by Tim Ellis
‘Yeah, you’re right, Ray. I’m being pathetic. Forget I ever mentioned it.’ What would his fantastic partner think of him once he discovered that Ed Gorman – the brilliant DS – had strangled his wife and suffocated his three children? Tonight! He’d end it tonight. The very worst scenario would be for people to stare at him as if he were a monster. He couldn’t bear that. He had to end it tonight.
They reached the 7th basement, and according to the map there were another two floors.
‘I feel like a miner,’ Kowalski said.
‘Yeah, all we need is a couple of pickaxes, and we’d be set for the day.’ He began singing, ‘We dig dig dig dig dig dig dig in our mine the whole day through...’
Kowalski laughed. ‘Is it me, or are you getting your sense of humour back?’
‘Nah, must be you, Ray. You know I had my sense of humour surgically removed when they promoted me to DS.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot.’
At last, they reached row JBF, and found the filing cabinets belonging to Hoddesdon police station. On top of the first cabinet was a three-inch doll made from black material. A white face had been sewn onto it with large red stitches, and tiny black buttons attached to the face for its eyes. It had a thin red cotton line for a mouth, and a red heart sewn on where its heart might have been. A small bone skull dangled from a chain and half a dozen pins protruded from various places on the doll.
Kowalski took hold of the poppet and said, ‘I think we know who’s been here. Hey, there’s something else as well.’ He smiled as he picked up a small piece of paper and read what was written on it in a spidery scrawl. ‘Listen to this.
I forge this image, I bewitch it,
the malevolent aspect, the evil eye,
the malevolent mouth, the malevolent tongue,
the malevolent lip, the finest sorcery,
Spirit of the heavens, conjure it! Spirit of the earth, conjure it!
‘She’s a crazy woman. How did someone who believes in voodoo get into the police force?’
‘You’re guess is as good as mine, Ed. It takes all types though. Right, should we get stuck in? The sooner we wade through this lot, the sooner we get back into the daylight.’ He checked his watch. It was five to twelve. ‘I don’t think we’ll be having that lunch we promised ourselves, and that you were going to pay for.’
Ed shrugged. ‘It doesn’t look like it, does it?’
‘Never mind, it beats writing reports, and if we don’t find a missing person for the 10th September 1983 we can go home.’
‘Yeah, that’d be good.’ The sooner he got home, the sooner he could end it all.
***
‘Chief Scientific Officer Paul Toadstone.’
‘Do you want me to buy you lunch?’
‘Just say when and where.’
‘In twenty minutes at the Jolly Fisherman on Katherine’s Way in Harlow.’
‘It’ll take me at least half an hour.’
‘Twenty-five minutes, or you pay.’
‘Why the invite?’
‘I have two pieces of evidence that need analysing.’
‘So, I’m an errand boy.’
‘You could send one of your flunkies instead. One of the pretty ones, and I’ll buy her lunch.’
‘Is Mary there?’
‘Of course.’
‘The Jolly Fisherman, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘On Katherine’s Way?’
‘Why are you...?’ He heard gravel crunching underfoot. ‘I didn’t know you could be so devious, Toadstone.’
‘Who me? I have no idea what you mean.’
‘You’ve been keeping me talking while you walked down to the car park.’
‘I’d say that was slander, Sir. You’re besmirching my good name. So, when does this twenty-five minutes begin?’
He laughed as he heard Toadstone’s car engine start, and ended the call.
‘Toadstone’s acquiring some bad habits,’ he said putting his phone away.
‘He’s learning them from you.’
They were already sitting on hard wooden chairs at the Jolly Fisherman pub. Above them, an impressive collection of Toby jugs balanced on low beams. Bright sunshine poured in through the windows and painted shadows on the wood floor. There was a picture of a fisherman hauling in his catch on the wall above the brick fireplace, and a gold-coloured pot pig beneath it on the ledge.
Parish ran his finger down the condensation on the side of the Guinness glass and stared at a non-existent point in the centre of the creamy froth. Where was he going with this case? Was it even a case? He had possibly twenty-seven missing persons and still no dead bodies. Why was he wasting time trying to find out what had happened to them? Could people disappear so completely if they wanted to? Would he find any dead bodies at the end of all this time and effort? Why did Allan Cousins keep those train tickets, and why did he travel to Maldon? What the hell was that bit of wood all about, and what was the mark on it? Were the tickets and twig even connected to Allan Cousins going missing or something else entirely? He should have some answers by now, but all he had were questions.
Richards took a drink of her mineral water and then said, ‘Do you think we’ll find Alice Cooper’s belongings?’
‘A better question would be why you think I would know?’
‘I was thinking about the train tickets and that twig with the mark on it.’
‘Have you got nothing else better to think about, like shoes or handbags?’
‘You know I don’t care about those things.’
‘You and Toadstone would make a good match.’
‘Not again.’
‘What if he was good looking?’
‘But he’s not.’
‘But what if he was?’
‘Then I might give him a second look. I like Paul, but...’
‘But?’
‘He’s not very exciting.’
‘I see, you think he’s boring? You’d like him to do extreme sports in his spare time, or maybe whisk you off to the Peruvian jungle for lunch one day?’
‘No, I don’t mean that.’
‘Do you think I’m exciting?’
‘I’m sure my mother does.’
‘What makes me any different from Toadstone?’
‘You’re out chasing murderers, Paul’s in a lab looking through a microscope.’
‘I see, so you want him facing life and death situations on a daily basis. Chasing killers through the streets of Paris, and waving a Glock 19 shouting, “Freeze or die, sucker”?’
She laughed. ‘I don’t know what I want.’
‘No wonder you can’t find what you’re looking for if you have no idea what you’re looking for.’
‘Maybe I’m too young.’
‘I’ve been telling you for ages that there’s no rush.’
The door burst open and Toadstone stood silhouetted in the opening like a gunslinger in an old Western saloon looking for the people who had strung him up and left him for dead. The ten or so people in the bar turned to look at him as he made his way to their table.
‘You’ve been speeding, Toadstone.’
‘My car won’t go above thirty miles an hour.’
‘You cheated.’
‘I don’t recall you stipulating any rules when you invited me to lunch.’
‘I see, a barrack room lawyer. Well, I suppose we’d better order lunch then.’ He signalled the waitress over.
Richards selected the ploughman’s lunch. Toadstone ordered an orange juice to drink, and the grilled rib-eye steak with béarnaise sauce, hand-cut chips and watercress to eat.
‘I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today,’ Parish said.
The waitress looked up from her order pad and said with a look of concern engraved on her face, ‘I’m sorry, Sir, we don’t extend credit.’
Toadstone smiled. ‘J Wellington Wimpy in the Popeye series created by EC Segar, 1932.’
The waitress’s face lit up. ‘O
h sorry, Sir, I thought...’
Parish put his hand up. ‘That’s all right.’
‘Did he beat you again, Sir?’
‘Stop interrupting me when I’m trying to order, Richards.’ To the waitress he said, ‘I’ll have the sirloin steak – medium rare – with the pepper and blue cheese sauce.’
Toadstone said, ‘We’ve analysed that security DVD from Staple Tye shopping centre again, but there’s no coverage of Mobiles2Go at all.’
‘I knew it was too good to be true.’
The waitress returned with Toadstone’s orange juice.
‘Give him the tickets and the twig.’
Richards slid the two evidence bags across the table.
Toadstone picked up the items and stared at them. ‘Train tickets to Maldon?’
‘Yes, there’s four in that bag. Richards thinks there might be invisible writing on them.’
‘And a bit of wood.’
‘With a mark on it. I want to know what type of wood it is, where it might be found, and what that mark could possibly be.’
‘And you want it by tonight?’
‘That goes without saying.’
***
After saying goodbye to Toadstone, they drove back along Katherine’s Way, took the first exit off the roundabout along the A1169, and turned right into Paringdon Road until they reached Millwards where they pulled up outside 267.
Richards knocked.
The door opened, and the same middle-aged Filipino woman they’d met last time asked, ‘Yes?’
Richards showed her warrant card again. ‘We were here the other day. Could you tell us who the Estate Agents were that dealt with the sale of this house?’
‘Of course, please come in.’
They followed the woman into a brightly coloured living room, and watched as she took out a folder from a cupboard. After rifling through its contents she said, ‘Here it is, Godber, Godber & Milikin.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Richards said.
In the car Richards did a quick search for the Estate Agents on her Blackberry and found that they were located on Hamlet Hill in Roydon Hamlet, which wasn’t too far away. They got back onto the A1169, crossed over two roundabouts into Water Lane and then Tylers Road and arrived at the Estate Agents at twenty-five to three.
The offices were located opposite the Green Man pub in a misshapen two-storey wooden building with a tiled roof. The wood slats had been painted white, and the windows displaying the properties for sale were Georgian.
James Godber was the man who dealt with them. He wore a dark suit, a brightly coloured striped waistcoat, and a yellow dickey bow. His greying hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and matched the colour of the bushy eyebrows that seemed to be the focus of an otherwise indistinct face.
‘It was Mr Cooper’s sister who put the property up for sale,’ My Godber said with a slight lisp.’
‘Do you know what happened to the contents of the house?’ Richards asked.
‘My understanding is that she employed a local firm that specialise in house clearances.’
‘The sister’s name and address?’ Parish said.
‘Mrs Luella Hodges, 32 Dod Lane, Glastonbury, Somerset. The postcode is BA6 9JH.’
‘Telephone number?’
‘01458 833982.’
‘You don’t have the name of the people who carried out the house clearance, do you?’ Richards said.
‘No, sorry. I could have recommended a company, but she didn’t ask.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Godber,’ Parish said.
‘Glad I could be of assistance.’
Outside Parish keyed in the number of Mrs Hodges. After five rings he was asked to leave a message.
‘Mrs Hodges, I’m Detective Inspector Parish of Hoddesdon Police. Could you please ring me on 07459 719306 about the sale of your brother’s house. I’m particularly...’
‘Hello?’
‘Oh hello.’
‘We let all calls go to messages and the loudspeaker. That way we can filter out the cold calls and the people we don’t want to talk to.’
‘I feel privileged that you’ve answered.’
She laughed. ‘And so you should. What do you want to know about my brother’s house, Inspector?’
‘First of all, let me say that I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’re following up on various leads relating to your niece’s disappearance.’
‘Pardon me for asking, but why now?’
‘There have been a number of other similar disappearances, and we’re investigating a possible connection between them.’
‘I see, how can I help?’
‘Did you keep any items belonging to your niece?’
‘A diary, and a small musical jewellery box.’
‘I would certainly like to see the diary, but we’re also looking for train tickets to Maldon in Essex, and a small twig which might or might not have a mark on it.’
‘Sorry, no train tickets and no twig.’
‘Could you give me the address of the house clearance firm you used?’
‘Just one moment.’
He heard the phone being put down on a hard surface and then silence for about a minute.
‘Yes, here it is: Ginger Lees House Clearance, Betts Lane, Nazeing, EN9 6DC. They were very professional, but do you think they will still have any of the items from the house?’
‘Probably not, but we’ll try anyway.’
‘And what about the diary and jewellery box?’
‘I could send a car to collect them, but it’s a long way to come. Would it be an imposition to ask you to post them to me this afternoon for next day delivery? You will, of course, be refunded the cost of the postage.’
‘Yes, I can do that, the Post Office isn’t too far away. They will be returned won’t they?’
‘Most definitely, I’ll make sure of it.’
He gave her the address of Hoddesdon police station and ended the call.
‘A diary and a jewellery box?’ Richards said.
‘Yes, but no train tickets and no twig.’
‘That we know of. They might have been lost, thrown out, hidden, or with the other items that were taken from the house. Remember Allan Cousins’ train tickets were hidden inside a photograph, so Alice Cooper’s could also be hidden somewhere. It’s too long after she went missing, that’s the trouble. We might never find those tickets, and the twig will no doubt have been thrown out.’
‘Well, that’s it then, we may as well go home.’
‘Okay, I could catch up with my beauty sleep. I didn’t sleep very well last night.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Ring the clinic, see if they can fit you in tomorrow.’
‘Monday’s fine.’
‘No it’s not. It means I’ll have to come with you and twiddle my thumbs for an hour.’
‘You could do something a bit more constructive with your time than twiddle your thumbs. Why would you want to twiddle your thumbs anyway? You don’t normally twiddle your thumbs.’ She put her hands together and moved her thumbs about. ‘How do you twiddle your thumbs? What does twiddling mean exactly?’
‘Will you shut up about thumb twiddling and ring the clinic.’
‘No need to get grumpy.’ She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and rang the clinic.
She was right. If there had been train tickets and a twig in Alice Cooper’s possessions they could be absolutely anywhere – another dead-end. It was probably time to call it a day. He’d make a decision tomorrow after he’d seen Alice Cooper’s diary, and Toadstone came back with the analysis of the train tickets and that twig.
‘You’ll have to teach me how to twiddle my thumbs because they’ve changed my appointment to five fifteen tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Five-fifteen! That means I’ll have to wait for you after my appointment.’
‘You could twiddle your thumbs while
you’re waiting.’
He was about to respond when his phone activated. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Parish?’
‘Inspector Parish, this is David Bradley the Manager of the Prince Regent Hotel?’
His heart leapt into his mouth. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘You left a contact number on Miss Grieg’s account.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Unfortunately, when Miss Grieg completed the hotel’s registration card she failed to provide a next of kin.’
‘Why would she need to?’
‘Sadly, Miss Grieg was found dead in her room fifteen minutes ago. She appears to have had a heart attack. A doctor has been called.’
‘Listen carefully, Mr Bradley, no one else is to enter Miss Grieg’s room until I get there, is that understood?’
‘If you think it’s really necessary, Inspector. Does that include the doctor?’
‘Yes. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’ He ended the call.
‘What’s wrong, Sir?’
‘Rowan Grieg has been murdered.’
Richards’ face drained of colour. ‘Oh God! I’m to blame, aren’t I?’
‘The jury’s out on that one. Put your foot down.’
Chapter Thirteen
He had learnt to sleep standing up, to disconnect his mind from the pain, the cold, and the array of other sensations that had assailed his body for these last ten months. Scratching an itch was a thing of the past, as was blowing his nose, brushing his teeth, wiggling a finger in his ear, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There was a whole list of things that he had taken for granted when he’d been able to move freely. Now, the bolts had turned his hands and feet black. Oh, he could still move them, but with movement came pain. The limbs were infected, and would soon die. The smell no longer bothered him. He was rotting from the outside in and the inside out.
It was so cold, and sometimes the candles burned away and left him in darkness. When that happened he felt so alone, because he couldn’t see the others – he couldn’t see Evie.
