Jacob's Ladder (Stone & Randall 1)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘I’m a lapsed Catholic, Gov,’ he said coming into her office and sitting in one of the two easy chairs in front of her chipboard desk. ‘I haven’t been to church since I was a kid, so the answer is no.’

  ‘I need to find a Priest.’

  ‘Try Saint Peter-in-Chains Church in Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘I thought you…’

  ‘I see it on my way home, and often wonder whether I should nip in for a quick confession.’

  ‘Quick?’ she said.

  He grinned.

  She found the address and telephone number on the Internet. It wasn’t far away, located on Benbow Road. She rang the number.

  ‘Father Ignatius?’ a man said with no hint of an accent.

  Molly told him who she was and the nature of the problem.

  ‘I would love to help, but it will need to be this afternoon, Inspector, because I’m flying to Rome in the morning. I have an audience with the Pope on Sunday.’

  ‘This afternoon would be fine, Father.’

  ‘Excellent. What time is good for you?’

  ‘Two o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll arrive at the station at the specified time, Inspector Stone.’

  She put the phone down.

  ‘Lunch?’ Tony said getting up.

  She swivelled on her chair to check the time – it was twelve thirty-five. ‘Cafeteria?’

  ‘I hate the food in there, Gov.’

  ‘I’m not rushing about, Tony. If you want to go out, go. I’ll walk down to the cafeteria.’ She pushed herself up from behind her desk.

  His shoulders slumped. ‘Okay, I’ll come and see what they have on offer.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cole Randall woke at eleven-fifty and wondered where he was. He expected the door to open any minute, and the nurse to barge in with a tray full of drugs. But then he realised that he wasn’t in the asylum anymore, and that there were no more drugs to mask the pain. The emptiness that gripped his insides like a vice was real.

  He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. There were things he needed to get, but what? He tried to make a list in his head, but couldn’t hold one thing and think of another. He stood, put his jacket on, and left the flat without locking the door. He had nothing of value anymore.

  Outside, the icy wind whistled through the ventricles of his brain. He needed something to eat and found a partially filled café nearby called The Pepper Pot where he ordered an all-day breakfast and a mug of tea. While he was waiting for his meal he stared out of the window and nursed the steaming mug between his wrinkled hands. People hustled and bustled beyond the window. Where were they going? What was it all for?

  His meal arrived in the hands of a thin waitress with long white hair that was nearly held up at the back with a large purple claw. She had a plague of piercings around her right ear, and he also noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, that her midriff was on display, and that she had no breasts to speak of. Now that the drugs were clearing through his system, he was easing back into the old habit of noticing everything and everyone around him. That’s what had made him a good detective.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The waitress didn’t move.

  He craned his neck to look up at her. She was at least twenty years younger than his fifty-two. Her white hair framed a thin face with a thin nose and thin lips. Everything about her seemed to be thin, but he thought she was unusually pretty.

  ‘Are you someone famous?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘My friend,’ she cocked head toward the counter behind him but he didn’t turn around, ‘thinks you might be someone famous.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Okay.’

  After she’d left he focussed on his meal, finished off his tea, and then went to the counter to pay.

  The white-haired waitress was there on her own. ‘Seven pounds fifty-five, please.’

  He gave her a ten-pound note. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thanks. Are you sure you’re not a celebrity or something?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ He turned and left. The café had filled up with the lunch time crowd while he’d been eating and he hadn’t even noticed. Some detective, he thought.

  In the street he turned right and kept walking until he reached a computer shop. He entered and bought a laptop with a pay-as-you-go broadband dongle, a pay-as-you-go mobile phone with £30 of credit. He wasn’t going to be around long enough to fulfil contracts. He also bought a police scanner, and the shop assistant tried to sell him a 3-year warranty, a bag for the laptop, and Internet security software. To the assistant’s annoyance, he declined to purchase anything else. He knew what he needed, and that was all he was going to buy. There was a multitude of programs on the Internet that he could download for free, and he wasn’t going to be moving his laptop around.

  He was in the computer shop for less than fifteen minutes, and then he left carrying a large box, which he took back to the flat and put in the cupboard containing the gas and electric meters.

  Back on King Street, he turned left and walked until he found a DIY shop called Izod & Kiffyn. Inside he bought a drill with wood and masonry bits, screws, rawplugs, nails, a hammer, a screwdriver, and took them back to his flat.

  He was tired, but he went back out again and searched for a place that would sell whiteboards. He found a second-hand office furniture shop that sold him two large whiteboards, which they promised to deliver before five.

  He made his way back to the flat and fell asleep on top of the bed fully clothed. He had a dream. In the dream his wife was in the bedroom sitting at her dressing table combing her hair. He was a ghost floating above her, watching her. He was dead and she was alive. But Sarah now had white hair and ear piercings. She used to have large breasts, but now they were small and ill-defined beneath her silk nightdress. He woke up at three-fifteen with an erection, beads of sweat running down the maze of his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erection. A wave of anger washed over him. What fucking good is an erection to me now? he thought. He wanted to throw the bed through the window, but instead he cried and went for a piss.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Delivery?’

  He opened it.

  ‘You want two whiteboards?’

  ‘You’re early.’

  ‘You don’t want them?’

  ‘Bring them up.’

  The man clattered down the wooden stairs, and then, with a teenager bringing up the rear, carried the two whiteboards up to the flat and propped them against the wall on the left. Earlier he had pushed the sofa under the window and now there was enough wall space for the two boards.

  He gave the older man a ten-pound note. After they’d left he shut the door. He decided to put the boards up now while his head was clear. He knew from experience that screwing things to walls needed a clear head. A memory of erecting a bookshelf with Sarah after a couple of bottles of wine came back to him. The following morning they had laughed at the lopsided result. A rage engulfed him and he stared at the floor with clenched fists until it had subsided. No sooner had he begun drilling holes and inserting rawplugs than there was an impatient knock at the door.

  ‘Come on, open the fuck up.’

  Randall opened the door.

  A man in his early thirties with straggly blonde hair hanging past his shoulders, a long spotty nose, and a week’s growth of beard was standing framed in the doorway. He wore a filthy T-shirt, a threadbare pair of jeans, and smelled like a landfill site.

  ‘I’m from upstairs, old man, and if you don’t stop making that fucking noise I’m gonna rip your fucking head off.’

  Randall moved quickly. A year sitting on his arse, and the kaleidoscope of daily drugs had taken some of the edge off, but he wasn’t past it yet. With his left hand he grabbed the man by the hair, spun him round with his right hand, and pushed him up against the far wall in the stairwell until he heard the man’s nose crack and saw blood start to drip down th
e paintwork.

  ‘That’s no way to welcome a new neighbour,’ he whispered in the man’s ear.

  ‘What the fuck? You’ve broke my nose, you fucking bastard.’

  ‘If I ever see or hear you again I’m going to kill you. Are we clear on that?’

  ‘You’ll pay for this, you bastard.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me.’ Randall spun the man round to face him and kneed him in the balls. ‘Am I getting through to you yet?’

  The man sagged and struggled to breathe through the pain. ‘Yeah.’

  He let go of the man. ‘Are you still here?’

  Bent over and clutching at his groin, the man scrambled up the stairs to his third floor flat leaving a trail of blood.

  Randall went back inside and carried on putting up the white boards. It wasn’t ideal because the boards could be seen from the door, but it would have to do.

  It was three-fifteen. He used the new mobile phone to call Molly on the number she’d given him.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Take photographs of the incident boards with your mobile phone and send them to me.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Get me copies of everything recent.’

  ‘That’ll take time.’

  ‘We don’t have time, Molly. You don’t have time.’

  ‘Okay. Is that it?’

  ‘Meet me at 7 Beavor Lane, just past the Premier Inn. I’m in flat 5 on the second floor. Come at 8 o’clock.’

  ‘I do have a life, you know.’

  ‘No you haven’t. You forget I know you, Molly Stone.’

  The line went dead. He had always liked Molly, and he knew he should feel bad about using her, but he didn’t. She had let him down when he needed her. Now, she owed him.

  He left the flat again and took a cab to the Brewer’s Arms overlooking Hammersmith Cemetery. Nothing had changed. It was as if he’d never been in Springfield Asylum. Joe Gunn was sitting in a booth chewing on a matchstick trying to look like a gangster.

  Randall slid in opposite the wiry twenty-something. He wore a plain blue baseball cap that kept his eyes in shadow. Underneath the peak, he had bushy eyebrows that met in the middle, a large nose with a silver ring through the left nostril, and three days’ growth of beard.

  ‘Mr Randall! I heard the news.’

  ‘And what news would that be, Joe?’

  ‘That you was out. Now you want a gun to kill the bastard what set you up?’

  ‘You should be telling fortunes on Southend beach, Joe.’

  ‘If I was in your position, I’d want a gun as well, Mr Randall.’

  Randall put a thousand pounds on the table. ‘What have you got, Joe?’

  ‘You can have a bazooka for that much money.’

  ‘A handgun will do.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  Randall ordered an orange juice at the bar and then sat back down again. If there was such a thing as the ambrosia of the gods, this was it, he thought savouring the cool liquid. He could only get orange juice on Tuesdays in the asylum, and then it was watered down concentrate.

  Joe was gone for ten minutes and when he came back he put the gun on the table in front of Randall and said, ‘Glock 17 with seventeen rounds, best I have.’

  ‘That’ll do nicely, Joe.’

  ‘You want half of this money back, Mr Randall? I normally only charge four-fifty, an’ I don’t want you tellin’ potential customers I overcharged you?’

  ‘Keep it, Joe. I won’t have any use for it soon, and, of course, I was never here.’

  ‘I don’t even know anyone called Mr Randall. I hope you get the bastard, Mr Randall. Give him one for me.’

  ‘See you, Joe.’

  Randall caught a taxi back to his flat with the gun nestled in the small of his back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They both had the Cumberland pie with a side salad and a pot of tea. It was cheap and cheerful, but Molly could see that Tony wasn’t happy as he prodded the food with his fork. She ate to live, whereas Tony lived to eat.

  The cafeteria had been refurbished a year ago as part of the rolling programme, and as a result had lost all of its charm. It was certainly brighter, cleaner, and there was more space, but it wasn’t the same old place where people would gravitate to when they had a few minutes to spare. Now there were opening and closing times, bins were emptied, the tables were wiped, and the floor was cleaned. Hygiene and safety regulations were in force. In effect, catering contractors ran it for profit based on a five-year business plan. If there was no money in it, it wasn’t happening. It was a soulless revolving door of a place where people came in during specified times, ate, and left.

  Molly’s phone vibrated. She had to stretch her right leg to retrieve it from the pocket of her slacks. The time was exactly one-thirty. ‘Stone?’

  ‘Malachi Pike,’ Doc Firestone said.

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells, Doc.’

  ‘He’s the son of the International Financier Stratham Pike. Surely you’ve seen the Pike Building on Canary Wharf?’

  ‘Never heard of it. Do you know anything about this Malachi Pike?’

  ‘Financial whiz kid. Works with his father at Pike International.’

  ‘Doesn’t fit our psychological profile. How in God’s name did we have his DNA on the database?

  ‘Apparently, he was found guilty of drink driving in 2003.’

  ‘We’ll check it out, of course, but the pubic hair definitely looks like a plant now. Thanks anyway, Doc.’

  ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t what you were hoping for, Inspector. Goodbye.’

  The phone went dead. She couldn’t see the killer being an international financier, but if it wasn’t him who the hell was it?

  ‘You heard?’ she aimed at Tony.

  ‘Yeah. Disappointing to say the least.’ Half the Cumberland pie uneaten, he pushed his plate away.

  ‘Not hungry, Tony?’

  ‘I’m bloody starving, but that pie should have stayed in Cumberland where it belonged.’

  ‘You don’t even know where Cumberland is, do you?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  They finished their tea and trudged up to forensics. After finding out Pike’s home address in Kensington and the location of his office at Canary Wharf, Perkins despatched two teams accordingly.

  Once Perkins had left, they walked back to the incident room. Frank was sitting there on his own staring at the whiteboards and eating roast beef and mustard sandwiches that had been wrapped in tin foil and stuffed in a plastic container by his wife.

  Lucy, Paul and Abby returned, the loud chatter tailing off as they came in through the swing doors.

  She told the team about the phone call from Doc Firestone.

  ‘The bastard’s jerking us about like sock puppets,’ Frank said.

  ‘We have two possibilities,’ Molly said. ‘Either the killer is someone else entirely and is trying to frame Malachi Pike as he did with Randall, or Malachi Pike is the killer and he’s playing a sick game.’

  ‘If Malachi Pike is a financial whiz why would he be butchering families in Hammersmith?’ Paul said. ‘Sorry, Gov, I don’t buy it.’

  ‘It takes all types,’ Molly reminded him. ‘Maybe killing financial deals doesn’t do it for him anymore.’

  ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ Abby said, ‘Because of the Randall case, we don’t know anything anymore. Let’s say forensics go to Pike’s house and find a mountain of incriminating evidence, how do we know the killer didn’t put it there like he did with Randall? Usually, it’s the criminals who are screaming that we planted the evidence not the other way round.’

  ‘Or,’ Frank said moving the half-eaten sandwich away from his mouth to speak, ‘there’s no evidence at his house, but Pike’s still the killer.’

  ‘I have to wait here for a Father Ignatius,’ Molly said. ‘So, Paul can accompany Perkins to Pike’s home in Kensington to see where he lives. Frank, you
can take Tony to pick up Malachi Pike from Canary Wharf. Abby and Lucy can carry on with their tasks.’

  When she mentioned the Priest’s name it occurred to her that she probably should have called in a Rabbi. If the killer were using Hebrew letters then someone who was familiar with God’s language would probably be more suitable. She’d give the Priest a chance first, if he couldn’t help then she’d haul a Rabbi in.

  Tony licked his lips. ‘Good, I can get something decent to eat on the way.’

  Frank snapped the lid on his plastic lunch box. ‘And if Pike doesn’t want to come, Gov?’

  ‘We have sufficient cause to arrest him, but make sure you do it right. I suspect we’ll have a handful of high-powered solicitors breathing down our necks within minutes of him being brought in here.’

  ‘And the media,’ Tony said. ‘Don’t forget them. It’ll be like feeding time in the piranha tank.’

  ‘Bring Pike in the back way,’ Molly said.

  Once Frank and Tony had left she went back to her office to wait for Father Ignatius. After making herself a coffee, she sat down wearily, nestled the hot mug between her hands and thought about the evidence dilemma.

  Whoever they arrested – whether he was guilty or not – could simply claim they were innocent and the killer had planted any evidence. Malachi Pike’s pubic hair found on Mrs Taylor’s genital area was much too convenient. No one, least of all a jury, would believe a rich financier had murdered all these families. Christ, she didn’t even believe it. By fabricating the Randall crime scene the killer had put everything in doubt. Now, what could they believe? Any physical evidence forensics found – fibres, bodily fluids, fingerprints, hair, clothing, footprints – could have been deliberately introduced into the crime scene by the killer. Shit! How in hell would they ever find the real culprit if no evidence could be trusted? And after the Randall fiasco how could they convict anybody? Whoever they charged with the murders had a legitimate defence – the killer planted all the evidence, M’lud. Shit! Shit! Shit! She couldn’t see a way forward. Maybe there was no way around it, maybe the killer would never be brought to justice? Maybe her next job would be as a checkout girl in the local supermarket.