by Ellis, Tim
‘We have a date. While you’re on the phone, I was thinking about the messages on the cards. Why did the killer send them? What were they for? What if they’re more than simple messages? The original task force merely accepted what was written on them at face value, but what if he communicated something else? What if there’s a hidden message that was missed?’
‘And you want me to find someone to take a look at them?’
‘I knew you’d understand?’
‘Oh, I understand all right.’
‘Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning . . . and thanks, Di.’
‘Huh!’
Next, he went into CrimInt – his query relating to similar murders in England and Wales had produced no results. He wasn’t surprised.
His eyes drifted to Tom Elder’s box, but as Di had said, “It was late”. Richards’ pleading voice had gone. He glanced at the wall clock. It was five thirty. He could have taken the box home, but he had always made it a rule not to take work home if it could be avoided. He needed to go to the hospital to pick up the PM reports from Sandy Paine and then sit with Jerry for a while.
The doctors were planning to start the gradual withdrawal of the barbiturates tomorrow – would it work? Would Jerry find her way out of the darkness? Would she come back to him? He could only hope and pray – not that he was religious by any stretch of the imagination, but just in case there was a God – it wouldn’t do any harm. If he thought it would help, he’d dance naked under a full moon with a peacock’s feather up his arse. He smiled – he’d have to tell Jerry that one.
Chapter Fifteen
Scylla finally got rid of Honey. The woman was as crazy as a bag of frogs. She’d have to do something about her, but what? Insults seem to bounce off her like rubber balls.
When she opened up her laptop she found that it was unusually sluggish after an hour of hibernation, and noticed a new email in her inbox – from Xena:
Scylla,
Banister has another piece of damning evidence: Gilbert was caught speeding on Sandford Road outside HMP Chelmsford ten minutes before the murders;
Also, did you know that Gilbert had been in Special Ops at the Met between 2009 – 2012?
He won’t say anything about anything, because he signed the Official Secrets Act;
He has some crazy old-fashioned notion of loyalty and honour even though I’ve said that he could spend the rest of his natural behind bars;
I have somebody looking into Pine’s criminal connections, and am reliably informed that they didn’t commit the murders. They also don’t think Gilbert did either;
Someone else must be involved! Could it be that man and woman at the airport?
Also, Isolde Koll has been located in Bulgaria, and we’re trying to get her back.
Xena
She thought about the email for a long time. Gilbert was swilling down the plughole. The only one who could reach in and stop him disappearing round the u-bend was Scylla the Saviour. Should she? Was Gilbert worth it? Was he one of the good ones as Xena had said? Were there any good coppers? Maybe there were. Kowalski seemed to be okay. He had kept his word when she’d needed help. And anyway, she was working for Charlie Baxter. But still, she had her values. If Gilbert had murdered four people – she’d let him drown in a shithole of his own making, but it looked as though he didn’t kill them. If he didn’t, who did? She liked nothing better than to solve juicy mysteries. If she proved Gilbert was innocent in the process – well, so much the better. Charlie Baxter would pay her. She crossed Isolde Koll, Ezra Pine and the others off her list. Why the hell would anyone go to Bulgaria?
The first place she visited was Chelmsford City Council, found the fixed penalty notices in Environment & Planning and soon located the photograph from Camera 769 depicting Gilbert driving at thirty-three miles per hour in a thirty mile-an-hour zone along Sandford Road at 10:49 a.m. on Sunday, May 22. She printed the picture off. They should bring back hanging. Not for Gilbert, but for the whole city council – 769 cameras! She deleted every last photograph and fixed penalty notice they had on the system – fucking bastards.
Next, she hacked into the Council’s CCTV system. Why was Gilbert on Sandford Road outside HMP Chelmsford ten minutes before the four victims were released? It didn’t take a massive leap of faith to believe that he was the murderer – why else would he be there?
Something occurred to her. She picked up the photograph. It was really grainy, but that wasn’t the problem. Gilbert was in his own car – a red Mazda 6. From what Charlie Baxter had said, witnesses saw a black Mercedes driving away after the crime scene. If that was the case, how had Gilbert switched cars in such a short space of time?
When she examined the layout of HMP Chelmsford she found that the entrance and car park for visitors was actually off Springfield Road. Sandford Road ran along the left-hand side of the prison and emptied onto the A138 – Chelmer Road.
She scratched her head.
It didn’t make sense.
She hunted down a map of the public CCTV system in Chelmsford, identified the cameras that might provide her with the information she needed, and then searched for the files on the Council’s server. She was able to track Gilbert along Sandford Road, but when he turned left into St Margaret’s Road at 10:57 – away from the prison – she lost him.
There was no way he could have switched cars, driven back to Springfield Road and committed the murders – he simply didn’t have the time. She moved the footage forward, watched him turn right out of St Margaret’s Road at 11:36 and drive back up Sandford Road.
What was he doing in St Margaret’s Road for forty minutes? And why would he say he was at the police station in Hoddesdon instead of where he actually was? Why didn’t he want people to know about St Margaret’s Road? More questions with no answers. How could she find out the answers if Gilbert wouldn’t speak about it? Maybe she’d have to take a trip down there.
What was she going to do about Gilbert being in Special Ops? Xena had obviously dropped it into her email in the hope that she’d take a peek at Gilbert’s record. She was wary now though, wary about dipping into government servers – especially anything to do with secret departments. If everything was above board, why would operatives have to sign the Official Secrets Act? Also, if it was government agents setting Gilbert up, she wouldn’t stand a chance if they caught her poking her nose into things that were meant to be secret. The trouble was – that was what she was getting paid for – to find out what no one else could find out.
Before she put her life in danger, there were a few other things she needed to check out first. She traced the Glock-19 serial number and uncovered the circumstances of the three murders connected to the gun:
Peter Roe, who was twice cleared of murder in the courts, was shot in the chest as he returned home to Low Cross Court in East London on March 23, 2009;
Mathew Vagg, a businessman in the west end, was found outside his home with a bullet in the head on August 14, 2010 – he died two days later without regaining consciousness;
Joanna Solomon, a mother of three young children, was found under a railway bridge in Hackney with horrific head injuries and a bullet in her neck on February 12, 2012. The Glock-19 was discovered in undergrowth nearby wiped clean of prints and DNA.
She also discovered that the gun had been destroyed at the now defunct McCauley Furnace in Bromley, Kent on June 15, 2012. Before that, it had been locked up in the evidence store at Hackney Police Station.
Her head was hurting.
What was Gilbert doing with a gun that had killed three people and then been destroyed? Someone at McCauley Furnace or Hackney Police Station wasn’t playing by the rules. The gun had obviously been saved from destruction and re-directed to – where? Gilbert had left Special Ops three months previously, so how had the gun ended up in his possession?
She made herself a coffee and stared out of the kitchen window at the back garden. She’d have to get a man in to look after her undergrowth.
The passports and the money were clearly part of the “special operations” package. Was the Glock-19 as well? Why hadn’t Gilbert handed them back when he’d left Special Ops? Her eyes opened wide. Christ! Did he really leave? Or, was he still swilling about up to his neck in shit?
She wrote Xena an email:
Hey sleeping partner,
Got your email.
Tracked Gilbert along Sandford Road. He was driving his own car and turned left into St Margaret’s Road, but there’s no CCTV up there, so I don’t know where he went. He came back out forty minutes later. The upshot of this is that: 1) He didn’t kill those four coppers; 2) Why did he lie about where he was? 3) What was he doing in St Margaret’s Road for forty minutes?
Tomorrow, I’m going to take a look at what’s in St Margaret’s Road – he must have gone up there for a reason;
Gilbert didn’t have the Glock-19 during the time the three murders connected to the gun were committed. After the gun was found at the last murder scene, it was held as evidence in Hackney Police Station between Feb 12 and Jun 13 2012, when it was destroyed at McCauley Furnace in Bromley Kent. Yeah, that’s what I thought! Anyway, there’s a problem with the timeline. Let’s say that Special Ops acquired the gun in Jun 2012 – or shortly thereafter – Gilbert left three months previously. How did he get hold of the gun? I have three possibilities: 1) He bought it himself; 2) It was planted in his house; 3) or Special Ops gave it to him, because he never left!
Later alligator.
Scylla
***
‘I’m going off shift now,’ Staff Nurse James said from the doorway.
‘I’m interested in why you think I give a shit?’
‘When I come back on duty tomorrow morning, I don’t want to hear any reports about you swearing at the staff. It wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to be nice to people for a change.’
‘I should report you to the Chief Executive. People are innocent until proven guilty. You have absolutely no evidence that I swear at the staff, or that I’m unpleasant to people. In a court of law I’d be awarded substantial damages for your slanderous accusations.’
‘Nobody likes coming in here, you know.’
‘That’s because I don’t put up with any garbage. In fact, I’m doing your job. You should give me fifty percent of your salary for telling your staff what to do.’
James laughed. ‘Fifty percent of nothing is . . .’ She used her fingers to count. ‘Yes, I thought so – nothing.’
‘I bet you get paid more than me, and I’m indispensable to the smooth running of the country. You, on the other hand, are a waste of space, and a drain on the economy.’
‘Being underappreciated by patients, members of the public, immigrants, tourists and the government in power at the time is part of the job description. Nothing you can say bothers me, because you know what, Xena Blake?’
‘I can’t wait for you to tell me.’
‘You have difficulty saying, “Thank you”, and you’re afraid.’
‘Afraid? Have you been looking at the pictures in that primary school psychology book again? What have I got to be afraid of?’
‘Going home.’
‘Don’t think you can use that reverse psychology shit on me, bitch. I’m staying here until I’ve got my money’s worth. I’ve paid extortionate taxes all my life, now it’s time for some payback.’
‘You nearly died. We saved you. You’ve been dependent upon me and my staff to pull you through the nightmare of endometriosis. Well, we have. You’re alive and in good shape. Now it’s time to let go. It’ll be a bit scary at first, but you’re a grown-up – you can do it.’
‘You talk a right load of crap.’
‘Good night, Xena. And remember . . . no swearing at the staff.’
‘Fuck off.’
The scary thing was, the bitch was right – she was petrified of leaving the hospital, of going home and being on her own. Charlie Baxter would be there on the odd occasion, but most of the time she’d be alone.
What if . . . ? Jesus! No, she simply wasn’t ready to go home yet. They couldn’t force her to go. On Friday morning, after she’d had her breakfast, she’d barricade herself in the room and stage a sit-in. There were online petitions she could set in motion, placards she could organise, letters that needed to be written to her Member of Parliament, the Prime Minister, the Queen . . .
Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away angrily with the back of her hand as they careered down her face.
God, she hated women who cried.
***
Thursday, May 26
‘Yes?’ he said into the phone.
‘It’s Paul, Sir.’
‘Toadstone! Have you gone crazy? It’s . . .’ He glanced at the glowing digital clock in the dark. ‘. . . three in the morning.’
‘I know what the clue means.’
‘I didn’t expect you to stay up all night . . .’
‘No, I just woke up.’
‘And it came to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘There a place called Haystack Grove off the A10 on Cock Lane. It’s between Danemead Wood and Round Grove.’
‘That’s great, Toadstone. You’ve got your people out there already, have you?’
‘Well, no. I thought I’d call you first.’
‘Why?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Do you want me to get the party poppers out, send round the dancing girls and the Mexican band to congratulate you . . . ?’
‘That’s not . . .’
‘Or are you expecting me to organise search parties, get my wellies on, bring Digby the renowned sniffer dog . . . ?’
‘Now, you’re being . . .’
‘I could get dressed, leave Richards in charge of Jack and rush out there. What will I find in Haystack Grove, Toadstone? Nothing, that’s what. It’s pitch black and you haven’t even got your people out there with a brazier making stewed tea and sausage sarnies. My suggestion – take it or leave it – is that you ring the Duty Inspector, ask her to organise search parties and get your people out there ready for when they do find the body. Richards and I will meet you out there at about . . . let’s say eight-thirty – after we’ve had a good night’s sleep and a full English breakfast. Is there anything else you need my help with?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Goodnight, Toadstone.’
‘Goodnight, Sir.’
Digby squirmed up the bed and licked his face.
‘No, it’s not time to get up yet. Go back to sleep, boy.’ He turned over and began drifting off.
‘Was that for me?’
He tried to ignore her.
‘Sir?’
‘Who do you know that would ring you at three in the morning?’
‘I know lots of people.’
‘You don’t know anybody. Go back to bed, Richards.’
‘Did I hear you mention a place called “Haystack Grove”?’
‘Were you listening at the door?’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say. I happened to hear it as I walked along the landing.’
‘Through twelve inches of concrete?’
‘This house has some strange acoustic properties.’
‘Go back to bed, Richards.’
‘We should get out there.’
‘You go.’
‘On my own?’
‘I could accompany you, but I’d have to leave Digby in charge of Jack.’
‘All right, I’ll go on my own.’
‘You’ll enjoy standing in a dark spooky wood on your own.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s no one out there.’
‘Paul?’
‘No.’
‘Search teams?’
‘No.’
‘Forensics?’
‘No. Goodnight, Richards.’
‘Goodnight, Sir.’
***
‘You look terri
ble,’ Angie said.
‘That’s because Toadstone woke me up at three this morning, and then I was forced to have a long boring conversation with a strange woman wandering about the house in her onesie with Paddington Bear . . .’
‘Have you been listening at doors again, Mary Richards?’
Angie had just got home from her night shift, and they were sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast.
Richards eyes opened wide. ‘I don’t know how you can ask your own daughter such a terrible question.’
Parish helped himself to a slice of thinly buttered toast. ‘Yes. I’m beginning to wonder if she sleeps on the floor outside our bedroom door.’
‘I do not.’
‘Stop listening at doors, Mary Richards,’ Angie said. ‘One of these days you’re going to hear something that will get you into a lot of trouble.’
Richards pushed herself up from the table and stomped out of the kitchen to wait in the hallway. ‘I’ve never been so insulted.’
Angie smiled. ‘Yes, you have. There was the time . . .’
‘I don’t think we need to talk about that.’
‘And then there was . . .’
‘Or that.’
He kissed Angie on the lips. ‘See you later.’ To Richards he said, ‘Come on, Little Miss Earwig.’
