by Tim Ellis
‘Have you quite finished using me as a public leaning post?’
‘Sorry.’
They were trudging through the thigh-high grass in the field beyond Duckett’s Mead towards the stream. The wind didn’t know whether it was coming or going, and the rain pelted down.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so wet with all her clothes on . . . Well, there was that time with Tom Dougall who’d dragged her into the shower when she’d been minding her own business, because he wanted to see what she looked like in a wet t-shirt. Yes, she’d certainly be saturated that time – inside and outside. She wondered what the bastard was doing now. Dave Pittman was okay though. He wasn’t very bright, and often asked her advice about the cases he was working on. She didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay for uncomplicated sex.
‘We’re here,’ Stick said.
Trees lined the stream and afforded some respite from the erratic wind and driving rain.
‘It’s a stream.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know . . . something more.’
‘Well, there’s certainly more water than usual.’
‘How did you get into the police force, numpty?’
‘There was an amnesty.’
‘And you just walked in past security?’
‘Yep.’
‘Those amnesties were designed to get weapons off the street, not let the physically, psychologically and intellectually deficient into the castle.’
‘Which one am I?’
‘All of them.’
They reached the place where the stream bent round to the right.
‘This is where Libby Stone was found,’ Stick said. He pulled a plastic bag from under his coat and withdrew the thick file.
‘You didn’t tell me you had that with you?’
‘You told me to bring it.’
‘Not out here – in this weather.’
‘That’s why I put it in a plastic bag – to keep it dry.’
‘Maybe . . . No, who am I kidding?’
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw some spark of intelligence then, but I now realise you were merely acting on instinct – like a basic amoeba.’
‘I have feelings, you know.’
Xena let out a primordial laugh. ‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
Stick pulled a face and turned to look at the bulging stream. ‘Well, there’s not much to see.’
‘Which is hardly surprising after twenty-four years.’
‘I suppose.’
They carried on following the stream until it disappeared under a bridge on a track.
Xena looked left and right. ‘What’s this?’
‘An access road.’
‘Access to what?’
‘Houses. You asked what they were on the map.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. Do you want to walk up there?’
‘Why not. I’m beginning to enjoy this ramble through the countryside . . . And we’ve got such a lovely day for it as well. I can’t feel the top of my head, and I think I’ll lose my ears, nose and nipples to frostbite.’
‘The experts say that you should strip off your clothes and cuddle someone else who’s also naked to keep warm.’
‘You’re a pervert.’
‘I was simply offering myself up as a naked body.’
‘A naked body! More like a fleshless skeleton.’ She shoved him forward. ‘Keep going. And if I even see you glance in the direction of my nipples you’ll be in big trouble, Stickamundo.’
‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned them.’
‘What’s that noise?’
‘A train.’
‘A fucking train!’
‘There’s a railway track to our left behind the houses.’
They strolled down the track looking at the houses, but they were more like small-holdings – Bulldog Boarding Kennels, Pelican Farm Produce, Pussy’s Cattery, Square Deal Body Shop, Awning Supplies . . .
Xena pulled a face. ‘It’s out-of-the-way down here, but I don’t think I’d like to live next to a railway line.’
‘Nor me.’
‘And these places were searched at the time?’
Stick nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay, well we’re not going to search them now, but if another child goes missing we know where to come. What about the track we passed earlier?’
‘The one on the left?’
‘Yes.’
‘It goes under the railway line.’
‘We may as well have a womble down there seeing as it’s such a fabulous day.’
‘Okay.’
They turned right down the track and walked under a bridge that seemed to be a place where drug addicts came to shoot up. There were old syringes with needles attached, screwed up pieces of tin foil, empty cans of solvent, legal high wrappers and empty pill bottles.
‘I wonder if the Drug Squad know about this place?’
‘And I wonder if the reason you’re so keen to do everyone else’s job for them is because you can’t do your own.’
‘I was just saying.’
‘Well don’t.’
‘Sorry.’
They’d reached the end of the track.
‘Shit!’ Xena said.
‘What?’
‘What do you see?’
‘The River Stort.’
‘And?’
‘A lock?’
‘And what type of vehicle uses a lock?’
‘Goodness!’
‘Exactly.’
They both looked up and down the river, but there were no barges or narrow boats in sight.
‘You didn’t tell me boats used this river.’
‘I didn’t know. There’s no mention in the file about boats on the river.’
‘That’s why they never found him.’
Stick’s eyes narrowed. ‘And why they never found Libby Stone.’
‘Okay! Before we go off half-cocked we need to double-check our facts and speak to Sarah Nunn. Why is there no mention of boats on the river, Stick?’
‘I don’t know.’
***
As he sat down at the table with the Hoddesdon coat-of-arms hanging on the wall behind him, the press began aiming questions at him.
He raised a hand until the noise subsided. ‘I’ll answer any questions you might have after I’ve said what I’m going to say.’ He took a drink from the glass of water he’d poured. ‘As most of you already know, the body of a young woman was found next to the railway tracks at the back of the Meadway estate in Broxbourne in the early hours of this morning. Unfortunately, we know very little else about her. What we do know is that she was killed elsewhere and left there, but she had no clothes or possessions with her and she doesn’t match any person who has been reported missing, so we need the public’s help in identifying her.’
He watched as two support staff mingled with the reporters and handed out the cleaned-up photographs.
‘You’re being provided with a photograph by my able assistants of the young woman who was murdered. The helpline number is printed on the reverse. We obviously need to know who she is. Thank you in advance for your help. Are there any questions?’
‘Caroline Mayhew from the Identity Channel,’ a woman with her hair scooped back into a ponytail said. She had fancy designer-glasses perched on the end of her nose and a top row of teeth like a picket fence. ‘Can you tell us how she died, Inspector?’
‘We’re still waiting for the full post-mortem report, but my understanding is that she was strangled.’ That was the simple explanation. The public didn’t need to know all the other gory details.
‘Lolita Haversham from the Broxbourne Beagle, Inspector,’ a woman with short black hair, asymmetrical ears and a face like a Picasso painting said. ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’
He shook his head and took a sip of water. They would insist on asking questions they knew they weren’t going to get any answers to. ‘As far as we�
��re aware she was not.‘
‘Brian Mulligan from the Mission Daily,’ a small squat man with dishevelled wiry hair, a bulbous nose and a Welsh accent said. ‘If she wasn’t sexually assaulted, why was she naked? What was the motive for the murder?’
‘Two good questions, Mr Mulligan. And if I knew the answer to either of them, I’d be a long way to solving the case.’
‘Sally Robinson from the Estuary Telegraph,’ a tall woman with a pale face, sad eyes and a port-wine stain on her neck like an ink blot said. ‘Can you tell us who found the body, Inspector?’
‘I’m afraid that information is confidential, Miss Robinson.’
A middle-aged black man with non-existent lips and an S-shaped scar down the right side of his face stood up. ‘Joshua Akintola from Five News. Do you have any other leads?’
‘Not yet, Mr Akintola.’
He stood up. ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming today. As soon as we have any more information, I’ll call another briefing.’
He made his way out of the briefing room and back up the stairs to the squad room.
‘How did it go?’ Richards said.
‘As you’d expect. I gave them the photograph. They asked lots of questions I couldn’t answer. I pretended I knew what I was doing – the usual grist to the mill.’
‘That must have been hard?’
‘Not as hard as watching you trying to look busy.’
‘You can be really mean sometimes.’
‘Another one of my many fine qualities. Well, any news?’
‘Do you think I’d hide it from you if there was?’
‘What man can pretend to know the riddle of a woman’s mind?’
‘Who said that?’
‘I just did.’
‘Before you?’
‘Miguel de Cervantes. Look, if we sit here waiting for information to drop in our lap at the convenience of others, then those others will think we’re idiots who are happy to wait. Are we happy to wait, Richards?’
‘No we’re not.’
‘Right answer. Give Doc Riley a call and see if she’s fed the woman’s fingerprints and DNA through the respective databases.’
Richards picked up the phone.
‘And when you’ve done that . . .’
‘Do I need to write a list?’
‘It depends whether you have a good short-term memory, or not?’
‘I’ll write a list.’ She put the telephone back in its cradle, picked up a pen and said, ‘Shoot.’
‘After you’ve called Doc Riley call Toadstone, Europol, Interpol and your old cronies at Bramshill . . .’
‘Yeah, it’d be nice to catch up.’
‘It won’t be a social call.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Just make sure you do. I don’t want you wasting police resources on chit-chat.’
‘What about Abel Winter and the Crime Statistics?’
‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Abel was killed because he got too close to something. I’m guessing that they don’t know he sent us those statistics with his annotations on. If we alert them to our continued interest, what do think will happen?’
‘We’ll be murdered?’
‘They’ve murdered one person who had connections to the police and made it look like an accident, or at least unconnected to his work. And remember, he was looking into the discrepancy of those statistics as a favour to you . . .’
‘I know. I feel as though it’s my fault he was murdered.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. It was the fault of the person or people who had him killed. There’s clearly some fraudulent activity going on at the Office for National Statistics that involves two people with the initials NG and PR.’ He stood up. ‘I have an idea . . .’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Why haven’t you called anybody yet?’
‘You were talking to me.’
‘A lame excuse.’ He walked out of the squad room and climbed the stairs to forensics.
The young woman on reception was too busy texting on her mobile phone to notice him.
He found Toadstone in his laboratory.
‘I have nothing . . .’
‘It’s all right, Toadstone. I’m here for a different reason.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’ve heard about Abel Winter?’
‘Yes. A hit-and-run. Very sad.’
‘What’s even sadder is that he was murdered.’
Toadstone’s eyes opened wide. ‘Murdered! Are you sure?’
‘Wasn’t it you who gave Richards Abel Winter’s name?’
‘That’s right. She said she needed someone who was good with figures, so I recommended Abel who was a forensic accountant and sometimes did work for the fraud squad – that’s how I knew of him.’
‘Well, he found some discrepancies with the Essex Crime statistics and said he’d look into them and ask some questions at the ONS. The next thing is – he’s been flattened by a hit-and-run driver.’
‘But how do you know . . . ?’
‘Richards received a copy of the crime statistics in the post the following day. On it, Abel had written “Fraud” and two sets of initials: “NG” and “PR”.’
‘Goodness me.’
‘Exactly, so . . .’
‘You want me to . . . ?’
‘I want you to listen to what I have to say first.’
‘All right.’
‘At no point are you to contact the ONS. That’s what Abel did, and look what happened to him. You’re working for me now, Toadstone.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes. Get one of your computer people to obtain an ONS staff list first. Let’s see if we can’t identify “NG” and “PR” first, and then we’ll go from there – clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘Good. Make sure your people know that there’s to be no contact with the ONS as well. As far as anybody is concerned, we know nothing about Abel Winter, we know nothing about any crime statistics, and we certainly know nothing about any investigation into Abel Winter’s death.’
‘Understood.’
‘So, any forensics on our dead woman?’
‘Sorry. I . . .’
‘That’s typical of you, Toadstone. If you spent less time staring out of the window at the interesting cloud formations and more time looking through a microscope we might get somewhere.’
‘I . . .’
‘Save your excuses, Toadstone. All I’m interested in is results, so get to it.’
He turned to go. ‘Oh . . . and you might want to do something about that receptionist who has a mobile phone attached to her hand. I mean, that’s the front desk, man. It looks bad – really bad. You’ve let things slip since DCI Kowalski left. It’s not good enough you know, not good enough by a long chalk.’
‘I . . .’
‘Results, Toadstone. Remember: Positive thoughts, positive actions, positive results.’ He opened the laboratory door. ‘Call me soon when you have something.’
Chapter Eight
After leaving the Maroush Gardens Restaurant they carried on walking along Edgware Road until they reached Marble Arch station where they caught the next train to Shepherds Bush on the Central Line. From there, they had to change to the London Overground to travel to Camden Road. Outside the station, they crossed over Regents Canal and turned left down Lyme Street. Number 28 was on the right.
‘Rebecca and Andrew were renting the top floor flat,’ Jerry said. ‘Joe can come with me as my bodyguard and we’ll check out the people in the bottom-floor flat. Shakin, you knock on the two houses either side of 28, and Joe and me will knock on the two houses directly opposite.’
‘Gotcha, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said.
Joe puffed himself up. ‘I’ve never been anybody’s bodyguard before.’
‘And if any females invite you in, Shakin’,’ Jerry warned him. ‘You have my permission to politely decline.’
Shakin’
raised an eyebrow. ‘Decline the offer of sex! That’s against my nature, Mrs K. If I don’t have that, I have nothing. I’d be a shadow of the man I’ve become.’
‘Well, if you’re not here by the time Joe and me have finished – we’ll go without you.’
‘That’s fair enough. I’ll see you on the other side. Oh! What are we meant to be doing?’
Jerry rolled her eyes. ‘Asking if they know anything about the couple who were living in the top flat before, about the fights and arguments, about the murder, about Rebecca and/or Andrew. Anything that might shed some light on the type of couple they were.’
Shakin’ nodded. ‘Consider it done, Mrs K,’ and he wandered off.
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ Joe said.
‘Go with him if you’re worried.’
‘No, that’s all right. I’m your bodyguard now. And anyway, I always end up waiting like a gooseberry for him.’
‘Well, he’ll be waiting for you tonight.’
Joe grinned. ‘Yeah! He will, won’t he?’ His face changed. ‘I’m a bit worried though.’
‘Oh?’
‘What if I don’t measure up?’
‘You’ll measure up, Joe.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Definitely. If I didn’t already have a hunk of a man, I’d choose you as my toy-boy every time. All I would say is – pace yourself. She doesn’t strike me as the type who would be happy with a one-time deal and then you turn over and go to sleep.’
‘She doesn’t?’
‘No. You’ll be on the night shift, Joe. You’ll have to put in the commitment and effort, so that by the time you leave at seven in the morning she’ll have to take a duvet day because she’ll be unable to get out of bed.’
‘Understood, Mrs K. I won’t let you down.’
‘But don’t forget the other reason you’re there.’
‘Other reason?’
‘The bank and account number.’
‘Oh yeah! No problem.’
Jerry knocked on the downstairs flat.
A man with long greasy hair, staring eyes, pale skin and a patchy beard opened the door a crack. ‘Uh huh?’
Jerry smiled like an escort. ‘Could we talk to you about the people who used to live above you?’
