by Tim Ellis
2002
September 17 – Bath
December 11 – Crawley
2003
March 15 – Worcester
August 4 – Darlington
November 29 – Park Plaza Hotel, Nottingham
2004
January 30 – Stafford
May 12 – Park Regis Hotel, Birmingham
October 13 – Norwich
2005
February 02 – Wrexham
June 22 – Rotherham
October 05 – Peterborough
December 22 – Chelmsford
2006
April 19 – Blackpool
May 27 – York
September 14 – Scarborough
He also found a trip to Carlisle in March 03, 2007, which was three months into her pregnancy with Cleo, who was born on September 7 of that year. That was sixteen in total. He hadn’t thought there’d be so many. The truth was, on most of the dates, he’d been working murder cases, so he hadn’t really missed her.
Was Hendrik right? Did Ellie pick up men in hotel bars wherever she went? He didn’t want to think such a thing, but what choice did he have? Was he simply another man she’d picked up in London in 2001? If he was, why had she stayed and married him? And why had she then continued to frequent bars?
He emailed the list to Dixie, lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Sleep was a long way off. First, he had to wrestle an army of demons.
Chapter Thirteen
He knocked. It was quarter to six. At best, he’d probably had two hours sleep.
Dixie opened the door in a pair of shorts and a tank top that left nothing to his imagination. Printed on the front of the tank top was:
DOES NOT
PLAY WELL
WITH
STUPID PEOPLE
He stepped inside. ‘Where’s Hendrik?’
‘I killed him.’
‘Oh?’
‘The pills made me do it, Officer.’
‘You’ve been reading up on the side effects of Prozac, haven’t you?’
‘Hendrik pointed them out to me. I feel much less like a crazy person now.’
‘Maybe you won’t have to take them forever.’
She pressed her index finger to her lips and rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Mmmm! Crazy with, or crazy without. I’m spoilt for choice.’
‘I haven’t got a lot of time.’
‘You’re so warm and caring.’
‘Has Hendrik made any coffee?’
‘I’ve made some.’
‘That’s what crazy people who can’t make coffee do. I’ll make my own, thanks.’ He headed into the kitchen. The coffee smelled unusually good.
‘Hendrik showed me how he makes it.’
He poured a small amount out of the jug into a mug and tried it. ‘Passable.’
‘Such high praise! I feel all warm and fuzzy.’
He filled the mug up. ‘Right, let’s get to it. As I said, I haven’t got a lot of time.’ He walked through into the living room, which was beginning to look more like a police incident room than somewhere people actually lived.
Hendrik appeared rubbing his wet hands together.
The noise of the toilet cistern filling up drifted along the hallway.
‘You know that Dixie made the coffee, don’t you, Mister Dark?’
‘It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.’
‘Don’t do me any favours,’ Dixie said.
He sat down on the sofa. ‘So, what have you got for me?’
Dixie moved to the old peoples’ wall. ‘I got your email with the list of dates Ellie was working for the catering company, by the way.’
‘Good. Any use?’
‘Should we get to that last?’ Hendrik said.
Dark grunted. ‘Saving the bad news until the end?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Okay.’
Dixie pointed to a series of photographs linked to the names of those she’d already identified as possible murder victims. ‘As you can see, Hendrik’s gravediggers dug up the five old people who hadn’t been cremated – including Olga Bloch to check the angle that the skewer had been pushed in – and took photographs of the back of their heads to prove my theory.’
For each victim, there were two photographs stuck on the wall: One showing a small circular entry wound at the base of the skull beneath the hair, and another one sideways-on with a barbecue skewer pushed into the corpse’s brain to a depth of approximately five inches and at a forty-five degree angle. Each photograph also included a section from a yellow tape measure to put the pictures into context.
‘My theory is supported by the evidence,’ Dixie said. ‘They were all murdered.’
‘I hope all the bodies were re-buried?’ he said.
Henrik nodded. ‘I instructed them to leave everything as they found it.’
‘Okay, so you have seven murders. Now what?’
Dixie stepped to one side to reveal another obituary. ‘I haven’t told you about my new victim, have I?’
‘Your new victim?’
‘You know what I mean. Edward Singer has been dead for two weeks. He’s being buried on Monday morning, so Hendrik and I are going to the funeral directors tonight to pay our respects.’
‘By invitation?’
‘Yes. Hendrik’s invited me.’
‘You know what will happen if you get caught, don’t you?’
‘An MBE?’
‘I’m sure it’ll be something along those lines.’
‘I look forward to meeting the Queen.’
‘You’re piling up victims, but not getting any closer to the killer.’
Hendrik interrupted. ‘Ah! That’s where you’re wrong, Mister Dark. The money trail for this one is still fresh. Six hundred and fifty thousand pounds was transferred from Edward Singer’s account to six dummy accounts, and the money then moved to an account in the name of Rupert Smith at the Banca Municipală Chișinău, a Moldovan bank located in Monaco. The money is still sitting there, but it’ll be moved again soon, and when it is I’ll follow it.’
‘I take it Rupert Smith is . . .’
‘Not real,’ Hendrik finished for him. ‘I already checked.’
‘Also,’ Dixie said. ‘I’m going to visit Edward Singer’s address and talk to his neighbours. I don’t understand how the killer knew all these people had lots of money and no relatives to leave it to.’
He stared at Hendrik. ‘I suppose you’ve checked that they weren’t using the same bank?’
Hendrik nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Financial advisor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Share dealers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Solicitors?’
‘Yes. All of the above, Mister Dark. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing that links any of these people, apart from them being old, having lots of money and no one to leave it to.’
‘Were they all ill?’
‘No – three were, four weren’t.’
‘You be careful out there,’ he aimed at Dixie. ‘If the killer learns that you’ve been sniffing around, he might come after you.’
‘Let him try. I haven’t got any money.’
‘And you never will have if you’re dead.’
‘Don’t worry, Mister Dark,’ Hendrik said. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on her.’
‘Good. Right, what about Alicia Glover?’
Hendrik glanced at Dixie. ‘I’m afraid the police weren’t being completely honest with her parents.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They uncovered CCTV footage, which showed Alicia holding the hand of a man leading her away from the beach. The two were recorded walking along Bonny Street, which runs parallel to the promenade, and past Madame Tussauds.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘Nothing! What do you mean? Who was the man holding Alicia’s hand?’
‘No idea.’
‘Surely the police followed it up
?’
‘It doesn’t appear so. There’s no entry in the evidence record of any CCTV footage and nothing on the computer system. I found reference to the footage being discovered the day after the abduction in an early report written by a Constable Peter Tonge, but the report had been buried so deep on the system that I got the impression it wasn’t meant to be found.’
‘No idea what happened to the footage?’
‘None.’
‘We need to ask Constable Tonge what he did with it?’
Hendrik pulled a face. ‘Except that Constable Tonge committed suicide a month after Alicia Glover went missing. There was an article in the Blackpool Echo. The reporter – Neil Bowman – wrote that Tonge had left a suicide note stating that he couldn’t live with the guilt of not finding the missing girl.’
Dark shook his head. ‘And yet, he was the one who found what was probably the key piece of evidence in the case.’
‘Which then disappeared,’ Dixie reminded them.
‘I’m no expert,’ Hendrik said. ‘But suicide seems a bit far-fetched to me.’
Dixie grunted. ‘They murdered him to stop him telling anybody about the CCTV footage, didn’t they?’
‘It certainly seems that way,’ Dark agreed. ‘Do you know if he was married, Hendrik?’
‘No, he wasn’t married, but the article said he had a girlfriend called Milly Howell. That was over two-and-a-half years ago though.’
‘He might have told her something.’
Hendrik shrugged. ‘It’s a long shot, Mister Dark.’
‘A long shot is all we’ve got, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’d like a trip to Blackpool today, wouldn’t you, Dixie?’
‘It’s the middle of January.’
‘I hear Blackpool in the winter is a sight to behold.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
‘That’s settled then. In-between talking to Edward Singers’ neighbours and visiting the Funeral Directors to pay your respects, you can drive over to Blackpool and talk to Milly Howell, and if he’s still there – Neil Bowman from the Blackpool Echo. You’ll enjoy talking investigative journalism with another reporter. Think of it as part of your treatment for OCD. Oh, and bring me back a stick of rock.’
Dixie held out her hand. ‘Show me the shekels.’
He took out his wallet and passed her one of the new plastic five-pound notes.
She stared at it. ‘When were you last in Blackpool?’
‘Never.’
‘It shows.’
‘Well, what did the list I sent you reveal?’
Dixie shuffled over to the wall, which was meant to be an investigation into Commander Anthony Baker, but had somehow shifted focus into his and Ellie’s past. ‘Hendrik looked at the Riverbank Catering website and discovered that your wife was listed as an employee there with an employee number, a national insurance number, tax code, and so on . . .’
‘Well, that’s good news at least, isn’t it?’ he said.
Dixie pursed her lips. ‘Not really.’
‘Why not?’
She pointed to the list. ‘From the sixteen dates you provided us with, she was only working for Riverbank on five of them.’
2002
September 17 – Bath – working
December 11 – Crawley
2003
March 15 – Worcester
August 4 – Darlington – working
November 29 – Park Plaza Hotel, Nottingham
2004
January 30 – Stafford
May 12 – Park Regis Hotel, Birmingham
October 13 – Norwich – working
2005
February 02 – Wrexham
June 22 – Rotherham
October 05 – Peterborough – working
December 22 – Chelmsford
2006
April 19 – Blackpool
May 27 – York – working
September 14 – Scarborough
2007
March 03 – Carlisle
‘No – you’ve lost me. Five! If she wasn’t working for the catering company, what was she doing on the other eleven dates?’
Dixie glanced at the photographs of a half-dressed Ellie in the hotel bars. ‘I think we should stop mincing our words here. If you want to get angry and beat me up for telling it how it is – that’s okay, but it looks like Ellie was a prostitute.’
There! Someone had said it out loud.
‘I’m not going to beat anybody up,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. I keep looking for other explanations for why she might be in hotel bars picking up men, but I can’t seem to move past that obvious explanation even though I don’t believe she was a prostitute, so there must be another explanation, and you have to find it.’
Dixie made a noise with her lips. ‘Thanks a bunch.’
‘The Ellie I knew just wouldn’t do that.’
‘Maybe you didn’t know Ellie as well as you thought you did.’
‘I was married to her for fifteen years. In fact, I still am married to her.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. How many times have we heard that the wife, or in your case – the husband, was the last to know? People lead double lives that they keep hidden from friends. relatives and loved ones.’
‘I accept that, but look at all the different locations. Let’s for a second say she was a prostitute. Why didn’t she simply stick to Manchester, or some other local city like Liverpool? It makes no sense that she’d travel all around the country to pick up men.’
‘Maybe she worked for a high-class escort agency?’ Dixie suggested. ‘I mean, she was reasonably attractive – too good for you. So, she could have had bookings in those places.’
‘An interesting variation on the theme.’
‘I’ll look into it, Mister Dark,’ Hendrik said. ‘Was she on any medication? She could have had a split personality.’
‘No, no medication, and no split personality.’ He looked at the list on the wall. ‘Those dates are specific. Most of them were planned in advance. Someone with multiple personalities wouldn’t have been able to do that.’
‘Well, let’s look at the options,’ Dixie said. ‘We can cross off any medical condition, unless . . . Maybe she was a nymphomaniac?’
‘No, she wasn’t a nymphomaniac.’
‘Maybe she wasn’t getting enough from you?’
‘She got plenty from me.’
‘Maybe your plenty and her plenty were different measures?’
‘Ellie wasn’t a nymphomaniac – move on.’
‘It was just a thought. So, we can cross off nymphomania, but I’ll use a non-permanent marker pen, so we can come back to it if we have to . . .’
‘And prostitution,’ Dark said.
‘Okay, but if we do that what’s left?’
Hendrik shifted on his seat. ‘Maybe she was working undercover for the police? I mean, the photographs were found on the police server.’
Dixie shook her head. ‘You might be able to argue that if the photographs were of her in different locations, but they’re all in hotel bars, and she’s nearly dressed for bed in all three of them.’
Dark stood up. ‘I can’t do this, I’m too close to it. Keep exploring the other possibilities. I’m sure there’s something else going on. Have you found the two of them again, Hendrik?’
‘No. No sign of them yet, but I’ll obviously keep looking.’
‘A couple of other things I need you to do for me . . .’
‘We should start charging for our services,’ Dixie said.
‘Oh, you mean like I charged you to get you out of the financial mess you were in when we met; and how I charged you for staying at my house over Christmas; and then, of course, how I charged Hendrik for not putting him in prison for five years; and . . .’
‘It was only a joke.’
‘You can see how much I’m laughing.’
‘I won’t mention c
harging you again.’
‘Probably wise, especially when I’m tired. So, a suspect we were following last night made a call from a telephone box on Bridge Street in Buxton to Whitchurch Architectural Partnership on St Ann Street in Manchester – 0161 879 7065 – at approximately eight-thirty and spoke to someone on an internal extension. Can you find out whose extension that was?’
‘Give me a couple of minutes.’
‘Okay.’ He walked to Ellie’s wall and stared at the list. What the hell was she doing on all those dates when she’d told him she’d been working? His gaze shifted to the photograph of Ellie in the black dress, and he wondered who the man with his hand on her thigh was. He tapped the photograph. ‘Who’s this guy, Hendrik?’
‘No idea. Do you want me to look into it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will do.’
Dixie came and stood beside him. ‘Sorry.’
He put his arm around her waist and squeezed. ‘It’s not your fault. I haven’t had much sleep lately. You’re not the only one with OCD, you know.’
‘I could loan you some of my capsules?’
‘Do you think I’m crazy?’
‘Mister Dark?’ came from behind him.
He turned. ‘Yes, Hendrik?’
‘The call was put through to Extension 127, and according to their internal telephone list it belongs to a Robert Bryson.’
He wrote the details down in his notebook. ‘Thanks. One last thing – no rush. Can you find out what you can about a woman called Angela Vickers. She used to be a Detective Constable at Hazel Grove Police Station in 2002, but now she’s an Assistant Chief Constable with Derbyshire Constabulary based in Buxton. And yes, she was the one who called Whitchurch Architectural Partnership last night, so I’m particularly interested in any connection between her, Robert Bryson and Whitchurch – especially financial.’
‘Sure thing, Mister Dark. Dixie didn’t mean anything about charging you for our services, you know?’
‘I know. I have a short fuse at the moment.’
‘It’s understandable.’
As he made his way out he said over his shoulder, ‘Have a fabulous time in Blackpool.’
‘Yeah!’ he heard Dixie say. ‘Can’t wait.’
