by Ellis, Tim
‘I’ll say.’
Koll continued. ‘So, if we then say the story is the truth, then a pattern starts to emerge.’
Stick propped his chin up with his hands on the table top. ‘Go on.’
‘Let’s say that she was going to the dinner, and she was sitting on the top table.’
‘Okay.’
‘She was murdered between Thursday night and Friday morning . . .’
‘Why then?’
‘Because Mathew Heller withdrew from the dinner and Mr Roberts had to change the top table seating plan.’
‘But Mathew Heller was taking his wife to the dinner.’
‘Was he? And did you know that Heller is a Jewish name?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. When we saw how old the Hellers were we crossed them off our list.’
‘That was probably a mistake. I think they should go right to the top of the list. Do we know what Mr Heller does for a job?’
‘No.’ Stick took out his notebook, found the number he was looking for and rang Robert Roberts. He put it on loud speaker. ‘Hello, Mr Roberts. It’s DS Gilbert from . . .’
‘You’ve been promoted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you found who you were looking for yet?’
‘No, still trying to piece together the jigsaw puzzle. That’s why I’m ringing you. Can you tell me what Mr Heller does for a living?’
‘He runs a bespoke diamond engagement ring jewellers in Hatton Garden in London.’
‘Oh! That’s not really the answer I was expecting.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘Lady of leisure. Does a lot for charity.’
He looked at Koll.
She shrugged.
‘Okay, thanks . . .’
‘Diamonds isn’t the family business though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you might be wondering how a London-based businessman could be a member of the Hoddesdon Chamber of Commerce.’
‘I wasn’t. I don’t know anything about your membership rules.’
‘Local business people only . . . Unless you have a relation who is a member.’
‘I see, and Mr Heller is a member because . . . ?’
‘His father was a member for many years. He was the owner and managing director of a meat processing plant in Harlow called Heller and Sons UK.’
‘You’ve just made my day, Mr Roberts. You say Mr Heller was the owner. What . . . ?’
‘Yes. Heller’s other son – Joseph runs the plant now, but I believe Mathew still owns fifty percent of the business.’
‘Is Heller senior dead?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. He contracted a rare blood disorder about seven years ago that has confined him to a wheelchair. Mathew and his wife look after him now.’
‘As usual Mr Roberts, you’ve been a great help. Thank you very much.’
‘You’re welcome, DS Gilbert.’
He ended the call.
‘I like being called DS Gilbert.’
Koll smiled. ‘Well DS Gilbert, I think we’ve found the who and the how. Now we need to find out the why and identify the victim.’ She pointed to the incident board. ‘Didn’t the press release turn up anything?’
‘Oh my God! I’d forgotten all about that. Straight after the press conference DI Blake was taken ill, and I spent most of the night at the hospital with her. There’s a pile of responses on my desk.’
They walked along the corridor.
‘There’s seventeen responses from the public,’ he said after counting them. ‘It’ll take a while to sift through them.’
‘It shouldn’t take too long if we do it together.’
‘Okay.’ He split the responses in half. ‘You take DI Blake’s desk. Let’s get started.’
It took them an hour and twenty minutes and they were left with two names: Amy Rubinstein and Wendy Stecklein.
‘We could confirm identity through DNA comparison,’ Koll suggested.
‘That would take a couple of days. I think that after we’ve been to see DI Blake we should go round and interview the Hellers. At the very least, we could bring Heller senior back here for questioning. He needs to explain how his skin got under the fingernails of a severed hand. Also, we’ll probably need to send a forensic team to the meat processing factory in Harlow to confirm that their Hobart 6614-1 was the saw used to dismember the woman.’
That’s what was agreed.
It was eleven twenty when they knocked on the Heller’s luxurious mansion on Trinity Road in Little Amwell.
A well-dressed woman appeared at the door. ‘Good morning. How can I help you?’
Stick showed the woman his warrant card, and realised as he put it away that he needed to organise the issue of a new one through administration. The new warrant card would have Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert written on it in big bold letters. It was a shame they didn’t issue fluorescent ones that could be seen in the dark, or . . . ‘Mrs Heller?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re here about the death of a young woman on Thursday night of last week.’
Prunella Heller turned white and collapsed in front of them.
They were both too stunned to rush forward and catch her. As a result, her head smashed into the door frame and began to bleed profusely onto the beige carpet in the large hallway.
‘Call an ambulance,’ Stick said to Koll.
She took out her phone, but before she could ring a man in an electric wheelchair appeared.
‘What the hell’s going on? Who the hell are you? I’ll call the damn police if you . . .’
Stick showed his warrant card again. ‘We are the police, Mr Heller.’
‘Yes well, you can get the hell out of my house.’
‘It’s my understanding that this house belongs to your son.’
‘Have you got a warrant?’
‘I can certainly obtain one for your arrest if you’re not willing to cooperate.’
‘Speak to my damned lawyer. Now get the hell out.’
Mrs Heller began to regain consciousness and pushed herself to a sitting position. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Don’t say another word, Prunella,’ Mr Heller shouted at her. ‘Wait for my lawyer.’
She turned on him. ‘You stupid old man. It’s your fault we’re in this mess in the first place. Do you think the truth won’t come out? Of course it’ll come out.’ She began to regain her feet and Stick took her arm to help her. ‘Thank you.’
‘We’d better put something on that cut,’ he said.
‘It can wait. You’d better come in. I’ll tell you what happened.’
They followed her into a spacious living room.
‘Her name was Amy Rubinstein, my stupid husband’s trollop on the side. On Thursday night she came here with the intention of blackmailing us. She said that if we didn’t pay her an extortionate amount of money she would appear at the Chamber of Commerce dinner on the Saturday night, stand on the top table and tell everyone about her affair with my husband. We couldn’t let that happen . . .’
‘And we weren’t going to pay her either,’ Mr Heller senior chipped in.
‘I wanted to pay her to go away, but Arthur . . .’ referring to the old man, ‘ . . . said she’d never go away, so he strangled her.’
‘Where was your husband when all this was going on?’ Koll asked.
‘He hadn’t arrived home at that time, but when he did get here he knew that he had to protect his father. As you can see, Arthur is not a well man.’
Stick said, ‘So your husband took the body to the meat processing plant and cut it up?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll obviously need to know where the rest of the body parts are,’ he said. ‘What I’m not clear about is why the hand was disposed of in the waste bin in Hoddesdon.’
Mrs Heller shook her head. ‘That’s just it, it wasn’t.’
> ‘I’m sorry?’
‘After cutting the woman up my husband wrapped the body parts in newspaper, but not having done that type of thing before he had no idea about where or how to dispose of them. He stored the body parts in the boot of the Bentley with the intention of discussing the problem of disposal with us when he got back home. We knew that unless the body parts were completely destroyed the woman would be traced back to us sooner or later, so it was agreed that we would keep her in the boot until the weekend, and then drive out to the countryside and burn the evidence. Unfortunately, I had some items for a charity shop in the boot. On Friday afternoon I went to deliver those items to the shop on Hoddesdon High Street. I parked outside, and stupidly – while I was moving the items inside – I left the boot open. All I can think was that the bag lady passed by and stole the woman’s hand.’
‘Mr Heller,’ Stick said. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Amy Rubinstein on . . .’ He realised he was talking to a corpse – Mr Heller had expired in his wheelchair.
‘In the end,’ Prunella Heller said. ‘It was all for nothing, wasn’t it?’
Stick wasn’t normally philosophical, but something popped into his head. ‘Murder usually is, Mrs Heller.’
***
They found Gary Haslam sitting in the driver’s seat of his Citroen Berlingo van outside 7 Pembroke Drive in Goff’s Oak eating the sandwiches he’d brought for lunch. He didn’t try to escape when he saw them coming for him.
In the back of the van they found Yolanda Lusko trussed up like a lamb for slaughter.
After arresting Haslam, Richards called a squad car to transport him back to the station.
Parish rang Toadstone.
‘As usual we did it without you, Toadstone. I have a van here that needs your attention, and . . .’ He told him what had happened at the school and how the chlorine and bromine had helped them identify Gary Haslam.
‘I feel vindicated,’ Toadstone said.
Parish blew a raspberry through his closed fist down the phone.
‘You can be very childish sometimes, Sir.’
‘Get your arse round to Haslam’s house and find the evidence we need to put him away for a very long time, Toadstone.’
‘You know I’ll do the very best I can – as always.’
Before ending the call he blew another raspberry down the phone.
‘What did Paul say?’ Richards asked.
‘He thought I was brilliant for solving the case.’
She laughed. ‘You should write your own annual report.’
‘I do.’
‘And anyway, it was me who solved the case.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘Chief Kowalski.’
‘I think you’ve missed a hierarchical layer out of that answer – you work for me. Without my astounding leadership and expert guidance you’d be up a creek without a paddle. Ergo – I solved the case.’
‘Huh!’
‘Huh yourself.’
‘We don’t often arrest people.’
‘No we don’t.’
‘We’ll have to go to court.’
‘As the senior investigating officer I’ll have to go to court, but you’ll be preparing the case notes.’
‘Me?’
‘Training.’
‘I think you often get confused between the word “training” and “dogsbody”.
‘Possibly. They sound very similar.’
‘I should ask for a new boss.’
‘Not that old potato again. Some people ought to know which side their bread’s buttered on.’
Aftermath
Visiting hours were seven until nine at night. Stick and Jennifer arrived at five to seven and waited outside the female surgical ward like greyhounds in the traps. As soon as the ward doors were opened, they were off – hustling and bustling to get sight of the damned rabbit.
Xena was asleep when they sidled into her room and stood at the end of the bed like harbingers of doom.
‘Maybe we should go, Monsieur,’ Jennifer said.
‘She’ll be awake in a minute, Jen. I promised I’d come and tell her about the case. And I know she’s eager to meet you.’ He placed the flowers and bag of grapes they’d brought on the bedside cabinet.
Xena opened her eyes. ‘Ah, the elusive Jennifer.’
Jennifer smiled, walked round the bed and kissed Xena on the cheek. ‘Pleased to meet you. I hope we’ll be friends.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we will be We can compare notes on Stick-in-the-mud over there.’
Stick indicated for Jennifer to sit down in the chair by the side of the bed. He then pulled up another chair to sit beside her.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.
‘Like I’ve been run over by a combine harvester. Well, come on then Stick-man, don’t keep me in suspense.’
He told her what had happened, and praised DC Isolde Koll for her insight. ‘She sees patterns, you know.’
‘Yeah well,’ Xena said. ‘If I’d been one hundred percent you know I would have seen the pattern and solved the case ages ago.’
‘I know that, Ma’am. You’ll be back to your normal self before you know it, and then we’ll be solving murders like you were never ill.’
Xena’s face creased up, she turned white and held her stomach. ‘Crap! You’d better call the doctor.’
Stick went out into the corridor and said to a passing nurse, ‘You’d better come.’
The nurse rushed in, ushered Stick and Jennifer out and called for a doctor.
‘Oh, do you think it’s bad?’ Jennifer said.
‘Yes, I think it’s very bad, Jen.’
They loitered in the corridor until they saw the nurses wheel Xena out in her bed. She had the oxygen mask over her face again and she didn’t look conscious.
Stick accosted a nurse. ‘What’s happening?’
‘She has to go to theatre again.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘Will she all right?’
The nurse shrugged. ‘We’ll know more when she comes out of theatre.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s worth waiting, is it?’
‘Not really. Ring up tomorrow morning, things will be a lot clearer then.’
‘You won’t tell me anything, I’m not a relative.’
‘Ah!’
‘Unless, you could put me down on her notes as the next of kin.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s for Miss Blake to nominate her next of kin.’
‘I bet she’s left the next of kin box blank. If she has, can you put me in there, please?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Look, if she dies who will you notify?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Ring me. She has no one else. I’m her partner.’
The nurse nodded. ‘I’ll put your details in her notes.’
He wrote his name and telephone number on a page in his notebook, tore it out and passed it to her. ‘Please don’t lose it.’
‘I won’t.’
The nurse left and they headed towards the exit.
‘I didn’t realise how much she meant to you,’ Jennifer said.
‘As a partner. You’re the one I love.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘I know. I’m not jealous or anything like that. I understand how partners can become close.’
***
Thursday, April 11
‘Can I see some form of identity, Mr Lewis?’ The jobsworth at the Wembley Head Office of the Excess Baggage Company said.
The Chief had given them the day off because they’d solved the broken heart case and on the understanding that they would be on their best behaviour for the new Chief Constable’s visit on Friday.
They’d caught the 9:05 from Chigwell to Liverpool Street on the Central Line, changed to the Metropolitan Line and hopped on the 9:47 to Wembley Park.
‘What do you think will be in the briefcase?’ Richards asked during the train journey.
‘A map to find Bluebeard’s treasure. Maybe a bottle containing the elixir of eternal youth, or the location of Noah’s Ark. Possibly . . .’
‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’
‘Why have you put in a request for a day off on Friday 19th?’
‘They passed it back to you, huh?’
‘You know I have to sign your leave requests.’
‘I’m travelling to Manchester for a wedding. Socha Gurr and Julian Wilson are getting married on the Saturday. They were on the course with me.’
‘Uh oh!’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘You know you’re not allowed to go to places where there are men without a chaperone. You’ll have a drink, a married man with seven children will whisk you off to bed, you’ll fall in love and come back broken-hearted saying, “He seemed so nice”. Your mother and I will have to suffer another month of you moping around . . .’
‘No, I’ve learned my lesson. It won’t be like that, I promise.’
‘I’d better come with you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about taking Toadstone with you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re going out with him tomorrow night.’
‘I’m going to cancel.’
‘You’ll break his heart.’
‘I know.’
His face creased up. There must be people attending the wedding who he knew. He’d ring one of them and ask them to keep an eye on her.
‘And don’t think you can get someone you know to watch over me.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘I know you.’
‘And I know you, as well.’
‘Huh!’
Outside the station they jumped into a taxi to the storage depot on Great Central Way.
The name on the man’s name badge was unpronounceable. Parish wondered what the world was coming to when someone from an obscure country could travel half-way across the world and be installed as a gatekeeper between him and the briefcase. He showed the man his warrant card.
‘Detective Inspector Parish! Is that a pseudonym for Mr Lewis?’
‘No, I investigate murders.’
‘And this . . .’ he glanced at the Left Luggage ticket. ‘. . . briefcase is evidence in a murder investigation?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘Then you’ll be able to show me a court order clearly stating that you have a judge’s authorisation to take custody of the said briefcase and examine its contents.’
