by Ellis, Tim
‘Okay.’
‘That’s not like you.’
‘I know, but I respect your decision.’
Maddie had finished her call.
‘I have to go.’
‘See you later, alligator,’ she said.
He ended the call, but he knew damn well she hadn’t given up. She just wouldn’t give up. She’d keep going until she found out the truth – whatever that might be.
***
The door opened.
Amy came down the steps. She had obviously had a shower, dressed and put on make-up – she looked a lot better.
Jerry was sitting on the cold stone floor with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped round her legs. The welts from the beating with the rattan cane were now red and swollen, and stung like hell. Blood had dried on her left cheek.
‘Look at the state of you,’ Amy said. ‘Here, let me help.’ She took the flannel out of the bowl of lukewarm water, used the soap to create a lather, and began to gently wash and dry her.
‘Thank you,’ Jerry said.
‘See how different things are when you’re nice to me.’ She lifted up the bowl and took it up the stairs. The cellar door had been left open and Jerry could hear Amy clattering about in the kitchen.
Eventually, Amy came down with a bowl of cereal. ‘Eat, you need to keep up your strength.’
Jerry began eating – she had to eat.
Amy left again, and then came back down with honey on two pieces of toast. ‘See how kind I can be when you’re nice to me.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Yes, very kind. If you continue to be nice I might give you some clothes by the end of next week, but if you make a mistake . . . Do you remember the game of “Snakes & Ladders”?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you’re nice to me, eventually I’ll let you climb those steps out of this cellar, but if you’re nasty you’ll slide down the snakes. I don’t think I need to tell you what that will mean?’
‘No.’
‘And it’s no good being nice to me in the hope that I’ll let you go . . . I’ll never let you go. This is your home now. It’s up to you whether you live down here on your own, or up there with me, but don’t think you can escape – there is no escape. Now, I have to go out to take care of some things, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’
Half-way up the steps she turned and said, ‘Oh, and don’t bother shouting and screaming – no one will hear you. We’re miles away from anybody here.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Somewhere you’ll never be found.’
***
They’d decided to make a slight detour to the A406 before going on to King George Hospital and then Essex University Medical School.
Richard Buswell was waiting for them.
‘Before you ask,’ he said as they approached. ‘The same modus operandi as the others as you detectives like to say . . .’
Stick didn’t recall ever having said that.
They were on the A406 between South Chingford and Walthamstow. On either side of the road was a sports ground.
‘Here’s what happened . . .’ Buswell continued. ‘The shooter positioned himself in that bird observation tower . . .’ He pointed to a wooden tower some distance away. ‘Mrs Kim Rossi – the victim – was happily dawdling along at about sixty miles per hour not wearing a seat belt when the 7.62mm bullet entered her chest. The Ford Focus jacknifed at a forty-five degree angle into the bank on the hard shoulder . . .’ He pointed to the smouldering wreck of the car. ‘The vehicle burst into flames, but not before Mrs Rossi exited – head first – through the windscreen.’ He led them along the road to where the victim was lying beneath a plastic cover. ‘She was thrown along the bank, rolled back down and came to rest here. So – apart from the bullet entry and exit wounds, and the damage caused by the windscreen – her body is intact.’
‘Not that it helps us,’ Stick mumbled. ‘We’re still no further forwards.’
They could hear a phone ringing.
Everyone checked their phones and looked round to see who it belonged to.
Buswell began walking up the bank, bent down to pick up a mobile phone and said, ‘Hello?’
‘Who am I? Before I answer that, can you tell me who you are? . . . Just one moment, Mrs Canbaz.’ Covering up the mouthpiece, he thrust the mobile phone towards Stick. ‘Her name’s Pamela Canbaz. She says she was just talking to Mrs Rossi.’
Stick took the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Who’re you?’ a woman’s voice said.
‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon.’
‘Why are you answering Kim’s phone?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident . . .’
‘I don’t understand . . . I was talking to her and then we were cut off.’
‘You were talking to Mrs Rossi?’
‘Yes. What’s happened? Is Kim all right? Why is a detective there? This is a joke, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not a joke, Mrs Canbaz. Mrs Rossi has been killed on the A406.’
‘Oh no . . .’
He heard crying and then the line went dead. ‘This may be a long shot,’ he said to Buswell, ‘. . . but can you check the phone records of the other two victims, and find out if they were using their phones when they were shot.’
‘Ah! You think . . .’
‘It’s a long shot . . . Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
‘I’ll get someone on it right away.’
‘That would be appreciated.’
In the car, on the way to King George Hospital, Koll said, ‘It couldn’t be that simple could it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s the break we’ve been waiting for.’
***
There were six stops between Temple and Whitechapel on the District Line, so he had the chance to look through Julie Wilkinson’s file in more detail. There was a passport-sized photograph of her in the file – it was definitely the woman who had been driving Jerry’s car.
Her details were on the UCAS application form contained in the file: She was twenty, came from Esher in Surrey, had attended Hinkley Wood primary and secondary schools, achieved straight A-stars in her A-levels, taken a gap year with the Smaller Earth project travelling across New Zealand, which had been extended by a couple of months due to unforeseen circumstances, and then she’d started at the Dickson Poon School of Law in January at the same time as Jerry.
What was a straight A-star twenty year-old student, with a glowing future in front of her, doing befriending a thirty-eight year-old mother of four? And what was she doing driving Jerry’s car towards London? None of it made any sense.
He phoned Carrie.
‘I was thinking of ringing you,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘The Chief Constable wants you to ring him urgently.’
‘I think we both know what that’s about.’
‘He did mention something about hanging you from the yardarm, flogging and walking the plank.’
Kowalski half-laughed. ‘Yeah, he’s an avid sailor. Okay, I’ll ring him soon.’
‘You rang me?’
‘Oh yes. Can you ask one of the clerical staff to find out what they can about a Julie Wilkinson, and her parents – Martin and Beatrix Wilkinson.’ He read off the address from Julie’s application form. ‘They live at 13 Torrington Close, Claygate in Esher KT10 7JW.’
‘Of course. How are things going?’
‘Surreal.’
He ended the call and the phone immediately began jangling in his hand.
‘Kowalski?’
‘You’ve still got my number?’
‘In a safety deposit box.’
‘I was wondering what the Ritz in Paris would be like.’
‘You’re not missing anything, Carla. You’ve found Jerry’s car?’
‘Certainly have.’
‘Where?’
‘In the car park of a retail park in Hac
kney.’
‘Nobody’s to touch it.’
‘I told them that. They spotted it on their CCTV system and managed to track it through successive cameras.’
‘I’ll go there next. Can you send me the address?’
‘On its way.’
‘I’ll call you soon.’
‘I’m waiting.’
The train pulled into Whitechapel and he made his way up to the surface. Outside, he had to navigate through roadworks to find a taxi.
‘Where to, mate?’
’70 West End Lane.’
It wasn’t far, and took less than fifteen minutes to reach the building.
‘Can you wait – I won’t be long?’
‘You’re still on the meter.’
He gave the driver a twenty pound note. ‘So you know I’m coming back.’
The man palmed the note like a magician and said, ‘No problem, mate.’
After being buzzed in by somebody, he found number three. It was a studio flat, which was code for a one-room flat that contained a kitchenette and a tiny bathroom with a shower unit, washbasin and toilet.
He looked in the wardrobe, the bedside cabinet, the chest of drawers and the bathroom – the place had been emptied of personal effects. If Julie Wilkinson had ever lived there, she didn’t anymore. He knocked on a couple of doors until a scruffy looking student-type appeared at one of them.
‘Do you know the woman in number three?’
‘Gone?’
‘When?’
‘Couple of days ago, I think.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘Stuck-up bitch. I offered to keep her warm at nights, but she told me to fuck off. Some people don’t know which side their bread’s buttered on.’
‘That’s for sure. Thanks anyway.’
The door shut in his face, and he was glad that the future was a place he wouldn’t be around to see.
As he made his way outside, he wondered whether to go back to the tube station, or have the taxi driver take him to the retail park in Hackney. He decided on the latter – it was easier.
Why had Julie Wilkinson moved out of her flat at the same time that Jerry had gone missing? There had to be a connection. The more he discovered, the heavier his heart became.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘It’s called a transorbital lobotomy,’ Doctor Bernadette Jodh said. ‘Today, it’s a treatment of last resort for the mentally ill, but in the past . . . Well, let’s just say that if you wanted an army of zombies, this procedure was the way to achieve that aim.
‘Can we see her?’ Stick asked.
‘You can, but there’s not much point. She won’t be telling you anything about what happened to her – the wheel is spinning, but the hamster isn’t there.’
‘She’s lost her memory?’ Koll said.
‘She’s lost everything. She has no memories, no feelings and no cognitive abilities – she’s in a vegetative state.’
Stick shook his head in disbelief.
Koll persisted. ‘And somebody did this to her?’
‘They pushed an ice pick into her brain through the back of her eyes and severed the nerves of the pre-frontal cortex. She’s lost about forty percent of her brain.’
‘Have you any ideas on who might have done this?’ Stick asked.
‘Whoever it was, they had a very good idea of what they were doing, and about the anatomy of the brain. If this was 1960s America I’d say it was a professional job, but this is modern Britain. Now, I’d say it had been carried out by a butcher with the sole intent of mutilation. It’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen, and believe me – I’ve seen some horrific things.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
They made their way back out to the car park.
‘The Medical School?’ Koll said.
‘Yes. We need to find the connection between Pitt and Marie Altamirano.’
‘I’ll drive.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Yeah, I had a good sleep on the way here.’
Stick’s head had lolled forward and he was slobbering onto his tie like a Bulldog when his phone vibrated.
Koll nudged him.
He jerked awake and found his phone. ‘Gilbert?’
‘You were right,’ Buswell said. ‘All three of the victims were on the phone when they were shot.’
He saw the slobber on his tie, found a tissue in his pocket and began soaking it up. He glanced at Koll and hoped she hadn’t noticed.
‘That’s great, Richard. I think we might have the reason the killer chose them. Thanks for your help on this.’
‘You’re welcome. Good call, Rowley.’
He phoned Judy Moody – the clerical assistant in the squad room.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you busy?’
‘I’m always busy.’
‘Can you fit something else in?’
‘I might be able to. It depends what it is and who’s asking.’
He could understand why Xena didn’t like Judy Moody – she wasn’t a very nice person.
‘I’m asking.’
‘I can fit a small job in for you, DS Gilbert.’
‘Thank you. I’d like a list of all the victims in the past year of death by dangerous driving because the driver was using a mobile phone at the wheel, and limit the search to female and child victims. Of those, I’d like you to identify the victims who left behind male family members, and own a blue Vauxhall Astra.’
‘That’s hardly a small job.’
‘It’s a tiny database query if I’m not mistaken.’
‘What do you know about database queries? I’d have to bring up the programme, find the query dialogue box, work out what I need to say and how . . .’
‘Can you do it, or not?’
‘You’re not getting shirty with me, are you?’
‘Have you ever known me to get shirty with anyone?’
‘Mmmm. Is it urgent?’
‘I’m afraid so, Judy. We’re trying to find a gunman before he kills again. You could be saving someone’s life.’
‘I don’t know if I can cope with all that responsibility.’
‘You just input the query and leave the responsibility to me.’
‘What do you want me to do with the list when I’ve got it?’
‘Print it off, please. And can you ring me when you have it? I’ll give you a fax number . . .’
‘I don’t do faxes.’
‘Someone there will know how.’
‘This is getting complicated, and I don’t do complicated.’
‘Let’s just take it one step at a time. Feed the query into the database and then we’ll move to the next step.’
‘Just a minute . . .’
The sound of rustling paper and heavy breathing seeped into his ear – he waited.
‘Sorry. I had to breathe into a brown paper bag. My therapist has told me not to get over-excited.’
‘That’s good advice, Judy.’ He wondered if the paper bag had to be brown for it to work. ‘Do the database query and then give me a ring.’
‘All right, and thanks for your understanding, Rowley.’
‘My pleasure.’
He ended the call.
‘That Judy Moody is a complete waste of space,’ Koll said. ‘Somebody should sack her.’
‘Yes,’ Stick agreed. ‘It’s certainly a challenge asking her to do some work.’
‘It’s quicker to do it yourself.’
‘If I was at the station I probably would, but I’m not, and it kind of defeats the purpose of having a clerical assistant if you’ve got to do it yourself.’
‘I think I got the gist of what you were saying – The A406 killer chose his victims because they were using their mobile phones while they were driving?’
‘That’s my idea.’
‘Mmmm,’ Koll said. ‘It’s a good idea. So, now you’ve got that lazy bitch looking for the victims of drivers who were charged
with causing death by dangerous driving because they were using their mobiles?’
‘I’m hoping our killer is one of the people who have lost someone.’
‘That could be a lot of people.’
‘We’ll narrow the list down by cross-referencing the names with the shooting club membership. There can’t be many men who meet all the criteria.’
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘DI Blake’s a good teacher.’
They arrived at Essex University Medical School, caught the lift up to the fifth floor.
‘Yes?’ Polly Hubery – the professor’s secretary – said without looking up. Her hair was a sky blue now instead of green, and she wore matching beads.
‘We’d like to see Professor Cornell please,’ Stick said.
‘Oh, it’s you. The professor’s in a meeting.’
Koll leaned over the desk. ‘Didn’t we have this conversation last time?’
‘Yes, I remember you.’
‘I’m glad. You’ll probably also remember that I don’t take any crap. We’re police officers. We’re trying to catch two killers. People’s lives are at stake and you’re acting like a stupid bitch. Tell the professor to take time out of her meeting to talk to us, or I’ll arrest you for obstructing a police investigation. Do I make myself clear?’
She stood up, let herself into Professor Cornell’s office and then came out shortly afterwards.
‘The professor will see you now.’
‘How kind,’ Koll said.
The professor greeted them and ushered them to the easy chairs again. ‘I think Polly really likes you two,’ she said.
‘And we like Polly,’ Koll said.
‘Have you got news on Mr Pitt’s killer?’
He didn’t want to discuss the children that he found in the space under Pitt’s house. ‘No, not yet. We’ve come about someone called Dr Altamirano . . .’
‘Yes, I know Marie Altamirano – a gifted neurosurgeon. Why?’
‘Is she connected to Mr Pitt in any way?’
‘As I said the last time you were here, one of Mr Pitt’s duties was to allocate senior doctors to assess junior doctors. Marie is a senior doctor.’
