by Tim Ellis
***
Orchard Cottage at Great Amwell was number seven on St John’s Lane. It overlooked the New River and ran parallel to a bridle path along which horses clip-clopped to and fro.
‘Yes?’ the old woman asked when she opened the bright blue wooden door. She was stooped over like a shepherd’s crook, with wispy grey hair and pitted skin that resembled an avocado.
‘Mrs Darlene Fuchs?’ Stick asked.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Could we come in and talk to you?’ He held out his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Gilbert and Detective Inspector Blake.’
She brushed his hand away. ‘Pah! It’s no good showing me cards with tiny writing on them when I’m not wearing my reading glasses. What is it you want to talk to me about?’
‘APEX.’
She raised a withered eyebrow. ‘Dear me. I haven’t heard of APEX for . . . at least thirty years. I suppose you’d better come in then. Tread carefully though, and don’t raise your hands towards me. I have an American Pit Bull Terrier called Bullseye. He’s as soft as a marshmallow unless he thinks I’m in danger, and then he’ll rip your throat out without batting an eyelid.’
‘Charming,’ Xena said.
‘I’m eighty-three years old and I live here on my own, you see. I’m not really a dog person, but one of my grandchildren gave him to me for Christmas as a puppy five years ago. Now, I wouldn’t be without him. He even sleeps on my bed. I hope I go before him, because it’d kill me if I lost him.’
‘Pets can get you like that,’ Stick agreed.
Xena elbowed him.
Darlene showed them into the living room. As expected it was small. A low ceiling was held up by beams. There was a stone fireplace with a stack of wood on the hearth, and a mantelpiece overflowing with photographs of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They saw no sign of a television, but it was obvious that she had other hobbies such as knitting, crochet, cross-stitch, embroidery and reading. There were more family photographs on the walls, coffee table, in the alcoves and on the windowsills.
Bullseye was sitting on a cushion in a wicker basket growling softly at them. He was mostly white with a black patch over his left eye, and teeth like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Stick and Xena sat on the two-seater sofa.
‘Lemonade?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble, Mrs Fuchs,’ Stick said.
‘Visitors are always trouble, but they come and they go.’
On her way out to the kitchen, she stroked Bullseye’s head and said, ‘It’s all right, boy. You watch them, make sure they don’t unravel my cross-stitch.
She brought in two glasses of lemonade with cubes of ice clinking about inside and handed one to each of them. ‘Well, what’s this all about then?’ Darlene sat in her own chair facing them and interlocked her rheumatic fingers.
Stick led. ‘We’ve found a woman’s body. It was wrapped in a brown poly tarpaulin made by a company in Scotland called Arctic Fabrics with APEX stencilled on one side in silver.’
‘Any idea what they found under the ice out there?’
Stick shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Me neither. Said he could never tell me. I was his wife for goodness sake. Anyway, I remember Martin bringing two of those brown sheets home when they closed down the company some time later.’
‘Have you still got them?’
‘All Martin’s possessions are up in the attic. That’s as far as I’ve got to getting rid of them. I’m sure when I die it’ll all go to the charity shop, but . . . Anyway, that’s where it all is, and don’t think I’m going up there.’
‘DS Gilbert will go up for a rummage,’ Xena said. ‘If that’s all right with you, Mrs Fuchs?’
‘He’ll leave everything as he found it?’
‘Of course he will. Won’t you, DS Gilbert?’
Stick’s face creased up. ‘I suppose so.’
‘My son – Gregory – was up there not long ago, but I’m sure he didn’t take anything. If he had, he would have asked me if it was all right for sure.’
Xena stared at Stick.
‘Now?’
‘No time like the present. Unless you’re waiting for a reprieve.’
‘That’s not going to come, is it?’
‘No.’ She glanced at Darlene. ‘Is it all right with you if he goes up there now?’
‘You have to pull the loft ladder down, and the light switch is just inside the opening. Martin’s belongings are in boxes with “MARTIN” written on the top.’
Stick left them to it.
Xena stood up.
Bullseye growled.
‘Is it all right if I look at your photographs, Mrs Fuchs?’
‘Of course it is. Move extra slowly though.’ She spoke to the dog. ‘It’s all right, boy.’
The dog lay down again.
Xena shuffled along the pictures on the mantelpiece and said, ‘Nice looking children.’
‘You want your eyes testing, lady. Ugly as sin most of them. I shouldn’t say it, but the Fuchs family are not lookers at all. It’s a different story on my side of the equator. We’re all beauty queens as you can see from looking at me.’ She laughed like a donkey in agonising pain.
Xena reached an oblong photograph entitled “Deep Freeze Expedition, 1969”. She looked at the names underneath, and then counted the expedition members. There were twenty-three people in the three rows of people.
‘Would you mind if I took this off the wall?’
‘You can if you want to.’
She slid the picture off its hook and sat back down again. ‘We went to see Freda Robinson . . .’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Living in a retirement home in Stanstead Abbotts.’
‘Well I never.’
‘She said that twenty people went out to the Arctic, but only her and your husband came back.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And yet there are twenty-three people in this photograph.’
Stick came back carrying two folded-up brown poly tarpaulins still in clear plastic wrappers.
‘That’s not the right answer, DS Gilbert.’
‘Sorry.’
‘If four of the six tarpaulins were lost in the Arctic and two were in the store, which you now have in your filthy hands – why do we have one wrapped around a dead woman?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘While you’re here, take a look at this.’ She passed him the framed photograph.
He took the picture and went to sit back down on the sofa.
‘Excuse me,’ Xena said.
‘What?’
‘I hope you don’t think you’re sitting down on Mrs Fuchs’ nice clean sofa.’
‘I never would.’ He began examining the photograph. ‘There’s twenty-three people here.’
‘Yes.’
‘But Freda Robinson said . . .’
‘Yes.’ Xena looked at Darlene. ‘Can you explain why there are twenty-three people in this photograph?’
‘There’s always been twenty-three people in that photograph.’
‘Yes, but Freda said that twenty people went out to the Arctic and only two came back – your husband and Freda. What happened to the other three people?’
‘Well, that picture was taken at the Elizabeth Island Base Camp,’ Darlene said. ‘So, twenty-three people must have gone out there. I must admit, I’ve never noticed the discrepancy before.’
‘And two came back?’ Stick said.
‘Martin never mentioned any more people returning – just him and his PhD student Freda Robinson.’
‘Do you know who all these people are?’ Xena asked.
‘The names are underneath.’
‘No, I mean – do you know which ones died and the three that are not accounted for?’
‘I know four people in that photograph. I was Martin’s wife, a mother with school-aged children, I wasn’t part of the expedition.’
‘Do you mind if we ta
ke this photograph with us?’
‘I’ll get it back?’
‘Of course. I need a photocopy, and then I’ll have it returned to you.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
Xena looked at Stick. ‘What are you doing?’
He shuffled his feet like a suspect. ‘Nothing.’
‘I can see that. You’d better put those back where you got them from, hadn’t you?’
‘I guess so.’
Outside, Stick said. ‘I’ll have to go home and get showered and changed.’
Xena stared at him. ‘You think we’ve got time for that?’
‘I would say not.’
‘And you’d be right to say not.’
‘The Albert Embankment?’
‘You’re really eager to get yourself killed, aren’t you? Back to Freda Robinson’s retirement home in the hope that she hasn’t kicked the bucket yet.’
Chapter Twenty-One
There was a problem – not all the people on her floor worked in SCAS. She and Sally had created a floor diagram. There were twenty-seven rooms, an elevator and the stairwell on the floor. Twenty-one rooms were occupied; one was vacant; one was a utility room with a washing machine, a dryer, an ironing board and an iron; one was a kitchen; another a communal television room; a seminar room; and a games room.
Six of the occupants were women (eight including Richards and Sally Prentice), and she was sure the blinking eye belonged to a man, so she crossed them off the list. Three of the thirteen men didn’t smoke, which left ten suspects.
‘Do you know Jed Parish?’ She tried to sound nonchalant.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘But why are you “just asking”?’
‘He’s my boss and partner.’
She smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘I haven’t thought of Jed Parish for a while.’
‘Why would you think of him at all?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that.’
‘He won’t tell me.’
‘Neither will I.’
‘He’s married to my mother.’
‘And he’s your partner? I’m definitely not telling you then. So, you’re his step-daughter?’
‘He adopted me.’
‘And you want ammunition to destroy the relationship he has with your mother?’
‘Absolutely not. I played matchmaker for them.’
‘Then we’re done.’
‘I thought you were my friend.’
‘That doesn’t translate into “informer”. So, we have ten suspects for your voyeur.’ She ran her finger down the list of names:
Darryl Winston
Daniel Bateman
Ray Doubleday
Theo Lamb
Paul Knott
Sean Porter
Robert McCabe
Jarred Thrower
Michael Quilty
Patrick Nunn
‘Do you know any of them?’
‘No.’ Sally pulled the staff list from the drawer and began writing down their room numbers and where they all worked:
Darryl Winston (3302) – SCAS
Daniel Bateman (3307) – PCSO Recruit Assessment Centre
Ray Doubleday (3314) – SCAS
Theo Lamb (3323) – Police Gazette
Paul Knott (3304) – National Police Library
Sean Porter (3327) – Cost Effectiveness Unit
Robert McCabe (3315) – SCAS
Jarred Thrower (3319) – Equality & Diversity Unit
Michael Quilty (3321) – Catering
Patrick Nunn (3312) – SCAS
‘What do you think?’ Sally asked, passing the sheet of paper to Richards.
‘How are we going to find them all?’
‘That’s easy. Tonight, before dinner, we’ll knock on each of their doors and ask them for a cigarette . . .’
‘To smoke?’
‘Yes, but we won’t really smoke them, we’ll just compare the make with the stubs you found. And at the same time, you can take a look at their eyes.’
Richards pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Could work.’
‘Oh, I can envisage a whole list of problems – such as, they might be on shift in the kitchens, or working late in the library, or out of cigarettes, or any number of other things, but we should be able to cross three or four off the list.’
‘What if the one we want is one of those problems? I’ll have to go to bed tonight with the blinking eye still on the loose.’
‘He’s been caught looking. He won’t try his luck again tonight. Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
***
‘Kowalski.’ The vibrating had woke him up. He’d been adrift on a raft in the middle of a choppy strangely-coloured green sea. On the raft was an owl and a cat called Maurice. It was a full moon . . .
‘I’m waiting here – tablet in hand.’
‘Weren’t you placed under arrest this morning.’
‘I had a bit of a nap. Maybe it happened then.’
‘Things have changed.’
‘You’ve got cold feet?’
‘You’re right, I have got cold feet, and the metal cage isn’t helping. I have to wear a bed sock on my foot like an old-aged pensioner to keep the circulation moving.’
‘You are an OAP, aren’t you? Anyway, that’s not what I meant.’
‘They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’
‘They should have put those titanium screws and rods in your backbone instead. I thought you were different, Kowalski.’
‘I am different. If it had just been me . . . Let me tell you what I know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘I know that your real name is Susan Bunyan. I know you arranged to have your father murdered. I know that the gun you were carrying killed a number of civilian workers . . .’
‘Those fucking raping bastards deserved everything they got.’
‘I saved your ass. They were going to put you in a high-security prison and forget all about you.’
‘Bastards.’
‘And they were going to destroy me, ruin any chance Jerry had of becoming a barrister . . . In the end, I had no choice.’
‘Are we talking about senior police officers here, or the mafia.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which?’
‘Take your pick.’
‘What about . . . ?’
‘They’ll be put to the sword, but in a controlled manner. Keep your eyes on the television news reports and newspapers. I have a promise that those men will start to fall like dominoes. If they don’t, then I’ll do something about it.’
It went quiet for a handful of seconds and then Bronwyn said, ‘They knew all that about me?’
‘Not just that – everything.’
‘And I thought I’d made myself invisible.’
‘Nobody’s really invisible in this day and age. If they want to find you, they will.’
‘And they’re not going to charge me?’
‘No. If they know what you did, they must also know why you did what you did.’
‘Bastards. Well, for your information, some of us are not as stupid as they think we are.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Should they decide not to abide by the promise they gave you, I have a copy of the photographs.’
‘I never sent them to you.’
‘I helped myself.’
‘Whatever happened to decency and honesty?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Good work, Bronwyn. Or, should I call you Susan? Or maybe Suzie? Or, Sue . . . ?’
‘You’re a dead man, Kowalski.’
***
There were two pubs in Heptonstall – The Cross Inn and The White Swan. He chose The White Swan, for no other reason than it was the first one he came to. He parked the hired Volkswagon Tiguan in the car park, walked inside and ordered a half of Guinness to drink, and fish, chips and mushy peas to eat. He thought he�
��d experience the hospitality before interrogating the locals.
He sat down at a circular copper-topped table by the window and looked out on the empty cobbled street.
‘They’re all at the beach,’ the purple-haired barmaid said when she brought his drink over. She was at least in her early seventies, and had a face like a pickled onion.
‘You’d probably get more visitors if you did have a beach.’
‘That might be so, but then they really would be at the beach.
‘Have you got time?’
She looked around the empty bar. There was one local wedged into the corner by the charity pots, but otherwise the place was like the ocean. ‘I was planning to re-paint the ceiling, but I can do that anytime.’ She sat down. ‘Well?’
He showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Jed Parish from Hoddesdon in Essex . . .’
‘I watch the show on the television. I really like that Arg – do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. You were saying?’
‘I’m investigating a number of murders . . .’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And the more I look, the more Heptonstall keeps cropping up.’
‘I love a good murder. Now that Waking the Dead has finished, Silent Witness is my favourite, but there’s some good stuff on the other channels sometimes. How they could get rid of that lovely Trevor Eve is beyond me. And now Leo has gone from Silent Witness.’ She shook her head. ‘Why they can’t just leave well alone is . . .’
‘. . . Beyond you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘How long have you lived in Heptonstall?’
‘I came here as a seventeen year-old hippie in 1963, and decided to stay for a while. Of course, being pregnant didn’t help. There was lots of free love about then, and not many condoms.’ She smiled. ‘Was it really only four years ago?’
Parish smiled as well. ‘And you don’t look a day over twenty-one either.’
‘If that were only true. Okay, now that you’ve flattered an old woman, what do you want?’
