by Ellis, Tim
He picked up the phone and dialled the Chief Constable’s PA.
‘Mrs Susan Keen – the Chief Constable’s Personal Assistant. How may I help you.’
‘Sue, it’s Kowalski from Hoddesdon. Is he there?’
‘Busy.’
‘I was told to say, “SPARTAN”.’
‘Just one moment, Detective Chief Inspector.’
He smiled. She was always so formal, as if she had a pointed stick up her arse.
‘Morning, Kowalski.’
‘Morning, Sir.’
‘News?’
‘I nearly didn’t phone you.’
‘Because?’
‘I’ve found two things.’
‘Go on.’
‘First, the Page 4s from all the PM reports were falsified and replaced between the pathologist handing the reports over, and them reaching the police station.’
‘Christ, Kowalski! Do you realise what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not saying anything, Sir. The reports speak for themselves.’
‘Page 4 is the samples taken for toxicological analysis and . . . ?’
‘The victim’s possessions handed over to the police.’
‘Of course.’
There was silence from the other end of the phone, but he didn’t break it.
‘And you thought it was me who had . . . ?’ the Chief Constable eventually said.
‘As I said, Sir, I don’t think anything yet. I was erring on the side of caution merely because you were a member of the task force. I didn’t want you to become embroiled in a cover-up.’
‘And yet, here you are calling me.’
‘I came to the conclusion that if you were the Red Spider or his accomplice, then I was finished anyway.’
‘Well, for your information, Kowalski. I wasn’t drafted onto the task force until after the second murder had occurred.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Sir. It means I can sleep peacefully in my bed tonight.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘A link to the train stations.’
‘There were two murders at train stations, and we checked all the staff at both those stations.’
‘But not the trains that were in the station at the time of each murder, which had already departed by the time you got there.’
‘Bloody hell! And you think . . . ? You’ll be lucky to find out which trains and who was on them now.’
‘I know a man. It’s costing me an arm and a leg in beer money, but I’m hoping he’ll have some answers.’
‘And that would only solve two . . .’
‘I think I’ve found what was deleted from the PM reports – four train tickets. I have a list of four numbers, which resemble those on the old thick-card train tickets. Tom Elder died eighteen months ago. I went to see his widow simply to tie off a loose end. He’d been investigating the murders in his garage. His wife still had everything he’d collected as part of that investigation. At the bottom of the box was the list of four numbers.’
‘Jesus, Ray. My stomach is doing cartwheels. I haven’t been this excited since . . . Well, you don’t need to know about that, but I think you might have solved the damned case.’
‘Let’s not get the bunting out just yet. I think there were two people involved. One of them was on the task force, and it could have been a copper. If it was, we need to decide what we’re going to do about that. Do we really want to open that can of worms?’
‘Now you’re talking about a cover-up.’
‘I’m talking about taking things one step at a time, Sir.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘Two people know about the possibility of a copper being involved – Di Heffernan from forensics, and Sandy Paine the pathologist from King George Hospital. Also, I’m going to see Andrew Pearson this afternoon, but most of the time he’s not playing with a full deck of cards.’
‘Sorry to hear that. You’ve seen him already?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Give him my regards. Okay, Ray. Keep me in the loop.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
He put the phone down and glanced at the wall clock. It was five past twelve – time for his lunch date with Ernie Compton.
***
They reached St Margaret’s Road in Chelmsford at twenty to twelve. Scylla had no idea how, because Honey was the worst driver in the world bar none. Road signs meant nothing to her, traffic lights were designed to be ignored and zebra crossings were simply lines on the road to make it look pretty.
‘How did you ever pass your test?’
‘It was in Peru. Gerald had a position at the consulate in Lima. They sent a man out to undertake the test. I was all ready to drive him into the jungle, but he fell sick and they had to fly him home as a medical emergency. Before he went though, Gerald persuaded him to provide me with a pass certificate, which he did and I sent off for my licence.’
‘You’re a terrible driver.’
‘I don’t really get much practice.’
‘You’re going to die a horribly mangled death unless you learn how to drive properly.’
‘Am I that bad?’
‘Worse.’
She brought up the electoral roll for St Margaret’s Road on her tablet.
Honey drove slowly along the road until they reached the dead end and parked up.
There were no houses on the left-hand side. Three-storey blocks of flats – eight of them one after the other – had been built on the right-hand side. Inside each block were twelve flats, which meant that there were ninety-six flats in total along the road. Thankfully, not all of the flats were occupied by couples or families. Many contained single or retired people. In the ninety-six flats along St Margaret’s Road there were a hundred and twenty-seven adult residents. She ran her finger down the list of residents, hoping a name would jump out at her.
‘What now?’ Honey asked.
Scylla climbed out of the car. ‘You go into the town and womble round the shops for an hour. Pick me up at the other end of the road at one o’clock.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay. See you then,’ she said, and drove off.
Scylla breathed a sigh of relief. Honey was fine in small doses – the smaller the better. She sat on a wall and continued running her finger down the list until she found what she was looking for.
She walked along the road to the sixth block from the other end. Each block had a name. The sixth block was called Joseph Strutt House. She pressed the buzzer for number seven. It was the only one without a name against the button.
‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice said.
‘I’m here on behalf of Mr Gilbert.’
The door clicked.
She pushed it open.
Inside, she walked up the stairs to the middle floor and knocked on number seven.
The door opened. An attractive woman in her late twenties with ginger hair pulled back into a ponytail asked, ‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Alice Kellogg, and you must be Chloe? Can I come in? I need to talk to you about Rowley Gilbert.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s in the prison over there.’ She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Somebody’s framed him for murder.’
Chloe shifted sideways to let Scylla in and closed the door.
The voice of a young girl echoed up the hallway. ‘Who is it, mummy?’
‘That’s my daughter, Poppy,’ she said to Scylla. ‘You’d better come through.’ She led the way into a cosy living room with a large window overlooking a communal garden.
Poppy was about five years old and busy colouring in the outline of a princess contained in a colouring book spread out on the floor.
‘Hello, Poppy. My name is Alice.’
‘Why have you got earrings in your lip and your nose?’
‘Poppy!’ Chloe said. ‘You’re not meant to ask personal questions like that.’
Alice smiled. ‘That’s all ri
ght.’ To Poppy she said, ‘I have them because I like to be different.’
‘Oh! I’m different as well – I have no daddy.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Poppy.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘It’s Stick.’
She put the television news on mute. ‘So you say, but I don’t know if you’re my Stick anymore.’
‘What do you mean? I’m the same Stick I’ve always been.’
‘That’s what worries me. You were caught on camera speeding, you know.’
‘Oh?’
‘On Sunday morning – ten minutes before the murders.’
Silence came back to her.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘I . . .’
‘Do you want to know where, Stickleback?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sandford Road behind the prison that you’re now occupying. Banister is using it as another nail in your coffin.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Banister has more coffin nails than a coffin nail maker, but you don’t sound too concerned.’
‘You know I’m innocent.’
‘You’re not innocent, Stickamundo. You’re as guilty as one of Lucifer’s slimy hit men. It’s just a question of finding out what you’re guilty of. Does St Margaret’s Road mean anything to you?’
‘Mmmm! Nothing springs to mind.’
‘Because we have CCTV evidence of you turning into that road, and then coming out forty minutes later.’
More silence.
‘Now, Banister would argue that you switched cars, killed Pine and his people, ditched the Mercedes, drove back home in your own car and then went on holiday as if everything was sweet and rosy in the garden of good and evil.’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘Yawn.’ She made a sound as if she was yawning. ‘Prove it. Tell me what you were doing in St Margaret’s Road on Sunday morning when you lied to Jenifer and everyone else by saying you went to the station.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that.’
‘In which case, I can’t tell you what I’ve found out about Isolde Koll.’
‘What?’
‘Oh no! You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’
‘Please.’
She ended the call, closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow.
Her phone went again.
‘Xena Blake, Detective Inspector and one-time-partner of Stick Gilbert – mass murderer and complete moron.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘It doesn’t matter anyway. By this evening I’ll know exactly what you were doing in St Margaret’s Road.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Unlike you Sticky wicket, I can do anything I want to. Shall I tell you what else the agents of SMERSH have found out?’
Silence.
‘They found out that the criminals Pine was linked to didn’t kill him and his cronies, and neither did you.’
‘I told you I didn’t.’
‘I wasn’t going to take your word for it, was I, numpty? But now we have a problem. If you and Pine’s so-called friends didn’t commit the heinous crime – who did?’
More silence.
‘My agents also discovered that you didn’t own the Glock-19 when that gun was used as the murder weapon in three murders . . .’
‘I . . .’
‘But there’s another problem . . . The Glock-19 came into your possession after you’d left Special Ops. That little fact has led my agents and I to speculate that you either bought the gun yourself, or it was planted in your house, or . . . and this is where I get really confused . . . you never left Special Ops. Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘The game’s up, Stick. Come clean, tell me everything.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t . . .’
‘You’re like a old broken record – I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’ she mimicked. ‘Well, as I said, by this evening I’ll know everything about you anyway, so it doesn’t matter . . .’
‘You can’t . . .’
‘Oh, I can’t now. Well?’
Silence.
‘It’s been wonderful talking . . .’
‘Please tell me about Koll?’
‘I don’t see why I should.’
‘I’ll increase your wages, give you a bonus . . .’
She laughed. ‘Don’t talk crap, Stick. You can’t give anybody anything. Didn’t you know they’d frozen your bank account?’
‘They can’t . . .’
‘You can’t, I can’t, they can’t. That’s a lot of people who can’t do the things they’re already doing. Well, all except you that is. I can, they can, but you won’t.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Won’t.’
‘Please.’
She thought about it.
‘Please.’
‘Stop sounding so pathetic. Tom Dougall discovered that one of Pine’s criminal partners had exported her to Bulgaria.’
‘Why?’
‘You can be really stupid sometimes. To stop her testifying against him would be my guess, and I think you can use your imagination on what they might have done to her in sunny Bulgaria.’
‘Oh God!’
‘Tom is trying to get her back.’
‘Do you think . . . ?’
‘I don’t think anything, Sticky fingers. First, we have to get her back alive, and then we’ll take it from there. Of course, you’ll be up to your neck in your own shit anyway, so it won’t concern you overmuch. But don’t worry, if we do manage to turn an export into an import we’ll take good care of her.’
‘It was my fault. I deserve to be in here.’
‘That’s true. Well, thanks for ringing. Any last words before . . . ?’ She pressed the button to end the call.
He’d told her nothing again – stupid bastard. She had a good mind to let him rot in prison. Well, she hadn’t told him about the fingerprint on the lens. In the end it might be nothing, but she’d received an email from Di Heffernan telling her that it didn’t belong to Stick, and there was no database match. Well that was fine, but who did it belong? Without a match it was useless.
‘Ready for lunch?’ a skinny Health Care Assistant asked from the doorway.
‘Ready? I’ve been ready since fucking breakfast time. And don’t think you’re going to get away with poisoning me anymore – I’ve passed all the evidence to my barrister.’
The HCA brought in the food with a plastic knife and fork, and a cheap paper serviette.
‘What’s this slop you’re trying to foist off on me today?’
‘Beef stroganoff.’
‘It looks like vomit. Serial killers and child molesters get treated better than I do.’
‘Good food.’
‘What happened to my fucking five-a-day?’
‘Good food. You eat.’
‘What’s Bulgaria like at this time of year?’
‘From Latvia. Lovely place. Better than crappy England.’
‘Feel free to fuck off back to Latvia any time you get the urge.’
‘No freebies over there. You very stupid people. I very grateful for handouts.’
The HCA smiled and left.
Like Stick, the country was going to hell in a handbasket.
***
‘Hello, Ernie.’
‘Aye, Mr K’walski.’
‘Drink?’
‘Aye.’
The barman began pouring. It was a different man this time – older, unshaven with a paunch, yellow teeth and thinning hair.
On his way to the pub he’d stopped off at a cash-point and withdrawn two hundred pounds – just in case Ernie was feeling particularly thirsty.
‘Orange juice for me, please.’
The drinks materialised.
He took a sip of his juice and then asked Ernie, ‘A ploughmans with a double helping of stilton and chutney?’
‘Aye – tha
t’s the one.’
‘A ploughman’s for me as well,’ he said to the barman. ‘But single helpings.’
The barman nodded. ‘Seventeen pounds fifty, please.’
He passed over a twenty and said, ‘Keep the change.’
‘Obliged.’
‘Any luck with the information?’ he directed at Ernie.
Ernie poured a nearly full pint of beer down his throat, burped and then wiped his lips on the sleeve of his pea green Herringbone jacket. ‘Aye.’
He waited, but nothing was forthcoming. Ernie, no doubt, would tell him when he was good and ready, and not before.
The barman kept replacing Ernie’s empty pint pot with a full one. The ploughman’s appeared, were consumed and the empty plates taken away.
At last Ernie said, ‘Aye, you’re in luck.’ He passed Kowalski a piece of paper. ‘It’s all on there, but the long and the short of it is that the same ticket inspector was on two of the trains that were in and out of both stations around the times of the murders.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye, really.’
He’d been hoping, but he didn’t really believe Ernie could come up with the goods. Would it stand up in a court of law? Probably not. A ticket inspector got everywhere, could jump trains and travel back and forth, up and down, and round and round. He glanced at the name on the paper:
THOMAS PYLSTER
The man was never a suspect. Why would he be? He supposed the true test of whether Thomas Pylster was the Red Spider would be if he could be connected to the other four murders.
‘Thanks very much for that, Ernie. Another drink?’
‘Aye.’
‘I have four sets of numbers.’
Ernie raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye?’
He passed Ernie a piece of paper with the numbers written on it. ‘I think that they’re the old thick-card train ticket numbers.’
‘Aye.’
‘Is it possible that you can find out which trains they were issued for?’
‘Aye.’
‘And presumably the British Rail Staff who were on those trains?’
‘Aye.’
‘Another drink?’
‘Aye.’
He paid the outstanding bar bill and gave the barman another forty pounds. ‘Same time tomorrow, Ernie?’
