by Tim Ellis
Like a magician performing home-made tricks he produced two envelopes from behind his back and said, ‘Choose one.’
Richards stood up and shuffled to where the Chief held up the two envelopes. ‘Ooh! Let me.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘The Chief asked me to choose. Not you, Richards.’
‘But what if you choose the wrong one, Ma’am?’
‘Mmmm! There is that. Maybe I should let you choose, Sergeant,’ she said to Stick. ‘If I do that, then I’ll have someone to blame when the shit hits the fan.’
‘Or . . .’ Richards said, her hand hovering over the envelopes. ‘You could let me choose. If it did go wrong, which it won’t, but if it did, you could blame me.’
‘I can certainly see the advantages in blaming you, Richards.’ Xena turned to Stick. ‘What’s your take on this, Sergeant?’
‘I don’t want to be blamed for choosing the wrong one. I mean, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of it being my fault. I’m not keen on those odds.’
‘Yes, but there’s a fifty-fifty chance of you choosing the right one.’
‘What are the odds of that happening?’
‘That’s true! We’ll leave you out of it. What about you, Parish?’
‘Carl Jung once said that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate. You have the chance to determine your own fate, Blake. If you leave it to Richards, she’ll be deciding your fate for you.’
‘It’s not often you talk sense, Parish – and today’s no different. The issue I have with what you’re saying is that if I choose my own fate, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.’
‘Even if you let Richards choose, that’s what it’ll boil down to in the final analysis. Oh, you could use her as a scapegoat to make yourself feel better, but you and I would both know that when it came down to it – you bottled it.’
‘Don’t think you can goad me into making a rash decision, Parish.’ She stared at the Chief. ‘You could simply hand us an envelope each, Chief – let the chips fall where they may?’
‘But then you’d blame me, Blake.’
‘We usually blame you anyway, Sir.’
‘Choose,’ Nibley repeated, shuffling the envelopes like a gambler on the Mississippi riverboat.
‘You choose, Richards,’ Xena said.
‘Really?’ Richards said, licking her lips.
‘Yes, but choose wisely. You’re free to choose, but not free from the consequence of your choice.’
Richards’ tongue poked out from between her lips, and her hand hovered over the envelopes. ‘This one . . . No, no this one . . . Maybe that one . . . What if . . .? No, it has to be . . . But . . .’ She put her hand down by her side and stood there staring at the envelopes. ‘It’s no good, I can’t do it.’
Xena shoved Richards out of the way. ‘I knew that when it came down to it you’d be petrified by indecision.’ She picked the envelope nearest to her and passed it to Richards. ‘There, that’s yours – open it and tell everyone what Santa brought you for Christmas.’
Richards opened it. ‘Oh!’
Xena’s face wrinkled up. ‘What?’
‘A dead woman nailed to a tree.’
‘That sounds about as much fun as walking uphill backwards wearing a tin foil hat.’ She took the other envelope from the Chief. ‘Right, let’s see what hand fate has dealt us.’ She passed the envelope to Stick. ‘You open it.’
‘Me? I don’t know if . . .’
‘Open it, or I’ll cut your heart out with a wooden spoon and feed it to the station cat.’
Stick opened the envelope. ‘Oh dear!’
‘Don’t “Oh dear!” me. What is it?’
‘A family annihilation.’
‘Shit! Children?’
‘Three . . . and the mother. The father is missing. There’s an All Ports Warning out for him.’
‘Let’s swap, Richards?’
‘It’s very kind of you to offer Ma’am, but don’t I recall you saying something about living with the consequences of your choice?’
‘The station cat is particularly fond of juicy hearts belonging to airheads.’
‘You’re not getting the nailed woman, DI Blake.’
‘That’s you making a choice, Richards. And I want you to remember that consequences come in all shapes and sizes.’
The Chief jumped off Stick’s desk like a spring lamb and said, ‘Well, now that I’ve spread joy and happiness to the masses, my job here is done. If anyone wants anything further, I’ll be in my office moving the chess pieces about.’
‘Come on, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘Let’s go and grab the better of the two incident rooms while DI Blake is temporarily distracted by the consequence of her choice.’
Once they’d left, there was only Xena and Stick left in the squad room.
‘I thought that went quite well,’ Stick said.
‘Are you suffering from stupid sickness, numpty?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think we got the shitty end of the stick again, and it’s your fault.’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Which is exactly why it’s your fault.’
‘Okay.’
‘Where?’
‘Where what?’
Xena sighed. ‘I’m already pissed off – don’t make it worse.’
‘Oh, the dead family?’
‘And?’
Stick referred to the folded piece of paper that he’d taken out of the envelope. ‘They’re called Martin and Melissa Boyd. Martin is missing as I said before. Melissa and the three children – twelve-year-old David, nine-year-old Mary and eight-year-old Diane – have all been shot . . .’
‘Shot?’
‘That’s what it says here.’
‘Mmmm! Okay, carry on.’
‘They ran Hilltop Farm, which includes a Donkey Sanctuary off Brickendon Lane in Brickendon.’
‘Is Pecker already on his way?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose we’d better get over there and see what’s what.’
‘Are you not bothered about the incident room?’
‘We’ll steal it back . . . Well, to be more accurate – you’ll steal it back.’
‘Me!’
‘After the fiasco you made of choosing the cases, it’s the least you can do.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. Have you got any “say so” to say?’
‘No, I have no “say so”.’
‘Good job as well.’
Chapter Two
The door opened and a boy of about thirteen years of age came in and shut the door behind him.
Kowalski had only just made himself a coffee and was sitting down behind his desk mentally preparing for the day. ‘The toy shop is along the road on the left,’ he said, pointing to the right. ‘And there’s a sweet shop the other way.’ He held up his left arm just in case the boy didn’t understand the concepts of “left” and “right”. Or, maybe you’re after the gaming shop. I expect that’ll be it. That’s to the left as well – opposite the bakers. You can’t miss it, there are games and computer-type machines in the window.’
The boy didn’t move. He was wearing a school uniform and carrying a backpack.
‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, why are you standing here? It’s not a school project, is it?’
He stepped forward, put his backpack on one of the two chairs in front of Kowalski’s new desk, unzipped the front pocket, withdrew a heavy-looking plastic bag and dropped it on the Formica top. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty pounds in there.’
‘In coins?’
‘Mostly. I’ve been saving my pocket money, as well as the money I get paid for my Saturday job at the market and doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood.’
‘That’s very interesting, but why have you put it on my desk?’
‘My mum’s missing.’
‘Okay
. What about the police? Have you reported it to them?’
‘My dad says she’s left him for another man. I don’t believe him. She wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to me.’
‘Take a seat . . .’
‘Harry . . . Harry Belmont.’ The boy sat down. He looked like a regular kid with unruly dirty blond hair that needed cutting, scruffy clothes covering an athletic physique and in the right light some facial hair had begun to appear on his top lip.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, thanks. Got any coke?’
‘I’m assuming you mean the drink and not the white powder?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sorry. I don’t have any of either.’
‘I’m good then.’
‘I’m Ray Kowalski.’
‘Yeah, I know who you are.’
‘Oh?
‘From Gabe.’
‘I see. How old are you?’
‘Thirteen. I’m in Year 9.’
‘So, you’re in Year 9 and Gabe’s in Year 7 – How come you know him?’
‘The first week in September is Induction Week. The kids in Year 9 had to show the newbies what was what and who was who – I showed Gabe around.’
‘Okay.’
‘He told me you were a Detective Inspector . . .’
Kowalski’s forehead crinkled up. ‘Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Yeah – one of those. Anyway, I spoke to him again last week. He said you were running your own private investigation agency now, so I thought I’d come along and see if you could help me find my mum.’
‘And this is payment up front?’
‘Yeah. I checked your website out and I know you charge three hundred and fifty pounds a day plus expenses, but I can get more.’
‘That’s not necessary. A hundred and fifty pounds will be fine. What it doesn’t say on the website is that children get a discount. We don’t have many children as clients . . . In fact, you’re the first. So there was no point in putting it on there.’
‘If you’re sure? I don’t want any special favours. I’m good for the money. I’ll work . . .’
‘I’m sure. One-fifty is fine. So, what’s this all about, Harry?’
‘I suppose it started a couple of years ago . . . Well, that’s when I first noticed that they didn’t seem to be getting on much anymore.’
‘What do you think caused the change?’
‘Oh, I don’t think – I know. My dad had an affair with a woman called Riley in his office.’
He began writing the details down. ‘Harry Belmont . . . Address?’
‘Number 5 Oak Hill Road in Bournebridge.
‘Riley! Do you know her full name?’
‘No. But I do know that she was half my dad’s age though.’
‘How old is your dad?’
‘I think he’s about forty-two.
‘Name?’
‘Lester Eric Belmont.’
‘And what does he do?’
‘He’s a Senior Food Safety Inspector for the Environmental Health Department at Redbridge Local Authority.’
‘And your mum?’
‘She’s about thirty-nine and works as an accountant at Bates-Belmont Accountants in Ilford.’
‘She’s a partner in the firm?’
‘Yes. I think Jenny Bates and my mum started it together.’
‘Okay. So, your dad had an affair with a female work colleague half his age?’
‘Yes. I think that was the worst time of my life. They used to shout at each other and bang doors all the time – it was terrible.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘No. My mum can’t have babies anymore.’
‘Well, they obviously worked through the problem and stayed together?’
‘Yeah . . . For a time, everything seemed to go back to normal, but about a month ago they stopped speaking to each other. I asked both of them what was wrong, but neither of them would tell me.’
‘And when did your mum go missing?’
‘Last Thursday. Dad said she’d left him for another man. That’s when I spoke to Gabe.’
‘Have you tried calling her?’
‘I just get diverted to voicemail.’
‘What about her office?’
‘I called Jenny, she said she hadn’t seen her.’
The phone jangled.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Harry.
‘Abacus Investigations. How can I help?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on the glass walkway that some crazy Chinese engineers have suspended four thousand miles above a sheer drop around the Tianmen Mountain in China . . . You won’t believe how scary it is. Listen, I can’t talk now there’s a pterodactyl circling overhead, and I have a client with me.’
‘A paying client?’
‘Yes. His name is Harry Belmont. He’s already paid me the money up front to find a relative for him.’
‘That’s good to hear. No more freebies?’
‘For either of us.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How are you feeling, Bronwyn?’
‘I feel great. I’d seen Perry once and chatted to him a couple of times via Skype – he was hardly the love of my life.’
‘Still . . . You were expecting him to get off that ship.’
‘Well, he didn’t, did he?’
‘No. And you don’t have a man anymore.’
‘Men are two-a-penny at Highgate market. Good men . . .’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘In your wildest dreams, Kowalski . . . Now, they’re a lot harder to come by, but I haven’t completely thrown in the towel yet. I’m sure there are still some bargains to be had in the basement.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. So, let me finish with Mr Belmont and I’ll get back to you with some background checks that will need to be carried out.’
‘Your telephone manner has improved.’
‘Very kind.’
The call ended.
‘My partner,’ he said to Harry as explanation.
‘I thought you were married?’
‘Work partner.’
‘Uh huh! They should call them something else.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. So, let me go over what you’ve told me so far. Your mother . . . What’s her first name?’
‘Paige.’
‘And her maiden name?’
‘Before she married my dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Singer.’
He wrote it all down. ‘So, your mother went missing last Thursday . . .?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your father said she’d run away with another man . . .?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any idea who this man might be?’
‘No. I don’t believe there is another man. My mum wouldn’t have cheated on my dad. My dad obviously cheated on my mum, but I don’t believe my mum would do something like that.’
‘Okay . . . and your dad didn’t tell you the man’s name?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get any clues from your mum’s behaviour before she disappeared that she was seeing another man, or that she was planning to leave?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘You will find her, won’t you, Mr Kowalski?’
‘I’ll try my very best, Harry.’
‘Okay.’
‘And you haven’t called the police?’
‘What would be the point of that? I’m just a kid. They’d come round to the house and ask my dad what had happened, and he’d just tell them what he’d already told me.’
‘Did your mum take anything with her?’
‘As far as I know from my dad she left last Thursday while I was at school and my dad was at work. All her clothes, shoes, bags and jewellery have gone.’
‘Passport?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Legal documents like birth or marriage certificates?’
‘I
don’t know that either.’
‘That’s all right. Did she leave a note?’
‘If she did, my dad didn’t tell me about it.’
‘Does your mother have any relatives?’
‘No. Her mum and dad died in a plane crash before I was born. She doesn’t like to talk about it.’
‘And you’ve contacted Jenny Bates at your mum’s accountancy firm, but she hasn’t seen her either?’
‘No, Jenny doesn’t know where she is.’
‘Does your mum have a car?’
‘A new black Mercedes SLC 200. Registration number: M100 PNB. It’s a personalised number plate my dad bought her for one of her birthdays. PNB stands for Paige Nicole Belmont. She puts it on all her new cars.’
‘I don’t suppose you brought a picture of your mother . . .?’
Harry stuck his hand into his rucksack, pulled out a six by three photograph and slid it across the desk. ‘That was taken six months ago to update the accountancy website.’
The picture showed an attractive woman in her late-thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair, dark-rimmed glasses and thin lips. He would have advised her to smile. He didn’t know many accountants . . . In fact, now that he thought about it, he didn’t know any. Maybe that would have to change if the business ever became successful. Either way, he guessed that people didn’t want accountants to smile while they were hiding their money from the taxman.
‘You probably don’t want me to talk to your dad, do you?’
‘No, that’s the last thing I want.’
‘If you don’t believe that your mum has run away with another man, what do you think has happened to her?’
‘I think my dad killed her and disposed of the body.’
‘That’s a hell of an accusation, Harry. Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you have any evidence to support the accusation?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m in the business of evidence. Without evidence we have nothing. So, if you truly believe that’s what happened then, as things stand, you’re the only one who can obtain that evidence from inside your home – if it exists. I want you to keep your ears and eyes open, but I don’t want you to get caught. If you’re searching drawers and cupboards, make sure you leave everything as you find it.’
‘I can do that.’
