by Tim Ellis
‘That was my conclusion as well.’
‘It still doesn’t explain why Rebecca Hardacre has no medical records.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Okay, Shakin’ . . .’
‘What’s your news, Mrs K?’
‘Much the same. Everyone I spoke to said Andrew wasn’t the type of man who abused women. Also, I asked Bronwyn to obtain their bank account records seeing as Joe was in no position to complete his mission. I’ve just been going through the accounts, and I’ve discovered that Rebecca spent most of their money even though she earned a lot less than Andrew . . .’
‘Yeah! I’ve noticed that women buy lots of shit that men don’t buy. You’re a woman, Mrs K. Maybe you could explain why that is?’
‘We don’t have the time right now, Shakin’, but if you’re really interested . . .’
‘No, not really.’
‘I didn’t think so. Also, one of her clients paid her two hundred and fifty pounds every week, whereas the other clients paid fifty pounds.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to work out why.’
‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions, Shakin’. Before we go back to confront Veronica Darling and Rebecca Hardacre tomorrow with what we’ve found, we’ll go and speak to Mr R Bailey and find out the truth behind the money he paid her.’
‘Sounds like a plan, Mrs K.’
‘Will you both be okay by tomorrow?’
‘We’ll be fine. I’ve already called Dixie Chivers and explained my medical needs to her, and Nurse Arwen is making a house call on Joe later. We’ll probably look like film extras in a war movie when you see us, but you can rest assured that we’ll have had intensive therapy during the night.’
‘I’ll see you both outside Temple station tomorrow morning at nine o’clock then.’
‘Missing you already, Mrs K.’
The call ended.
She returned to the computer and sent an email to Bronwyn:
Hi!
Thanks for the bank records – very interesting. I know I’m being a pain, but could you find out the address of Mr R Bailey who pays the account holders £250 each week?
See you Sunday.
Jerry
She had the idea of including a smiley emoticon in the email, but decided against it. Bronwyn would probably swear a lot when she received the email and a smiley face would probably be a red rag to a bull.
After logging off the university network, she packed up her things and made her way out of the library. Outside, she headed for the underground station. It had been a long day, and it would be good to get home and spend some time with her parents and the children.
As things stood, she couldn’t see that Rebecca Hardacre had any defence at all. If the Crown Prosecution Service had done their job properly, then she’d be found guilty of pre-meditated murder and sentenced to a life behind bars. The minimum sentence would rely on mitigating factors, but they hadn’t found any of those either. It seemed very strange that Rebecca would tell a story that could so easily be ripped apart. Also, why would the Forster League for Penal Reform take on the case of a woman who was obviously guilty? And why would Professor East give them the case of a lost cause?
Chapter Eighteen
They’d just begun to rummage around in Tom Baguely’s home office when Bolton received a call.
‘DS Bolton . . . Hello, Mr Oswald . . . Really? . . . Okay, thanks for letting us know . . . No, but thanks for the generous offer. Oh, and you do know it’s a crime scene, don’t you? . . . Good . . . We’ll leave you to contact the forensic pathologist when it’s safe to retrieve the body.’
She ended the call.
He stared at her.
‘You were right. Oswald found Browne secured to a chair in his office . . . Oh, and the fire safe was open and empty as well.’
‘He was probably tortured.’
‘Seems likely.’
‘Did Oswald make you an offer you could refuse?’
‘He’s married, you know. I spotted one of the other firefighters tapping his ring finger when Oswald was propositioning me.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me.’
‘In some ways I wish I was a lesbian – men are bastards.’
‘In my limited experience, I can tell you that women aren’t much better.’
‘That’s true.’
He sighed. ‘So, we’ve still got no idea what this case is about.’
‘It doesn’t look like it.’
They carried on searching through Baguely’s home office – the law books; the magazines; the research reports; the mail . . . some of which they had to open. There were also two large drawers. The top one had runners similar to a filing cabinet and was stuffed with files, but the bottom drawer was locked.
‘FIONA!’ he shouted down the stairs, and then wished he hadn’t. It had slipped his mind that the younger child was having her afternoon nap somewhere in the house and he’d probably woken her up.
Bolton clutched her chest. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’
‘Sorry. I’ve had two or three of those myself already – not to be recommended.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Only the drugs are keeping me alive now. It’s also a large part of why I retired.’
‘I’m not impressed with your retirement plan for taking things easy.’
‘I’ve never seen myself as a cardigan and slippers type of guy.’
Fiona Baguely appeared. ‘Problems?’
‘The bottom drawer is locked. Any ideas . . . ?’
She reached up to a shelf and took down a small clay pot acting as a bookend, tipped it up and a key fell out into the palm of her hand. She passed it to him. ‘Sorry, I should have realised it would be locked. You’ll also want his username and password for the laptop – it’s written on the back of the photograph of him and Humphrey.’
Bolton turned the photograph round and found the username and password scribbled on the backing card in pencil.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She went back downstairs.
Bolton accessed the computer on the worktop while he rifled through the files in the two drawers.
Nothing jumped out at him.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anything obvious here,’ Bolton said.
He shook his head. They were scrabbling around in the dark. The only thing they knew for sure was that it was one of the cases Baguely had been working on, but there didn’t appear to be any record of that or any of his other active cases. The list of Baguely’s cases handed to Dan was destroyed in the accident – if that’s what it was. The fire at the Baguely-Browne offices had incinerated Baguely’s computer hard drive, his files, the office network server, and then Baguely’s presumed killer had tortured and killed Humphrey Browne to gain access to the fire safe and remove the back-up DVD. The killer seemed to be one step ahead of them all the time.
‘We’ll have to get forensics here,’ Bolton said. ‘We have no idea what we’re looking for.’
She was right.
‘Shit!’ he said, frustrated at their lack of progress. He turned, and his hand caught the upright sword held by the heavy pewter desk statue of Lady Justice and it crashed to the floor.
Bolton pulled a face. ‘That was clever.’
He bent and picked the statue up. Not only was it pewter, but it also had a solid marble base. ‘It’s like a lump of concrete,’ he said, needing both hands to lift it.
‘Everything all right up there?’ Fiona called up the stairs.
‘Sorry,’ he shouted back. ‘I knocked the statue onto the floor.’
‘Okay.’
Bolton grunted. ‘I bet she wishes she’d never let us in.’
Kowalski grinned. ‘Well, me anyway. My wife has always said I’m like a bull in a china shop.’
‘She’s right.’
He noticed something on the floor – it was a small black memory stick. He bent and scooped it up. ‘But sometimes, you have to
break some china to find what you’re looking for.’
‘That’s not a saying I’m familiar with.’
He held up the memory stick, tipped the statue on its side and found a round hole beneath the velvet covering the bottom of the marble base. As well as the nut and bolt holding the statue to the base, there was also enough room to accommodate the memory stick.
Bolton helped herself to the flash drive and pushed it into a USB slot in the side of the laptop . . .
‘There’s one folder with ten files inside it . . . which is password-protected. We’ll have to give the stick to forensics.’
‘I have a better idea. Let me sit down.’
She moved out of the chair.
He sat down, logged into his own email account, wrote an email to Bronwyn and attached the folder:
Hey partner!
Can you hack into the attached folder and send it back to me?
Did I ever tell you how much I enjoy working with you?
Call me when I can read the files inside it.
Thanks
Your favourite partner
Kowalski
He logged out of his account, took the memory stick from the USB port and slipped it into his pocket. ‘We’ve got two copies of that folder now.’
‘And your partner knows how to get into it?’
‘Let’s just say that she knows how to open doors.’
‘A hacker?’
‘One of the best.’
‘So that’s what policing has come down to?’
He shrugged. ‘You have to fight fire with fire. Okay, we need to organise protection for Mrs Baguely and her children. We found the memory stick first, but the killer doesn’t know that yet. I don’t want this place to go up in flames with the family asleep in their beds.’
Bolton nodded, took out her phone, called the Duty Sergeant at Romford and arranged for a squad car to attend.
‘We’ll wait here until they arrive,’ Kowalski said. ‘Let’s go back downstairs.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Fiona asked.
‘Yes. Your husband had hidden a memory stick in the statue, but it’s password-protected, so we’ll have to wait until our people can crack it . . . I’m guessing you have no knowledge of it?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘I thought not. There’s a squad car coming from Romford Police Station to act as protection. For a change, we got here before the killer, but whoever that might be they’re unaware we’ve found anything. So, if it’s all right with you, we’ll wait here until the car arrives?’
‘Of course. Would you like another drink?’
‘Coffee would be good. I need to make a quick phone call and then I’ll be back.’ He walked outside, called the Chief Constable and briefed him on what had happened during the day – the fire at Baguely-Brown offices; the torture and murder of Humphrey Browne; the empty fire safe and the discovery of the hidden memory stick in Baguely’s home office.
‘Good work, Ray.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
‘So we’ll find out what it’s all been about when forensics cracks the password?’
‘Forensics! That’s it exactly, Sir.’ The Chief Constable didn’t need to know that a civilian called Bronwyn was hacking into the folder at that very moment.
‘And good thinking about protecting Baguely’s wife and children.’
‘We don’t need any more deaths.’
‘No, or bad press for that matter.’
‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow when forensics come back to us.’
‘How’s DS Bolton holding up?’
‘She’s doing fine, Sir.’
‘Don’t get the idea that there’s any chance of you coming back long-term, Ray.’
‘Never crossed my mind, Sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
The call ended.
***
Eider ducks and their ducklings began to congregate in the river below them as they were sitting on the bank throwing sticks and stones into the water.
Xena stared at Stick. ‘Did you bring any bread?’
‘No, but you’re not meant to feed ducks bread or chips.’
‘Who says so?’
‘The Royal Society of Birds.’
She blew a raspberry. ‘That’s rubbish.’
‘Apparently, they can starve to death.’
‘Utter poppycock.’
‘No, it’s true. They can develop a condition called Angel Wing that makes their wings deformed and prevents them from flying.’
‘You’ll believe anything you will.’
‘And if they can’t fly, then they can’t find proper food, so they starve to death.’
‘Well, whether you think I’m gullible enough to believe your fantastical story or not is a moot point, because we don’t have any bread or chips, do we?’
‘No.’
‘So stop talking mumbo jumbo.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Have you phoned that waster Pecker in forensics yet?’
‘Me?’
‘Do I have to think of everything? When these clowns from the MPU arrive and raise the boat what condition is it going to be in?’
‘I suppose it’ll be wet?’
‘Keep going.’
‘It’ll probably smell a bit as well, and be covered in seaweed and barnacles?’
‘Seaweed and barnacles! It’s a river, numpty.’
‘Well, you know, the stuff they have at the bottom of rivers.’
‘Silt, algae, water grass, mud, shopping trolleys?’
‘Yes – those things.’
‘So, are you going to climb on board and begin searching through the boat?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Are you expecting me to do it?’
‘Do you want to do it?’
She pulled a face. ‘No, I do not.’
‘I suppose I’d better call Dr Peckham in Forensics then, and see if he’d be willing to come here and . . .’
‘You’ll call him and tell him to get his fat arse down here if he wants to keep his job.’
‘Or I could do that.’ Stick pulled out his phone, walked along the towpath out of Xena’s hearing and called Forensics.
‘Is he coming?’ Xena asked when he rejoined her.
‘Did he have a choice?’
‘No.’
‘There we are then.’
The salvage crew arrived.
‘About bloody time,’ Xena said to the swarthy man who climbed out of the truck. He had grey-streaked black hair and a week-old beard. ‘I was told three o’clock . . .’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s now five past four.’
‘Rush hour traffic,’ the man said. He wore black coveralls, a black baseball cap with MPU in large white letters on the front and jiggled a wooden toothpick around in the corner of his mouth as if he’d just walked off the film set of City Slickers.
‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Inspector Xena Blake, and that stick-like apparition throwing things into the water to confuse the ducks is my partner DS Gilbert.’
‘I’m Inspector Peter Roundhouse.’
‘Round the houses by name and nature?’
Roundhouse rolled his eyes. ‘That’s something I haven’t heard before.’
‘Right – let’s get to it,’ Xena said, rubbing her hands together. ‘If your driver backs the truck up and . . .’ She pointed. ‘What’s that whirly thing?’
‘A winch.’
‘Yeah, the winch . . . And you’ll probably need some rope and a couple of divers in the water. I’ve given this some thought and I think we should . . .’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you trained in underwater salvage?’
‘A monkey could do it.’
‘Well, Blake . . . I can call you Blake, can’t I?’
‘No.’
‘Good. This monkey has a long list o
f qualifications and years of relevant experience in underwater salvage, so if you’d be so kind as to naff off and leave me and my equally trained and experienced troop of monkeys to it, I’d be extremely grateful.’
‘You know what’s going to happen if you fuck it up, don’t you, Roundly?’
‘I think I have a good idea, Butt.’
‘I’m going to watch you like a horse.’
‘I’m used to being watched by horses.’
‘Come on,’ she said to Stick. ‘Let’s stand over there and watch these monkeys make apes of themselves.’
Stick stood up and they both moved out of the way as the team of men from the MPU had a short discussion and then began organising their equipment.
‘They seem to know what they’re doing,’ Stick said.
‘Have I given you carte blanche to utter gibberish?’
‘I think Inspector Roundman fancies you.’
‘I’m going to stick your lips together with superglue in a minute.’
‘He seems to be giving you as good as he gets.’
‘I’m worried that the doctors won’t be able to remove my foot from your rectum.’
‘He’s certainly good looking.’
She grunted. ‘To a female ape.’
‘And you’re single.’
‘Stop talking, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
‘You could do a lot worse.’
‘I could do a lot better as well.’
‘True, but you haven’t been doing better for a while now, have you?’
‘Are you still muttering?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Hazel came over and sat down beside them. ‘This is exciting,’ she said, pulling the multicoloured crocheted blanket she’d brought with her tight around her shoulders. ‘And look at all those hunky men.’
‘Apes,’ Xena corrected her. ‘Did you provide the forensic artist with a description of Roland Beagrie?’
‘Yes. She came when you weren’t here and left with a definite likeness of Beagrie. She was very good, but then she had an excellent witness and landscape artist to assist her.’
