by Tim Ellis
***
‘I have an idea,’ Richards said.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘It seems to me that the only lead that we haven’t followed up on is Edgar Beasley’s list of what he was doing the week before Catrina Golding’s death.’
‘Who he was doing, you mean?’
‘You’re the most disgusting . . .’
‘Do you really want to go sloshing about in the sewers of casual sex?’
‘I don’t think we have a choice. The killer helped himself to Beasley’s sperm, which means that Beasley is the only person who has seen him.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘CCTV.’
‘Interesting. Have you checked whether the Back Street Cinema or the Berlin Bar have CCTV?’
‘No. What do you think?’
‘I think you’d better check.’
‘Of course. That’s what I was going to do.’
‘Well, get going then. I’ll wait here and do some more thinking.’
‘You’re . . .’
‘. . . A fabulous person who deserves everything he gets?’
‘Something like that,’ she said as she went out.
Could it be the crack of light he’d been hoping for? They’d need to hobnob with Edgar Beasley again. That wouldn’t be pleasant, but what choice did they have? He was the only one who had seen the killer and was still alive to point him out. Was he still alive? Maybe the killer realised that as well.
He hurried downstairs to speak to the Duty Sergeant – Colleen Harwood – who, or so it seemed, had been on the verge of retirement for the past twenty years at least. She had white hair, liver spots on her forehead and cheeks, a nose like a lousy boxer and the sides of her face sagged below her jawline.
‘Inspector Parish.’
‘Hello, Colleen. You’re looking . . .’
‘Don’t try to soft-soap me, Inspector. You detective-types are all the same. You think you can come down here – where the real work is done – and give us the run-around. What do you want?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble . . .’
‘Stop trying to be smarmy, just spit it out.’
‘I’d like Edgar Beasley picking up again.’
‘What for?’
‘His own safety – tell him. I think he might be in danger.’
‘Yeah, aren’t we all in danger? Okay, I’ll get some of our hard-working uniformed officers to do your dirty work for you . . . Sir.’ She said the last word as if it was a synonym for Satan.
‘Very kind,’ he said, and smiled like a travelling salesman.
She ignored him.
He went back upstairs.
‘I thought you’d gone without me,’ Richards said.
‘Is that likely?’
‘I suppose not. You’re not keen on getting your hands dirty, so you always want someone round to do all the work for you.’
‘There you are then. Well?’
‘Both establishments possess CCTV at the door. I’ve told them we’re on our way and we’d like copies of the footage from Friday, July 25 in the case of the Back Street Cinema, and Saturday, July 26 in the case of the Berlin Bar.’
‘Okay, let’s go.’
They made their way out.
‘Where did you disappear to?’
He told her.
‘Good idea.’
‘The importance of thinking.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’
It didn’t take them long to reach the Back Street Independent Cinema on Canal Street, but the three sets of double doors were all locked up.
Parish’s brow creased up. ‘You said you phoned them?’
‘I did.’
‘So why aren’t they here?’
‘Maybe they’re in the back, or in the toilet.’
‘Maybe?’
She banged and kicked on the door.
‘Shout through the letterbox.’
‘It’s at the bottom of the door.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ll have to get down on my hands and knees.’
‘Which leads me back to my earlier point – And?’
‘My face will be on the floor.’
‘And?’
‘Will you stop saying that?’
‘Well get down there and shout . . .’
They heard one of the doors scraping the floor as it opened.
‘Saved by the bell,’ Parish said.
‘Don’t worry, that’s another page for my report.’
‘Sorry,’ a man said, coming out onto the concrete steps leading into the cinema. ‘Got caught short.’ He was tall, had longish grey-black hair that stuck up like alfalfa grass, matching eyebrows and a flabby face. ‘Police?’
‘Yes,’ Richards said.
‘Come in, come in.’
He led them into the entrance lobby, which was a dark and dingy place with black and white photographs hanging on the walls of long-dead movie stars such as: Humphrey Bogart, Boris Karloff, Betty Davis, Oliver Reed and Rita Hayworth. There were also long-forgotten posters for classic films such as: King Kong, The Bride of Frankenstein, Gone With The Wind, Casablanca, Zulu and Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Richards showed her warrant card. ‘DC Richards and DI Parish. Was it you who I spoke to?’
‘Yes, Alex Myers at your service. You want a copy of a security recording?’
‘For the late-night screening from Friday, July 25.’
‘Let’s see what we can find. I’m not really a techie, but I’ll try and find what you want. I think there are two types of people in the world, those who understand how a computer works, and those who don’t. Sadly, I fall squarely in the latter group. A man usually comes along to fill all my technological needs.’
‘DC Richards knows a bit,’ Parish said.
Richards’ eyes narrowed. ‘A bit?’
‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’
‘My father used to own the cinema. Of course, that was in the days when a cinema was a cinema. We used to share a passion for the old films – when films were films. Now, I have no idea what they are, and the bank owns the cinema. I’ll be lucky if I last out the year.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Myers,’ Parish said.
‘They call it progress, so the people in the know tell me. Everybody owns home entertainment systems now, Xboxes, tablets, Kindles, 360 degree virtual reality. They can download music, films, books and apps in seconds. Designer drugs are a phone call away. It’s a Brave New World out there as Aldous Huxley once informed us.’ He walked up two wooden steps and opened a door to a tiny room with a desk and a computer. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit like the inside of a sardine tin in here.’
Richards went inside with him.
‘I’ll stand out here, Richards.’
‘You wouldn’t fit in anyway.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Eventually, Richards came out waving a DVD in the air. ‘Got it.’
‘Good.’
Myers followed her out. ‘Anything else I can help you heroic public servants with?’
‘You can tell us about the Friday late-night screenings,’ Parish said.
‘Merely another way of making some extra money – diversification the bank manager calls it. It’s members only, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. We couldn’t have people simply wandering in off the street. I lock the doors, of course. People can leave when they want, but nobody can enter unless I let them in.’
‘Do you keep a list of members?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is it possible for us to have a copy of that list?’
‘I don’t see why not. As long as you’re not planning to make the list public.’
‘It’s a murder investigation, Mr Myers.’
‘Of course.’
‘What details are on the list?’
‘Name, address, date of joining.’
‘Pr
oper name?’
‘Yes. I check it against a person’s driving licence or passport. I don’t stand for any messing about. It deters people from doing anything stupid.’
Parish nodded.
He went back into the office. After a while they could hear a printer churning out paper. When it had finished he reappeared. ‘There we are,’ he said, passing the list to Richards.
‘Thank you.’
‘Glad to be of service.’
‘One last thing,’ Parish said. ‘Could we take a look in the cinema.’
‘You mean where the late-night screenings take place?’
‘Are they not in the main cinema?’
‘No, I don’t think the public would take too kindly to that. Friday night screenings take place in a smaller, fifty-seat room upstairs. Please, follow me.’
He headed up the stairs.
They followed.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ Parish said to Richards.
Richards pulled a face. ‘Yuk.’
There wasn’t much to see – a large screen, five rows of ten seats in two blocks of twenty-five with walkways in the centre and at either side.
‘Thanks,’ Parish said.
They made their way out.
Richards shivered. ‘I need a shower now.’
Parish felt he needed one as well.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘When was the last time you went to a club?’ Richards asked him.
‘A hundred years ago.’
‘I can believe that.’
His rubbed the stubble on his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘When I was at university, I suppose.’
‘Ten years ago?’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘You’re a stick-in-the-mud.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What do you do if you want to show mum a good time?’
‘I don’t think you want to know the intimate gory details . . .’
‘You know I don’t mean that.’
‘We’re too old to go clubbing.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me. Anyway, when was the last time you went clubbing?’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Becoming a detective.’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to stop living.’
‘I haven’t. It’s just . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You know.’
‘I can’t say I do.’
‘I have no one to go with.’
‘So, you have no friends, no boyfriend and no life beyond work.’
‘You haven’t either.’
‘I have your mother, Jack, Melody and Digby.’
‘And me.’
‘And you. My life is full, but we’re not talking about me – we’re talking about you.’
‘Well, stop talking about me.’
The door opened. ‘Yes, luvvies?’
Parish showed his warrant card. ‘DI Parish and DC Richards.’
‘You’re here for the security recording?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Come into my boudoir then,’ the man said.
‘And you are?’
‘Eddie Berlin at your service. I’m the owner and proprietor of the Berlin Bar.’
‘Is Berlin really your surname?’ Richards asked.
Eddie laughed. ‘I wish. I was born Edward Micklethwaite, but The Micklethwaite Bar just didn’t have the same ring to it. I had to pay a hundred and two pounds fifty for the privilege of changing it by deed poll.’
‘That’s quite reasonable,’ she said.
Parish stared at her. ‘Are you thinking of changing your surname?’
‘I might be.’
The Berlin Bar was just like any other bar or club. It had a number of bars that the clientele could buy drinks and sundries at, a stage for the acts and shows, a lighting system that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a West End theatre, a spinning mirror ball and a raised platform where the DJ made the music happen.
‘Can we just collect the security footage and go?’ He turned back to Berlin. ‘Have you made a copy for us?’
‘Saturday, July 26?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘It won’t take a minute. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting?’
‘No, thanks. Just the DVD.’
‘Okay.’ He disappeared into the bowels of the club.
Richards pulled a face. ‘You’re grumpy.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘Oh, so it’s all right for you to be tired, but I’m expected to carry on being my usual happy self?’
‘Do I know that person?’
‘I’m still looking round for another partner, you know.’
‘Good luck with that. Maybe I should put an advert in the Police Gazette and schedule interviews to replace you.’
‘You do that.’
He pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll probably have to wait until the holiday season is over to attract the best candidates, but then I’ll be inundated with applications.’
Eddie Berlin came back clutching a DVD in a plastic cover. ‘There we are, luvvies – all done and dusted.’
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Berlin,’ Richards said, and smiled.
‘You’re welcome. Has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely smile?’
‘Lots of people have said so, but thank you anyway.’
Berlin showed them out.
‘Did you hear what he said?’
‘I heard, but we’re not talking about Little Miss Smiley. We’re talking about the person behind the lovely smile. The one who hasn’t got any friends, the one who doesn’t have a boyfriend, the one who knows more about serial killers than she does about life.’
‘They’re exactly the same person,’ she said, once they were in the car and heading back towards the station.
‘No they’re not. You have no work-life balance. The serial-killer chasing workaholic has squeezed out the fun-loving Mary Richards. I blame myself, of course. After this case, we’ll discuss the situation.’
‘Discuss the situation – what does that mean?’
‘Which word of the three don’t you understand? How old are you now?’
‘You know exactly how old I am.’
‘And twenty-two is far too young not to have a life.’
‘You’re doing this because of the Human Rights Report, aren’t you?’
‘You don’t think I believe that rubbish, do you?’
‘It’s all true, but I’ll stop if you tell me to.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
‘Is it because I’m looking around for another partner?’
‘No. If you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine.’
‘It’s because . . .’
‘Stop trying to pre-empt the discussion. I said after the case, not during the case.’
‘Is it . . . ?’
‘Stop talking, Richards.’
‘But . . .’
***
It was the first time he’d phoned the Chief Constable because, under normal circumstances, he was so far down the food chain that there were other officers above him whom he was required to contact first before he would ever get to converse with the Chief Constable.
Today was different.
DI Blake was in hospital, DI Tubman was dead and Chief Kowalski was not in his office.
‘Why is a DS ringing me, Gilbert?’ Chief Constable William Orde, Queen’s Police Medal (QPM) asked.
His heart began to thrash about. He could see his career lying in tatters on the floor in front of him. ‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘You can be sorry afterwards. Why are you ringing me?’
‘You know about the Chief?’
‘Yes.’
‘And DI Tubman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And DI Blake?’
‘Is this a long list, Gilbert?’
‘I’m the last man
standing, Sir.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You’re aware of the lovers’ lane murders . . . ?’
‘I’d be a poor Chief Constable if I wasn’t, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, Sir.’
‘Well?’
He eventually told him about the garrotte, how Doc Paine had matched the DNA on Vines’ neck wound to Isaac Scully, his visit to the ESW at Rye, the missing garrotte and Inspector McLarty’s suicide.
‘Everyone you come into contact with seems to end of up dead or in hospital, Gilbert.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Where did he get a gun . . . ? In fact, don’t answer that. Seeing as you’re in the ESW it’s a stupid question.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Is there someone else there?’
‘Sergeant Jenkins – she’s on duty here.’
‘You’ll obviously have to provide a statement, but haven’t you got a murderer to catch?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Put Sergeant Jenkins on, Sergeant.’
‘Is it all right if I get her to call you back, Sir? I’m using my mobile.’
‘No wonder DI Blake is in hospital.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
He ended the call, and then told Sergeant Jenkins to phone the Chief Constable.
‘Me?’
‘You’re in charge. I’ve got to go.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Seems all right.’
‘Okay. Oh, and good luck with David Menon.’
‘Thanks.’
Outside he phoned Jen and told her what had happened.
‘Oh dear!’
‘So, I won’t be able to come and help you. Instead, I want you to phone Sergeant Catalano, tell her everything and that you need her help in following her husband, so that you can find out what he does with those black plastic sacks.’
‘I can do that.’
‘And be careful, Jen.’
‘You too, Rowley.’
Next, he phoned the Duty Sergeant – Colleen Harwood – and asked her to send a squad car to meet him at David Menon’s house: 54 Murchison Road in Rye Park.
It didn’t take him long to reach the address. Two uniforms were waiting for him. The male officer must have been about six foot five tall, and the female officer was barely five foot six short.
‘Constable Danny Jackson and Constable Susan Jackson, Sarge,’ the man said. ‘No relation.’
