by Tim Ellis
‘I have no idea, and even if I did I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you.’
‘Oh well, no doubt the police will ask the same question. If you don’t tell them they’ll simply get a court order and force you to tell them. Any chance of a coffee? I’m a witness. The police will want to ask me questions about what I’ve been doing and how I came to find the body, so I’ve got to wait for them.’
She stood to one side. ‘I’ll let Mr Browne and the others know what’s happened.’
‘You do that.’
He followed her through the building and sat down in reception. There was a woman already sitting there with two boys – who both looked like football hooligans – fighting each other with light sabres.
‘I’ll bring your coffee soon,’ Holly said.
‘Thanks.’
The hooligans stopped mid-battle and stared at him. He decided not to give them any encouragement. His own son – Gabe – was eleven now and already at secondary school. How time flew! He doubted that people thought Gabe looked like a hooligan – football or otherwise, but he was sure they harboured other negative thoughts about him, as he did himself. Although he’d tried to guide the boy in a different direction, but he hadn’t been wholly successful. In fact, if he was being truthful, he’d failed miserably. Jerry was sure Gabe would grow out of it, but it didn’t appear to be going in that direction. If anything, he seemed to be immersing himself deeper and deeper into the gothic subculture with his taste in death rock music, black clothes, jewellery and dyed black hair. He’d wanted tattoos and piercings, but Kowalski had made it quite clear that neither was on the menu until he was sixteen. It had given them some breathing space in the hope that it was merely a fad and that Gabe would grow out of it . . .
‘Mr Kowalski?’
‘Yes?’
Holly held a cup of coffee out towards him. ‘Your coffee.’
‘Oh, thank you. My mind was elsewhere then.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Not really.’
‘This is Mr Browne,’ she said, indicating a tall man with receding reddish-brown hair, a long thin face and a poor dress sense. Nothing he was wearing seemed to match – unless that was the purpose of the ensemble.
He balanced the cup and saucer in his left hand and shook Mr Browne’s hand with his right. ‘Ray Kowalski.’
‘Would you like to come through to my office, Mr Kowalski?’
‘Of course.’ He glanced at the woman.
‘Yeah!’ she said. ‘You may very well look at me. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes or more waiting. How come you’re seeing him before me, Mr Browne?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Baguely has just been killed, Mrs Palin. If you speak to Holly she’ll re-arrange your appointment. I have to see this gentleman now, and the police will be arriving shortly.’
‘The police?’
‘Yes.’
‘Boys! Switch those light sabres off. We have to go now.’
He left Mrs Palin arranging a new appointment with Holly and followed Mr Browne into his office, which was nothing special. There were vertical blinds up at the window and some of the plastic beading holding each blind together was broken; the chairs were plastic, the desk scratched grey steel and Formica, and there were boxes and files stacked against the whole length of one wall.
‘Take a seat. Excuse the mess. I tell clients we’re in the middle of moving, but we’re not. To be perfectly honest we haven’t got time to stand still, never mind move. And with Tom’s death . . . Well, I dread to think what will happen now. Holly said you were following Tom because Fiona thought he was having an affair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tom and I got on okay, but I wouldn’t say we were best buddies, or anything like that. As for him having an affair . . . Maybe he was, but it’s not what Fiona or you think.’
‘Oh?’
‘I had the feeling he was struggling with his sexuality.’
‘You thought he was gay?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s not the impression I got.’
‘He hid it well. I’m not even sure that I’m right, but . . .’ He shrugged.
‘And you think that’s why he was killed?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Did he often leave via the back door?’
‘Not to my knowledge. There’s a woman in administration who smokes. She often goes out there for a nicotine refill. You could ask her.’
‘I’m afraid my involvement has come to an abrupt end, Mr Browne.’
‘Humphrey – call me Humphrey.’
He didn’t imagine he’d ever call anyone Humphrey. ‘It’s a police matter now. Although I used to be a murder detective, I can’t get involved.’
There was a commotion outside and then the office door burst open.
‘Where is he?’
A man as tall and as wide as Kowalski filled the opening.
‘Ray Kowalski! It is you?’
Kowalski stood up and the two men hugged each other like grizzly bears.
‘You do realise this isn’t a pub don’t you, Dan?’ He hadn’t seen Dan Wozniak since they’d played rugby together at the Police College in Hendon.
‘Ha! Those were the days, Ray.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Romford Murder Team for my many sins – it’s the pits. So, what’s going on?’
He told Dan as much as he knew.
Dan turned to his female partner. ‘Go and secure the crime scene, Bolton.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You’re not going to introduce us then?’ Kowalski said.
‘Do I look stupid?’
‘What, you mean more than usual?’
Bolton was still standing behind Dan.
‘Well, what are you waiting for, Bolton? I’m not going to introduce you to Kowalski, so get that idea out of your head right now. For one, he’s married to a supermodel. For two, he has more kids than Genghis Khan. And for three, he’s not a copper anymore. So get out there and focus on why I keep you around.’
Kowalski gave Bolton a smile as she turned to go. She wasn’t especially beautiful, but there was something about her sad dark brown eyes, her full lips and her long slender neck that made her desirable.
‘I heard about your heart attack . . .’ Dan said.
‘I’ve had a couple now.’
‘Who’d have thought it? Is that why you got out?’
Kowalski laughed. ‘No, that was due to the inconvenient suicide of a three million pound helicopter I’d helped myself to. The Chief Constable made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so here I am.’
‘So here you are. I’ve thought about getting out of the rat race myself, but where can you go these days that isn’t full of terrorists, foreigners or perverts?’
‘That’s true.’
‘Now listen Ray, I want you to take this offer in the spirit in which it’s intended. If you’re struggling with your marital duties in respect of keeping that beautiful wife of yours happy in bed, I want you to know that I’m willing to step into the breach – as a friend, of course.’
‘Of course. Thanks for the offer, Dan. I’ll bear it in mind should the task become too onerous.’
‘The least I could do. Right, let’s go and see what this dead solicitor is all about.’
‘Excuse me?’
Dan turned to look at Browne. ‘And you are?’
‘Humphrey Browne. I’m Mr Baguely’s partner, or at least I was.’
‘Okay. Take a load off. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen what we’re dealing with. While you’re waiting for me, you could organise a staff list with addresses, a list of the cases Mr Baguely was working on, and don’t give me any guff that they’re top secret or confidential. We’re dealing with murder here, so I expect your full co-operation. If you force me to obtain a Search Warrant then I’ll make your life miserable, Humphrey. Are we clear?’
‘Yes . . . Yes, of course.’
‘Good.’ Dan put his arm
around Kowalski’s shoulders. ‘One word of warning, Ray. Don’t look directly into Bolton’s sad brown eyes. We have a whole cupboard at the station stuffed full of stone statues. Not only are they taking up valuable real estate, but we can’t get replacements for them either. Forensics are exploring the possibility of re-animation.’
‘Like Frankenstein?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Dan. Thanks for the heads-up.’
‘The least I could do.’
Chapter Six
After a fairly mediocre lunch in the Three Kings on the A414, they parked up outside 27 Duckett’s Mead at one-thirty and Stick knocked on the door.
‘I don’t see a playground,’ Xena said.
‘Nor me. Maybe it’s at the back of the house.’
‘Maybe.’ But she was doubtful.
It took a while, but the door was eventually opened by a man in his early fifties. He had a grey-brown crew cut, heavy lines criss-crossing his face and a mass of curly hair sprouting from his open-neck shirt.
‘Mr Stone?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Stick produced his warrant card. ‘DS Gilbert and DI Blake.’
‘About the black rose?’
‘Yes.’
He stood to one side. ‘You’d better come in then.’
They went inside.
The house was warm, cosy and clean, and smelled of pine air freshener.
Xena had expected something else, but she had no idea what. Maybe black mould covering the walls, the stench of festering memories oozing out through the cracks in the floorboards, or the wailing of lost souls who couldn’t let the dead go.
‘Coffee or tea?’
‘No, we’re fine,’ Xena said.
They sat down in the living room, which looked out onto a well-tended back garden.
‘Mrs Stone about?’ she asked.
‘We lasted eight months after Libby was abducted and murdered. I blamed her, you see. I still blame her. Her only job was to keep our daughter safe, and she failed to do that. In the end, we decided to go our separate ways. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Do you keep in touch?’
‘No. No idea where she is, who she is, or what she’s doing.’
‘Does your wife . . .’
‘Ex-wife. We divorced a year later. All it took was two hundred and fifty pounds, and a couple of signatures.’
‘You don’t know if she visits your daughter’s grave?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d know. As I said, I haven’t seen her in twenty-four years.’
‘Did you get married again?’
‘No. Life seemed less complicated living on my own. Oh, I have a regular girlfriend. She stays over sometimes, but I made it clear from the get-go that I wasn’t looking for a wife, and neither did I want someone to move in with me and take over cooking and cleaning duties – I do just fine on my own. I know you’ll think I’m strange, but Libby still lives here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her bedroom is exactly how she left it all those years ago.’
‘It’s been over twenty-four years now, Mr Stone.’
‘I know exactly how long it’s been, Inspector.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘So, why have you come?’
Mr Stone knew nothing about the note that had been sent to the station and she wasn’t about to tell him either. ‘We’re obviously trying to find out what the significance of the black rose is, and who left it on Libby’s gravestone on the anniversary of her abduction.’
‘It’s the killer.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Who else would it be?’
‘But that doesn’t explain where he’s been all these years. Or why he would suddenly turn up and put a black rose on your daughter’s grave?’
‘I know. All I can tell you is that it’s not about remorse. He didn’t leave a black rose there because he’s sorry for what he did twenty-four years ago. If he was sorry he would have left a normal bunch of flowers with a note.’
‘Well anyway, that’s why we’re here. We also need to understand what happened in the past, so that we can try and make some sense of what’s happening now.’
His eyes opened wide and he shuffled forward on the chair. ‘You’re re-opening the investigation?’
‘Not officially, Mr Stone. My partner and I will re-examine what happened, how it was dealt with at the time and we’ll see if anything crucial was overlooked. What we’re not going to do is trample over old ground.’
‘I understand. The chances of catching him now are probably non-existent. And anyway, I’ve come to terms with what happened. If you find anything now, it won’t bring Libby back to me, will it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’d still like to know who and why, but otherwise it’s just opening old wounds.’
‘Well, we’ll do what we can, Mr Stone. Can you tell us where the playground is?’
‘I can see you don’t know much, Inspector. The other parents wouldn’t let their children play in the playground until the police caught the person responsible for taking Libby. Well, they never did, did they? So, in the end it became overgrown with weeds and the metal framework rusted and became dangerous. Three months later, the Council came and dismantled it. In a way I was glad. The last thing I needed was to look out of my window and be reminded every day of what had happened to my beautiful daughter.’
‘I can understand that. Do you know of anyone new who has moved into the area, or returned after being away for a long period of time?’
‘You don’t think that was my first thought? Nobody that I know of is new to the area. You can be sure that if there had been I would have let you know.’
‘Okay, thank you, Mr Stone. We’re going to take a walk around the area, and we will be visiting your daughter’s grave and speaking to the vicar.’
‘I understand. Thanks for taking the time to call, Inspector. I know how short-staffed the police are these days, and solving a twenty-four year-old murder isn’t really at the top of your list.’
Of course, what Aaron Stone didn’t know was that a threat by Libby’s killer to abduct and murder more children was definitely at the top of their list. ‘I can tell you that it’s at the top of our list, Mr Stone. If it’s at all possible to get to the bottom of what happened twenty-four years ago – we will.’
Outside, the wind had turned blustery, tall beech trees lining the street were bending every which way and the low-hanging clouds threatened heavy rain.
They went to the car and put on wellies from the boot.
Stick took out an umbrella.
‘What are you going to do with that, numpty?’
‘I think it’s going to rain.’
‘Of course it’s going to rain. It’s going to piss down.’
‘Then we’ll need it.’
‘What do you think will happen to that umbrella when you open it, and possibly the person holding onto it, in this wind?’
‘Ah!’
‘Put it back in the boot and resign yourself to getting drenched.’
‘I can’t wait. Or . . . Maybe we could sit in the car and wait for it to pass?’
‘For three months?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘Are you ready?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be any other course of action open to us, does there?’
‘None at all.’
They headed along Duckett’s Mead, and just as they reached the public footpath between the two houses at the end of the cul de sac, the Heavens opened up and they were caught in a deluge of biblical proportions.
‘We probably should have gone to St Peter’s Church to see the Vicar first,’ Stick suggested.
Xena leaned into the wind and tried unsuccessfully to shield her face from the driving rain. ‘It’s only a bit of a downpour – stop being a wimp.’
***
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Have you finished the SCAS report?’
‘And faxed it off. I’ve checked CrimInt – there was nothing similar. And I’ve also sent the forms off to Europol and Interpol.’
‘As a reward I’ll treat you to a sumptuous meal at the Hoddesdon Ritz.’
‘The canteen?’
‘None other.’
‘It’s better than nothing, I suppose.’
‘There you are then. As Shakespeare once said to his troupe of odd players: All’s well that ends well.’
‘I hope they have something nice on the menu.’
Nancy was behind the counter.
‘Hello, Nancy,’ Richards said.
‘Well, if it isn’t the beautiful Mary Richards and the less-than-beautiful Jed Parish.’
Richards nodded. ‘He’s definitely less-than-beautiful, Nancy.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘So, what’s your excuse for why you haven’t been up to the canteen for absolutely ages.’
‘You know how it is, Nancy. Our work takes us out and about a lot. We tend to eat on the go.’
‘Ah yes! You’ve become paid-up members of the grazing class. Well, make sure you have a proper meal today, Mary Richards. What’ll it be?’
She looked up at the menu board on the back wall, at the “Specials” board, at the “Soup of the Day” board, at the “Chef’s Pick” board, at the “Catch of the Day” board, at the shrivelling food on the hot counter and the cold offerings . . .
Parish elbowed her in the back. ‘There are people suffering from third-degree malnutrition back here. Médecins Sans Frontières have despatched doctors to treat the worst cases . . .’
‘I can’t make up my mind whether to have . . .’
‘Make way! Make way! Severe case of withering on the vine coming through.’
‘I’ll have the Caesar salad, Nancy,’ Richards said. ‘With a bottle of water.’
‘Of course, Mary.’ She passed the food over. ‘And what about you, Inspector Parish?’
‘Hello, Nancy. How’s my favourite food counter operative?’
‘I used to be called a dinner lady, you know?’
‘Those were the good old days.’
‘They were.’
‘I’ll have the lasagne with . . .’ He pointed to some strange-looking things in a metal dish that resembled burnt cardboard. ‘Are those pieces of garlic bread?’
