by Tim Ellis
‘You’re the first person to guess what they were.’
‘Do I get a prize?’
‘No. How many pieces?’
‘Two.’
‘And to drink?’
‘I’m going to push the boat out and have a ginger beer.’
Nancy passed the food and drink over. ‘NEXT.’
They moved along the queue to the till.
‘You can pay,’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘You said you’d treat me to a sumptuous meal.’
He pointed to her salad. ‘Is that a sumptuous meal?’
‘Hardly.’
‘So I shouldn’t have to pay.’
‘There are laws about people like you.’
‘Hurry up, I’m starving.’
‘So, have we got a plan?’ Richards said.
‘Oh yes! The plan is to eat my sumptuous meal while ignoring a barrage of stupid questions from people who excel in asking stupid questions.’
‘I see.’
‘I knew you would.’
Back in the squad room Richards said, ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’
‘Why are you doing my job?’
‘We know that she’s not been reported missing; there were no clothes or possessions found with her body; she has no identifying marks; there’s no forensics and Doc Riley will probably find nothing as well . . .’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘The one thing we have is her photograph. I’ll admit, the face is heavily damaged and swollen, but maybe someone in forensics can make her beautiful again. If they do that, then we could ask the media for help in identifying her?’
‘That’s an excellent suggestion.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes. I went up to forensics before and told the forensic artist I wanted a clean photograph by . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘ . . . Now! I’d better go up and get it, because I have a press briefing at two o’clock.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘I just did.’
‘I see what you’re doing.’
‘Then you won’t need me to explain it to you, will you? When I get back from the briefing, I’ll expect to see your research on Paraphilic Psychosexual Disorder.’
‘You’re a slave driver.’
‘One of my many fine qualities.’
***
They left the building housing the Forster League for Penal Reform, walked up Sussex Gardens and turned right into Edgware Road. It took them another five minutes to reach the Lebanese Maroush Gardens Restaurant in St George’s Fields for lunch, which had been at the top of the list when Jerry carried out an internet search for restaurants near Sussex Gardens.
A waiter showed them to a table, brought them each a menu and took their drinks’ order.
‘I don’t know about this, Mrs K,’ Joe said, eyeing the menu as if he’d been given a list of popular spider delicacies. ‘Are you sure Lebanese food is real food?’
Jerry laughed. ‘Of course it is. Look, I’m going to have the Tabbouleh, which is a parsley salad with tomato, fresh mint, onion, cracked wheat, lemon juice and an olive oil dressing. You can’t get more English than that. I’ll bet everything is bought fresh at the Bayswater Road Market.’
‘Yeah, but why do they have to call them strange names? I mean, if they called it a parsley salad there’d be no problem. Even I know what parsley is, and I think my mum made me eat a salad once.’
‘You don’t know what parsley is,’ Shakin’ said.
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong see, Shakin’. Parsley’s a herb. He was the lion who sorted everything out in the herb garden.’
Shakin’ and Jerry laughed.
‘That was a children’s TV series,’ Shakin’ said.
Jerry touched Joe’s hand. ‘But you’re right about parsley being a herb, Joe.’
‘Thanks, Mrs K. Well, I suppose I’ll try the Bastorma – thin slices of smoked beef fillet covered with special spices. Although, I’d be a lot happier if they explained what they meant by “special spices”. It’s one of those catch-all phrases that covers a multitude of sins, isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you ask them?’ Jerry said.
‘I might just do that. What are you having, Shakin’?’
‘The Moussaka – fried aubergines baked with tomato, chickpeas, onion and sweet peppers.’
‘Mmmm! That sounds good.’
‘If you want, we can have half-and-half?’
Joe nodded. ‘Deal.’
For the main meal Joe had the Kafta Meshwi – charcoal-grilled skewers of seasoned minced lamb with onion and parsley; Shakin’ ordered the Tawayeh Lahem with Rice – cubes of tender lamb cooked with onion, garlic, green peppers, tomatoes and rice; and Jerry had the grilled king prawns with the Chef’s special spicy sauce.
During the meal they each went through the files they were given and discovered that Poppy’s real name was Rebecca Hardacre.
‘I don’t suppose Rebecca is still renting the place she was renting with Andrew,’ Shakin’ said.
‘No, but we could go and quiz the neighbours,’ Joe suggested.
Shakin’ nodded. ‘That’s true. They’d know if there were fights and so forth.’
‘I can’t seem to find what job Rebecca did,’ Jerry said.
They each rifled through their files, but none of them came up with the answer.
Shakin’ nudged Joe. ‘Give your girlfriend a ring and ask her.’
Joe’s face reddened. ‘I don’t think you can call her that. We haven’t even been out once yet – I hardly know her.’
‘Don’t worry, Joe,’ Shakin’ said. ‘I’ll give you tips on how to get to know her better – in the biblical sense, of course.’
‘All tips gratefully received.’
They both laughed.
Jerry stared at Joe. ‘Well?’
‘Oh yeah!’ He pulled out his phone and the business card Veronica had given him and called her work number. ‘Yeah. Hi, Veronica. It’s Joe . . . Well, sure . . . tonight would be good . . . Okay.’ He found a pen in his jacket pocket and wrote down address. ‘Eight o’clock . . . Yeah, I’ll be there. Anything you want me to bring?’ His face lit up like a magnesium flare. ‘I reckon I can bring that with me all right . . . Okay, see you then.’
Jerry kicked him under the table.
‘Ow! What?’
‘You were meant to be asking her what Rebecca did for a living, not organising your sordid love life.’
‘Oh yeah.’ He called Veronica again. ‘Yeah sorry! It’s Joe . . .’ He half-laughed. ‘I don’t know about enough, I haven’t had any of you yet . . .’
Jerry kicked him under the table again.
‘Ow! Yeah. What I really called for was that it doesn’t say what job Rebecca used to do . . . Okay. Have you got an address for that? . . . Oh! Well, maybe some client names and addresses? . . . No, okay. Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.’ He ended the call.
‘Well?’ Jerry prodded.
‘She was a masseuse.’
‘Okay. And?’
‘Well, Veronica said she worked for herself. She used to go round to people’s houses and give them a massage.’
‘A massage!’ Shakin’ said. ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’
Jerry pulled a face. ‘They’ve always called it that.’
‘No, I meant . . .’
‘I know what you meant. I may be old enough to be your great-grandmother, but I wasn’t brought up in a box without windows.’
Joe grunted. ‘Great-grandmother! That’s a good one, Mrs K. Younger sister, more like.’
Jerry smiled. ‘I know I can always rely on you, Joe.’
‘You can rely on me, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said.
‘That’s debateable.’ She looked at Joe. ‘So, did she give you the names and addresses of Rebecca’s clients?’
‘No. She said she’ll give me the list tonight.’
‘I bet that’s not all she’s going to give you,’ Shakin’ said with a grin. ‘Maybe I should come with you . . .’
‘No you won’t, Shakin’,’ Jerry admonished him. ‘As I recall, aren’t you pretending to be a cadaver for Dixie Chivers?’
‘You know about that, huh?’
‘I have my spies.’
‘Joe told you?’
‘Why wouldn’t he? So, you go and let Dixie Chivers cut you open and rip your heart out, and Joe can be a plaything for darling Veronica.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Joe said.
‘I hope someone’s making a list?’ Jerry said.
Shakin’ looked at Joe and shrugged. ‘A list of what? Who?’
‘A list of what we have to do? Joe, you’ve got a pencil – start a list.’
‘Okay. Number one . . . . What’s number one, Mrs K?’
‘Speak to the neighbours.’ She referred to the file. ‘The flat they rented was the top floor of 28 Lyme Street in Camden.’
‘Okay . . . Number two?’
‘Speak to Rebecca Hardacre’s clients – list to be provided by darling Veronica.’
Joe laughed. ‘You’re a card, Mrs K. Okay . . . Number three?’
‘Speak to Andrew Crowthorne’s co-workers at Rasputin’s Pizza Delivery on Kentish Town Road.’
‘Okay . . . Number four?’
‘Mmmm! Number four is a bit more difficult, boys. Remember Rebecca said that Andrew had persuaded her to transfer her money into a joint bank account?’
The boys nodded.
‘Say no more, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said. ‘I know someone who’s taking a computing degree. I call her Little Miss Muffet for various reasons, one of which is because her name really is Kelly Muffet. I’m sure Dixie Chivers can find someone else to conduct her dubious medical experiments on for one night, while I pretend to be Little Miss Muffet’s tuffet.’
‘You can be disgusting sometimes, Richard Stevens,’ Jerry said.
‘I know you won’t believe this Mrs K, but it was her who started it. She wanted to know if Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet whether a spider would sit down beside her and frighten her away.’ He grinned. ‘I only agreed because I wanted to see what would happen.’
Joe’s brow furrowed. ‘And what did happen?’
‘The same thing that’s going to happen to you tonight.’
‘Ah!’
‘But, of course, I’ll need to know which bank she was with and the account number.’
‘Joe,’ Jerry said.
‘What?’
‘That’ll be your job.’
‘You want me to ask Veronica . . . ?’
‘No, don’t ask her – she won’t tell you.’
‘Then how . . . ?’
‘When she’s lying there exhausted . . .’
Joe’s eyes opened wide. ‘Search her apartment?’
‘Now you’re getting the hang of it, Joe,’ Shakin’ said, slapping him on the back. ‘You find out the details, text me, and Little Miss Muffet will get off her tuffet and get us the information we desire. Remember, we’re doing this for Queen and country.’
‘Are we? I thought we were doing it for Mrs K.’
‘Carry on with the list, Joe,’ Jerry said.
‘Okay . . . Number five?’
‘We need to speak to their friends.’
‘Okay . . . Number six?’
‘Check with the hospital and find out any details you can. Losing a baby requires some paperwork. Do you know any nurses, Shakin’?’
‘Where nurses are concerned, I’m your man, Mrs K. There’s something about a woman in uniform . . .’
‘I think that will do for now,’ Jerry said. ‘Who’s paying?’
The boys laughed.
Joe said, ‘We’re poor students, Mrs K. Money isn’t our speciality subject, but we do have other qualities.’
Jerry called the waiter over and passed him her credit card.
Chapter Seven
He followed Dan through the back door and into the network of alleyways behind Browne-Baguely Solicitors. Kowalski couldn’t help wondering if the name would change to Browne, or whether Humphrey would get himself another partner.
Tom Baguely was exactly where he’d left him – lying on his back in his dark-blue suit, blood-stained shirt and blue tie with a knife sticking out of his chest.
‘I need to ask, Ray. Did you touch anything?’
He pointed to the plastic glove he’d dropped next to Baguely. ‘I put on that glove to check for a pulse before I called it in.’
Bolton bagged the glove and wrote on the evidence bag.
‘Any idea what it’s about?’
Kowalski shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t tell me what cases Baguely was working on, but Browne did mention that his partner seemed to be struggling with his sexuality when he found out I was following him because his wife thought he was having an affair.’
‘What do you think? Was he gay?’
Kowalski shrugged. ‘I’ve been following him for less than a week, but I didn’t get that impression.’
The forensic team arrived.
‘Okay,’ Dan said. ‘Let’s give the boys in straightjackets some space.’
‘There some girls here as well,’ a female voice said.
‘Those straightjackets all look the same to me, lady.’ He turned to Ray. ‘Anything else you can tell us?’
‘Nothing springs to mind. He left for work in the morning, kissed his wife goodbye, did his work and came home again.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘What about her?’
‘Do you think she could have arranged this?’
‘Anything’s possible I suppose, but it begs the question: Why pay for a private investigator to follow a husband you’d arranged to kill?’
‘Good point. Well, thanks for your help, Ray.’
‘My pleasure.’ He handed Dan a business card. ‘My details.’
‘Abacus Investigations! And who’s this Bronwyn?’
‘Bolton has nothing on her.’
Dan gave Kowalski a business card in return. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Ray. Give me a call and we’ll get together with our wives and kids . . .’
‘You’ve got kids?’
‘Didn’t I mention them? Yes, two of the little buggers – Peter and Abigail. Devil’s spawn! I keep calling Social Services, but they won’t take them off me. I’m at the end of my rope, Ray.’
Kowalski laughed. ‘I can relate to that.’
Bolton slipped a business card into his hand. ’Give me a call if you’d like a drink sometime.’
‘See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about, Bolton,’ Dan said. ‘Those business cards are not meant to be used for arranging secret liaisons with married men.’ He looked at Kowalski. ‘Take no notice of her, Ray. She’s trouble all the way to the bank.’
He smiled. ‘Oh, by the way, you might want to talk to the female smoker in administration. I wondered whether Baguely often left via the back door – maybe she’d know. She might also have seen who Baguely was meeting.’
‘Thanks, Ray.’
‘No problem. If there’s anything else I think might be important, I’ll give you a call.’
‘Remember, call me. If you call Bolton you’ll get sucked into a whole world of pain.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ He saw Bolton staring at him, but he knew better than to look back at her.
‘If we ever get to the bottom of this I’ll let you know what it was all about.’
‘Much obliged, Dan.’
He made his way back through the Browne-Baguely offices, crossed the road and climbed into his car.
Of all the people he might have expected to see today, Dan Wozniak wasn’t anywhere on the list. He was definitely a face from the past. He fingered the business card. Maybe he’d give Dan a call sometime and arrange a get-together. No doubt Jerry would love to see him. And he must have settled down a bit if he had a wife and two children. He went to
put Dan’s card in his wallet, but his fingers slipped on the card Bolton had given him. He wondered what to do with Detective Sergeant Belinda Bolton’s business card. Rip it up? That’s certainly what he should do with it, but he didn’t. Call it a premonition, a hunch or an omen, but he had a strange feeling about Belinda Bolton. He slipped both cards into his wallet.
His phone vibrated.
‘Kowalski?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Hello, Bronwyn. How are you?’
‘I’m good. How are you?’
‘At a loose end, if you must know.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Somebody killed the man I was following.’
‘Well, you’re in luck.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember I was doing some research?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need to take a look at what I’ve discovered.’
‘You’re there, and I’m here.’
‘We could meet in the middle?’
‘Which is where?’
‘Stratford.’
‘I could make the effort, I suppose.’
‘So generous. Meet me at three o’clock outside the front of the station – I’ll be the beautiful woman waiting for a love that will never arrive.’
‘I think I’ve seen that movie. Isn’t the beautiful woman really a wind-up girl with a clock mechanism for a heart?’
‘You take great pleasure in shattering all my dreams, don’t you, Kowalski?’
The call ended.
Well, as Alexander Graham Bell once said: When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us. He smiled. Jed would have liked that. He thought wistfully about the people he’d left behind and wondered how they were all getting on.
***
‘I’m drenched,’ Stick said.
‘It’s a good job you’re waterproof.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. I think my feet are squelching.’
‘That’ll be the water in your wellies.’
He stamped his feet and water squirted out. ‘You could be right,’ he said, putting a hand on Xena’s shoulder as he balanced on one leg to remove each Wellington boot and pour out the water.
