by Tim Ellis
‘A bit cold! You have a knack for understatement, numpty.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That wasn’t a compliment.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s a lot cold. In fact, if you stood still for long enough, your bits would begin to drop off, and you know what would drop off first, don’t you?’
‘My nose?’
‘Number two on the list.’
‘Ears?’
‘Number three?’
‘Oh!’
‘Exactly.’
Stick cocked his head. ‘Jenifer wouldn’t like that.’
‘Jenifer wouldn’t have any say in it. So, how are you and Jenifer getting on?’
‘Getting on what?’
‘The rocket that will take you to the alien planet where the munchkins live and the houses are made of marzipan and cashew nuts.’
‘Yes, we’re getting on okay.’
‘Okay! What does that mean?’
‘It means okay.’
‘You know you want to tell me.’
‘She wants a baby.’
‘Something I can’t have?’
‘I didn’t want to tell you, but you made me.’
‘That’s true. I threatened you with physical violence and ultimately death if you didn’t reveal everything.’
‘She says she’s not getting any younger. That the battery in her biological clock is running out.’
‘How young is she?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘Mmmm! And what about you?’
‘I’m thirty-two.’
‘I know how old you are, Stickleback. How do you feel about a baby?’
‘Who’s baby?’
‘This is like pulling teeth. Your baby?’
‘I haven’t . . . Ah! Well, I’d like one, I suppose.’
‘I’m hardly convinced by your reasoned argument. Is Jenifer not mummy material?’
‘I think she’d make a wonderful mother.’
‘Is she not marrying material then?’
‘Of course she is. I love her.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘How are you and DI Pitman getting on?’
‘You think I don’t know when you try to change the subject, numbskull?’
‘It’s the world.’
‘The world’s a big place.’
‘And a very scary place. I don’t know if I want to bring a child into this world.’
‘You’re overthinking it.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Was the world a scary place in Roman times?’
‘I would say so.’
‘What about during the time of the Black Death?’
‘Definitely.’
‘The First and Second World Wars?’
‘For sure.’
‘And what about the Miners’ strikes in the eighties? And the Poll Tax riots during the nineties?’
‘I’m thinking they probably were. Although I wasn’t involved in either.’
‘And is the world today any scarier than it was during those times? Admittedly, there are things that could wipe out humanity today that we didn’t know about back then such as: global warming, asteroids, nanotechnology, the ascension of robots, overpopulation, engineered diseases . . .’
‘I was nearly persuaded as well.’
‘Give Jenifer her baby.’
‘Do you think?’
‘Triplets would be good.’
‘I don’t think I have triplets in me.’
‘No, probably not.’
‘You won’t mind?’
‘As long as you don’t name me as a Godmother, because you know my feelings on God and mothers.’
‘I never would.’
‘Then I don’t mind.’
***
So far, Kowalski hadn’t found any evidence that Tom Baguely was cheating on his wife. He’d been following the man since last Tuesday and he appeared to be the faithful, doting husband. Not too unlike himself. He’d give it until Wednesday, and then he’d tell Fiona Baguely she was wasting her money.
His phone vibrated.
‘Kowalski?’
‘Did I wake you?’
‘Good morning, Bronwyn. You’re not usually awake at this time of the morning.’ He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard of his new Volvo V90 Estate – it was eight twenty-nine. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Blackpool Pleasure Beach paddling in the lapping sea and slurping banana ice cream.’
‘Mmmm! Do they have any chocolate?’
‘Triple Belgian with all the trimmings.’
‘I have a client.’
‘A paying client?’
‘Well . . .’
‘We’re a business, not a charity.’
‘But we could do pro-bono work?’
‘We’re also not a firm of solicitors or barristers. There’s me who does all the work, and then there’s you who spends all the money.’
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve.’
‘Listen, as much as I’m enjoying our little tête-à-tête I’ve got to go. Mrs Baguely is waving goodbye to her husband.’
‘I saw how she looked at you.’
‘Like a client, you mean?’
‘Is she wearing a skimpy negligee?’
‘My eyesight isn’t so good lately.’
‘You know why that is, don’t you?’
‘Call me later and we’ll try and get to the bottom of your psychological hang-ups.’
‘His name is Perry Rawlins.’
‘Okay. I can see that you’re not going to take any notice of my gentle hints, so I’ve put you on Bluetooth.’
‘I met him on the battleship.’
‘Shakin’ and Joe said you were working out in the gym?’
‘Those fucking perverts want to mind their own business if they know what’s good for them.’
‘So you met him on the battleship?’
‘Yes. And we’re seeing each other.’
‘Via Skype I assume?’
‘At the moment, but that’s about to change.’
‘Oh?’
‘His ship is coming into port on Thursday and he’s getting a week’s shoreleave.’
‘Okay. So why does he want to be a client?’
‘He thinks his superior officer is a serial killer.’
Kowalski laughed. ‘A serial killer in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy – don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous. Perry noticed from the local papers that during the period the ship was in port, and the crew on shoreleave, a prostitute was found murdered in the area around the last two ports they’d visited.’
‘I’m sure it’s a coincidence.’ Not that he’d ever believed in coincidences, particularly when it came to murder. ‘Prostitutes are murdered all the time – especially around ports.’
‘Possibly. Except these prostitutes, as well as being raped and sodomised, were strangled with a skinny black silk scarf, which was then tied around their necks, and a flower was left in their hair.’
‘A flower?’
‘Have I peaked your interest?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘You’re a lousy liar, Kowalski.’
‘What flower?’
‘I’m flattered you think I might know something about flowers, but I haven’t got a fucking clue. However, the reason Perry thinks the killer is his boss is that the officer grows flowers on the ship ’
‘It’s a tenuous link to say the least. Are the flowers the officer grows the same as the ones left in the victim’s hair?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Without the details I can’t make any decision. He should report his concerns to the Captain – Renshaw-Smythe – if memory serves.’
‘Perry’s a Seaman, the officer is a Lieutenant. The Captain would throw Perry in the brig.’
‘You know all the naval terms then?’
‘I’ve been swatting up.’
/> ‘He should go to the police.’
‘No, he can’t. Remember, he’s on a ship.’
‘They have ship-to-shore phones, emails and so forth.’
‘And then what would happen?’
‘They’d contact the Captain.’
‘Which is exactly what he doesn’t want to happen.’
‘We’re a small company of private investigators . . . Well, one investigator who actually does any work, and as such we have neither the manpower nor the resources to investigate serial killers – as much as I’d like to get my teeth into some real work for a change.’
‘So you won’t help?’
‘I’m here following Tom Baguely. There’s only one of me, and I only have one car.’
‘Have you found Baguely’s bit on the side yet?’
‘No. And I’m beginning to think he hasn’t got a bit on the side.’
‘So, you could finish on Wednesday . . . ?’
‘I could also find something on Tuesday.’
‘In which case, you give Mrs Baguely the evidence and finish on Wednesday.’
He was definitely tempted. Investigating a serial killer sure as hell beat a cheating husband hands down on any given day of the week.
‘We’ll see.’
‘I knew I could count on you.’
‘You’ll do all the research?’
‘I thought I was the one who didn’t do any work?’
‘I thought you were trying to persuade me to take this free-of-charge, non-paying client on?’
‘I’ll do the research.’
‘Good. Right, I’ve got to go. Baguely has arrived at his place of work.’
‘Bye.’
Chapter Two
‘How’s it hangin’, Mrs K?’ Joe Larkin said as he sat down next to her in the lecture room.
‘Hello, Joe. Where’s Shakin’?’
‘That’s a good question, Mrs K. Her name is Dixie Chivers. She’s doing a medical degree of some sort, and she likes to practise on Shakin’. I’ve offered her my own body for medical research, but she declined on the basis that it would constitute an under-developed specimen.’
‘Never mind, Joe. I’m sure your turn will come.’
Joe yawned. ‘So, what have we got this morning? Is it worth staying awake for?’
‘Remember we signed up for some pro-bono work?’
‘Vaguely. I think Shakin’ and me had been on a session the night before, and we let you persuade us it was the right thing to do.’
‘Well, Professor Rebecca East is informing everyone about the cases they’ve been allocated.’
‘You mean we might have to actually do some legal work?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that, Mrs K.’
‘Don’t worry, Joe. I’ll be holding your hand while you and Shakin’ dip your toes in the murky waters of English law.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘. . . Jerry Kowalski, Joseph Larkin and Richard Stevens,’ Professor East said. She was old with hair like a wire brush and eyes that darted every which way until you realised that it was probably safer not to look her in the eyes at all. ‘You three will be working with the Forster League for Penal Reform . . .’
‘Never mind penis reform,’ Joe said. ‘I could do with some penis enlargement.’
‘Penal, not penis,’ Jerry corrected him.
‘I must have cloth ears this morning, Mrs K. I suppose I’m still a bit shaken after seeing Dixie Chivers naked in Shakin’s room.’ He shook his head. ‘I really had the heebie jeebies for her.’
Professor East continued: ‘Under their experienced guidance, you’ll be representing a woman they’ve called Poppy – to ensure her anonymity – who murdered her partner five months ago on Saturday, October 10 after a sustained period of domestic abuse lasting eleven months. Currently, she’s facing a long prison sentence for pre-mediated murder if she’s found guilty. It’s your task to get her off.’
‘Get her off, Prof’!’ Joe said, his eyes open wide. ‘Now, I’m not an expert by any stretch of the elastic, but it’s my understanding that if you kill someone you go to jail for a long period of time.’
‘English law is never black and white, Mr Larkin.’
‘Well it should be. How are students expected to learn if someone keeps changing the law whenever they feel like it?’
‘Can anybody tell Mr Larkin why the law keeps changing?’
A goofy girl with glasses shot her hand up. ‘Case law, Professor East.’
‘Exactly, Abigail. Well done.’ The Professor looked at Joe again. ‘Are you familiar with case law, Mr Larkin?’
‘Vaguely.’
Jerry elbowed him.
Joe laughed. ‘Only joking, Prof. The whole English legal system is built on case law.’
‘So, you have been paying attention in some of your lectures?’
‘I’m a model prisoner . . . student, Prof.’
‘You were probably right in the first instance, Mr Larkin.’
‘You know me too well, Prof.’
‘Anyway, the three of you have a meeting with a Miss Veronica Darling at the offices of the Forster League in Sussex Gardens, Paddington at eleven o’clock, so you’d better get a move on.’
‘Thank you, Professor,’ Jerry said.
‘And good luck, Mrs Kowalski.’
‘Why, do you think it’ll be a difficult case?’
‘I mean with Larkin and Stevens.’
‘Oh, they’ll be all right. They’re quite bright really.’
‘You must be looking through an electron microscope, because it’s not something I’ve noticed during their time at the university.’
Shakin’ appeared and slid into the pew next to Joe. ‘Have I missed anything, Mrs K?’
‘Only everything, Shakin’. Don’t get comfortable, we have to go.’
‘But I’ve only just got here.’
***
Chief Nigel Nibley dropped a file on Parish’s desk and carried on to Blake’s desk where he dropped another file. Parish’s file hardly made any noise at all, but there was a definite thud when Blake’s file hit the government-issue desk.
‘Don’t say I’m not fair in my distribution of the workload,’ he said, moving Stick’s three-tier brown file tray into the centre of the desk and sitting down in the place where it had been. ‘Parish and Richards, your case involves a naked woman who was found beside the railway tracks at the back of the Meadway estate in Broxbourne in the early hours of this morning by a dogwalker. You should prepare yourselves. I’m told that she’s not a pretty sight. Toad of Toad Hall is already on his way.’
Parish nodded, and was convinced that the Chief had his shirts, and his jackets for that matter, specially made to cope with the extreme slope of his shoulders and the absence of a neck.
The Chief swivelled round slightly. ‘Blake and Gilbert, I’ve given you the case of seven year-old Libby Stone. She was abducted from a playground in Roydon in 1992, and her naked body was found in a nearby stream seven days later . . .’
‘A twenty-four year-old case!’ Xena scoffed. ‘Why would you give us a twenty-four year-old case?’
‘Well DI Blake, if you let me finish you might find out.’
‘I’m all ears, Sir.’
‘I am glad. At the time, a man aged between twenty and thirty years old with a black Mexican moustache was seen hanging around the park talking to the other children before Libby disappeared . . .’
Blake interrupted the Chief again. ‘I’m still at a loss . . .’
‘And you’ll continue to be at a loss unless you let me finish, Blake. If you interrupt me again I have the feeling that you’ll be utilising your detective skills in the lost property store instead of using them to investigate a strange occurrence . . .’
Richards’ head jerked up. ‘A strange occurrence, Sir? Maybe DI Parish and I . . . ?’
Blake grunted. ‘Why is
it that you always feel the need to hanker after my cases, Richards? What’s mine is mine, and you’re not getting what’s mine, so wind your neck in. Carry on, Chief.’
‘Very kind. Yesterday was the anniversary of Libby Stone’s abduction. Each year, her father visits his daughter’s grave to tidy it up, place fresh flowers in the vase and so on. This year, when he arrived, a black rose lay on top of the headstone . . .’
Stick screwed up his face. ‘A black rose! No such flower exists, Sir.’
‘Do you want to join your partner in the lost property store, Gilbert?’
‘I guess then, you’d have nobody investigating the case.’
‘As I was saying: A black rose lay on the headstone. Although the rose appears to be black in colour, it’s actually a very dark shade of red, which was probably blackened using any one of a number of techniques. Anyway, Mr Stone called the police station and we sent a forensic officer over to the cemetery to see what he was talking about. The officer took a few photographs, bagged the rose and brought it back for forensic analysis. This morning, we received a note in the post . . .’ He held up a ragged yellowing piece of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘It states:
I killed the little Stone girl in 1992.
Now I’m back and I plan to finish what I started all those years ago!!!
‘I needn’t tell you that I’m not at all happy about the idea of children being murdered on my watch. If it really is the original killer, I want him caught and locked up before he kills again. Are you still at a loss, Blake?’
‘No, Sir. I think you’ve made everything crystal clear now.’
‘You should count yourself lucky. There’s a whole lot of work that needs to be done in the lost property store.’ He turned back to Parish. ‘The same goes for you, Parish. I want the person who tortured and murdered a young woman on my patch caught at your earliest convenience. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
Nibley pushed himself off Stick’s desk, passed the evidence bag, with the yellowing note inside, to Blake and said, ‘Well, if I’ve communicated my expectations clearly enough, I’m wondering why you’re all still here.’ He strode out of the squad room towards his office.
‘If you look at my file with those covetous eyes again Richards, I’m going to gouge them out with a pair of rusty scissors I just happen to have in my possession.’
