by Tim Ellis
‘Let’s go then.’
She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s only four-thirty.’
‘And?’
She switched the monitor off, grabbed her bag and said, ‘You’re the boss.’
‘And don’t you forget it.’
***
‘What are you going to say to the press tomorrow morning?’ Stick asked Xena.
They both stared at the whiteboard. At the top right Xena had drawn a hood with the eyes cut out, a gaping mouth that appeared to be laughing at them and a pretty bow at the neck. Other than that, there was only a list of facts relating to the case, which mostly read like the perpetrator’s modus operandi:
Location: Theobald’s Lane, off the B198 in Cheshunt.
Victim 2: Robert Vines murdered and physically mutilated;
Dragged Vines out of the back of his car;
Restrains Vines’ wrists with plastic restraint;
Uses garrotte and forces Hamill to strangle Vines;
Masturbates into Hamill’s panties;
Uses knife to remove Vines’ genitals;
Lets Hamill go;
Killer takes all physical evidence with him.
‘I’ll probably bring them up here and show them our board. This tells the casual passerby everything they need to know about our case.’
‘We could go and talk to the relatives of Hamill and Vines,’ Stick suggested.
‘What for? They won’t know anything. We’d just be fiddling while Rome burns. The murder has nothing to do with the two victims, and everything to do with the masked man.’
‘So we focus on him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where do we start?’
‘Didn’t you say you were going to interrogate somebody called “database”?’
‘Which the Chief thought was a very good idea. What are you going to do while I’m doing that?’
‘Do I report to you now?’
‘No, but we keep each other informed of what we’re doing.’
‘I’m going to the toilet, and you’d better not come in there again. After that, I’m going to make myself another coffee. Then, I’m going to come back in here and have a nap.’
‘Seems like a good plan. Once I’ve put the search terms into the database, I’ll come and join you.’
‘Don’t wake me up when you come in.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
‘And don’t think that it counts as us sleeping together.’
‘I never would.’
‘And if I find you’re staring at me while I’m asleep, you’ll be joining Vines on that board under the heading: Mutilated Victims.’
‘I’ll do the database, shall I?’
‘Good idea.’
Stick left.
Fuck! They had nothing. And, as sure as eggs is eggs he was going to do the same again tonight.
It was bad enough that she already had one strike against her name from the last case. She’d known damn well that the Kennedys had murdered the men who had raped and killed their daughter, but she couldn’t prove it – they’d got away with mass murder. Now, she had a mutilated body, a traumatised victim and nothing. No suspects, no leads – zilch. It was early days, but the auguries weren’t looking promising. She needed a break. This time she had to bring home the bacon – no excuses. Two strikes, and the powers that be would think she couldn’t hack it.
Why Theobald’s Lane? He was looking for a man and a woman in a car – a lover’s lane was the perfect place. It wasn’t worth investigating the victims – Hamill and Vines were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Would it be possible to identify and stake out the places where lovers, doggers and such like might go?
She walked down to Vice.
‘Well, well, well!’ DI Judy Driscoll said, as Xena walked in. ‘If it isn’t our very own warrior princess.’ She shouted over her shoulder to a man with a beard and piggy eyes. ‘Schwab, you owe me fifty quid. Didn’t I tell you she’d be down here begging us to help her.’
Schwab came up and began prodding and pinching Xena. ‘I hate it when you’re right, but she’s actually here in the flesh. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I never would have believed it.’ He took out his wallet and dropped two twenties and a ten on Driscoll’s desk. ‘Something to tell my children about, that’s for sure.’
‘You haven’t got any children, Schwab,’ someone said, as three other members of the team crowded round to ogle her.
‘Take a look guys,’ Driscoll said. ‘This is like one of those rare astronomical events, You know, like the planets aligning, Haley’s comet whizzing by, or an alien invasion.’
Xena screwed up her face in a poor attempt at a smile. ‘When you’ve quite finished.’
‘Finished!’ Driscoll said. ‘We’ve only just begun. As you very well know, DI Blake, we do fuck-all down here – according to you, that is – so we have to fill our time in other ways.’
‘I can imagine. I suppose you’ve got to do something with all the porn, S&M equipment and sex toys you confiscate.’
‘She’s angling for an invite to our orgies, guys. What do you think?’
‘We’ve just confiscated a new batch of S&M equipment,’ one of the others said. ‘Maybe a trial run tonight, see how she shapes up.’
Driscoll grinned. ‘What do you say, Xena?’
‘I’m up for it. Just so long as you all know that I have no masochistic tendencies at all, but sadism – I’m your woman. I’ll chain you all up and give you the time of your life. How would that be for you?’
One of the men rubbed his hands together and said, ‘I’m really looking forward to this.’
Driscoll stared at him. ‘It’s not real, Pilkington.’
‘Not real? Are you sure?’
‘Let me guess,’ Driscoll directed at Xena. ‘You want a list of all the out-of-the-way places that attract young lovers?’
‘You’ve heard about the murder?’
‘Of course.’
Xena sat in a chair in front of Driscoll’s desk. ‘Any ideas?’
The other Vice squad members were still standing round her desk.
She looked at them. ‘Will you lot fuck off and get some work done?’
They shuffled off to where they’d come from.
‘I hate that. People should know when the party’s over. So, have I any ideas? The simple answer to that question is no. It’s definitely a strange one.’
‘The Chief thought so too. You don’t have anybody on your books who masturbates with intent?’
‘You know what, they have a name for most things these days – necrophilia, oculolinctus . . .’
Xena’s face creased up. ‘Sorry?’
‘Getting sexually aroused by licking someone’s eyeballs.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I kid you not,’ Driscoll said. ‘You want to familiarise yourself with the paraphilias – the list is endless, and they keep adding more on a regular basis. Anyway, getting your rocks off by forcing a woman to strangle her boyfriend is a new one on me, and probably new to the World Health Organisation as well.’
‘Great – a new fucking weirdo. That’s all I need.’
‘I can give you a list of the places where the weirdoes go.’
‘I wonder if that’s what I’m looking for.’
‘They don’t just attract the hookers and the weirdoes. Lovers go to these places as well.’
‘Do you stake them out?’
‘Not a chance. They can spot us a mile off.’
‘The weirdoes?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not bothered about the weirdoes.’
‘That might be so, but this guy is a weirdo.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And not only that, any stake out would involve a man and a woman. You couldn’t just sit there with your binoculars taking notes. You’d have to do a lot of kissing, fellatio and copulating to blend in with the indigenous population.’
‘
Sounds like my kind of stake out.’
‘Is your partner willing to go along with that?’
‘God forbid. No, I couldn’t do any of that with Stick. Haven’t you got a stud I can borrow?’
‘Pilkington would be up for it, but he’s worse than some of the weirdoes we lock up – I wouldn’t recommend him. The other problem you’ve got is which place to stake out? If it was just Hoddesdon it might be within the realms of possibility, but it’s not. Theobald’s Lane is in Chigwell. We don’t get to Chigwell all that often. Not because it’s a fair bit away, but because it’s off the beaten track. The weirdoes prefer the places where they can be seen. It’s no good being an exhibitionist if there’s nobody to watch you.’
‘How many places on the list?’
‘Twenty-seven that we know about, but the list is neither exhaustive nor exclusive. No sooner do we raid one place, they find three more. There’s a lot of weird people with some strange fetishes out there. Take Ware Road for example, there’s a place near the cemetery . . .’
‘I know it.’
‘We keep getting reports of Bob the Builder appearing.’
Xena laughed. ‘Bob the Builder?’
‘We have names for them all. He’s naked except for a yellow hard hat, watches people making out in their cars, and rubs himself on their windows until he ejaculates.’
‘I might pay him a visit.’
‘I thought you had a bloke.’
‘So did I.’
‘Look, apart from the list, which is about as much use as a concrete fucking parachute, all I can do is ask around. I’ll get the guys to lean on their snitches. But, to be honest, if they knew anything, we’d already know – murders are bad for business.’
Xena stood up. ‘Thanks, Judy.’
‘Don’t ever say that Vice aren’t kind and forgiving.’
‘Is Pilkington really that bad?’
‘Worse.’
She made her way back up to the incident room.
Zilch, diddly-squat, zip!
Chapter Seven
Her visit to Butterfield Spire hadn’t really gone as planned. She’d expected to be able to smell what Illana Fraser was complaining about without the use of a sniffer dog or sensitive testing equipment, identify the source of the smell, and find other residents up in arms and ready to join Illana in a representative action group litigation against Israel Voss under Part 19.6 of the Civil Procedure Rules for – at the very least – a million pounds.
Instead, she had nothing. No smell, no source and no residents wearing skeleton costumes and gas masks, and protesting outside the apartment block with banners and placards. As far as she could tell – Illana didn’t have a case.
She’d wasted a whole day carrying out research that hadn’t led anywhere – especially to a pot of gold for Baxter, Kowalski & Associates. Oh, they’d bill Illana for Jerry’s time, but it wasn’t the same as ten percent of a million pounds – not the same at all.
At two o’clock tomorrow afternoon she’d go back and see what Israel Voss had to say for himself. If he said no to her request for a specialist to enter the building and take readings, what could she do? Was it worth pursuing? Probably not. Although she’d threatened the building supervisor with legal action if Voss said no, a Magistrate would be unlikely to grant a court order. Without evidence, all she had was the ravings of a stressed-out junior equity trader whose nose was too close to her arse. Although she’d only asked two of the other residents – or at least a girlfriend and a relative of two residents – no one could smell anything, and no one had complained of smelling anything. No, the visit hadn’t gone as she’d anticipated at all.
Charlie wasn’t in his office. He was probably still in Redbridge in the courtroom of Mrs Rillstone, who always kept people there until five o’clock. Other magistrates would finish early, but Mrs Rillstone made a point of finishing at five o’clock.
She had half-an-hour to kill, and could have gone home, but Laura Dixon – one of the newly qualified solicitors – was working in her office on the first floor, the two clerical staff – Brenda Holland and Anne Gibbons – were busy word-processing, Adrian Judkins – the finance officer – was cooking the books, and Beatrice Dillimore – the receptionist – was answering call after call as if it was Monday morning instead of Wednesday afternoon.
In the end, she decided to do a little research on her adversaries in preparation for her return to Butterfield Spire. As expected, she found nothing on Wilhelm Tomasic. She thought about asking Ray if he’d run Willie’s name through the police database, but she knew what his answer would be.
‘Are you trying to get me the sack, Mrs Kowalski? I can imagine the charges: Misuse of public funds, misconduct by a senior police officer in public office . . . there would be a long list – believe me.’
‘Darling . . .’ She’d let her negligee accidentally slip off her shoulder, touch his face with her hand, rub his hairy leg with her silky smooth one . . .
He’d be plasticine in her hands, and he’d lie there and enjoy it for Queen and country, but he wouldn’t run Willie’s name through his precious little database.
She typed in Israel Voss.
He had his own page on Wikipedia. On the right of the page was a photograph of a thin, severe-looking SS Stabshauptmann (Senior Captain) in his early thirties with a silver death’s head badge on his peaked hat, standing in front of a panzer tank. His name was Michael Jochen Voss – Israel’s father, who was captured by Soviet troops in May 1945 and held until October 1953. Beneath that was a picture of a woman with a pinched face, tightly-woven hair and big ears – Helga Voss née Bohr.
Israel was born in Frankfurt during 1954, but no birth date was given, which made him sixty years old. The only picture of him was a blurry full-length one as he was entering a building in Berlin, there were no details of his childhood and nothing before he came to prominence as a real estate investor. There was a long list of companies he was founder and Chief Executive Officer of, and an even longer list of real estate owned and projects being undertaken by those companies – Butterfield Spire was on the list of real estate his companies owned.
If it wasn’t obvious to her already, the article stated that Israel Voss was a recluse who hid behind an army of lawyers in order to protect his privacy. He refused all requests for photographs, interviews, biographies and anything else that might reveal who he was to the world. He wasn’t married, he had no children, and his wealth was estimated at between $10 - $50 billion.
She switched off the computer, made her way out – saying goodnight to those who had been waiting for her to leave, so that they could go home as well – and headed for her car. Illana Fraser and the smell in Butterfield Spire was hardly a ripple in the ocean that was Israel Voss. Taking out a representative action against the man would be like throwing ice cream at the sun. She wondered how Willie Tomasic – a building supervisor – had direct access to a billionaire recluse. Well, she’d go along tomorrow afternoon, hear what Willie had to say, and then tell Illana Fraser she was wasting her time and if she couldn’t put up with the smell – to find somewhere else to live.
***
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve, Dougall.’
He laughed. ‘I know.’
‘Why are you ringing me from Dagenham instead of screwing me senseless here in Hoddesdon? Do you know how long it’s been since I had sex?’
‘Yeah. It’s been a bit difficult.’
‘What’s going on, Tom?’
He was quiet on the other end of the phone.
‘You’ve found someone else, haven’t you?’
‘I didn’t plan it, Xena.’
‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’
‘I know.’
‘She’s young, pretty and fucks like a bunny, doesn’t she?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Tears welled in her eyes. ‘You’re not sorry at all, you bastard.’ She slammed the phone down so hard it shattered and the pieces fell on the floor, then sh
e heard a death rattle and it died an agonising death.
She left the pieces of the phone where they lay, grabbed her bag and walked out of the second-floor flat on Belvedere Court in Yewlands.
It was seven forty-five. The Ming Inn had two customers, and barely registered on the Richter Scale.
‘Xena,’ Frankie, the pub landlord said, as she sat on a stool at the end of the bar next to the right-hand wall beneath a picture of Hoddesdon in Roman times. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Beer chaser.’
‘Which, translated means: “Good evening, Frankie. Yes, I’m feeling on top of the world today. How are you?”’
‘Just give me a beer chaser. Otherwise I’m going to scoop your eyeballs out of their sockets with my broken fingernails, dip them in the urine-smeared peanuts and eat them.’
He poured her a double whisky and a pint of lager. ‘You always brighten up my evening with your colourful language. It’s a shame there aren’t more customers. I could have paid you to do a turn.’
She threw back the whisky and chased it down with a mouthful of larger. ‘Keep them coming until I fall off the stool.’
‘Bad day, huh?’
‘The worse fucking day of my life bar none. Have you run out of whisky? Do I have to go to the Alf’s Head?’
He put another whisky in front of her. ‘It won’t solve anything.’
‘No, but it’ll blot out your stupid grinning face.’ She threw back the whisky, and half the lager that was still left in the glass. ‘Another one of each.’
He pulled the pint. ‘In a hurry?’
‘Why wait.’
He held the drinks back. ‘Give me the number of someone I can call when you fall off the stool.’
She opened up her bag, took out a business card and wrote Stick’s number on the back. ‘His name’s Stick,’ she said as she slid the card across the counter.
He passed her the drinks. ‘As in a stick?’
Her brain was already fuzzy round the edges, and her tongue felt as if it belonged to somebody else. ‘No wonder you’re a pub fucking landlord.’
