by Tim Ellis
‘Right behind you, Sir,’ Stick said, but didn’t move.
As soon as Tubman disappeared through the swing doors he said to Doc Paine, ‘He’s an idiot.’
‘That idea had occurred to me.’
‘Listen, have you taken swabs from the neck, wrist and genital wounds, extracted the DNA and run it through the database?’
‘No.’
‘Could you do that, but keep it between you and me?’
‘I’ll have to add it to my report.’
‘That’s all right. He probably won’t read it anyway because you’ve already told him you had nothing new.’
‘Okay. Have you got a hunch?’
‘Possibly. I’ve learnt that he hangs the garrotte around his own neck before he passes it to the woman, and I’m wondering if by doing that he’s inadvertently transferred some of his own DNA to the victim’s neck by accident. It also occurred to me that he might have done the same thing with the restraint and the knife.’
‘An interesting hypothesis. I’ll get right on it. Oh, and good luck with DI Tubman.’
‘I think I’ll need more than luck.’
He followed Tubman out.
‘You took your time,’ Tubman said when Stick caught up to him.
‘I needed to speak to the doc about an unrelated matter.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, in future there are no unrelated matters. If I say we leave, then we leave.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll let it go this time, but be warned, Sergeant.’
‘Duly warned, Sir.’
‘We’ll go back to the station now. You follow me.’
Stick looked around the car park. ‘What car are you driving?’
‘I’m glad you asked me that. It’s my own. I’ve got a bit of a thing for classic cars.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ Tubman said, pointing to a rusty green wreck up ahead. ‘It’s a 1969 Skoda 100L.’
‘Have you got a classic car collection?’
‘No, just this one, but that’s my long-term ambition.’
Stick walked round the car nodding his head like an aficionado. ‘Very nice.’
‘Everybody who sees it – likes it.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘Anyway, we haven’t got all day to stand here admiring the love of my life. Where’s your car?’
Stick pointed to a shiny new black car. ‘That one.’
‘A pool car?’
‘No, it’s mine.’
Tubman’s eyes narrowed. ‘On a Sergeant’s wages?’
‘I didn’t realise you were here to investigate my finances?’
‘What is it?’
‘An Aston Martin DBS – the latest model.’
‘Two a penny I suppose?’
‘Of course. It pales in comparison to your work of art, and it’s certainly nothing like the 1964 original that was used in the Goldfinger and Thunderball films, but it’s very nice all the same.’
‘Right well, you follow me then.’
‘I’ll try.’
He discovered another parking ticket had been slipped under his windscreen wiper, which he placed with the other one on the passenger seat.
It was extremely difficult chugging along behind the Skoda at fifty miles an hour when the Aston Martin had a top speed of 190 mph. As far as he could tell, following Tubman’s car added twenty-five minutes to the journey, which didn’t give them a lot of time to see Di Heffernan before the press briefing.
‘I could go up to forensics . . .’
‘We’ll both go up there, Sergeant. I’m running this investigation – not the press. They work for me as you do, not the other way round. In my experience, the media have far too much power.’
In forensics Stick introduced Tubman to Di.
‘I’ve been telling my Sergeant that I’m not a great believer in the hocus pocus of forensic science, Mrs Heffalump. So it’s your job to convince me otherwise.’
‘It’s Miss,’ Di corrected him. ‘And my name is Heffernan not Heffalump. A heffalump is a fictional elephant in the Winnie the Pooh stories by AA Milne.’
‘I’m sure. Well, we’re in a rush, so have you found anything useful we can use to catch the hooded man?’
‘I can confirm that he appears to walk with a limp. Whether this is a permanent physical deformity or a temporary condition I have no idea.’
‘Not much use then.’
‘Also, we found tyre marks belonging to a motorbike further down the lane, but whether these belonged to the motorbike that the hooded man used – if he used one at all – or what type of motorbike the tyre marks belonged to, we have no way of knowing.’
‘Is that it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘No garrotte, knife or restraint?’
‘No.’
‘No panties awash with DNA?’
‘No.’
‘No fingerprints, hairs or fibres that might provide us with a suspect?’
‘No.’
He turned to Stick. ‘See what I mean. If you want my honest opinion, it’s a waste of money paying these fakers. The forensic people we have at Bishop’s Stortford are twice as good as the flimflam artists you have here.’
Di’s mouth hung open in disbelief.
‘Right, Sergeant,’ Tubman said, opening the door to the lab and stepping into the corridor. ‘Let’s go down and tell the media that, due to the inability of the forensic idlers, we have nothing. No suspect, no leads, no clues, no possibility of ever catching this psychopathic pervert.’
Stick gave Di a sympathetic smile and squeezed her arm before following Tubman out.
‘Don’t you think you were a bit harsh on her, Sir?’
‘Harsh? I went easy on the heffalump, but she’ll be better informed the next time she tries to tell me she’s got nothing if she knows what’s good for her.’
Tubman bounded into the press briefing room, sat down at the table and stared at the journalists until they became quiet.
Stick stood just inside the door. He didn’t really want to be associated with what Tubman had to say.
‘I am Detective Inspector Ralph Tubman. I’ve been brought here from Bishop’s Stortford to take charge of the investigation involving two young men . . .’
‘Clare Tindle from the Redbridge Camera. Where’s DI Blake?’
‘It’s my understanding that she’s suffered a relapse, that’s why I’m here to sort things out. Now, we have two murders . . .’
‘Mark Horton from the Mission Daily . . .’
Tubman raised both hands and glowered at the assemblage. ‘I don’t know what you’re used to people, but if you don’t shut the hell up and stop shouting out questions I’ll leave you to it.’
Quiet descended on the room.
‘Thank you. In future, don’t ask me any questions. I’m going to tell you everything you need to know. As I was saying, we have two murders, but no suspect. There are no leads, no clues and as yet – no motive. We think he might have a limp, and we think he might arrive and depart the crime scenes on a motorbike, but other than that we have very little to go on. I’d like to make an appeal to the public. Someone out there knows who this madman is. I want you to come forward, ring our helpline in the strictest confidence and give up your loved one.’
‘Steve Bamping from NBC Europe, Inspector. Is it true that he’s forcing the girlfriend of each victim to murder them?’
‘Which part of “No questions” don’t you understand, Mr Bumble?’
‘Nicki Jacobs from the Chigwell Herald. Can you tell us anything about the genitals?’
‘I’m afraid I only possess a working knowledge of genitals, Miss Jacoby.’ Tubman stood up. ‘There won’t be any more press briefings unless I need your help – good afternoon.’
Stick followed him out into the corridor.
‘That’s how to treat nosy reporters,’ Tubman said.
‘Good job, Si
r.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
Stick felt he was getting the hang of DI Ralph Tubman. As well as being a complete idiot, the man was also a megalomaniac.
Chapter Twelve
It was exactly two o’clock when she pressed the supervisor’s button on the door panel at Butterfield Spire. She didn’t want to be late for the famous Israel Voss.
The door buzzed, and then clicked open.
She stepped inside the marble hallway.
Willie Tomasic was waiting for her. ‘You are here?’
‘As I said I would be. Where is Mr Voss?’
‘Please follow. Mr Voss is waiting.’
‘Waiting?’
‘Yes.’ The supervisor went to the lift, pressed the button and the doors opened. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Where?’
He pointed his index finger upwards. ‘To Mr Voss’ apartment.’
‘The penthouse suite?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s actually here?’
‘In the apartment.’
She stepped into the lift.
Tomasic inserted a key into a keyhole in the control panel, turned it and pressed the “P” button.
The penthouse suite took up the whole of the top floor, and as far as she was aware no one had ever seen inside it. She wished she’d brought her camera now. Although, she’d really had no idea that she’d be meeting Israel Voss. She hoped she would, but she didn’t know.
‘I thought Mr Voss was out of the country.’
‘No – he is here. He is always here.’
‘Why is he prepared to see me?’
Willie shrugged. ‘I do as Mr Voss tells me. He says to bring you up to his apartment. That is what I am doing.’
The lift pinged and eased to a stop. The display showed that they had reached the penthouse suite. The doors slid open.
Willie stepped into the apartment. ‘Please follow.’
She followed him.
The doors closed behind her, and a feeling of panic washed over her as she heard the lift begin its descent. Would she need a key to get out?
As if he had read her mind, Willie said, ‘If you wish to leave you just press the button – no key is required up here.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tomasic.’
She followed him along a marble hallway that had abstract artwork on the walls and opened out into an enormous living room. The far wall was made up of a concertina glass door that allowed access onto a balcony with a stunning view of London.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
A deep-pile beige carpet covered the floor. The furniture was also beige and surrounded a six-foot square marble and glass coffee table. On the right-hand wall hung the largest television screen she had ever seen.
‘I am sure Mr Voss will show you all the rooms if you wish to see them. Please make yourself comfortable and I will find him for you.’
Willie disappeared through a door.
She wandered around the room looking and touching. None of the artwork hanging on the walls jogged any memories. She wasn’t an art lover, but she’d expected to see a Van Gogh, a Salvador Dali, or maybe a Hockney. The ornaments were much the same – nothing by Henry Moore, Auguste Rodin or Michelangelo. Maybe Voss wasn’t an art lover either. But it was expected of rich people. If the rich didn’t buy expensive art – who would?
‘Mrs Kowalski,’ a man said, coming into the room.
She turned away from the panoramic view over London to see a man who resembled Richard Gere. His smile made her heart skip a beat and her stomach do the back-flip. Her immediate thought was: What a waste. How could such a handsome man be a recluse? He had steel-grey short hair, cerulean blue eyes and perfect white teeth. His clothes were expensive, but simple – a pair of light grey slacks, a white shirt with gold cufflinks and his bare feet were covered with a pair of light-grey leather slip-ons.
She could hardly speak. ‘Hello.’
‘Has Mr Tomasic not offered you a drink?’ he asked her in perfect English.
‘No.’
‘Please . . .’ He guided her to the large sofa. ‘A spirit? Wine? Fruit juice? The blood of a woolly mammoth?’
She smiled at his joke. ‘A tea would be nice?’
‘Earl Grey, of course?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do, I do. Please excuse me for the time it takes to make the perfect drink. Mr Tomasic has returned to his duties, and I do not employ any other staff. I like my own company.’
He disappeared again, but returned within a handful of minutes with a tray containing her tea.
‘No sugar?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘I knew it. Someone as beautiful as you would not need any sweetener.’
She added a drop of milk from a plain white milk jug and took a sip of the tea – it was lovely.
He sat at an angle beside her and undressed her with his blue eyes.
She caught a whiff of a very expensive aftershave.
‘So, you want to sue me, Jerry Kowalski?’
‘I’d much rather sort things out amicably.’
‘Someone has complained of a smell?’
‘Yes.’ She took another sip of her tea.
‘A Miss Illana Fraser?’
‘Yes . . . You tricked me.’
‘I would never do such a thing. Mr Tomasic and I know very well who has complained to you. She has been complaining for a number of months now.’
‘Why haven’t you addressed the problem?’
‘I can assure you that there is no smell. You say you would like to bring in experts. We have had experts in. They have found nothing.’
‘Will you permit me to bring in independent experts?’
‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’
‘What type of arrangement?’
‘Baxter, Kowalski & Associates is struggling financially – I could make things a little easier until we are out of the recession.’
‘You want to bribe us?’ She swallowed the remains of the tea and placed the cup and saucer down on the coffee table.
‘Let us not make inflammatory accusations. This is merely a discussion between a beautiful woman and a sad old man.’
For some reason she began to feel tired. Her eyelids were heavy, and her skin tingled. ‘Yes, we’re struggling, but not enough to take your money.’
‘It would be so much easier to simply take the money and cut out the messy business in-between.’
‘That’s not how we do business, Mr Voss.’
‘Call me Israel. Then what about Jerry Kowalski? What does she want?’
‘I’d like to obtain your permission to bring in independent experts to investigate the smell seeping into Illana Fraser’s apartment.’
‘I can’t let you do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they might discover my little secret.’
‘Little secret?’ Was that her voice? It didn’t sound like her voice. Why was she so tired? Why wouldn’t her arms move? Why was her tongue swollen? Why . . . ? Oh God! He’d drugged the tea. Her eyelids fell like metal shutters on a jeweller’s shop at closing time.
‘Yes, my beautiful, Mrs Jerry Kowalski. Doesn’t everybody have a little secret that they hide from the world?’
***
‘Send a photograph of Beasley to the hospital and ask them to confirm that he was the man that they performed the pepper-pot removal procedure on.’
‘Hey, that’s a good idea. I never would have thought of that.’
‘Yes you would – eventually. If you put the two scenarios side-by-side, only one can be the truth. Either, he was at the hospital, or he was in Hailey. What we can be absolutely sure of is that he wasn’t in both places at the same time. So, let’s try and disprove the hospital alibi first. In what ways could his alibi be false?’
‘It could have been someone else that the hospital treated?’
‘Which is why we’re sending them a photograph and asking f
or verification that it was Beasley they treated. What else?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There are two aspects to this alibi.’
‘Two?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Beasley?’
‘Yes. And . . . ?’
She screwed up her face. ‘The hospital?’
‘What about the hospital?’
‘Mmmm! They might have got the times wrong?’
‘And . . . ?’
‘The day?’
‘Good, but that’s not all.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Do we believe what people say?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘So, if the hospital come back to us and confirm that Beasley was there when he said he was having a pepper-pot removed from his back passage – do we believe them?’
‘Well . . .’
‘What if Beasley has an accomplice . . . ?’
‘Who works at the hospital?’
‘Exactly. So . . . ?’
‘So we need to verify the confirmation from a different source?’
He smiled. ‘If I’m not too much mistaken, you’re beginning to think like a detective.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re not going to send me out on my own yet, are you?’
‘No, not yet, but the time is drawing near.’
‘We’re talking years, not months.’
‘We’ll see. So, we have a plan?’
‘What about Beasley?’
‘Well, we’re not going to release him until we’ve verified his alibi. Also, there’s the small matter of his sperm – how did it get inside Catrina Golding if he wasn’t there to deposit it?’
‘So, we keep him in the cells?’
‘Yes. We can hold him for twenty-four hours without charging him, so we have a bit of time.’
They waited until the hospital came back to them and confirmed that the man in the photograph was the man they treated, and this was corroborated by the surgeon who carried out the pepper-pot removal procedure.
Richards put her chin in her hands. ‘I was hoping that Beasley wasn’t the man they’d treated.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘Such as?’
‘What was the first thing you thought of?’
‘You mean that Catrina Golding was the victim of a serial killer?’
