by Tim Ellis
‘Yes.’
‘Mind you, your bones are a lot closer to the surface than most people’s bones.’
‘Than your bones.’
‘My bones!’ Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What about my bones?’
‘Well, your bones are not close to the surface . . .’
‘Are you suggesting that I have layers of fat covering my bones?’
‘I never would.’
‘Do you know what would happen if I thought you were suggesting that?’
‘I think I have a reasonable idea.’
‘What time is it?’
Stick checked his watch. ‘Quarter to five.’
‘What time do we finish according to our contracts?’
Stick screwed up his wet face. ‘Well, that seems to be a bit vague.’
‘Vague! It’s not vague at all. It says you have to put in the hours to do the job.’
‘That’s vague, isn’t it?’
‘Only to stupid people. Have we done the job?’
‘I’d say we’ve done more that our jobs today.’
‘More than! How can you do more than your job? That’s like saying you’re giving a hundred and ten percent. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but when I was at school a couple of years ago a hundred percent was a hundred percent – where did the other ten percent come from?’
‘Maybe it’s something to do with the European Union?’
Xena nodded. ‘It definitely sounds like something those pen-pushing bureaucrats might come up with.’
Standing at the rear of the car they removed the wellies they were wearing, poured the sloshing water out of them and put on their normal footwear again.
Stick started shivering.
‘Stop that.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘You’re trying to elicit some sympathy from me, aren’t you?’
‘Is it working?’
‘What do you think?’
They climbed into the car. Stick turned the engine on and the heater up to maximum.
‘Don’t you have any towels?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
She shuffled round to look on the back seat, found a cushion, removed the cover and used that to dry her hair and face. ‘I hope this is clean?’
‘It was, but now it’s not.’
‘Put in a written complaint.’
‘It’s only a cushion cover.’
‘Exactly. You can turn the heating down now, I can hardly breathe.’
He turned it down to number three.
‘Two.’
‘I was just thinking maybe two would be better.’
Xena took out her phone and called the Met’s main number.
‘Metropolitan Police Service.’
‘Assistant Commissioner Sarah Nunn, please.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Detective Inspector Xena Blake from Hoddesdon Murder Team.’
‘Just one moment.’
The line went dead.
She waited.
‘Should I head back to the station?’ Stick asked.
‘No.’
‘Okay.’
‘Yes.’
Stick ignored her.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Me?’
‘Is there anyone else here?’
‘I thought you were talking to the person on the other end of the phone.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘For me?’
‘Hello, this is Assistant Commissioner Nunn.’
‘Yes . . .’
Stick said, ‘What, are you . . ?’
‘Shush.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the AC said.
‘Just a minute, Ma’am,’ Xena said. ‘I have an idiot trying to talk to me while I’m on the phone.’ She covered the speaker and said to Stick, ‘Will you fucking drive back to station and stop interrupting me while I’m on the phone?’
‘You only had to say.’
‘Sorry, Ma’am. This is DI Xena Blake from Hoddesdon . . .’
‘That brings back a few memories.’
‘Which is why I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’
‘The murder of Libby Stone.’
‘Ah! One of my unsolved cases.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you calling me now? I mean, that was . . . over twenty years ago for goodness’ sake.’
‘Twenty-four years to be exact, Ma’am. The anniversary of her abduction was yesterday – February 21.’
‘So it was. Has something happened?’
‘A black rose was left on Libby’s gravestone, and a note sent to the station, which stated:
I killed the little Stone girl in 1992.
Now I’m back and I plan to finish what I started all those years ago!!!’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Hello, Ma’am. Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘The reason I’m calling is to ask why you dismissed the River Stort as a serious lead? Also, there’s no mention of narrow boats or barges . . .’
There was a crackling sound and then nothing.
‘Are you still there, Ma’am?’
Nobody answered.
‘Hello, Ma’am?’
She stared at the phone display – the call had been terminated.
‘Probably the weather,’ Stick said.
‘Oh, so now you’re a weather expert?’
‘No.’
Xena said, ‘She hung up.’
‘Surely not?’
‘You think I’m lying?’
‘You said I wasn’t allowed to think.’
‘Keep it that way.’
‘Of course.’
She wondered whether to call back. It was unlikely that AC Nunn would call her, because she didn’t have her mobile number. What choice did she have? She went through the main switchboard again . . .
‘Hello?’ the female switchboard operator said.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m afraid that AC Nunn is not answering her phone. Can I give her a message?’
‘Yes. You could give her my mobile number and ask her to call me urgently, please.’
‘Certainly, DI Blake.’
Xena gave her the number and then ended the call.
‘If she did hang up . . .’
‘Are you still doubting my word?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘The bitch hung up on me . . . And the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I smell a rat.’
Stick sniffed. ‘It’ll be the damp. We’re sitting here in sodden clothes . . .’
‘Shut up, Stick.’
‘Okay.’
Stick pulled into the station car park.
‘I’m going home,’ Xena said.
‘You’re going home?’
‘That’s right. I’ll catch a taxi. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Good, because you have work to do before you can go home.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, you do. I want you to check who’s been released from prison in the past month.’
He took out his notebook and began a list. ‘Okay.’
‘I want you to find out where Marion Stone is now.’
‘Okay.’
‘I want you to carry out background checks on the witnesses at the playground, the two boys who found the body, and the suspects at the time.’
‘Okay.’
‘I want you to find out everything you can about the River Stort, especially who owns the boats and barges that use it . . . Is there a record of boats moving up and down the river? Maybe a central register? Or a co-ordinating entity like . . . I don’t know, maybe the Driver Vehicle Licensing Agency, but for boats?’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘Good, because I’m pretty sure that’s how Libby Stone’s
killer was able to evade capture in 1992.’
‘Seems plausible.’
‘I want you to carry out a background check on AC Nunn . . .’
Stick raised an eyebrow. ‘On the Assistant Commissioner?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No.’
‘I also want you to compare the electoral registers for Roydon between 1992 and 2016.’
‘I can do that, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘If he does have a boat he might live in another electoral area. Also, if he lives on the boat he may not be on any electoral register.’
‘Take a look anyway, smartarse.’
‘Okay.’
‘And finally, I want you to investigate whether there’s any way we can identify the recent purchases of Carbendazim.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll see you in the incident room at eight o’clock tomorrow morning . . .’
‘You don’t want picking up?’
‘No. It’s not far, I’ll walk. And then, after you’ve updated me on your progress, we’ll go and see the Vicar of St Peter’s Church and then knock on a few doors in Duckett’s Mead to see if anyone remembers anything.’
‘I’ll be here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at eight o’clock. Have a lovely evening.’
‘Are you being facetious?’
‘I wouldn’t know how.’
***
‘Where’ve you been?’ Richards said.
‘Oh, so you’re the boss now?’
‘It was only a question.’
‘I went to see Toadstone about obtaining an Office for National Statistics staff list.’
‘Do you think . . . ?’
‘What I think is that you should tell me what you’ve been doing.’
‘You’re in a mood, aren’t you?’
‘I’m in the mood for listening to your excuses. Well?’
Richards picked up her notebook. ‘I called Doc Riley . . .’
‘Uh huh?’
‘She said there was no match on either the DNA database or IDENT1 – the victim was a law-abiding citizen.’
‘You don’t get many of those to the pound these days. Did she have anything else for us?’
‘No.’
‘Carry on.’
‘I phoned Paul. He said he had nothing for us, but you already know that.’
‘And I’ve explained the error of his ways.’
‘Next, I phoned Europol and spoke to a very nice Italian man called Luigi who’s a criminal analyst. He invited me over to the Hague in Holland to see what they do and said that I could stay in his apartment . . .’
‘Did you forget why you called him?’
‘No – we were just talking, that’s all.’
‘I hope you told him that you couldn’t go?’
‘I said I’d think about it.’
‘You will not. Italians are the worst.’
‘The worst what?’
‘He’s more or less asked you to have sex with him, and you’re thinking about it.’
‘You’re so suspicious.’
‘And you’re so gullible.’
‘I am not.’
‘So, once you’d organised your sex life, did you actually get round to discussing with Luigi . . .’ and he used a fake Italian accent like Marlon Brando in the Godfather to emphasise the name. ‘. . . the reason why you called?’
Richards laughed. ‘He said if I promised to visit him in Holland the request might very well find it’s way to the top of the very big pile he had in front of him.’
‘I see, so he’s offering to do the work he actually gets paid for, in return for sexual favours?’
‘That’s not what he said.’
‘In as many words.’ Parish picked up the phone. ‘What’s the number? I’ll speak to his superior officer . . .’
‘You will not.’
‘So, you’ve agreed to meet him in Holland wearing your little black see-through negligee?’
‘You’re so disgusting. I don’t even have a negligee.’
‘You could buy one in France on your way through. Well?’
‘Nothing.’
‘After all that? You gave away your virginity for nothing?’
Richards laughed again. ‘I’m not going to Holland. And I certainly didn’t give away something I don’t possess anymore.’
‘I’m shocked. Does your mother know?’
‘She knows.’
‘What did you offer them at Interpol?’
‘Did you know that they’re based in Lyon in France?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought they were in New York.’
‘When you’re ready?’
‘I spoke with a very polite French gentleman called Henri in the National Central Bureau.’
‘What did he force you to do?’
‘He didn’t force me to do anything. He did say he was cold though.’
‘That’s to be expected – it’s the middle of winter.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘So then you got to talking about the matter at hand?’
‘More or less.’
‘More or less?’
‘He said he’d be a lot warmer if I was in bed with him.’
‘What’s wrong with these people, Richards?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Unless it’s you?’
‘Me? I didn’t do anything.’
‘Maybe you’re sending signals.’
‘Signals?’
‘People can read between the lines, you know?’
‘There’s nothing in-between my lines.’
‘Maybe it’s psychological. Maybe it’s something to do with your desperation to get a man. Maybe subconsciously you’re emitting signals like a sex beacon . . .’
‘A sex beacon?’
‘There’s been research on it. Usually, it’s all about smells and body language – fiddling with your jewellery, dangling a shoe here and there, licking your lips – that type of thing. The problem, of course, is that a woman can’t use body language or pheromones on the phone, so how else can they communicate sexual signals?’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘They have to use verbal cues . . .’
‘Something like, “Will you have sex with me?”.’
‘That’s hardly subconscious or subtle, is it? Maybe it’s the way you speak to people . . . ?’
Richards lowered her voice and tried to sound sultry. ‘Hello, this is Mary Richards.’
‘You sound like a builder with asthma.’
She laughed. ‘You’re a pig.’
‘Or, you might be subconsciously choosing words that convey your availability.’
‘What a load of rubbish. I say, “Hello, this is Mary Richards,” and they hear, “I’m ready, willing and available,”?’
‘That’s it exactly. Maybe we’ve hit on an underdeveloped area of research. Maybe I should write a paper on the subject for the Police Gazette.’
‘And maybe you should make the calls in future?’
‘Maybe I should. Well, besides wanting you to warm his bed up, what did this Henri say then?’
‘He had nothing as well.’
‘Did anyone have anything?’
‘No. I spoke to Sally Prentice at Bramshill . . .’
‘Oh! How is she?’
‘Wouldn’t you just like to know?’
‘That’s why I asked.’
‘She says she’s fine.’
‘Good.’
‘But she had nothing as well. She suggested that the murder could be an isolated event, or that it may be the first of a series.’
‘So, we still have nothing.’
‘Yes – we have nothing.’
Parish narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘Except . . .’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t walk away with clean hands, did you?’
‘My hands are spotless.’
‘Keep going?’
‘Well, that’s it.’
‘I’m a Detective Inspector in the best police force in the world. Trying to hide things from me is like placing them in the middle of my desk with a sign in capital letters stuck to it, which states: LOOK AT ME!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about Luigi and Henri.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘You looked them up on the internet.’
‘You don’t know that.’
He stood up and began shuffling round the desk. ‘If I take a look at your browsing history I have no doubt I’ll find . . .’
‘Maybe I did look them up, but only because I wanted to see who I was talking to.’
‘Show me.’
‘I forget how I found them now.’
He moved closer to her computer.
‘Maybe I still have some tabs open.’ She clicked on the tabs that had been opened. ‘Oh yes! You’re lucky. Here they are. I mustn’t have closed them.’
‘That was a mistake, wasn’t it?’
‘This is Luigi,’ she said.
He was looking at a man, probably in his late thirties, with short hair parted in the middle, eyes that were too close together, a long nose and a small mouth. ‘You had a lucky escape.’
She clicked on the next tab and said, ‘And this is Henri.’
‘Mmmm! He has the look of an old Omar Sharif about him.’ The man wore a dark suit and tie, had short cropped hair, a bushy moustache and a greasy smile. ‘He must be close to fifty, and look . . .’ He bent down and pointed to the man’s left hand. ‘. . . a wedding ring. It’s a good job you declined both their offers.’
Richards busied herself closing the tabs. ‘Henri said he’s separated from his wife.’
‘A likely story. Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘You did decline both their offers, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did.’
He stared at the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘You’ve invited them over here, haven’t you?’
‘It’s not like that. They’re planning to come to Britain and would have been visiting the Hoddesdon area anyway, and . . .’
‘What is wrong with you, Richards? Luigi looks like a drug dealer from the jungles of Bolivia, and Henri is old enough to be your great grandfather – you need counselling.’
‘I’m going to die childless and alone, aren’t I?’
‘Stop being desperate. Everything comes to her who waits.’
‘You keep saying that, but nobody ever comes.’
‘They will. Now, can we get back to what we’re meant to be doing? And as soon as you get a minute you’re to cancel their invitations to Hoddesdon.’
