by Tim Ellis
‘No one would know.’
‘You have a strange notion about the abilities of the police to detect crime. Do you think they walk round with their eyes closed, bumping into things while criminals go about their daily business?’
‘Is that not what happens?’
‘No, darling. Sometimes they accidently bump into the criminals, which provides officers with career advancement opportunities.’
‘I’d just like you to take a look at the Andrew Crowthorne case, and maybe print off a copy for me.’
‘And you think that nobody will notice?’
‘I’m sure they won’t.’
‘Everything is logged by the server. Anyone interested in my network activities only needs to take a peek at my access log to identify what I’ve been looking at . . . or printing off, for that matter.’
‘I see. So you’re not going to look at the information held on the computer about the prostitute murders?’
‘That’s different.’
‘How so?’
‘Well . . .’
At that point she was required to work her magic and soon he was agreeing to print off everything the police had about Andrew Crowthorne’s murder.
‘See, darling,’ she said, when they were both huffing and puffing like carthorses. ‘Sometimes, pretending not to know, is the appropriate course of action.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind for the future.’
The train pulled into Temple and she made her way through the crowds up to street level.
This morning she’d received an email from Bronwyn identifying where Mr R Bailey lived. Apparently, he worked for the government, which she thought was a bit strange. Although, why shouldn’t government employees pay for massages like other people – even if that massage was accompanied by sex?
‘Mrs K!’ Joe said with smile that metamorphosed into a grimace. ‘How’s it hangin’?’
She stopped and looked at them.
They were sitting on a large concrete flower pot outside the station and resembled victims of a train crash.
‘You poor boys.’
‘We’ll be all right, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said. ‘It feels worse than it actually looks.’
Shakin’s face was all swollen and bruised, his lip was split and his left ear had three sutures in it. Joe wore a permanent pained expression and kept his legs well apart like a rodeo rider.
She moved forward and put a hand up to Shakin’s face.
He leaned backwards to avoid any contact.
‘You can poke and prod Shakin’ Mrs K, but I’d rather you didn’t do that to me . . . Especially in the street with everyone looking and all.’
‘No . . . Well, you’ve got Nurse Arwen to poke and prod you.’
‘That’s very true,’ he nodded. ‘She certainly knows how to apply that soothing cream all right.’
Shakin’ laughed. ‘He’s come out of his excruciation with Veronica Darling smelling of antiseptic, Mrs K.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘It makes a change Shakin’ being jealous of me, Mrs K.’
‘Anyway, I thought you had a thing going with Dixie Chivers?’
‘I do, I do. It’s just . . . Well, she’s not qualified. If she was a fully-trained doctor with all those post-nominal letters after her name it’d be a different ball of jelly, but . . .’
‘You’re a snob, Shakin’.’
‘It’s true – I am. I blame my mother for breastfeeding me until I was fifteen . . . I’m psychologically damaged.’
They caught a taxi the short distance to 1 Kemble Street, WC2. It was just off Drury Lane and one block away from the Theatre Royal.
Jerry paid, as she always did.
‘Are you sure this is where Mr Bailey lives, Mrs K?’ Shakin’ said.
‘Why?’
‘Take a look.’
Joe and Shakin’ were pointing at the sign that said:
CROWN PROSECUTION SERVICE.
‘Are we working for the opposition now?’ Joe asked.
She screwed up her face. ‘To be honest, I don’t know who we’re working for anymore.’
***
He hadn’t been to Romford Police Station before, but as soon as he saw it he was glad he didn’t work there. It was three stories of brick, concrete and glass with a flat roof, and it made him depressed. What had happened to all the decent buildings? He wasn’t an architectural connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew that these 1960s monstrosities were designed and built by imbeciles. The Victorians knew how to design and build. Where were they now?
He showed his Warrant Card to the woman behind the bullet-proof glass. ‘DCI Kowalski. Apparently, I work here.’
The woman was in her late twenties, had long dark hair past her shoulders, a fringe and a spotty chin. She ran her finger down a list of names on the counter in front of her. ‘Working with DS Bolton?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘You’ve been told not to look directly into her eyes?’
‘Yes.’
A buzzer sounded and the access door to the inner sanctum clicked open.
The woman offered her hand when he walked through and said, ‘I’m Winter, Sir.’
He wanted to say something witty about the other three seasons, but instead he shook her manicured hand and glanced at the name badge on her chest: W Winslow. ‘Winter’s your first name?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Nice to meet you, Winter Winslow.’
‘You had to say it out loud, didn’t you?’
The corner of his mouth creased upwards.
‘You want the second floor. Turn left at the top.’
‘Thanks, Winter . . .’
‘I hope you’re not going to say it again?’
‘I can’t promise it won’t slip out at some point in the future.’
‘Welcome to Romford, Sir.’
‘Very kind.’
He made his way up the stairs to the second floor, turned left and followed the signs for the Murder Squad, which was part of Homicide & Major Crime Command at Barking.
‘You found us then?’ Bolton said, standing up. ‘Coffee, Sir?’
‘You know how to please a man, Sergeant Bolton.’
‘Let me introduce you to the movers and shakers.’ She led him round the squad room and he shook hands with each and every one. ‘DI Lance Hogan, DS Norma Frith, DC Erica Wheeler, DC Darren Geddes. And last, but by no means least is Cora Roberts and Beatrice Martin providing clerical support.’
‘You probably know about me,’ he said. ‘If not, I’m sure the Chief Constable will fill you in on the three million pound helicopter I destroyed if you ask him nicely.’
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘I’m sorry about Dan and his wife. Dan was an old friend of mine, so if I can help clear up his last case and find the people who murdered him, then that will be me paying my last respects to him. I’m not going to be here for very long, but thanks for the generous welcome.’
They all nodded and went back to their work.
‘While you’re making the coffee,’ he said to Bolton. ‘I’d better tip my hat to the DCI.’
Bolton pointed to a closed office door. ‘She’s in there, Sir.’
He knocked on the door.’
‘Come.’
He smiled. How many times had he said that to the people who’d knocked on his door? He pushed the handle down and went inside.
‘I knew it’d be you, Kowalski!’
‘Hello Madison – long time.’
‘Not long enough if you ask me.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I meant every fucking word. When the Chief Constable told me it was you who’d be replacing Dan I felt like he’d shot me through the heart with a silver bullet.’
‘I’m sure you know that I’m only here for a month at best. You won’t see much of me.’
‘I don’t want to see you at all. Right, you’ve said hello, now get the fuck o
ut.’
He turned on his heel and left. It had been fifteen years since she’d lost her baby. She held him totally responsible, but it was hardly his fault. Her husband had been working a murder case, but it was going nowhere. DI Kowalski been appointed as an External Reviewing Officer and during his review he’d discovered that DI Paul Hunter had fabricated evidence. There were three of them reviewing the case – he’d been in charge. Yes, he’d had a choice. He could have covered up the crime, but he’d never been the type of man or police officer who would do something like that. DI Hunter had been suspended pending an internal enquiry and events had snowballed to a terrible conclusion from there.
DI Hunter’s wife – Madison – was a DS at the time working in Robbery. She’d been twenty-three weeks pregnant. Following his suspension, Paul Hunter had gone to the pub and drunk himself nearly senseless. He’d attempted to drive home and was crushed between two trucks. As a result of the shock and stress, Madison lost the baby, and from that day to this she blamed Ray Kowalski for murdering her husband and her baby daughter.
‘You weren’t in there long,’ Bolton said.
‘No – we have history.’ He told her what had happened fifteen years ago.
‘Jesus! It was hardly your fault.’
‘No, but that’s not how she sees it.’
‘Her husband’s stupidity would have come out . . .’
‘It’s no good trying to be rational. Rationality doesn’t come into it. As far as Madison Hunter is concerned, I could have stopped the juggernaut in its tracks, but I didn’t.’
‘And she lost her baby?’
‘A girl.’
‘I can see where she’s coming from, but . . .’
‘Anyway, keep it to yourself. I don’t want any more bad feeling.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, do you have any incident rooms in this gothic mansion?’
‘Yeah.’
He picked up his coffee and followed her into a sparse room with two whiteboards, a table and four chairs.
‘It’s not the luxurious surroundings I’m used to,’ he said.
‘This is third class. First and second class are reserved for those who have been here since the time of the dinosaurs.’
‘I imagine there’s a few of them?’
‘You bet.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to make do. As the wise and wonderful say: It’s not what you’ve got, it’s what you can do with it.’
‘I don’t think those people were referring to incident rooms.’
‘No, but the sentiment is the same. Right, let’s try the talking cure first, and as we talk you can make notes on the board. From our perspective it all started when Mrs Baguely employed me to follow her husband, because she thought he was seeing another woman . . .’
‘But we know he wasn’t.’
‘Do we?’
‘Ah! I suppose not. We’re making assumptions, aren’t we?’
‘We?’
‘Me.’
‘What we do know is that he left through the rear door of his offices and was stabbed to death. Now, we’ve also assumed that he went out there to meet someone, and that his murder was related to subsequent events . . . What about the crime scene forensics?’
Bolton shook her head. ‘Nothing of any interest.’
‘Post-mortem report?’
‘The same. We know the time of death. We know the cause of death. We have the murder weapon. What we don’t have is any idea who the killer was.’
‘No CCTV?’
‘No.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Apart from you, nobody saw a thing.’
‘And I didn’t see anything either.’
‘So, we have nothing.’
He took a swallow of coffee. ‘Okay. At that point – I left. You and Dan took over . . .’
‘. . . And we questioned the office staff based on the working assumption that, rather than a random murder, it was related to something he was working on. Dan asked for a list of Baguely’s current cases and obviously saw something on that list that prompted him to call the Chief Constable and arrange a meeting . . .’
Kowalski held up his hand to interrupt her. ‘Let’s think that through a minute. Why didn’t he call his own boss?’
‘Her name was on the list, or somebody else’s name in the station?’
‘It’s possible, but unlikely. Let’s assume that it had nothing to do with the people here – why would he go straight to the Chief Constable?’
‘The name on the list was someone well-known?’
‘Or high up in the food chain.’
Bolton pursed her lips. ‘Or both.’
‘Mmmm!’ he said, nursing his coffee mug. ‘Why didn’t Dan tell you what he’d found?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s probably a good thing he didn’t, because I suspect you’d be lying in the morgue as well now.’
‘If Dan was murdered on the M25, how did the killer know?’
‘That Dan had a list?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good point. The only people who knew he had the list were the staff in the office . . .’
‘And the Chief Constable.’
He shook his head. ‘Forget William Orde. All he knew was that Dan had found something and arranged a meeting for the following morning to discuss it. He didn’t know what Dan found, he didn’t know he had a list, he didn’t know he’d be travelling to Chelmsford the night before with his wife . . . And not only that, I’ve known Bill Orde for years – he’s not that type of person who would have ordered the execution of Dan, never mind his wife.’
‘Which leaves the office staff.’
‘Have you checked them out?’
‘No.’ She wrote a note on the whiteboard. ‘As far as we’ve been concerned they’re innocent bystanders.’
‘Maybe they’re not so innocent, after all. I’m guessing here, but only two people knew Dan was travelling to Chelmsford that night – him and the Chief Constable. Have you checked Dan’s phone records?’
‘No – what for?’
‘Well, let’s argue that he called his wife after he’d arranged the meeting with the Chief Constable. He told her to pack her gladrags, drop the kids off at her parents’ house and he’d pick her up later for a romantic evening away . . .’
‘Someone might have overheard him making that call?’
‘That’s my guess. How else would anyone know he had the list, he was travelling to Chelmsford on the M25 that night, and that he’d found something, which he wanted to share with the Chief Constable the following morning?’
‘No one else could have known, could they?’
‘Not that I can think of. Also, the fire was more than likely set to destroy any paper and computer records of what Baguely had been working on.’
‘And the back-up DVD in the fire safe.’
‘We’ve assumed that Browne was tortured to reveal the existence, location and access details of the fire safe, but maybe that wasn’t the reason at all. If the killer already knew about the back-up DVD in the safe and how to access it, then why was Browne tortured?’
They were quite for a handful of seconds.
‘Maybe they were both involved in it – whatever “it” was?’ Bolton said.
‘It’s looking more plausible by the minute.’ He pointed to the board. ‘In which case, we want all the office staff brought in for questioning; background checks carried out on them; forensics despatched to search Browne’s home address; Dan’s phone records checked; the CCTV footage from before, during and after the M25 pile-up examined by Traffic and a report provided; we need the PM report on Humphrey Browne, and his bank and telephone records checked; we need the fire investigation report . . .’
‘They’ll take their time with that.’
‘You could hurry them along if you wanted to?’
‘Using my assets, you mean?’
‘Did I say that? We have a lead – Quester Pharmaceuticals
Limited on the Rush Green Industrial Estate in Romford. We need to know everything about them – what they’re involved in; who they’re involved with; who’s on the Board of Directors; their main shareholders; who their solicitors are; any links to Tom Baguely and Humphrey Browne. Also, you’re going to Tom Baguely’s house in Toot Hill to search for the passwords to those files. Search through everything again and see if there’s anything relating to Quester, speak to his wife, find out if she knows anything about them . . . I’m tied up in London, but I want someone else to go with you.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘That wasn’t a request.’
‘DC Darren Geddes can come with me.’
‘Good. The Chief Constable said I was to bring you back in one piece, and I always keep my promises.’
‘Okay.’
‘This afternoon, I’d like you to interview the office staff. One of them, or maybe more than one, knows something. Check their mobile phone records for around the time Dan made the call to the Chief Constable . . . Anything else you can think of?’
‘I don’t think I have the time to do anything else.’
‘Good. There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing busy happy workers singing songs as they go.’
‘You want me to sing while I’m working as well?’
‘I’m sure it would give you a feeling of blissful contentment.’
‘Maybe I’ll try it when I’m on my own.’
‘You won’t be disappointed. Listen . . . I need something to read while I’m on the train to Canary Wharf.’
‘Such as?’
‘A report on the murder of a prostitute called Jodie Wilkins on Fisherman’s Walk near West India Docks on March 23, 2011. It was posted by DI Munro Carlyle from Limehouse Police Station.’
‘Okay . . .’
‘And a report on the murder of Andrew Crowthorne, by his partner Rebecca Hardacre on October 10, 2015.’
‘Extra-curricular activities?’
‘You could say that.’
‘You’ve got computer access, but it’ll be easier if I ask one of the clerical staff to print them off for you.’
‘Thanks. In which case – we’re done. And I’ll meet you at Quester Pharmaceuticals on the Rush Green Industrial Estate at four o’clock.’
