by Tim Ellis
‘Not married?’
‘Do us a favour,’ Susan said.
‘If you got married, you wouldn’t have to change your surname.’
‘That’s hardly a new observation, Sarge. And hardly justification for marrying an idiot.’
‘Sorry. Anyway, I’m here to speak to a man called David Menon who works at the ESW on Salisbury Road in Rye. He could be a killer, but he’s definitely a thief. Jackson . . .’
They both stared at him.
‘. . . Susan, you stay with me. Danny, you take the back.’
Both nodded.
Stick waited until Danny confirmed over the radio that he was in position. He then thumped on the UPVC front door with the base of his fist. ‘MR MENON – OPEN UP – POLICE.’
They waited, but the door didn’t open.
Stick banged again.
‘Anything, Danny?’ Susan said into the radio.
‘Nothing here,’ came back.
Stick kicked one of the plastic panels in on the front door, crawled through the opening and unlocked the deadbolts from inside.
Susan came in with her baton extended.
‘Do you want me to go first, Sarge?’
‘I do not. Imagine what people would say if I let a woman go first.’
‘They’d say you were an enlightened police officer, a champion of gender equality, instead of a male chauvinist pig like the rest of them.’
‘Sorry, can’t do it.’
They checked the downstairs first and noticed Menon’s wallet in the kitchen.
Upstairs, they found Menon’s bloated body in the main bedroom. He’d punched two holes through the plasterboard in the ceiling, looped a rope over a rafter, and hanged himself.
He’d been dead for three days. The smell pole-axed them as they opened the door. A horde of well-fed bluebottles were feasting and laying eggs on his eyes, in his mouth and up his nose. The hot days and nights of August hadn’t helped matters either.
Constable Susan Jackson ran to the bathroom to be sick in the toilet.
‘Don’t flush it,’ Stick shouted after her.
He found a suicide note on the dressing table, underneath a bottle of Paco Rabanne XS, but it wasn’t much help:
I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I just needed the money.
‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Susan said when she came back.
‘No problem. It’s always bad in the summer. Can you and Danny establish a perimeter and stand guard outside?’
‘Of course.’
‘Let Sergeant Harwood know what’s happening as well, so that she can add this to her operational tasks.’
‘Will do, Sarge.’
He phoned Di Heffernan.
‘I’m just about to go home and put my feet up for the weekend.’
‘Sorry.’ He seemed to spend his days saying “sorry” to everyone.
‘You’re not sorry at all, like I’m not sorry about DI Tubman imitating a hamburger.’
‘That’s not very nice, Di.’
‘Calling me a heffalump wasn’t very nice either. As far as I’m concerned – what goes around comes around.’
‘Anyway, I need some people here. I don’t think it’s murder, but suicide needs to be confirmed, and a full search needs to be undertaken. Also, I’m going to do a search of the house to see if I can find any clues, but I’ll leave everything as I find it. The suicide note refers to money, so I’m assuming that he sold the garrotte to somebody – maybe a collector who gave him a receipt . . .’
‘I don’t think receipts are provided for stolen goods.’
‘Maybe I’ll get lucky.’
‘Okay, I’ll put my weekend on hold just for you.’
‘Could you give Doc Paine a ring for me?’
‘Would you like me to solve the case for you as well?’
‘I’d pay you extra for that.’
‘You don’t pay me at all.’
‘Don’t I?’
***
Jerry opened her eyes and saw Ray smiling at her.
‘Hello, Mrs Kowalski.’
The anaesthesia and painkillers were making her feel distant, detached and cold. ‘Hello.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Tired.’
‘They removed the nails from your hands.’
She looked at the bandages wrapped around her hands and wrists. ‘Good. I would have had trouble applying my make-up if they’d left them there.’
‘I’d have put it on for you, and I’m sure the kids would have helped as well.’
She gave him a weak smile. ‘That would have been fun.’
‘Charlie Baxter popped his head in. I told him to come back tonight.’
‘Okay. You look tired as well.’
‘Going without sleep can do that to a man.’
She burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, Ray.’
He squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t be sorry. What happened wasn’t in any way your fault.’
‘He killed that young police officer, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, and he would have killed you if it hadn’t been for Richards.’
‘The place that didn’t exist?’
‘What?’
‘That’s what he called it. He said that no one would ever find me because I was in a place that didn’t exist.’
‘It was a hidden floor between the nineteenth floor and the penthouse. You could only stop the lift there if you had a key to the control panel. God knows how Richards worked it out. She deserves a medal.’
‘You deserve a medal for putting up with me.’
He nodded. ‘I concur.’
‘Can I come home with you?’
‘Tomorrow the doctor said.’
Tears leaked from her eyes again. ‘Did you catch him?’
‘No, not yet. He’d planned his escape well. He had a vehicle waiting for him at the bottom of the chute. I don’t think they’ll catch him now.’
‘What about the plane?’
‘There are fifteen airports and airfields in all directions around Hainault apparently. Some are private airfields, and it was the middle of the night as well, remember. They still have no idea if there was a plane, and if there was, whether it took off, and if it did, where it took off from and where it was heading.’
‘He said he’d killed lots of women.’
‘Hainault’s forensic people will be there for a long time.’
She was so tired. Her eyes began to close. ‘Go home now, Ray. Look after the children. Look after yourself.’
‘I’ll come back tonight.’
‘Okay.’
Then the darkness came. She was running, but standing still. Screaming, but no sound came out of her mouth. Ray was calling her name, but she couldn’t find him. Then, something grotesque appeared out of the swirling shadows – beckoning her to follow. As the monstrosity came closer, she realised that the abomination was one of Israel Voss’ victims. More mutilated corpses edged closer, until she was being jostled from all sides. ‘Come with us,’ they said. ‘Come with us . . .’
Chapter Twenty-Two
He didn’t find a receipt, but he found the next best thing – a recent address with a postcode in the satnav of David Menon’s Renault Laguna.
Stick drove to Bell Lane in Broxbourne and discovered a shop called Musket’s Armoury that sold British military antiques and collectibles.
He opened the door, the bell jangled, and two thousand years of history and dust rushed up his nose and made him sneeze three times like a hay-fever sufferer.
There didn’t seem to be anybody on sentry duty behind the counter. ‘Hello?’ he called.
While he was waiting for someone to appear, he took a look about. There were pictures of battles from the Crimean War, the Peninsular War, the Third Ashanti War, the Boer War, the First and Second World Wars . . . Stick had pictures, diaries, medals and memorabilia in boxes gathering dust in the attic that had been part of his inheritance when his parents had died. The content
s told the story of his ancestors, but he’d never bothered to look in the boxes – maybe one day he would.
‘Hello?’ he called again, brushing the cobwebs from his face.
There were greatcoats from the First World War, German SS bayonets from WWII, decommissioned rifles and pistols from different ages and wars around the world, swords, daggers, medals, helmets, berets, uniforms, badges of rank . . .
‘Hello, anybody about?’
He found a small alcove that wasn’t militaria, but focused on crime – specifically serial killers and murder. He wondered if Mary Richards knew about this place. There was Peter Stumpp who had murdered and eaten fourteen children and two pregnant women; John Williams who had killed two families by smashing their skulls in with a hammer and cutting their throats; Jane Scott who had poisoned various members of her family . . . There were items that were purported to have come from the various crime scenes: A bottle containing a heart from one of Stumpp’s victims; the actual hammer that Williams had used to shatter bones and splatter brains; and a bottle labelled “Arsenic” that was half-full . . .
‘Hello?’
He heard a noise like the throaty rumbling of a volcano emanating from a back room and followed the sound inside.
An old man with shoulder-length grey hair, pale, sagging skin; and eyebrows that a bald-headed man would have paid good money for, was asleep in an easy chair snoring like a wounded warthog.
The room was small, dark and dusty. There was an old military-style desk, a horse’s saddle, books and pamphlets stacked to the ceiling, an overflowing wooden filing cabinet, a Russian WWI gasmask, a threadbare Japanese flag hanging on the wall . . .
‘Excuse me,’ Stick said, but obtained no response. On the fifth time of shaking the man, he grunted and opened his eyes. ‘I have no money.’
Stick showed his warrant card.
‘No, sorry. Not interested in police warrant cards – especially fake ones.’
‘I’m a real police officer, and this is a real warrant card.’
The man cupped a hand round his ear. ‘Sorry – you’ll have to speak up. They say I can get batteries for my hearing aids from the local library, but they closed the library down. Do you think they informed me of any alternative arrangements for the supply of my batteries? . . . What’s that? Yes, you’re right, they never told me a damned thing. Once they make euthanasia legal – I’m off . . .’
‘Detective Sergeant Gilbert from . . .’
‘Are you trying to talk to me?’
Stick nodded.
‘Just a minute.’ The old man found an ear trumpet in a drawer of the desk and jammed it into his ear. ‘Go on then, young man. Speak slightly slower than normal, but you don’t have to shout.’
‘I’d like to speak to you about a garrotte.’
‘Dry rot?’
Stick cranked his voice up a few more decibels. ‘A garrotte.’
The old man screwed up his face. ‘Isaac Scully’s garrotte?’
Stick nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I had a feeling I shouldn’t have bought that.’
‘I’m more interested in who you sold it to.’
‘Has it been used in another murder?’
‘Yes.’ He helped the man to stand.
‘Come with me,’ the old man said.
Stick followed him back into the shop.
The old man pulled a ledger from under the counter and rifled through the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘Yes, here it is.’ He looked up at Stick. ‘If you’re a real police officer you’ll have a notebook and pencil about your person.’
A notebook and pencil appeared in Stick’s hand like an amateur magic trick.
‘Lives in Waltham Abbey, or so he said. Number 37 Monkswood Avenue. He paid one thousand five hundred pounds for Scully’s garrotte. I made seven hundred pounds on the sale.’
‘Name?’
‘Stanley Thomas.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘It was worth a try.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go home to the wife now.’
Stick pulled out his phone and called the Duty Sergeant.
‘Sergeant Harwood.’
‘It’s Rowley, Colleen.’
‘Yes?’
‘I need a couple of uniforms again.’
‘Will the Jacksons do?’
‘Why do you put those two together?’
‘To confuse people.’
‘It certainly does that. Yes, they’ll do.’
‘Okay, they’re not off-shift until eight tonight. What’s the address?’
He gave it to her. ‘You’re on your way over there now, are you?’
‘Yes. Tell them to wait outside for me.’
‘Will do.’
He ended the call
‘Thanks for your help . . .’ He realised he didn’t know the old man’s name, and helped himself to a business card from the counter. ‘ . . . Mr Richard Jackson.’
‘Are sure you don’t want to throw me in jail and drop the key down the sewers?’
‘Your wife can’t be that bad?’
‘You haven’t met her – she’s worse than anything you can imagine in your darkest nightmares. I was hoping for a few years of peace in my old age, but she’s determined to outlive me.’
Stick tucked the business card in his pocket and left.
***
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Sergeant Catalano?’
‘I’m only a Sergeant at work, and I’m not at work at the moment.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Do you want to tell me who you are?’
‘Oh yes! I’m Constable Jenifer D’Arcy. I’m not at work today either, so I suppose you could call me Jen.’
‘And you’re ringing me because?’
‘I’m Rowley’s fiancée. I’ve been following your husband.’
‘And you’re calling me because you’ve got news?’
’Rowley can’t help because he’s chasing a murderer . . .’
‘Help! Help with what?’
‘I’ll start from the beginning, shall I?’
‘That would probably be a good idea.’
‘I followed the subject . . .’
‘That would be Bobby?’
‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what I call him.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Yes, I followed him from his house to his place of work. At lunchtime he drove to the Kingsmead Country Hotel off the Old Nazeing Road and met a woman . . .’
‘I knew it.’
‘Well yes, but they didn’t get a room.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. They had lunch instead.’
‘Lunch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was the woman?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know, but I have her car registration, so it won’t be that hard to find out, will it?’
‘No, it won’t. Is that all?’
‘Not really. After lunch, the subject transferred three black plastic sacks from the woman’s car boot to his own.’
‘Three black plastic sacks?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was in them?’
‘That’s why I’m ringing you.’
‘I don’t know what’s in them.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. Rowley thinks that the subject might dispose of the sacks on his way home after work. If he does, we can take a look at what’s in them.’
‘Ah! Of course. You’d need a search warrant to access the boot of his car.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, why are you ringing me?’
‘Rowley doesn’t want me to look in the sacks on my own. He thinks there should be a witness.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could find the spare key to his boot and . . .’
‘What if the sacks are filled w
ith rubbish and he catches you snooping on him?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘So, could you come to the subject’s place of work, and then when he leaves for the night we’ll follow him, and when he disposes of the sacks we can look inside them.’
‘I suppose I could do that.’
‘Can you bring a spade with you?’
‘In case he buries the sacks?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I hope this is all going to be worth it.’
‘So do I.’
***
‘A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life, Toadstone.’
‘Charles Darwin.’
Richards laughed. ‘You’re never going to find one that he doesn’t know.’
‘One day, Little Miss Cheerleader, Toadstone will crumple into dust before your very eyes.’
‘What brings you two to my laboratory?’ Toadstone said, rubbing his hands together and crossing his eyes.
Parish shook his head. ‘That didn’t work, Toadstone.’
‘Oh!’
‘And it’s not even Halloween yet either.’
‘I thought it was good,’ Richards said.
Toadstone shrugged. ‘I was trying to be Dr Frankenstein.’
‘More like Dr Doolittle,’ Parish said. ‘Anyway, we’ve not come here to play charades. Richards has two DVDs of security footage, a membership list and a man in the cells downstairs. I want your people to go through the DVDs with Mr Edgar Beasley and identify who he had sex with on Friday and Saturday nights at the end of July, and then try and put a name to the face – Richards is in charge.’
‘I am? Where will you be?’
‘What time is it?’
She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Ah! Press conference?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I could . . .’
‘Haven’t we already discussed the issue of you posing for photographs?’
‘But . . .’
‘Do you think it’s more important that we identify the killer, or that two of us brief the media on our progress to date?’
‘Well, I could . . .’
‘. . . Do as I’ve told you? Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?’
