by Tim Ellis
‘Where’s Dixie?’
‘Still in bed.’
‘Is the Prozac working?’
‘Seems to be, but it’s early days yet.’
‘Is she getting up as well?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Wake her up, will you? I have another case for you to look into.’
‘We’re running out of walls.’
‘Hardly. Are you okay doing what you’re doing?’
‘I know my soul belongs to you since you caught me illegally tracking you Mister Dark, but this is just fine. I’ve got Dixie, who you know I think is as hot as mustard, and I’m doing the things I like doing. So yes, I’m okay doing what I’m doing.’
‘Good.’
Hendrik disappeared into the bedroom.
He went through into the kitchen and put the coffee percolator on. It was a significant improvement on what he’d experienced when he’d first come to the apartment. Then, the kitchen had resembled a bomb site. Now, it was clean, tidy and might very well have passed a hygiene inspection by the local authority. He guessed it was more to do with Hendrik than Dixie. No one would be stupid enough to suggest that Dixie had any home-making skills.
As he was waiting for the coffee to begin percolating, he went back into the living room and stood in front of the old people’s wall. He turned slightly to the left, so that he wasn’t tempted to look at the photographs of a half-naked Ellie frequenting bars.
The last time Dixie had shown him the old people’s wall there wasn’t much information on it. Now, there was quite a bit more. Hendrik had obviously hacked into the bank accounts belonging to the victims and discovered the amount of money withdrawn from each account days before their death:
Olga Bloch – £700,00
Colin Baskerville – £140,000
Christine Feltham – £302,000
Bernice Church – £98,000
Audrey Tomlinson – £506,000
Vera Rees – £670,000
William Porter – £403,000
Dixie had totalled the amounts up and arrived at: £2,819,000. He shook his head in disbelief. It was definitely a lot of money, and obviously what someone considered an amount worth killing seven people for.
Also, the area where each person had lived, and where they’d been buried and/or cremated was identified:
Olga Bloch
(Buxton) Middlewich Cemetery, Chester Road
Colin Baskerville
(Macclesfield) Macclesfield Cemetery, Prestbury Road
Christine Feltham
(Knutsford) Leek Cemetery, Condlyffe Road
Bernice Church
(Congleton) Cremated
Audrey Tomlinson
(Congleton) Macclesfield Cemetery, Prestbury Road
Vera Rees
(Buxton) Middlewitch Cemetery, Chester Road
William Porter
(Knutsford) Cremated
‘We’re getting there, Mister Dark,’ Hendrik said as he came back into the living room wearing a Led Zeppelin reunion t-shirt, light grey jogging bottoms and a pair of slippers that looked as though they’d been chewed by a pack of hyenas. ‘Dixie is in the bathroom making herself look human. She’ll be out in a minute.’
Dark tapped the wall. ‘So, you’ve identified the amount of money that was taken from each person’s account before they died?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where they’ve been buried or cremated?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘How do you plan to prove they were murdered?’
‘No comment.’
Dixie came into the living room in a low-cut V-neck flowered knee-length nightdress underneath a man’s dressing gown, which was hanging open, looking like she’d just returned from a fortnight at the health spa. ‘Don’t tell him anything, Hendrik. He’d sell us to the lowest bidder as soon as look at us.’
‘How come you know so much about me?’
‘All men are double-crossing, backstabbing, snake-in-the-grass bastards.’
He half-smiled. ‘You look a million percent better than the last time I saw you.’
‘I feel it. I actually slept the whole night through last night. I feel good, and I’m not just saying that.’
‘She feels good, Mister Dark. I can vouch for that.’
‘You’re a pervert, Hendrik Larsson.’
Dark interrupted. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’
She sniffed. ‘Can I smell coffee?’
His face crinkled up. ‘I put the percolator on, but let Hendrik make it. All you’ll do is turn it into mud.’
‘Some people like my mud.’
‘I’m not one of them.’
Hendrik said, ‘I’ll get the coffees, shall I?’
He turned back to the wall. ‘You’re not planning to dig the bodies up, are you?’ But he already knew the answer to the question. The only way they could get to the truth was to dig up those who had already been buried, turn them over and examine the back of their necks for a puncture wound.
‘Hendrik knows some people.’
‘We all know some people, but digging up corpses . . . It’s illegal, you know?’
‘I’m open to other suggestions.’
He didn’t have any.
‘I thought not. So, we have to dig them up to get to the truth.’
‘And then what? You can’t print the story and tell people you exhumed corpses without permission, and you can’t go to the police unless you want to be arrested and end up in prison.’
‘We’re not doing anything yet. Finding out that these old people were murdered isn’t the end of the story. Next, we have to identify who took their money and then killed them.’
‘You’ll need proof, and I can’t see how you’ll get that. Even if you find the money in the killer’s bank account, it won’t mean that he murdered them. You’ll have no evidence, other than the money, linking him to the murders.’
‘I’m not saying I have all the answers.’
‘That’s good, because you don’t.’
‘But I have more answers than the police do.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. But you had to uncover the crimes. As far as the police are concerned, no crimes have been committed.’
‘Except for Olga Bloch being murdered, and the undertakers had to find that out for them.’
‘The police haven’t got the time, manpower or resources to search for hidden crimes, we’re far too busy dealing with the crimes that are reported to us day after day.’
‘My point exactly.’
‘What is?’
‘The police are useless.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Present company excluded?’
‘If you want.’
Hendrik appeared with three mugs of coffee, handed them out and then sat in an easy chair blowing on the steaming liquid.
‘I thought you were following the money, Hendrik?’ Dark asked.
‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. Whoever did it, knew what they were doing, although online fraud is not really the secret it once was. The killer obtained the person’s online banking details, created new dummy accounts, transferred the money to the dummy accounts, and then moved it offshore where it became untraceable.’
‘I thought numbered accounts were illegal now?’
‘There are ways and means, Mister Dark.’
‘So, the money trail is a dead end?’
Hendrik shrugged. ‘So far, but I’m still looking.’
Dixie said, ‘So, what’s this new case you’ve got for us?’
‘A six-year-old girl was snatched three years ago from the seafront in Blackpool.’
‘Paedophiles?’
‘That’s my guess.’
‘I hate paedophiles.’
‘I know.’
She slurped her coffee. ‘Why aren’t you investigating it?’
‘Because the case belongs to another detective in Lancashire, which is a different police force. My boss has warned me off.’
‘Aren’t the police the police?’
‘That’s what I said, but apparently not. There are rules, and the rules state that I can’t investigate it.’
‘So, you want us to look into it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay.’
He passed Hendrik the memory stick. ‘Everything about the case is on there.’ He glanced up at the wall containing the photographs of Ellie. ‘Which brings us to Commander Anthony Baker . . . Any progress?’
Hendrik nodded. ‘You remember I said I knew someone who might be able to enhance the photographs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he identified the location of two of the bars.’
‘Okay.’
‘Did you look in your pocket notebook?’ Dixie asked.
He thrust his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, withdrew the notebook and held it up. ‘I have it here.’
Dixie held out her hand.
His lip curled up. ‘I don’t think so.’ He glanced up at the wall. ‘May, 2004 – Park Regis Hotel in Birmingham.’
Hendrik nodded. ‘That’s right.’
Dark flipped through his notebook. It was meant to be solely for police work, but at the bottom of some of the pages he’d also used it to record when Ellie had been working away from home for the catering company. At the bottom of May 12, 2004 he’d abbreviated E=Birm/ON. ‘On Saturday, May 12, 2004 she was working in Birmingham and stayed there overnight.’
Dixie pointed at the photograph with Ellie in a blue dress. ‘What about this one? In November, 2003 she was in the bar of the Park Plaza Hotel in Nottingham.’
‘You didn’t mention November, 2003.’
‘It would be a lot simpler if you just gave us all your notebooks?’
He grunted. ‘I could be shot a dawn as a traitor if I did that.’
Hendrik said, ‘We only have three photographs, Mister Dark.’
‘Meaning?’
‘There could be a lot more.’
His brow furrowed. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘I only found three photographs on the Hendon server, but there might very well have been more in the files that were moved behind the firewall.’
‘So,’ Dixie said. ‘We were thinking that, if we knew when Ellie was away and where, we might be able to find out more about what she was doing.’
‘I’ll go through my notebooks tonight, make a list and email you.’
‘Or, you could do that, I suppose.’
He stood up, moved to the wall and examined the photographs again. ‘Any idea on a time in any of these photographs, Hendrik?’
‘It took a while for us to work out the time on a mirror-image of a clock face in the photograph of Ellie wearing the black dress . . .’ He came up to the wall and pointed to a smudge at the top of the photograph. ‘That’s a clock. We eventually figured the time out. It’s nine-forty-five in the evening.’
What was she doing in a hotel bar dressed like a prostitute with a man who looked three times her age, when she was meant to be working as a waitress for the catering company? There was only one thought in his head, and he couldn’t move beyond it.
‘Do you remember the name of the catering company she used to work for?’ Dixie said.
‘Riverbank Catering. They have a website.’
Hendrik wrote the name on the wall. ‘I’ll take a look.’
He checked his watch – it was seven-fifteen. ‘Well, it’s been great, but I have to go,’ he said, and headed for the front door. He had to brief Henn first, and then tell the press how things were moving along. He hated press briefings. It should have been enough that he was scrutinised by Henn, but like all coppers now, his behaviour was regulated by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. If it wasn’t detailed in there – he couldn’t do it. He was also overseen by the Independent Police Complaints Commission, the Police Complaints Authority, an internal Complaints and Discipline Team, a Case Review Board, the Crime Commissioner . . . He didn’t know the names of all the witch-hunters, but he could easily become paranoid. And to add to the long list, the press wanted to know every aspect of the crime and the investigation, so they could second-guess the Senior Investigative Officer by carrying out their own investigation, trial, conviction and execution through the media. He made it a point to tell them as little as possible.
‘There’s one other thing, Mister Dark,’ Hendrik said.
‘Oh?’
Dixie moved between him and Hendrik. ‘And don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘Why not?’
He remembered the half-naked stick insect walking about his house when he’d let her stay temporarily over Christmas while she’d been waiting for the gas company to arrive and turn the supply back on, but looking at her now he thought she’d put on a bit of weight since then. And, instead of resembling flat pancakes, her breasts were more like ripe melons. ‘Have you had cosmetic surgery?’
She closed the top of her dressing gown. ‘Will you stop looking at my breasts?’
‘We’ve lost Baker and Ellie,’ Hendrik said.
‘Lost them! What do you mean, “lost them”?’
‘They’re not living at 17 Underbarrow Road anymore.’
His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Where are they living now then?’
‘We don’t know.’
He pulled a face. ‘How did that happen?’
‘Well, you never said we should keep them under surveillance . . .’
‘I thought that would have been obvious?’
Dixie interrupted. ‘Obviously not.’
‘Last night, I thought I’d run a check on them, which is when I found that they’d gone.’
‘What’s the chance of finding them again?’
Hendrik shrugged. ‘I’ll try, but Baker is used to disappearing.’
‘You don’t think he knew we were onto him, do you?’
‘I don’t see how he could. There must have been some other reason why he left and took Ellie and your children with him.’
‘Okay. Thanks for letting me know.’ He made his way out. ‘I’ll see you later, or in the morning.’
Where had Baker, Ellie and the children gone? Why had they left the cottage on Underbarrow Road? He should have confronted them when he’d driven up there, instead of skulking away with his tail between his legs. Now, he could have lost any chance he had of finding out what had been going on.
***
Henn was waiting for him with the office door open. Didn’t he have any other work to do?
‘You’re late, Dark.’
As he sat down, he glanced at Henn’s clock hanging on the wall. The clock face had Roman numerals, Inspector John Henn’s name and the Essex Police Force badge on it. There was also an engraved brass plaque stuck to the wooden outer rim, but he was too far away to read the message. He imagined that the clock had been given to Henn as a present from grateful staff at a previous posting as a “thank you” for leaving. He verified the time with his own watch – yes, he was seven minutes late.
‘Traffic was heavier than expected.’ What did the idiot expect in Manchester? Not only was he not going to say “Sir”, but he wasn’t going to apologise either.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘I could say a lot more, but it wouldn’t change the fact that traffic was heavier than expected.’
‘You should have set off earlier.’
‘How much earlier?’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘Nor me. That’s why I was late.’
‘Well, in future, try and get here on time.’
‘I try to do that every morning, but this morning . . .’
‘Yes . . . Traffic was heavier than expected.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Now that you are here, you’d better tell me what’s been going on.’
‘With the case?’
‘Of course. You’ve stopped meddling in Blackpool’s Alicia Glover case, haven’t you?’
‘As previously stat
ed.’
‘Good. Well then, the Marple Bridge case is all we have left to talk about, isn’t it? You’re not meddling in anybody else’s cases that I don’t know about, are you?’
‘I’d be an idiot to do that, wouldn’t I?’
‘You certainly would.’
‘I’ll talk about the only case I’m dealing with then. We’ve made significant progress with that particular case by discovering the victim’s name. He’s called Toby Flagg, and he’s from New Mills. He used to live in Marple, went to school there, but the family moved away about fifteen years ago because the father died. We know that he went to meet some people at Rose Hill train station late on Monday afternoon, and now we’re trying to trace his movements between then and his death. Professor Finn carried out the post-mortem yesterday afternoon, and we discovered that Flagg had been drugged, and that the stake hammered into his heart had the number 794 carved into it . . .’ He showed Henn the enlarged photograph that the professor had sent him.
‘Any idea what it refers to?’
‘No.’
‘The seven looks a bit crooked.’
‘I thought the same, but maybe that’s simply because it was hand-carved.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘That sometimes happens. Also, forensics found the victim’s jacket some distance away from the body, so we’re having that checked for DNA.’
‘I’ve arranged the press briefing for nine o’clock. What do you plan to tell them?’
He looked at the clock again – it was six minutes to nine. ‘As little as possible.’
‘Probably wise. You’re not going to mention the stake, are you?’
‘No. If I do, the headlines will write themselves.’
‘Yes. The last thing we need is any talk of vampires.’
He stood up. ‘Are you joining me?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll be here if you need me, but if the worst comes to the worst, I need to be able to distance myself from any possible fallout . . . You understand, Dark?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Oh, and our next briefing won’t be until Monday morning now. I’m away this weekend at The Future of Policing Summit and Exhibition being held in Brighton, so if you need a senior officer during my absence you should contact Chief Superintendent Louise Isherwood.’
