheeks and forehead waxy, beads of sweat appearing on his top lip.
Garry tried to get his timing right.
‘If you’d have eaten a spoonful, you’d never have touched Heinz Big Soup again.’
Morgan smiled wanly, then turned and fled.
The two detectives burst out laughing at the retreating Armani-clad form.
Stella came over, a smile on her face.
‘What was that all about?’
Baz looked at Garry and rolled his eyes, then answered Stella’s question.
‘The twat wanted to know if we were getting enough time off. Had we been offered counselling?’
Stella’s eyes widened.
Garry continued.
‘He told me and Baz it was great to see two BAME officers at the centre of such an important investigation. Can you believe it? He actually called us BAME! Not that the alternative would’ve been any better.’ A beat. ‘Prick.’
‘How did you get rid of him? He practically sprinted out of here.’
Gary and Baz took turns to retell the story of their invented serial killer case.
With their combined laughter causing other officers to look round, Stella shook her head, smiling, and returned to her desk.
Once the room had quietened down, she wandered over to Arran, who was on the phone. The call finished, he turned to her.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘You all right?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, of course. Why?’
Stella shrugged her shoulders.
‘Nothing. Thought you looked a little, you know, extra-tired at the briefing.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Fergus had a night terror. Hasn’t had one since he was five. Poor little sod was wandering about downstairs with his arms in the air asking where the bad men were.’ He swiped a palm across his face. ‘Bit like us, really. Anyway, took me and Kath half an hour to calm him down, then I couldn’t get back to sleep.’
Stella patted him on the shoulder.<
br />
‘Take it easy, OK? If you get a breathing space, go home and get an hour’s kip. That’s an order.’
He smiled, tiredly.
‘OK, thanks. You ought to get some rest yourself, boss. Or at least a change of scene. You look a little, you know—’
‘Rough?’
He shook his head hurriedly.
‘No! No, boss. I just meant—’
She smiled.
‘It’s OK. I looked in the mirror this morning and thought it was another one of his victims.’
She realised that since her last day off had been cancelled by Niamh Connolly’s murder, she’d not stopped working except for a few hours to sleep. She scanned the incident room. Every member of the inner team, and all the supporting detectives and staff were actively pursuing leads, chasing down information and combing through the various Home Office and police database. Maybe I could afford to take a few hours off, she thought.
She made a call.
40
WEDNESDAY 22ND AUGUST, 10.15 A.M.
PADDINGTON GREEN
Cam was perching on the edge of Lucian’s desk.
‘So, the boss said it was flax with wool fibres stuck in it,’ she said.
‘Yup.’
Cam frowned.
‘And flax would be …?’
Lucian smiled.
‘Flax would be fibres of the plant Linum usitatissimum. AKA, before your eyebrows go into orbit, the common flax or linseed plant. It’s what linen is made of.’
Cam rolled her eyes. Not everyone at Paddington Green shared Lucian Young’s obvious relish for finery, and as a proud Brixton girl, she maintained a strict no-contact relationship with the countryside.
‘I’m more of a denim and leather girl, myself,’ she said.
‘Each to their own. Anyway, it’s a natural fibre and it’s used for making certain kinds of rope. But the interesting thing about our sample is its diameter. There aren’t too many applications that call for it. Most natural ropes are used in commercial cargo applications or shipping, and they’re a lot thicker. But I did find one hit that looks very interesting.’
‘Go on then, spill.’
‘Bell ropes.’
Still thinking about commercial shipping, Cam leaped towards the water.
‘What, you mean like ships’ bells?’
Lucian nodded.
‘Yes. But also church bells. Campanology.’
‘Bell ringing. And yes, before you say anything, Mister Clever-clogs, I’m not a total South London thicko. I do read the odd book.’
Lucian placed fanned fingers on his chest.
‘My sincere apologies. And there was I thinking you were all about drug slang and gangstas.’
Then he winked, earning himself a playful slap on the arm from Cam.
‘Yeah, well, you’d be surprised how many dickheads there are in this station who hear my accent and start mansplaining how the coffee machines work. So that’s great. I don’t suppose you can tell me how many suppliers of flax bell rope there are in the UK?’
He shook his head.
‘Can’t start doing detective work, Cam. I’d have your Fed rep down on me like the heavy mob.’
Back at her desk, Cam heaved a sigh. So much of her job seemed to involve dicking around on the Internet, as she saw it, when she’d much prefer to be out knocking on doors, interviewing people, tracking down witnesses – anything that involved contact with a human rather than a mouse.
Dutifully she switched applications to a web browser and typed in her initial best guess at a search term that wouldn’t throw out thousands of irrelevant hits.
UK supplier flax bell rope
In a little under half a second, she was looking at a page of results, and smiling broadly. I don’t believe it!
The information straining her credulity was simple. Clicking through the first few pages revealed that there were precisely five suppliers of flax bell rope in the UK. Five! Normally, she’d run a search and get the depressing news that there were hundreds, or thousands of web pages that might, but most likely might not, yield anything useful.
She made a list of the names and numbers of the five companies, then picked up her desk phone and called the first company, Searcy & Able. The semi-robotic voice of a BT message cut in almost immediately, telling her that the number was no longer active.
Must’ve gone out of business, she thought, running a line through the company name on her list. Her next call was more fruitful. The phone was answered on the third ring.
‘Sherborne Ropes. How can I help?’ a man asked in a soft Yorkshire accent.
‘Hi. This is Detective Constable Camille Wilde of the Metropolitan Police. Can I talk to someone about flax bell rope, please?’
‘Aye, lass. You can talk to me. I’m Arthur Sherborne. It’s my company.’
‘Oh, OK, thanks. So, Mr Sherborne—’
‘Call me Arthur.’
‘Thanks. So, Arthur, we’re investigating a murder and I need to track down the supplier of some rope we believe to be bell rope. It’s made of flax and it had some wool fibres embedded in it.’
‘Murder, eh? You get plenty of those down in London, I’ll bet.’
‘We get our fair share.’
‘Terrorists, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Yep. Some of those, too. It’s not as bad as they make it look on the telly.’
Sherborne snorted.
‘Telly? Nay, lass, you won’t catch me watching telly. Too bloody depressing.’
Fighting back the urge to chivvy him along, Cam bided her time. She’d sat in on interviews with Def and watched the way the DS seemed to do almost nothing while hardened criminals unravelled in front of her.
‘I know what you mean. I like a good book, myself.’
‘Oh, aye, reading’s good for the soul. That’s what me old ma used to say. Now, about this rope of yours. What can you tell me about it?’
Congratulating herself inwardly for her patience, Cam seized her chance.
‘Well, it’s made of flax, as I said. And it’s 12mm in diameter. Very clean, apart from, you know, a couple of stains. And, like I said, it has wool fibres mixed in or, not exactly mixed in, more like caught.’
‘I see. Well, the thing is, Camille. May I call you Camille?’
You can call me Tinker-bloody-bell if it’ll help you get to the point!
‘Please,’ she said.
‘So, Camille. There’s still a few of us making flax rope, so the question is, how are we going to identify which firm made it?’
‘Yeah. I’m hoping you’re going to be able to help me with that.’
‘What colour?’
‘Kind of off-white? Creamy, maybe?’
‘Not the rope, the fibres!’
‘Black and gold.’
‘Aha! Now, you see, they’ve probably come from the sally.’
‘Sorry, Arthur. The sally? What’s that?’
‘It’s the fluffy tail at the end of the rope. Folk think it’s the bit you pull, but it’s not. It’s more what you might call, ornamental. Now, we do ten colours. And two of them are black and gold.’
Cam’s spirits, which had been dipping and swooping like summer swallows, rose in anticipation.
‘So does that mean you supplied it?’
Sherborne laughed.
‘Not so fast. You see, we all use the same ten colours. It’s by way of being traditional.’
‘Oh. OK. So, what, you’re telling me it could be anyone?’
‘Happen it could, happen it couldn’t. But that’s a rare colour combination. Most folk prefer to stay with the traditional red, white and blue.’
‘Do you keep records of what colour sally people buy with their ropes?’
‘Yes.’
Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘OK, look, if I came up to see you, do you think you could let have a look on your computer at your sales records?’
And please don’t ask if I need a warrant. Be one of
the helpful ones.
‘Oh, aye. You can go through our records, but tha’ll not find them on a computer. I’m afraid we’re a bit behind the times on the sales side. It’s all on paper. But, like I said, you’re welcome to come up and look.’
Knowing in her detective’s soul what the answer to her next question would be, Cam asked it anyway.
‘I don’t suppose you have CCTV, do you?’
‘You’d be thinking us Yorkshire folk with our old-fashioned paper systems wouldn’t have it, right?’
She thought she could hear the gentle sound of Arthur’s mockery under his words.
‘No! Nothing like that. But I—’
‘Yes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Yes, we have CCTV. Got a problem with thieving up here. Folk say it’s the pikies, but who cares who does it?’
Spirits truly on the wing again after Arthur’s cheerful admission that any search for the killer’s order would mean hours sifting through paper invoices or receipts, Cam asked one final question.
‘How long do you keep your footage before reusing the tapes?’
‘Oh, a month or two? It’s my son, David, who handles all that. Tell me, who else have you got on your list?’
Cam consulted her notes.
‘Burslem Street Ropeworks in Whitechapel, the Grantham Bell Foundry, and Strutt and Nightingale.’
‘Aye, that’s all of us. Searcy & Able went bust turn of the year.’
Feeling that she’d got all she needed, Cam ended the call with a promise to visit within forty-eight hours.
She called the other three suppliers, all of whom confirmed that they supplied black and gold sallies when required and that she was welcome to inspect their order books, which, thankfully, were computerised.
Ending the final call she looked at her notebook and sighed.
Baz called over.
‘Any joy?’
‘Four suppliers of flax bell rope in the UK. All possibles. Halifax, Grantham, Cambridge and Whitechapel.’
Baz rolled his eyes.
‘Someone’s got a road trip coming up.’