by Tim Ellis
‘If I had to guess, I’d say between two and four this morning.’
‘Have you identified a cause yet?’
Oswald laughed. ‘Give us a chance – we’ve only just put the flames out. We also need to assess the structural viability of the building. Nobody’s going in there to take a look until at least tomorrow.’
‘Any casualties?’
‘Same answer. We’ve had no reports of anyone being inside, but even if we had they wouldn’t have been alive by the time we arrived.’
‘There were two solicitors working out of those offices. One was murdered in an alleyway behind the building yesterday, and the other one – a Humphrey Browne – is missing. According to the staff, he was still in his office when they left last night.’
‘And you think he might have been in the building when it went up in flames?’
‘It might explain why no one can find him.’
‘Okay. I’m not promising anything, but we’ll try and take a look in there later – which office would he have been in?’
‘On the right of the main entrance.’
‘It’s no use you hanging about. Have you got a card? I’ll give you a call if and when I can get in there.’
He looked at Bolton. ‘I’m all out of cards.’
Bolton handed Oswald a card.
Oswald grinned. ‘I much prefer your card to his.’
‘I’m gay.’
His face dropped. ‘That’s a pity.’
‘Not for me.’
Kowalski interrupted. ‘So, you’ll call us if and when you get in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s something else as well.’
‘Oh?’
‘A fire safe with a DVD in it, which is located in the back room set into the wall to the left of the filing cabinets.’
‘That’ll have to wait.’
‘Okay. Tomorrow morning?’
Oswald shrugged. ‘At the earliest.’
‘We’ll wait for your call.’
‘He wasn’t very helpful.’
‘He might have been if you hadn’t said you were gay . . . you’re not are you?’
‘Can’t you tell?’
‘Women are a mystery to me.’
‘I doubt that. So, you’re one of those misogynists who subscribes to the view that a woman should use her assets to get what she wants?’
‘Absolutely. Men as well though – I’m all for equal rights. When it comes to getting to the truth you have to use all the tools at your disposal. I’m not proud.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘Pride is a sin.’
‘Then I’m a sinner.’
‘Okay. Well, we’ll say no more about it. Besides that, you could have offered to marry him and he wouldn’t have changed his mind. There are rules, and not entering an unsafe building is one of those rules. If Browne was in the building when it went up in flames then he’s long since dead, and there’s nothing that can bring him back to life either today or tomorrow.’
‘Do you think he was in the building?’
‘That’s my guess. The only real question now is whether the back-up disc is still in the fire-proof safe.’
‘And?’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Someone wants to bury whatever Tom Baguely was working on. They’ve probably murdered four people already. They’re hardly likely to forget about a simple back-up disc in a measly fire-proof safe.’
***
They took the A414 to Harlow, crossed over the River Stort on Fifth Avenue and pulled into the parking area by the river on Burnt Mill Lane.
Stick rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Do you think a working mill burnt down and that’s why they called . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm! Which mill . . .’
‘My response was meant to end the conversation, numpty. If the planners had wanted us to know the name of the mill, they would have called it Burnt Sticky Mill Lane, or whatever. If you’re that interested – do some research on it.’
‘Do you think . . . ?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Okay.’
They climbed out of the car and looked left and right. A small marina, with dozens of houseboats moored up alongside thin wooden jetties jutting out at an angle from both sides, had been constructed parallel to the river. There was a small entry and exit back onto the River Stort, but the marina itself resembled a way station.
‘What’s the name of the houseboat?’ Xena said.
‘Cool Breeze.’
‘Have you got a picture of it?’
‘No.’
‘Of him?’
‘No.’
‘Wasn’t there a picture of him on the database?’
‘It was from 1992.’
‘That’ll do. Did you print it off?’
‘Yes, but it’s on the incident board.’
‘And you didn’t think to bring a copy with you?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a numpty.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Didn’t the prison have anything more recent?’
‘No.’
‘You called them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the boat moored?’
‘Here somewhere.’
‘You call yourself a detective?’
‘I have a Warrant Card that clearly states I’m a detective.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything. Insane people have cards that state they’re sane. Left or right?’
‘You choose.’
‘Let’s go right?’
‘I’m at your disposal.’
‘Are you prepared?’
‘For what?’
‘To subdue him if he resists arrest.’
‘Do you think he will?’
‘Do you think I’m a clairvoyant?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘He’s old, isn’t he?’
‘Maybe. Would you feel more confident restraining an old-aged pensioner?’
‘I would. Although, maybe we should call for back-up?’
‘What if you call for back-up, two hunks with rippling muscles arrive and Beagrie is a decrepit old man with a Zimmer frame?’
‘I suppose I’d be embarrassed.’
‘Damned right.’
‘Maybe we should wait and see what he does when we confront him?’
‘If you’re sure?’ Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t want you to feel pressured in any way. Just so long as you remember that I’m too much of a lady to help you with any of the physical stuff?’
‘I understand.’
‘So, where the hell is this houseboat?’
‘Maybe we should ask someone?’
‘You’re like a ferret.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment, numpty.’
‘I had a funny feeling it wasn’t.’
They found an office of sorts that had sailing memorabilia on the walls outside and inside like wooden steering wheels, oars, flags, black and white photographs of boats, buoys, complicated knots, lanterns, diving equipment . . . There was even a notice stating that:
LADIES
ON THE BEACH
MUST WEAR
BLOOMERS
City Ordnance: 102
‘Have you got your bloomers on?’
‘Are you the bloomers enforcer?’
‘I don’t think that would be a fun job.’
‘And yet you’re eager to check if I’m wearing my bloomers?’
‘Maybe I’ll leave it to your discretion.’
‘A wise decision, Stickyfingers.’
There didn’t seem to be anyone about.
Xena raised her voice. ‘Hello?’
A man wearing a Captain’s uniform and hat, with a full white beard and handlebar moustache appeared. ‘Well, hello yourselves, shipmates.’
Xena pulled a face. ‘Who did you come as?’
‘I’m the Captain .
. . Captain Arthur Biggington at your service. How can I be of service?’
‘We’re looking for Roland Beagrie and the narrow boat he lives on, which is called . . .’
‘. . . Cool Breeze. Yes, I know Roland. Tip-top shipmate. The boat is green and yellow and moored up on jetty five to the right.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
‘I hope you have a fair wind, shipmates.’
They walked back to the marina, found jetty five, but there was no sign of a green and yellow boat named Cool Breeze.
‘Do you think he’s making his escape?’ Stick said.
‘In a narrow boat?’
‘Stranger things . . . ?’
‘Don’t talk stupid. Go back to the office and drag that halfwit out here to explain where the boat’s gone.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Stick wandered back to where the office was located.
She looked around and noticed an old woman sitting in a fold-up chair on an orange and purple painted boat moored up to the next jetty staring at her. She had grey hair like steel wool, a ruddy complexion, layers upon layers of clothing and the smoke from a pipe swirled in the freezing air above her. ‘You won’t find him,’ she said.
‘Won’t find who?’
‘That slimy toad – Beagrie.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘No idea.’
‘When?’
‘Early hours. I was squatting over the side minding my P’s and Q’s when I heard him receive a telephone call. After that, I went down below and climbed into bed. Before I drifted off I also heard him banging and clattering about on his boat. This morning I get up and the boat’s gone.’
‘Where’s it gone?’
‘That’s a good question to which I don’t know the answer.’
Stick reappeared with Captain Biggington in tow.
The Captain smiled, waved at the old woman and said, ‘Top of the morning to you, Hazel O’Reilly.’
‘And to you, Captain Biggington.’
‘Have you seen Norman the Pelican this morning?’
‘No sign.’
‘Shame. I fear someone’s captured him, or worse. He was too tame for his own good was Norman.’ He saw Xena pulling a face. ‘A Pelican we called Norman arrived each morning and we’d . . .’
‘I get the idea,’ Xena said. ‘Forget the Pelican. I’m more interested in Roland Beagrie and his narrow boat. Hazel said she heard him leaving in the early hours – Beagrie that is, not Norman the Pelican.’
‘Leaving! He still owes a month’s rent. Maybe he wasn’t a tip-top shipmate after all.’ He called over to Hazel. ‘Did you hear the boat’s engine last night, Hazel?’
‘No – no engine. That boat hadn’t moved for years. I don’t think it had a working engine.’
‘Mmmm!’ The Captain walked along the jetty and stared into the murky water. ‘Goodness me! He sank the boat.’
‘Surely not?’ Hazel said, clambering off her boat and walking round the jetty to where the Captain was standing.
Xena and Stick followed.
The Captain pointed into the water. ‘See the flashes of yellow?’
‘Whatever next?’ Hazel said.
‘Well, we’ll have to lift it out of there before I can rent the space again.’
Stick put his hand up to shield his mouth and whispered to Xena, ‘Do you think it might be a crime scene?’
‘Shit!’ She prodded the Captain and produced her Warrant Card. ‘We’re police officers. We needed to talk to Mr Beagrie about a crime that was committed in 1992, and that boat might very well be part of a crime scene, so I’m afraid we’ll be lifting it – not you.’
‘Well I never,’ Hazel said.
The Captain smiled. ‘That suits me just fine. I haven’t really got the funds for dredging up boats from the bottom of the river.’
Xena sighed and phoned the Chief.
‘Nibley.’
‘It’s DI Blake, Chief.’
‘Haven’t we spoken enough already today?’
‘Yes, but there’s been a development . . .’ She told the Chief about Roland Beagrie, the houseboat, the phone call in the early hours of the morning and how he’d probably absconded after sinking the boat.’
‘You didn’t mention any Roland Beagrie this morning, Blake.’
‘That’s because I wasn’t sure it would lead anywhere. I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.’
‘Well, I hope you’re not now suggesting that we lift the boat out of the river, are you, Blake?’
‘I’m afraid so, Sir.’
‘Think of the cost involved in salvaging a wooden boat from the bottom of a river, Blake. Divers, generators, a crane or two with trained operators, people who are experienced in salvage operations . . . I can’t authorise something on such a large scale.’
‘It’s hardly the Titanic, Sir. And not only that, it could be where Libby Stone was hidden in 1992. Possibly where she was sexually assaulted and murdered. Remember, she was naked when those two boys found her. Her clothes might be in that boat . . .’
‘Christ Blake! I knew you were trouble as soon as I set eyes on you – I just didn’t know how much trouble. You’ll have to leave it with me. I’ll have to run it past the Chief Constable, cover my arse, you know the type of thing?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Okay, well I’ll call you as soon as . . .’
‘I have a question, Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did AC Nunn arrive in Hoddesdon this morning? Or did she stay overnight?’
‘She arrived last night and stayed in the Clocktower Lodge on Amwell Street. After tipping her hat to me, I gave her the guided tour of the station for old times’ sake and then . . .’
‘Did you take her into the incident room to show her the progress we’d made?’
‘Yes, I did. She was suitably impressed with your notes on the incident board . . . Call me a psychic, but I have a bad feeling about this, Blake. Tell me you don’t think it was AC Nunn who made that phone call to Roland Beagrie.’
‘I wish I could, Sir.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Blake. Have you listened to yourself? Have you watched your lips moving up and down in a mirror? Why in God’s name would AC Nunn . . . ? In fact, how would AC Nunn know . . . ? Christ, Blake!’
‘I forgot to tell you that we’ve discovered AC Nunn’s records are sealed.’
‘You’ve been trying to access a senior officer’s records! I think I might have to lie down in a darkened room for a month. Christ, Blake!’
‘You’ve said that before, Sir.’
‘And each time, I mean it. I’m going to pretend you didn’t tell me about AC Nunn’s records, Blake.’
‘If it’s any consolation Sir, I plan to blame DS Gilbert if the proverbial hits the fan.’
‘He’s lucky to have you as a partner, Blake.’
‘He knows that, Sir.’
‘Wait for my call.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
***
They made their way down the stairs and out into the February chill. It was a day when the cold seemed to penetrate clothes, skin and bone and no matter how much a person tried they couldn’t get warm.
Richards glanced at him. ‘So, what other options do you have if mum decides that you’re not husband material anymore?’
‘Lots.’
‘Such as?’
‘Need to know.’
‘You know I need to know. I always need to know. It makes me ill when I don’t know.’
‘I have an escape plan.’
‘You do not.’
‘A fake passport, a stack of foreign money in a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands, a one-way flight to Ecuador . . .’
‘Now I know you’re lying . . . Equadoor isn’t even a place.’
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘Toadstone obtained a staff li
st from the ONS – there’s no one there with the initials ‘NG’ or ‘PR’.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘That’s a good question.’
‘And what’s the answer?’
‘You tell me. If you don’t think for yourself your brain is going to calcify and shrivel up.’
‘I do think for myself.’
‘You mean you think of yourself. Tell me the last time you had an original thought?’
‘I . . .’
‘Exactly! Calcification appears to be at an advanced stage.’
‘I’m not going to dignify your comments with a response. Do you want me to drive?’
He laughed. ‘You think I want someone with a calcified brain driving my new car?’
‘Are we going to the hospital?’
‘I think it’s the only option. Maybe they’ll be able to reverse the calcification, but I’m not at all hopeful.’
‘I’m not talking to you now.’
‘Peace and quiet at last.’
‘What do you think about Hayley Kingdom?’
‘I thought you weren’t talking to me?’
‘Discussing the case isn’t talking.’
‘I didn’t realise that.’
‘Well?’
‘Without more information it’s difficult to know what to think.’
‘Do you think she was depressed?’
‘Even if she was, what difference would that make? She didn’t commit suicide, did she?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Definitely not. After we’ve had lunch with Doc Riley we’ll catch the train to Canary Wharf and speak to the people at Zebra Events. And then let’s hope that forensics have something for us tomorrow.’
‘It seems strange that she should delete all the files on her computer and also shred all her personal information. It’s as if she was going to commit suicide.’
‘But we know that’s not the case, don’t we?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Stop fixating on suicide as the answer, Richards – suicide is not the answer. Hayley Kingdom definitely did not commit suicide and that’s final. There’s no way she could have tied herself to a table; tortured herself by cutting pieces out of her back, buttocks and legs; strangled herself and dumped her own naked body at the back of the Meadway estate. Only a crazy person would think that suicide was the answer. A demented psychopathic killer did all of that to her, so there must be another answer to explain why she tried to erase any traces of herself from the world.’
