by Ellis, Tim
For an hour, he forced himself to scrawl his signature on requests, letters and authorisations; to skim-read inch-thick reports on crime statistics and predictions on the future of policing, government analyses and other non-essential information; to compare income and expenditure reports against a budget made a year ago by someone else, and move money from one place to another so that the overall figures didn’t make it appear as though he had no idea what he was doing . . .
Then, after depositing a two-foot pile of files and papers on Carrie’s desk . . .
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
. . . He went back into his office, shut the door and pulled the flag off the whiteboard like a sculptor revealing a half-finished bust of the Emperor Napoleon – a reward for all his hard work.
Yes, there were definitely tasks that needed his attention. He ran a search for Colin Huber – the van driver who had given sixteen year-old Kirsten McHugh a lift home on January 17, 1984 – and found that he’d died five years ago. Next, he created a database query in CrimInt, which was based on the killer’s modus operandi to find out if there had been any similar murders in England and Wales. The problem, of course, was that the Red Spider had stalked Essex a few years before the cataloguing of crimes, criminals and evidence on computer databases became the norm.
Once that was whirring away, he stuck a map to the wall and plotted the locations of the six murders with map pins. Apart from them all having occurred in the local area, there didn’t appear to be a pattern that wasn’t abstract in nature.
Next, he pulled out all the crime scene photographs and put them into six piles on his desk – there was a lot of them. He examined the photographs one after the other until his vision became blurred and he had to make himself a coffee. He didn’t find anything the previous team hadn’t already identified.
Then, he searched for and found the number for Rye House train station and dialled it.
‘Stationmaster George Whitton. How can I be of service?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station, and I’d like to know if you keep records going back to 1984?’
‘I see. Records of what?’
‘A woman’s body was found at Rye House train station on November 1, 1984. She was planning to catch the 18:47 to Bishop’s Stortford. I’d like to know which trains were sitting in the station around that time, the trains that preceded that time by an hour, and the railway staff who were on board those trains. Also . . .’
‘There’s more?’
‘. . . Another woman’s body was found at Cheshunt station in a first-class carriage on the 23:17 to Liverpool Street on October 24, 1985. I’d like the same information for that as well.’
‘Mmmm! Of course, it was British Rail in those days.’
‘What is it now?’
‘The official version is that it’s Greater Anglia.’
‘And the unofficial version?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Nobody seems to know who we are or what we’re doing anymore.’
‘Did British Rail keep those type of records?’
‘Oh yes – meticulously recorded and stored.’
‘Do you know what happened to them?’
‘Ah! Now I’m not the last word on this you understand, but the railways have been my life.’
‘Okay.’
‘There was a fire . . . In fact, a couple of fires. The records were moved, some were lost, some were destroyed in the floods of ’92, but . . . they’re not all gone. The trouble is, you’ll be lucky to find out now which member of staff was travelling on a particular train, on a specific date, in a given year. Before, when it was British Rail, they’d have told you within fifteen minutes. Now, nobody cares about history – it’s all about compensation, doing more for less, cutting corners, running Britain on the cheap.’
‘It’s much the same in the police force,’ he empathised.
‘Of course it is. We’re all in the same sinking ship rattling tambourines and singing Hallelujah.’
‘So where do they keep the records that were saved?’
‘Not all in one place – that’s where. First, you want to try the Railways Archive.’
‘Telephone number?’
‘You’re talking about the good old days when you could ring a number and talk to a real person who spoke English. I’ve got a website address. You have to fill in an online form and tell them what information you want.’
‘Are they quick?’
George Whitton laughed. ‘You would think that with all this technology you’d be able to get the answers back before you’d even asked the questions. No, they’re not quick. They endeavour to respond within twenty-four hours, but they don’t. I have this picture in my head of a bald-headed pot-bellied man sitting in a dimly-lit cellar with boxes full of files that he’s trying to transfer onto computer. I think it’ll take him at least a hundred years.’
‘I’m not feeling very optimistic about getting the information I need, George.’
‘I can understand that, but let’s not give up just yet. I have three other places you could try. The first is a government-controlled website – the National Archives. They have a complete catalogue of all the British Railways locomotive and rolling stock – you could find the train, and go in that way. Also, there’s RailUk – a UK rail history site that has a bit of everything, and the Railway Museum at York.’
‘Thanks very much for . . .’
‘Last, but by no means least, you could try Ernie Compton. What he doesn’t know about British Rail isn’t worth knowing.’
‘An enthusiast?’
‘An information mine. In fact, if I were you, I’d ring him first. He’ll want to meet with you, see the whites of your eyes and the colour of your money, but if you tell him what you’re after, for a couple of pints of “Old Horizontal” he’ll probably do the work for you. He likes nothing better than a stiff challenge.’
‘You’re a bit of an information mine yourself, George.’
‘We who are about to go down with the ship salute you.’
The line went dead.
***
Parish and Richards arrived back at the station and walked up the stairs to forensics with Jade Williams’ tablet computer.
‘It’s not a Public Holiday, is it?’ Richards whispered.
‘Why?’
‘It seems so quiet.’
‘That’s because there are no police officers here anymore.’
‘But this is a police station, and we’re police officers.’
‘Yes, but who do you think occupies the station when we’re not here?’
‘Aren’t there some police officers downstairs?’
‘Civilian support staff and special volunteer constables.’
‘There’s the Chief and Inspector Threadneedle.’
‘Senior officers – they don’t count.’
‘Where are all the police officers then?’
‘Ninety-nine percent of them are now on the front line.’
‘The “front line”? You make it sound like a battle.’
‘Stop being so naive, Richards. We’re fighting a war on a multitude of fronts. First, we have to get boots on the streets to maintain public confidence. The psychopaths and sociopaths would like nothing better than to see no coppers pounding the beat. And then we’re being stabbed in the back by the deficit reduction program, which has resulted in swathing cuts to the rank-and-file. There are ten thousand less officers in England and Wales this year than there were last year, and there’ll be even less next year. Morale has been decimated by a freeze to pay and increments, and an increase in pension contributions.’
‘But isn’t crime falling?’
‘Don’t be fooled by the statistics. The government manipulate the figures to make everything appear rosy in the garden.’
‘And it’s not?’
‘Far from it.’
‘What are we going to do, Sir?’
‘What can we do? It’s a good job they’re selling all the police stations, because there are no police officers to put in them.’
‘You’ve made me depressed.’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Richards. We have to grin a bear it with a stiff upper lip.’
Toadstone was in his lab staring into space.
‘I have never met a man so ignorant that I couldn’t learn something from him, Toadstone,’ Parish said.
The corner of Toadstone’s mouth went up. ‘Galileo Galilei (1564 – 1642).’
Richards laughed. ‘He’s brilliant, isn’t he, Sir?’
‘A lucky guess,’ Parish said, perching on a stool. ‘Well, give Mister Brilliant the tablet and tell him where you got it from.’
She handed it to him and described what had occurred at Nicola Mayell’s house.
‘A lucky break,’ Toadstone said, placing the tablet on the worktop. ‘It’s not often you get one of those.’
Parish stood up. ‘We’re going downstairs now to brief the Chief, and then Richards will be making me a coffee. When I’ve finished that coffee, I’m going to come back up here . . .’
‘And you’d like me to tell you who Squiggle is, where he lives and what type of car he drives?’
‘A mind-reader as well! Is there no end to your talents?’
Toadstone smiled. ‘I don’t see that being a problem.’
‘I thought so,’ Parish said, taking hold of Toadstone’s wrist and feeling for a pulse. ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you, isn’t there?’
‘As long as the people at PopTalk co-operate,’ Toadstone said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Sometimes, we need to get a court order to force their hand. They seem to think that client confidentiality applies to them.’
‘So, it’s just a matter of a phone call?’ Richards said.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it would be really difficult to . . .’
‘Stop wittering, Richards,’ Parish nudged her. ‘Also, you need to get hold of the Tesco Express CCTV footage from the night she went missing – we’ll take another look at that.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have you got anything . . . ?’
Toadstone’s face lit up. ‘Ah, I was waiting for you to ask me if I had anything from this morning.’
‘Well?’
‘Didn’t we do some haggling earlier, and didn’t you beat me down to giving you everything I had tomorrow morning.’
‘You of all people should know that haggling isn’t an exact science. Maybe I was too easy on you. Maybe I should have given you until the end of the day.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? So, my officers have been working towards the morning.’
‘Is that your last word?’
‘I’m afraid so, Inspector.’
Parish eyeballed him for what seemed like an age until Richards said, ‘Come on, Sir. He’s not going to break down under your scrutiny.’
He swivelled on his heel and followed her out. ‘There were other interrogative methods I could have used on him.’
‘Yes, but they’re all illegal.’
‘Sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire, Richards.’
***
He was just about to pick up the phone and call Ernie Compton when there was a knock at the door.
Before he could tell whoever it was that he was unavailable, Parish and Richards burst in. He should have locked it – with deadbolts, installed eyeball recognition scanners, password access and a whole host of other measures to keep the riff-raff out.
‘What have you got here, Sir?’ Richards said, as she made a beeline towards the whiteboard.
‘Stop looking at my whiteboard, Richards.’
‘But, Sir . . . Who’s the Red Spider?’
He hurriedly picked up the station flag and threw it over the whiteboard like a magician protecting the moving parts of his illusion. ‘It’s not your case, Richards. It’s my case.’
‘Case?’ She turned to look at Parish. ‘Did you know that DCI Kowalski had a case, Sir?’
‘News to me, Richards,’ Parish said, sitting down in an easy chair
She turned back to Kowalski. ‘We came in here to brief you, but maybe you should be briefing us, Sir.’
‘Absolutely not.’ He stood in front of the board like a beefeater guarding the crown jewels. ‘You’ll want to take it off me, and it’s mine.’
Parish grinned. ‘You sound like Gollum, Ray.’
‘I feel like him.’
‘And you look like him.’ Richards added, peering in the discoloured and battered boxes. ‘You have old cardboard evidence boxes from the Rye storage warehouse.’
‘Leave my boxes alone, Richards.’
‘Your boxes?’
‘Yes – my boxes. They’re in my office, which makes them my boxes.’
‘It must be a cold case.’ She picked up a file from out of one of the boxes. ‘Mmmm, 1985.’
‘You’d better tell her what it’s all about, Ray,’ Parish said. ‘You know what she’s like.’
‘Sit down, Richards.’
‘You’ll tell us?’
‘I’ll tell you, but you have to remember that it’s my case, not your case. You have your own case, so this is my case.’
‘The Red Spider . . . he sounds very interesting, Sir.’
He told them what had happened all those years ago, and what he’d received in the post earlier.
‘I can help you.’
‘I don’t need any help, and you have your own case.’
‘Only during the day. At night I could be yours, Sir.’
‘It’s a tempting offer Richards, but it’s therapy. I know I’m the Chief now, but once upon a time – long before you were born – I used to be a detective . . .’
‘I love fairy stories. Does it have a happy ending?’
‘It’s something I have to do myself, Richards.’
‘Okay, but you’ll let us know . . . ?’
‘Of course. So, what’s going on with you two?’
Her eyes opened wide.
Parish nodded. ‘Go on, you can brief the Chief today.’
‘You’ll never believe what we discovered . . .’ She told him about Nicola Mayell having Jade Williams’ computer tablet, about the chat site PopTalk and about her arranging to meet Squiggle on that night at the Tesco Express.
‘You should be able to trace this Squiggle, shouldn’t you?’
‘We’ve given the tablet to Paul . . .’
‘Paul? I hope you’re not using unofficial . . .’
‘Paul Toadstone.’
‘Oh, you mean Toady.’
‘That’s not very nice, Sir.’
‘What do you mean? He likes me to call him that. It’s a term of affection.’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Get on with it, Richards,’ Parish intervened. ‘Toady’s a good name for him, especially after the way you’ve ripped his heart out and trampled all over it.’
‘I never did that.’
Parish grunted. ‘Let me count the ways. In my book Toadstone’s a hero. I don’t know how he drags himself out of bed in the mornings after the way you’ve treated him.’
‘I know you’re just teasing me.’
‘I wish I was, Richards. Unrequited love is like death by a thousand cuts.’
‘Is that a quote? Paul would know where it came from.’
‘I just said it.’
‘So, you’ve nearly solved the Jade Williams’ murder?’ Kowalski brought them back to the present.
Richards stood up and sidled over to the whiteboard. ‘Which would make us free to help you with the Red Spider case.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t need or want any help.’
Parish shivered. ‘I hate spiders.’
‘It’s interesting that two of the murders occurred at train stations. Have you . . . ?’
Kowalski pinned Richards’ arms to her sides and frog-marched her to the door. ‘Goodbye Rich
ards,’ he said, pushing her out into the corridor.
‘And you might also ask yourself why there was so long between the murders?’ Richards said in parting.
Parish pushed the door to and said, ‘We’ve got the post mortem tomorrow morning at ten. While we’re there we’ll pop in and give Jerry some words of encouragement.’
‘Thanks, Jed.’
‘And I’ll try and keep Richards away from your case.’
He pulled a face. ‘That’ll be like trying to hold back the coming apocalypse with a sieve. She’ll be on the internet tonight finding out everything she can about the Red Spider. Tomorrow, she’ll slip a piece of paper under my door with the killer’s name and address on it.’
Parish grinned. ‘She’s not that bad . . . or good. I’ll take extreme measures. I have a strange feeling that the broadband won’t be working tonight.’
‘Good idea.’
‘See you tomorrow, Ray.’
‘Yeah.’
He shut the door after them, sat down, picked up the phone and dialled Ernie Compton’s number.
‘Aye?’
‘Ernie Compton?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’m DCI Ray Kowalski from . . .’
‘Meet me in the Alf’s Head at twelve-thirty tomorrow, and bring your wallet with you.’
‘George Whitton rang you?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll see you at twelve-thirty then.’
‘Aye.’
***
‘Try not to become a man of success but rather to become a man of value, Toadstone.’
‘Albert Einstein.’
‘How does he know them all, Sir?’
‘That’s a good question, Richards. It’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, but perhaps there is a key.’
‘Winston Churchill, October 1939.’
‘That key is Toadstone himself. I think he’s an automaton.’
‘Like a robot.’
‘The very same.’
‘With artificial intelligence.’
‘You’ve hit the raggedy doll on the head, Richards. He plugs himself in each night and uploads the latest quotes. He’ll always be one power surge ahead of me.’
