by Ellis, Tim
‘Interrogation time?’
‘At the station we have a dungeon for awkward prisoners. This dungeon is full of interesting contraptions for persuading them to tell the truth. I could take you down there if you want?’
‘Sounds intriguing, but I think I’ll pass if it’s all the same to you?’
‘Well?’ she prodded.
‘I was born to Richard and Alicia Harvey in Surrey in the year of Our Lord 1979. My father was an estate agent, and my mother a primary school teacher. After a normal childhood I went to Cambridge to complete my law degree and the Legal Practice Course. Then I took a year out to help disadvantaged children in Zimbabwe, and then I became a trainee solicitor at Cooper & Drysdale dealing in property where I’ve been ever since.
‘Why do you say "was" when you talk about your mother and father?’
‘Ah… My parents and younger sister died three years ago in a car accident on the M25. My father’s Land Rover crossed the central reservation and smashed into an articulated lorry coming the other way – no survivors.’
‘I’m sorry, Andrew.’
He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and shrugged before taking a drink of red wine. ‘They say time heals. So, what about you, Molly Stone?’
‘I was born in 1980, the only child to my mum and dad. They both died a year ago. I went to Middlesex University where I did a degree in Criminal Psychology and Criminal Justice, and then I joined the police. After a year on the beat in Hackney, I became a Sergeant, after another five years I became an Inspector, and here I am.’
‘A meteoric rise to fame,’ he said. ‘How did your parents die?’
She had known this moment would come sooner or later, and had prepared an elaborate story, which would be ridiculously believable. ‘My dad had just retired. They were travelling on a luxury cruise liner to Africa to go on safari, which was attacked by Somali pirates. The pirates killed forty people before they were paid three-quarters of a million dollars by the ship’s owners, my parents were two of the forty dead bodies.’
‘It must have been terrible for you?’
‘As you say,’ she said. ‘Time heals.’
‘Orphans should stick together,’ he said raising his glass and taking a swallow. ‘Come away with me. We could fly to Paris tomorrow morning, have lunch in Le Bistrot de l'Echanson nestled on the Siene?’
‘I wish I could, Andrew, but you know I have a killer to catch. Until he’s behind bars I can’t think about taking a day off, never mind the whole weekend.’
They were nearing the end of the evening. The food had been consumed and the empty plates taken away. Andrew drank the dregs of the wine. Molly had stopped drinking some time ago.
Reaching a hand across the table Andrew placed it gently on hers and said, ‘What now, Molly Stone?’
‘Now we go home, Andrew.’
‘Your place or mine?’
‘You go to your place, I’ll go to mine.’
She thought she saw disappointment cloud his eyes, but it was too brief to pin down.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’ he persisted. ‘I have a wonderful flat in Kensington, and early in the morning, if you stand naked at the window, you can see the swans on the Serpentine in Hyde Park.’
‘Is standing naked at your window a prerequisite for the swans to appear?’
‘Most definitely. They won’t come out for a swim unless a beautiful woman is standing naked at my window.’
She was definitely tempted. Andrew Harvey appeared to be her ideal man. He was generous, made her laugh, he was attentive, and focused the conversation on her instead of talking about himself all the time. Yes, she was definitely tempted, but… There was always a "but". If she went back to his place and she was called out in the middle of the night, she’d have to wear the same clothes. She had no toothbrush, shampoo, hairbrush, or clean underwear. If he came back to her place, it was a mess. She hadn’t made the bed, she needed a shower, and she didn’t have any condoms. If she were called out she’d need to ask him to go. She didn’t know him well enough to leave him in her flat alone. God, life was complicated, she thought. Whatever happened to spontaneity?
‘Maybe soon, but now is not the ideal time, Andrew.’
‘The Butcher Murders? I saw you on the news.’
‘Amongst other things.’ Oh yes, there were "other things" like a "one in ten" chance of being a schizophrenic, like not wanting to fall in love with someone who wanted an heir, like not wanting to give birth to schizophrenic babies, like… Oh yes, there were a number of "other things".
‘Can I feed you tomorrow?’
‘You make me sound like a gorilla at the zoo. Only if you let me pay?’
‘Absolutely not. I’m performing the ancient courting ritual practised a million years ago by my ancestors. At no point did they ever let the female of the species pay for the food, and I’m not going to be the first Harvey to fall foul of tradition.’
‘Ring me,’ she said standing up. ‘We’ll work something out. I certainly wouldn’t want to emasculate you.’
He walked her back to her car. They kissed as if they were teenagers with nowhere else to go to consummate their love. She felt his arousal through all the layers of clothing between them, and nearly threw herself into the conflagration of desire as the flames engulfed her.
She pushed him away. ‘I need to go, Andrew,’ she said forcing herself to climb into the car and then drive away.
Day Three
Saturday, 7th November
Chapter Twenty-One
The time was quarter past midnight and it had begun pouring down fifteen minutes ago. Randall had been watching Malachi Pike since nine-thirty. He was sitting outside the second-floor three-bedroom apartment at 7 Stratford Court just off Kensington High Street in a stolen car. The property was within easy walking distance of Holland Park, Kensington Gardens and the tube station.
When he’d arrived, he needed to know that Pike was actually in the flat, but if he knocked on the door, and Pike was the killer he’d recognise Randall and he obviously didn’t want to be recognised. So, he did two things. First, he rang Pike’s home telephone number. It was ex-directory, but he’d phoned RHINO, a hacker he knew, and had the number within five minutes.
‘Your order is ready, Mr Lopworth,’ he said when Pike picked up the phone, and began reeling off Chinese dishes in broken English.
‘Wrong number,’ Pike shouted slamming down the phone.
Second, he threw a rock at the door and waited in a shop doorway opposite. Pike came out in a dark blue and red dressing gown looking angry, and then went back in and slammed the door. So, he knew Pike was in the flat. The problem was, he could either watch the front or the back, but not both. He phoned Izzard, the one-eyed owner of a pool hall in Chiswick, who owed him from long ago. Izzard sent him a twenty-something called Blow who looked like a boxer that had recently lost a number of fights. Randall showed him a picture of Pike, gave him his mobile number, and told him to use his good eye to watch the back.
At ten twenty-five a dark-haired woman arrived to keep Pike company. After an hour, the lights went out.
Randall sat listening to the police scanner and heard the Monroe murders being called in at two forty-three. He phoned Blow.
‘You’re sure no one has come out?’
‘I’m sure, Mr Randall.’
‘We’re done then, you can go home, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Randall. See you.’
And Blow disappeared in the direction of Kensington High Street tube station.
He could have sworn the killer was Pike, he’d seen it in his eyes. Maybe the drugs and a year in Springfield Asylum had taken the edge off his observational powers. Maybe he wasn’t the copper he used to be. In fact, he wasn’t a copper at all now. In his search for revenge he had already crossed the line by buying and carrying a gun, stealing a car, and consorting with known villains. What surprised him was how easy it had been to cross that line. But in the final a
nalysis it didn’t matter, nothing mattered except finding the killer. This was his last job before he lay down next to Sarah, Mathew and Tilly.
He drove the Toyota Prius to St Stephens Road and left it parked outside a bungalow with the keys in the ignition; then he walked round to Rylett Crescent. The yellow crime scene tape had already been put up outside number 24. Wondering where all the onlookers had come from at this time of the morning and why they were standing in the pouring rain, he joined them.
***
Molly was sitting up in the dark gasping for air, swirls of sweat pooling between her legs. Her mobile vibrated on the bedside table. It was three-twenty. She switched the light on.
‘Stone?’
‘Sorry to wake you, Gov,’ Frank said. ‘There’s been another family murdered.’
‘Where are you?’
‘24 Rylett Crescent, near Wendell Park.’
‘I’m on my way… How come you’re there?’
‘I told despatch to call me instead of you.’
‘Since when have you been making the decisions, Frank?’
‘You looked tired, Gov.’
‘I don’t need a sleep consultant.’
‘I was just trying to help.’
‘In future, keep your helping to yourself, Frank, or you’ll be waking up among a gaggle of Puffins.’
‘I think it’s a colony, Gov.’
‘What?’
‘A colony of Puffins.’
‘It’s too early in the morning for talking fucking rubbish, Frank. If you’re meant to be letting me sleep in, why are you calling me?’
‘There’s something you need to see, Gov.’
‘Can you be a bit more specific?’
‘It’s a message.’
‘And…?’
‘Addressed to you.’
‘Come on, Frank, stop being pathetic. What does it say?’
‘It’s written in blood on the living room wall and it says: This one’s for you, Molly.’
‘Shit! I’m on my way, Frank.’
She stripped off her sodden nightdress and knickers and pitter-pattered naked into the kitchen to make a coffee and smoke a cigarette. Once the nicotine and caffeine were flowing freely in her bloodstream and her energy levels had increased she went and stood in a cold shower until she could no longer bear it, then she turned the hot water on and washed herself.
Outside, she realised she needn’t have dried her hair after the shower because between the front door and her car she was drenched. The Victorian drainage system couldn’t cope with the amount of rain that had been falling since midnight, and as a consequence there was an inch and a half of water on the road and her feet were soaked as well. The umbrella in the boot of her car had again proved useless.
It took her three-quarters of an hour to drive the short distance from Riverview Gardens across Hammersmith Bridge to 24 Rylett Crescent. The digital clock on her dashboard showed quarter to five. She parked over someone’s drive and scrambled out. Yellow tape in front of the house kept sightseers’ and the new press recruits on the graveyard shift at a safe distance.
‘Inspector, can you tell us any details?’ a young woman beneath an umbrella shouted.
She didn’t really want to be filmed and photographed looking like a half-drowned rat, but she knew she needed to say something. If she didn’t give the press information about the murders, they might focus on her. Suddenly, she was a celebrity, the face of the Butcher Murders investigation, and fair game. They would find out about her father, about the people he had murdered in his paranoia, and then they would turn their gaze upon her.
‘I can tell you that another family have been murdered,’ she said shielding her eyes from the bright light of the television camera.
‘Why did you bring Malachi Pike in for questioning, Inspector?’
‘Mr Pike was simply helping us with our inquiries.’
‘Is he the Butcher?’
‘We have no evidence to suggest that Mr Pike was involved in any of the murders.’ She couldn’t tell them about the pubic hair.
‘Then why did you bring him in for questioning?’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said pushing through the bodies and banging the side of her head on a television camera. ‘Please move back, or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing a police officer.’
‘It’ll probably be the only arrest you’ll make in connection with the Butcher Murders, Inspector,’ someone shouted.
There was a chorus of laughter at her expense. She was glad when she reached the mid-terrace Victorian house and put a smear of Vick’s VapoRub under her nose before donning the paper suit, mask and gloves.
The stairs were to her left as she stepped through the open front door. The daughter lay in the same position as the others, but had been covered up. Molly lifted the sheet. The naked girl had long dark hair and a butcher’s axe in her back. Another Hebrew letter had been carved into the girl’s forehead.
She guessed that this character was an ‘E’. The stench of blood was overpowering. It was as if the killer had used a spray gun to paint the walls and ceiling red.
Four stairs descended into a hallway and she saw Frank standing outside a door. ‘In here, Gov,’ he said pointing.
She stepped down and followed Frank into the living room. The man’s torso was positioned on the couch, and she noticed the elaborately designed Emperor Tarot card under a half-full mug on the coffee table, but what drew her attention was the message written in blood on the wall.
Why had the killer sent her a message? There was no point asking how the killer knew her first name, it had been broadcast all over the media: television, radio and in all the newspapers – Detective Inspector Molly Stone said… But why call her Molly? The first name was more personal. It was as if the killer knew her, and that could only be Malachi Pike. She remembered what he’d said before she terminated the interview: "I’m free tonight if you’re interested, Molly." He had called her Molly.
‘It’s Pike,’ she said.
‘That was my first thought. I’ve sent a patrol car to his flat to pick him up.’
‘We should have put a tail on him, Frank. Maybe we could have prevented this.’
‘It’s no good thinking like that, Gov, we don’t even know if it was him yet.’
With Frank following, she walked around the house knowing what she would find in each room. With the exception of the message, everything was the same. In the kitchen was the headless torso of Mrs Tabitha Monroe, the heads of the father, mother and son were lined up on the bathroom windowsill looking vaguely surprised, severed arms and legs were scattered in the other rooms. She mumbled hello to Doc Firestone who said that he’d have finished the post mortems by two that afternoon. She saw Perkins and nodded at him, but didn’t feel in the mood for chit-chat.
Outside, it was still dark, and the torrential rain had been replaced by light drizzle. She lit up a cigarette and inhaled, the smoke taking away the stench of death.
‘I’ll see you at the station, Frank,’ she said walking towards her car and pushing through the press and onlookers.
‘Okay, Gov,’ Frank called after her.
She climbed into her car and wound down the window slightly so that the smoke would escape and she could flick the ash from her cigarette through the opening.
‘Those things will kill you,’ Cole Randall said from the back seat.
She jerked forward and banged her breasts on the steering wheel. ‘You’re going to fucking kill me, Sir, scaring the shit out of me like that. How in hell did you get in my car?’
‘If I told you, I would have to kill you.’
Her heart galloped around inside her chest. She turned to look at his grizzled face, which lit up when she took a drag from her cigarette.
‘I know you’re thinking Pike did it,’ he said. ‘Well, I can tell you that he didn’t. I’ve been watching him, and he’s been in his flat all night with a hooker.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It wasn’t my first time watching someone, you know.’
‘Christ, Sir, if it wasn’t him who the hell was it?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Molly.’
The pain in her neck and lower back made her turn back to the front and watch Randall through the rear-view mirror. ‘This crime scene was different from the others,’ she said. ‘There was a message written on the living room wall in blood.’
‘Which said?’
‘This one’s for you, Molly.’
‘Ah yes, I can see why you would think Pike is the killer. He called you Molly at the end of the interview, didn’t he?’
‘You thought it was Pike as well, Sir.’
‘I was obviously wrong.’
‘That’s not like you to admit you were wrong.’
‘Things change.’
‘So, what now, Sir?’
‘Why are you asking me, Molly? You’re the DI; you’re heading up this investigation. You tell me, "What now?"
She wished she could, but she had no idea.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Molly dropped him off on King Street at six-fifteen and they agreed to meet at his flat after she finished work to update him. The café had not long opened, and he was the first customer. He walked up to the counter to order instead of sitting down.
‘Good morning, Cole Randall. What would you like?’
‘Hello, Kiri. A full English and a pot of tea, please.’
She wrote it down on her pad and then called it through an opening to the cook in the kitchen.
Kiri smelled of summer flowers and to his surprise he realised that he’d been looking forward to seeing her. Her hair was nearly pinned up at the back of her head again, and he wondered how she’d managed to do it in the same haphazard way as yesterday.
She saw him looking. ‘I hate it.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My hair. I woke up one morning when I was seventeen years old, and my hair had turned white. And I’m not just talking about the hair on my head.’
