by Tim Ellis
‘I think it means that if you don’t get going your mother will tear strips off us for being late for dinner.’
‘You mean – your wife?’
‘Who just happens to be your mother.’
Richards set off towards the Pig & Whistle.
‘Germany,’ Richards repeated. ‘Why has a German serial killer come to England? To Essex? To Hoddesdon?’
‘Maybe she’s run out of victims in Germany.’
‘Germany’s a big place.’
‘Have you been to Germany, Richards?’
‘Well no . . . but I went to Austria skiing with the school once, and Austria is next to Germany.’
‘Very helpful.’
‘Have you been?’
‘No, but I’ve flown over it a couple of times on the way to exotic holiday destinations.’
Richards grinned. ‘We’re both experts on the size of Germany then?’
‘So it would seem.’
The Pig & Whistle was both a pub and a club. It stood in its own grounds surrounded by a car park and a beer garden. In the recent past, local people had unsuccessfully petitioned the local council to close it down – arguing that crime had increased and house prices had plummeted. There had also been strong support from a section of locals for it to remain open. During the day, it was a family-oriented pub. From eight o’clock until the small hours it became something else – something darker, seedier and less desirable.
Richards showed her warrant card to the young barmaid in a tight-fitting blouse and said, ‘Can we speak to the licensee, please?’
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘No.’
The barmaid turned, picked up a phone on the counter behind her and keyed in a three-digit number. ‘There’s two coppers here to see you.’ She put the phone down and said to them, ‘She’s on her way.’
They stood at the bar and waited.
‘It must be thirsty work harassing law-abiding citizens,’ the barmaid said. ‘Can I get you a drink? On the house.’
‘No thanks,’ Richards said.
A woman appeared through a doorway at the far end of the bar, which had a sign stuck on the door instructing customers that it was for: Staff Only. She had shoulder-length natural blonde hair with a fringe, a toothy smile and piggy eyes.
‘What is it this time? If it’s about last night . . .’
‘Why, what happened last night?’ Parish said.
‘You tell me.’
‘A murder happened last night.’
Her forehead creased up. ‘Here?’
‘No, but we believe the killer chose her victim here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you have CCTV?’
‘Yes, but it’s not that great.’
‘We’ll take what we can get.’
‘I’m not very good with the equipment either.’
‘We’d just like a copy of the footage from last night.’
‘I can probably do that for you – Now?’
‘Please.’
‘I won’t be long then,’ she said, and disappeared through the Staff Only door again.
It was seven minutes before she returned with a DVD in a plastic sleeve and handed it to Parish. ‘Hopefully, you’ve got what you want on there.’
‘If we haven’t, we’ll be back. Don’t delete any files for a couple of days.’
‘It’s automatic. Each day is overwritten after a month apparently.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Who was it that was killed?’
‘That was my next question. Do you know someone called Penny Sanderson?’
She thought for a minute and then shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I might if I saw her face, but I’m not a name person.’
Parish passed her a business card. ‘If anything does come to mind when you see her face on the television or in a newspaper, please call me.’
‘Of course.’
They left the pub, which was beginning to fill up with families eager for their evening meal.
‘Sarah Young’s house?’ Richards asked.
‘Yes. We may as well while we’re here.’
They drove the short distance to Sarah Young’s address, but there was no answer when Richards knocked. They sat in the car for five minutes and waited, but no one appeared.
Richards contacted the Duty Sergeant and found out that Sarah Young worked at a peanut factory on the other side of Ware.
‘Slip a business card through the letterbox, and write on the back for her to contact us when she arrives home.’
‘Okay.’ After writing the short note on the reverse of one of her business cards, she climbed out of the car and returned to the house to push it through the letterbox.
Parish looked up as Richards hurried back to the car and knocked on the window. The electric window didn’t work when the ignition wasn’t switched on, and there was no manual back-up, so he had to open the door. ‘What now?’
‘You’d better come.’
He followed her back to the house, lifted up the letterbox and caught the unmistakable whiff of death as it seeped through the gap. ‘Call it in. I’ll let your mother know we’ll be late for dinner.’
While they waited for a squad car, forensic team and Doc Riley to arrive, they sat in the car to keep warm. It would have saved time if they could have knocked on a few doors to find out if anybody had seen or heard anything last night, but although they had an idea of what they’d find in the house – they weren’t sure. Until they were, it was best not to make any assumptions or take any action that could prove to be embarrassing later. A few more minutes wouldn’t cause the world to stop turning.
Richards phone buzzed again.
‘Hello? This is DC Richards?’
‘It’s Sally Prentice, Mary?’
‘Hello, Sally. You should know that DI Parish is here in the car with me before you admit to any crimes.’
‘Hello, Jed.’
‘Hi, Sally. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know? That bastard left a bit of a scar in my stomach, which means that I can’t wear my bikinis anymore, but otherwise I’m glad to be alive. And I believe I have you to thank for that?’
‘Me? No. It was my Head of Forensics – Paul Toadstone – who saved you. I was stuck in Halifax.’
‘But it was your investigative work that found out who he was.’
‘I simply followed the breadcrumbs.’
‘Excuse me?’ Richards interrupted.
‘Oh sorry, Mary,’ Sally said. ‘I called about the updated SCAS Questionnaire you sent us.’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh well! Interpol have found us three similar murders that occurred in Germany between 1990 and 2000.’
‘That’s great . . . I suppose.’
‘Yeah, we don’t know what it means yet either.’
‘You’ll keep us informed?’
‘Of course.’
‘Nice to talk you again, anyway.’
‘And you.’
‘Good luck finding the killer.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Goodbye, Jed.’
‘Goodbye, Sally.’
The call ended.
‘What did she mean by that?’
‘By what?’
She lowered her voice to sound husky. ‘Goodbye, Jed.’
‘At a guess, I’d say she meant goodbye. And if you were trying to sound husky, you failed miserably. You sounded like a frog with a sore throat.’
‘Sally never did tell me what you and her got up to.’
‘Didn’t she?’
‘No. She said I should ask you.’
‘Did she?’
‘Yes. Well?’
‘Do you want the short or the long version?’
‘I knew it. The long version.’
‘Sally and I didn’t get up to anything.’
‘You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘If you don’t know the gory detai
ls, you can’t tell anyone.’
‘So there was something?’
‘Look,’ he said, pointing at two uniformed officers and the white forensic truck. ‘Saved by the cavalry.’
She opened the car door. ‘They haven’t saved you, they’ve just temporarily delayed me from finding out exactly what went on with you and Sally Prentice.’
He shuffled out of the car and walked round to stand on the pavement. ‘Hello, Toadstone. ‘One of the secrets of life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others.’
‘Lewis Carroll said that.’
Richards stared at him. ‘You want to give up, Sir. You’re never going to catch him out.’
‘It’s just a matter of time, Richards.’
They all turned at the sound of splintering wood. One of the uniformed officers had just opened Sarah Young’s front door with a hand-held battering ram.
‘I guess that’s our clarion call,’ Toadstone said, and headed towards the house.
‘Before you go, Toadstone,’ Parish said. ‘Give Doc Riley my regards when she arrives . . .’
‘Are you not staying?’
‘I don’t think so. We have a fairly good idea of what you’ll find in there. I want answers, Toadstone. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in the incident room – bring all those answers with you.’
‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’
‘Make sure your best meets with my expectations. We have three murders now. Three murders – it’s not good enough.’
Toadstone nodded and continued on to the house.
‘Come on, Richards. Let’s go home.’
***
Thursday, December 11
She was freezing her nuts off on top of the St Ermin’s Hotel roof overlooking the police Evidence Warehouse on Caxton Street.
They’d caught the last train from Highgate to Embankment on the Northern Line, where they switched to the District Line and travelled the two stops to St James’s Park. There, she had treated them to a fry-up in an all-night cafe while they waited for Big Ben to chime midnight.
She’d handed both of them microphones that they’d pinned to the front of their jackets.
Yoda bent his neck. ‘Testing – one, two, three.’
‘You don’t have to get so close to it,’ Bronwyn said, pulling a face. ‘I can hear you just fine if you speak normally.’
‘Roger, Houston.’
‘I can always replace you with an amoeba.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Stop fucking about then. This is serious shit.’ Why did men have to be such arseholes?
She’d given Sushi an infra-red head camera to put on. It had a power pack, and was connected to her laptop via wireless.
After two guards from GS Security had done their rounds, she’d entered the EW Network through the back door she’d created the day before and turned off the CCTV, alarms and silent call to the security company. Then she’d opened the electronic gate to let Yoda and Sushi in.
‘Remember, you have two hours before the security guards’ next visit.’
‘I’m sure you’ll give us regular time-checks,’ Yoda said.
‘Damn right.’
She watched their progress via the head-cam strapped on top of Sushi’s head. As they approached the main door, she unlocked it.
They were inside.
‘You want the stairs to the basement,’ she said.
‘It’s a good job you told us that a million times before . . . I might have forgotten otherwise.’
She ignored him. The one thing she’d discovered about Yoda was that he was a know-it-all, which was virtually impossible when she knew everything. Two people who knew everything on the same team wasn’t working, especially when one of those people was a pretender – and it wasn’t her.
‘Here it is,’ Sushi said.
She didn’t really need a running commentary because she could see where they were, but she didn’t mind.
‘Okay, we’re going down the stairs.’
Yoda was making ghostly sound-effects like an idiot.
‘Are you scared, Yoda?’ she asked him.
‘That’ll be the day.’
She watched the picture jerking up and down, and the torchlight bouncing around the walls as Sushi walked down the stairs.
Sushi gave her an unnecessary progress report. ‘We’re at the bottom of the stairs, Bronwyn.’
‘You now want . . .’
‘If you tell us we want Row G again,’ Yoda said. ‘I’m going on hunger strike.’
‘You – on hunger strike?’ She laughed. ‘You’re only saying that because I’ve just fed you.’
There was no response.
‘We’re here,’ Sushi said. ‘Row G.’
‘Good. You’re looking for boxes . . .’ She heard Yoda yawn.
‘Has it changed since the last time you told us?’
‘Maybe. Let me tell you what should be written on the boxes, and then you can tell me if it’s what you remember – Case Number: 9/1971:99278 – was that what you remember?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s good then. You won’t have any problem in finding them, will you?’
She watched as they walked between Rows F and G shining their torches up and down metal shelving stacked with cardboard boxes.
‘Here,’ Yoda said.
‘You’ve found them?’
‘Didn’t I just say that?’
‘Wait,’ Bronwyn said into her microphone.
‘Wait what?’
‘Three black vans have just pulled up outside the electric gate. I’m going to have to put everything back on.’
‘But we’re in here,’ Sushi said.
‘Find somewhere to hide out of sight of the CCTV cameras, and don’t move otherwise you’ll activate the movement detectors and set off the alarms.’
‘Shit,’ Yoda said.
‘Hurry,’ she urged them. ‘Have you found somewhere yet?’
‘Okay,’ Sushi said. ‘It’s a good job that the boxes aren’t all the same size. We’re wedged between the top of some boxes and the next shelf.’
‘I’ve turned everything back on . . . They’re coming through the gate . . . They’ve reversed up against the warehouse with the back doors of the vans open . . . They’re piling out of the vans . . . There’s about fifteen of them . . . They’re coming inside . . .’
She wondered how they had gained access to the site and not set the alarms off. Were they police? If they were, why visit in the middle of the night? Maybe a murder or something had happened and they needed evidence from a cold case urgently. Maybe . . .
After a handful of minutes she heard Yoda whisper. ‘The lights have come on . . . They’re coming this way . . . They’re dressed in black and wearing ski masks . . . You didn’t say they were doing the same thing as us . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Wait.’
She waited, and waited and . . .
‘Do you remember those boxes that we were meant to be taking a look inside?’ Yoda said.
‘What about them?’
‘Our friends are emptying the contents of each box into a black plastic bag and taking them away.’
‘The Baker Street Robbery boxes?’
‘Am I not speaking clearly?’
She watched as the men appeared through the front door carrying black plastic bags over their shoulders and slung them into the back of the waiting vans.
Shit! These bastards were from MI5. They were taking away the Baker Street Robbery evidence . . . and no doubt the black plastic bags would go straight into an incinerator. Nobody would ever find out what had been in Box 253.
She had to do something, but what?
‘Yoda?’
‘Yeah?’
‘How many boxes do they have left to empty?’
‘I’d say not many.’
‘Can you and Sushi make your way outside?’
‘No chance. Apart from the fact that we�
��re not wearing ski masks and we’ll appear on camera.’
‘Okay. I’ll have to do something. Stay where you are until I get back to you . . .’
‘What?’
There was no time to argue with them. She locked her laptop and left it where it was, but slung her rucksack over her shoulder. There were things in there that might come in handy.
She hurried across the roof, through the door and down the steps to the top floor. Her luck was in – the right-hand lift was waiting for her. She stepped inside and pressed the “G” button. She had the feeling that time was standing still. There were only six floors in the St Ermin’s Hotel, and yet the lift was descending as if there were a thousand or more. How could it move so slowly? Had it stopped working? Was she trapped in a temporal anomaly?
At last the lift juddered and the doors opened. She made her way across the reception, through the automatic doors and down the road towards Broadway.
Before – before the bullet had destroyed her womb – she could have run for quite a while, but now she was an out-of-shape snail who was never going to beat the tortoise. Her chest hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her legs hurt. In fact, there wasn’t any part of her that didn’t hurt. She reached Caxton Street, and then the entrance to the Evidence Warehouse. Thankfully, they’d left the gate open. She crept inside, waited and watched as the men came out and threw black sacks into the back of the vans.
Then, they went back inside.
She chose the middle van, for no other reason than it was the middle van, opened the driver’s door, slid into the seat and eased the door shut.–The keys were in the ignition, which would definitely save her time. She knew how to hot-wire a vehicle, but it was a lot simpler stealing one if the driver left the key in the ignition. She turned the key, crunched the stick into first gear and drove out through the gate. She would loved to have seen their faces when they found it gone.
Turning left, she made her way along Caxton Street, up Broadway and drove into the St Ermin’s Hotel underground car park. She was beginning to feel like a regular guest. She parked the van in the darkest corner she could find, closed the back door and locked it.
Whether the information relating to Box 253 was in the van or not she had no idea, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.
She caught the lift back up to the top floor and walked up to the roof again.
