by Ellis, Tim
She remembered the phone message and called her voicemail. It was Randall telling her about Pike’s adoption. She was tempted to phone Frank and tell him what Randall had found out, but he would only ask her where she’d acquired the information.
‘Shit,’ she said out loud. The restraining order had done what it was meant to do – restrain her from finding out and revealing anything about Malachi Pike. She’d need a court order to officially dig into Pike’s birth to Rachel Weiss and George Hansen and his adoption into the Pike family. There was more chance of her sprouting wings and becoming an angel. If she used Randall’s information to overturn the restraining order, she’d end up behind bars for contempt of court, and they’d also want to know where the information had come from.
She phoned Frank.
‘Hi, Gov?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Nearly at Angel’s flat.’
‘So you’ve been to see the CPS?’
‘Yeah, no luck. They said there was no grounds for lodging an appeal.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Frank, did you show them Jacob Hansen’s photograph?’
‘Yes, but because the face had been digitally aged ten years they weren’t too impressed. They also said that even if Jacob Hansen did resemble Malachi Pike, so what? We have no evidence linking Jacob Hansen to the murders, and nothing to link Jacob Hansen to Malachi Pike.’
‘So what?’ she exploded. ‘Christ, the CPS are all fucking jobsworths. No wonder the bloody jails are empty.’
‘I gave it my all, Gov, but they wouldn’t budge.’
‘Okay, Frank, you’re in the clear. I’ll see you later.’
At least the press were impressed by Jacob Hansen’s photograph and the resemblance to Malachi Pike. Maybe she didn’t need to overturn the restraining order, maybe the press would find out the information and do her job for her, maybe she could point them in the right direction.
She sent a text to Randall: Send information on Pike to Catherine Cox at Hammersmith Herald.
Chapter Forty-Four
Randall walked to Hammersmith tube station, bought a rover ticket, made his way to the Piccadilly Line platform, and caught the nine-seventeen to Earl’s Court where he changed to the District Line and hopped on the nine thirty-seven to Putney Bridge.
As he stepped off the train onto the platform, his phone jangled. He read the text from Molly, sighed and sat down on a bench against a wall. It took him some time, but he eventually accessed the Internet on his mobile, found his email account, and sent Ruby an email: Send the Pike information anonymously to Catherine Cox at Hammersmith Herald. That done, he made his way up to street-level.
Turning left out of the station and hunching into his coat he walked along Ranelagh Gardens to Fulham High Street and headed west towards the towpath running beside the Thames. A cruise boat with smokestacks like a Mississippi River boat went by. He turned right under the bridge and walked past All Saints Church, past Fulham Palace Gardens and Bishop’s Park, past the sports ground and Craven Cottage where Fulham FC play football, and found Viking Wharf shoehorned between Stevenage and Eternity Wharves.
The enormous building overlooked the Thames, and appeared to be ready to collapse into the river at any moment. When the wooden slats that had criss-crossed the external façade were removed they had left a pattern on the concrete as if the whole structure was a stack of children’s building blocks. Windows were broken, doorways were boarded up, and the concrete overhangs had begun to crack and crumble.
From the outside it didn’t look as though there was anyone at home. The front entrance appeared to be burglar proof with thick plywood boards screwed into place and flush with the brickwork.
Squeezing between the right-hand wall and a mesh fence, he edged down the side of the building along a thin concrete path and made his way all around Viking Wharf, but found no entrance through which he could gain access. Back at the front of the building, he moved back as far as he could go to the water’s edge. Staring at the structure with the eye of a burglar, he decided that if he was going to gain access he would probably need to use the front door. With the exception of a few boats moving along the Thames, the waterfront was deserted. Walking back to the main entrance, he decided he should have brought a screwdriver, a jemmy, and other tools of the trade. Doors didn’t open up like coconuts when he shouted, ‘Police!’ anymore.
Finding a sliver of aluminium on the floor, he wedged it between the wall and the plywood and was surprised to find the wood move forward and swing open on hinges. The screws appeared to be false. Behind the wood, a metal roller door was standing open, and beyond that lay blackness. He took the torch out of the rucksack and stepped inside, finding a handle attached to the plywood he pulled it closed behind him. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make access into the building easy, but hidden from sight.
Switching the torch on, he found himself inside a cavernous hangar. He waited while his eyes adjusted, and then moved the light around the room. Apart from a closed metal roller door to the outside, there was nothing on the wall to the left. A set of wooden stairs in the far left-hand corner led up to a row of what looked like glass-fronted offices. On the wall facing him were four closed doors. To his right, was an empty wall.
His footsteps echoed in the hollow space as he walked towards the stairs. Before he committed himself to each wooden stair, he tested it with the weight of one foot while he held on to the handrails on either side. At the top of the stairs, he quickly looked into each of the three glass-fronted offices, and finding them empty went back down the stairs. All that was left to check were the four doors.
He moved along the wall from left to right until he reached the first door – it was locked. It didn’t take him long to open it with his picks and step inside. Shining the torch around the room, there was a window with vertical bars high up facing him and an array of rusty metal pegs on all the walls. The room had probably been used as a storeroom, but now it was empty.
The second door was standing ajar. He opened it and entered a smaller room with no windows. It was also empty. The third door was closed, but unlocked. Inside, he found a set of concrete stairs surrounded by metal safety railings that descended into the darkness. He aimed the torch down into the depths, but the light failed to penetrate more than a few feet. Hearing a scraping sound slither up the stairs, he pulled the gun from the small of his back and eased the safety catch off. Slowly, he began to descend.
He thought he’d reached the bottom, but it was merely a landing for a right-angled turn that led him down more steps. Once he turned, he lost the half-light from above and the darkness resembled treacle. He could smell mould, burnt wood, and cooked fish.
At the bottom of the stairs he seemed to be in a corridor that ran both ways. To the right, he saw a dim light and heard the soft rumble of voices. He felt light-headed, and could hear the pounding of his heart. Taking a deep breath he headed towards the light.
There were doors to the left and right of the corridor. The concrete floor was uneven and he nearly went over on his ankle as he stood in a pothole. The voices became louder, and the smell of cooked fish became stronger and made his nose wrinkle. He had no idea what time it was, but he guessed it was close to lunchtime.
Who the hell was down here cooking fish? Maybe he’d found Malachi Pike’s hideout. Maybe this was where he planned everything, where he kept the axes and Tarot cards, where he changed his clothes, where he laughed at the police efforts to catch him. He could hear three distinct voices clearly now, but then he heard something else – something behind him.
He turned towards the sound, but it was too late. The thick piece of wood hit him on the side of the head instead of the back of his skull, but the result was the same. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes. The torch and the gun clattered up the concrete corridor. He didn’t hear the man who had hit him shout to his friends: ‘The bastard had a gun.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Molly went to the
toilet, and then just had time to take a Domperamol tablet before her head exploded. Already, she felt as though she’d done a full day’s work, and it was only five to ten. As she washed her hands she looked at herself in the mirror. Dark puffy bags had begun to form under her eyes. She was getting old, losing her looks; she could feel everything beginning to sag as if it had been preordained. Her blonde hair looked lacklustre and her cheeks were hollow. Andrew was probably her last chance for love. She had been working for thirteen days straight now, no wonder she looked like the wreck of the Nancy Lee. After this case she would take a holiday, go somewhere exotic and lie in the sun. Maybe Andrew could whisk her away to Sri Lanka or the Maldives to live in a wooden hut on stilts and feed her slivers of papaya. Somewhere far away where there were no murders, no stress, and definitely no freezing temperatures. Yes, she wanted to feel the sun on her face again.
She walked along the corridor. After a nod from Fiona Fulbright, who looked up from her typing, she knocked on the Chief’s door.
‘Come.’
Molly had the feeling of walking to her execution.
‘DI Stone, good morning.’
‘Good morning, Chief. Did you have a good weekend?’
‘Very good, thank you. More to the point, Inspector, how did your weekend go?’
Every time she saw the Chief she wanted to stare at her, try to work out why she looked so ugly. Instead, she had to take surreptitious glances at the flat ears, the short man-like hair, the squashed features in a flabby face, and the rolls of skin under her chin. She found it hard to get an overall picture of ugliness. The Chief’s breasts were not far above her waistline. Molly was thankful that her own breasts were still closer to her chin than her waist, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before everything began migrating south for the winter of her life.
‘We’re making headway, Chief.’
‘Good, tell me all about it. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Please, Ma’am.’
The Chief went to the coffee maker and poured Molly a strong black coffee. ‘The last time we spoke, you’d just been mauled by the press.’ She put the cup and saucer on the table and sat down. Molly added milk and sugar. ‘This morning’s press conference was considerably better than your two previous attempts. The Commissioner and I watched it together. At first, we thought you had lost it, but you managed to turn it around by throwing them some titbits, well done.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
‘Who’s the killer then, Inspector?’
Molly took a sip of coffee and thought about the question. ‘We think there are two killers working together.’
‘Interesting.’
She told the Chief about her trip to Broadmoor, about Jacob Hansen and his disappearing act, and passed her a copy of the digitally aged photograph.
‘And the CPS didn’t think this had any bearing on Pike’s restraining order?’
‘No, Ma’am.’ Molly didn’t ask how the Chief already knew about Frank’s visit to the CPS. The Chief obviously had a network of spies that told her everything Molly was doing. These meetings were simply confirming what she already knew, whether she could trust Molly to tell her everything.
‘Imbeciles. I’ll speak to them this morning, point out the error of their ways. If Pike turns out to be the killer, which is looking more and more likely, someone there will have to fall on their sword.’
Molly passed the Chief a copy of Hansen’s family tree.
‘Amazing.’
‘DC Ling’s work, Chief.’
‘Yes, a lovely family tree, but I was commenting on the fact that a man could have four wives and all those children in this day and age.’
‘That’s our priority now, Chief – finding Jacob Hansen. DC Manchester is interviewing Lizzie to find out what really happened all those years ago, and has been instructed to use a video recorder. DS Lowen and DC Ling have gone to interview Angel. I sent both of them because there might be a chance that Angel is harbouring Jacob. DC Morgan has gone to see Mrs Hartman, DC Read is seeing Mrs Bailey, and once we’ve finished our meeting, I’m going to see Mrs Myers. We’re focusing on the male children with a view to eliminating them from our enquiries.’
‘And because of the restraining order, there’s nothing you can do about Malachi Pike?’
‘No, Ma’am, but I do know he’s gone to Israel. Also, if I know the press, they’ll be doing their own research into Malachi Pike and the Hansen clan.’
‘Yes, a nice touch this morning. I was beginning to think the Press Defence course on your records had been put there by mistake.’
Molly smiled, but said nothing. Glad that she’d managed to come out on top for once.
‘Legal came back to me on the evidence problem, and lets just say that they’re no longer on my Christmas card list.’
‘I wasn’t holding my breath, Chief.’
‘Have you heard anything from Randall?’
Her heart began to jitterbug all around her insides. Christ, what did the Chief know? She seemed to know everything else that was happening. Maybe she was being followed. Maybe the meeting with the Commissioner had been to watch the surveillance tapes of DI Molly Stone meeting with ex-DI Cole Randall. Maybe a warrant for her arrest was being promulgated while she was sitting here. Soon she’d be in a 6 x 8 cell with no belt holding up her slacks and no shoelaces in her flat shoes. God, maybe she should come clean. What if her mobile calls were being monitored, what if…?
‘No, Chief, not a squeak.’
‘Well, let’s hope he’s gone for good. With the amount of compensation his bloodsucking lawyers have managed to screw out of us, he could buy his own desert island and hobnob with the likes of Richard Branson.
‘A lot, huh?’
‘A million and a half. Loss of earnings, loss of future earnings, loss of promotion, injured feelings, incarceration, chemical abuse…’
Molly’s brow creased up.
‘Enforced drugs.’
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, Inspector. Randall should have been thankful for the rest. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sympathetic – it must have been hell in that asylum, but in my view it’s an occupational hazard.’
‘If you say so, Ma’am.’
‘You don’t agree?’
‘I haven’t given it much thought, but he lost his whole family and then we locked him up. No amount of money can compensate a person for that.’
‘If you’re in a high-risk profession like the police you shouldn’t have a family. This is war, Inspector. Nobody takes their family to war, they’re a weakness that can be used against you, and that’s what happened to Randall. Collateral damage I believe the Americans call it.’
‘That’s a rather extreme view, Ma’am.’
‘I’m an old school copper, Inspector. Are we meeting in the mornings now?’
‘Whatever suits you, Ma’am.’
‘Right, eight-thirty tomorrow morning, Inspector. Off you go then.’
Chapter Forty-Six
It was ten-past eleven by the time she’d grabbed her coat and found herself in the car park staring at a silver Saab 93 parked across her rear end and blocking her in.
She had to go back into the station to the front desk and tell Ted Salway to find the fucking bastard who had the temerity to impede a police investigation, and get him out there to move his car. It was bound to be a man; a woman wouldn’t have been so stupid and inconsiderate. Then she went back out and lit up a cigarette, which was what she really wanted.
After ten minutes, a man she didn’t know came out, apologised half-heartedly and moved his car forwards.
Molly reversed out. As she pulled level with him she shouted in his faced, ‘Fucking moron,’ and then did a wheelie on the gravel to the exit.
Once she had turned left into King Street she stopped blushing and began laughing.
Mrs Myers lived at number 91 Cadogan Square in Brompton. It was a straightforward journey over the flyover
onto the A4 until she reached Beauchamp Place, crossed the junction into Pont Street and turned right into Cadogan Square pulling up outside a semi-detached council house with a rusty metal gate.
She began to think there was no one in, but eventually she heard a scuffling sound and a frail-looking woman with short white hair, silver-rimmed glasses, and a dour expression opened the rotting wood door.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Myers?’
‘Used to be. I’ve been Bessie Flitton these last fifteen years. What do you want?’
Molly showed the woman her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Molly Stone, would you mind if I came in?’
‘If you want,’ Bessie said leaving the door open and shuffling back inside the house. ‘You’re here to ask me about George aren’t you?’
Following the old woman along a dim hallway, Molly was overpowered by the smell of mould and damp. ‘What makes you say that, Mrs Flitton?’
‘Bessie’ll do, I only make those robbing bastards at the Council call me Mrs Flitton. They put the Council Tax up a hundred pounds and kept my disability benefit the same, doesn’t take a genius to work out that old people must freeze to death and stop eating to pay their stupid tax.’
Bessie led her into a small back room. If the heating had been on she would have described it as cosy, but instead it was off and the room was freezing. The old woman was sitting in a high-backed chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and another one covering her legs.
Molly could see her own breath it was so cold. ‘Don’t you have the heating on at all, Bessie?’
‘Between seven and ten at night when there’s something to watch on the telly. The rest of the time I’m either in bed, or sitting here wrapped up like one of those Egyptian mummy things – bloody Council.’
‘I’ll try to be quick.’
‘Don’t make no difference to me, I have all the time in the world. You could be a love and make a pot of tea though, that’d warm me up and lubricate me tongue.’
