A Life for a Life: (Parish & Richards #1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Good for you,’ he said and smiled.

  Chapter Five

  They arrived outside the locked gates of Chigwell Secondary School at two forty-five. A group of children were building a snowman on the pavement.

  ‘Crap,’ Parish said. ‘A bit of snow and these bloody teachers close the school and give themselves more holidays.’

  ‘It could be closed for a few days.’

  ‘Thanks for being so helpful. Any idea where the Head teacher lives?’

  ‘No. It’s a different one from when I came here, but I didn’t know where the last one lived either.’

  ‘Very helpful.’ He got out of the car and peered at the school sign. ‘It says the Head teacher is Mrs Juliet Rambler, BSc (Hons), Cert Ed, NPQH. Is that the new one?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Richards said through the open window. ‘I don’t know her.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go and poke about in the local council offices and see if we can find someone who knows where she lives. If Mrs Rambler has rambled off to London shopping, I’m going to arrest her for obstructing a police investigation.’

  Parish got back into the car and Richards put her window up.

  ‘Where are the council offices?’

  ‘Redbridge. Go down the B173 towards the A12.’

  Once Richards was heading in the right direction along the B173, she said, ‘You don’t really think the killer is a pupil at the school, do you?’

  ‘Probably not, but we still have to eliminate it as an avenue of enquiry. Also, if we don’t find any suspects among Mr Taylor’s pupils or ex-pupils, then where do we look? You heard Mrs Taylor: he was a teacher and had no enemies.’

  At the reception desk in the foyer of Redbridge Council, Parish flashed his warrant card to the plump ginger-haired receptionist and asked for the Director of Education.

  After a quick telephone call, the receptionist told him that Mr Arnold Tindale wouldn’t be available until five o’clock. As it was just coming up to four o’clock, they had an hour to kill.

  ‘Where are we going to find a token expert, Richards?’

  ‘We could look in the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Parish said and interrupted an old woman complaining about her bin not being emptied. The receptionist gave him a look of disgust, but passed him the Yellow Pages anyway. He riffled the pages to ‘T’, but, as expected, he found nothing resembling ‘Tokens’. Then he turned to ‘C’ for ‘Coin & Medal Collectors’ and struck lucky. There were only a few in the local area and one was located close to the market square.

  ‘Remember this address,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ’25, Lanyan Road. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  Parish closed the Yellow Pages and left it on the counter where it lay. ‘Right, let’s go,’ he said.

  ‘Now? Will we have enough time?’

  They glanced up at the large clock above the reception desk. It was four fifteen.

  ‘Fifteen minutes to get there, fifteen minutes for a question and answer session, and fifteen minutes to get back. Come on, we haven’t got much time.’

  He strode out of the main entrance with her chasing after him.

  It took them twenty-five minutes to reach the address and park the car in a snowdrift against a garden wall. As soon as they climbed out of the car it began to snow again.

  “Stanley Shawcross: Medal & Coin Collector” was located in the cellar of a town house and they had to clatter down a metal spiral staircase to get to the entrance. There was no bell on the door and no sound in the shop when they entered. The room they were in wasn’t a large room, and was made even smaller by the stacks of old books and magazines, and a floor-to-ceiling cabinet containing trays, presumably full of coins and medals. There appeared to be no heating in the shop, and it reeked of mould.

  ‘Hello?’ Parish called.

  ‘Yes?’ A sallow, unkempt man with straggly grey hair and a week’s growth of beard appeared from behind a stack of magazines.

  Parish said, ‘Are you open?’

  The man took off a pair of slim reading glasses and stared at Parish before he answered. ‘Was the shop door locked?’

  ‘No,’ Parish said and then realised that it was a ridiculous question. How else could he have been in the shop talking to the proprietor if the door had been locked? Then he felt stupid when he became aware that was the purpose of the question.

  ‘Then we must be open,’ the man said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Tokens.’

  ‘I have a few, but they’re not really something I specialise in.’

  Parish produced his warrant card. ‘I’d like your help with something.’

  ‘Why not? It’s not as if I have a rush on.’

  ‘I presume you are Mr Stanley Shawcross?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a one-man band.’

  Parish pulled the photograph of the two sides of the token from his coat pocket and gave it to Mr Shawcross.

  ‘Yes, it’s definitely a token,’ Shawcross said.

  ‘What we’re interested in is who issued it and where it might have been used.’

  ‘I doubt whether you’ll be able to find those things out. Usually, the issuing authority, or where it can be redeemed, is stamped on the token. This could have been used anywhere for any purpose. Often, businesses would make and use them internally for various reasons, not simply as a replacement for money. Twenty-seven might mean many things, such as twenty-seven pence, number twenty-seven in the queue, or a person identified as number twenty-seven instead of a name. I could think of some more if you want me to?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Shawcross. I get the message.’

  ‘Let’s not give up too soon though. As I said, I’m not the expert on tokens, but I know a man who is.’

  He disappeared behind the stack of magazines, then reappeared holding a scrap of paper. ‘Arvid Carlgren, that’s who you want. If anyone can tell you anything useful about your token, it’ll be him. He lives in Sweden, but here’s his email address.’ Shawcross passed the bit of paper to Parish. ‘Just tell him I recommended him and he’ll answer your questions if he can. You’ll obviously have to send him the picture of the token as an attachment.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Shawcross. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Have a good day.’

  Outside it was dark and the falling snow reflected in the orange glow from the streetlights.

  ‘It’s five to five, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘We’re never going to get back to the council offices for five.’

  ‘Mr Tindale will wait for us.’

  Richards pulled a face. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Now who’s being cynical?’

  It was twenty-five past five by the time they got back to Redbridge Council Offices. There were no lights on and the glass front doors were locked.

  Parish kicked one of the doors. ‘I’m going to arrest everyone connected with Redbridge Council,’ he said. ‘And then I’m going to take them down to the dungeon at Hoddesdon Police Station one by one and torture them.’

  Richards smiled. ‘We’ll just have to come back tomorrow, won’t we?’

  Parish’s anger dissipated. He sighed, hunched himself into his coat, and started walking back to the car. ‘Bloody local politicians. I hate them. They’re all as bad as each other. They climb aboard the gravy train and pay themselves ridiculous salaries from our money to lord it over us, and then, when we want them to do something for us, there’s always some reason why they can’t do it. We should line them up and pour excrement over them.’

  They reached the car and climbed in.

  ‘What do you think, Richards?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘I knew you’d agree with me.’

  ‘Back to Hoddesdon?’

  ‘We’ve got nothing else better to do.’

  When they reached the station, Richards took the pool car back to the garage and then
went home in her VW rustbucket. Parish trudged up to the squad room. Once he’d logged on to his computer, he wrote and sent the Chief a report and emailed Arvid Carlgren in Sweden. Attached to both was a Jpeg of the token.

  ***

  Thursday, 16th January

  ‘A bloody token in the victim’s mouth, Sergeant,’ the Chief said when Parish knocked and entered for his meeting. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Sir.’ He was surprised at how ill the Chief looked this morning. His eyes were like sunken galleons in two dark whirlpools.

  ‘And you’ve ruled out robbery and a gang initiation?’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’

  ‘Have you heard back from the Swede yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but they’re an hour ahead of us, so I should receive something soon.’ Parish’s mind went back to earlier in his flat when he’d powered up the laptop and logged on to FindLove.com. There had been five messages from eager females wanting his attention. He had laughed out loud as he realised he was in demand by women for the first time in his life. Three of the messages were from women who could devour him whole and he had deleted them, but the other two looked promising. There was no rush to respond though. He was seeing LoopyLou tonight. He’d see how the date went and then decide whether to respond – if they were that keen, they’d wait. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. What was that?’

  ‘This murder investigation isn’t disrupting your sleep patterns is it, Parish?’

  ‘No, Sir. I started thinking of the token again,’ he lied.

  ‘A bit of a puzzle, that’s for sure, but you’ll work it out. I have every confidence in you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Is PC Richards holding up okay?’

  ‘Best partner I’ve had in a long time, Sir.’

  ‘I rang Cheshunt yesterday and thanked them for letting her work with you. Are you interested in making it permanent?’

  ‘Are you sure, Sir? She’ll be jumping over hundreds who want to be detectives.’

  ‘If we get her transferred here, she’s new and wouldn’t cost us the same amount as a proper detective. We could then give her to you on special assignment.’

  Parish realised that the Chief’s prime motive was saving money. ‘I’ll speak to her, Chief. See whether it’s what she still wants to do. She was keen at the start, but the novelty might have worn off by now. After working with me for a couple of days, she might want to go back to pounding the beat.’

  ‘Let me know tomorrow. I’ll set the cogs in motion. So, what’s your plan for today?’

  ‘I need to find out about the victim. His wife said he had no enemies and PC Richards said he was a really nice bloke who everybody liked, but someone clearly wanted him dead. The token was a message. We just don’t know what that message is yet. Hopefully, the Swede will respond soon and decipher its meaning for us.’

  ‘Well done, Parish. The investigation is proceeding apace. You’ll soon have the killer in custody.’

  Parish realised he was being dismissed. ‘I hope so, Sir,’ he said, standing up and leaving.

  It was eight forty. He looked out of the window. Richards had already collected the pool car, and was working on the rough edges of her snowman. She had obviously come prepared because her work of art now had a stony stare and smile, a carrot for a nose, an old black and white striped scarf round its neck, and large orange buttons down its front.

  Outside in the snow-covered car park, Parish said, ‘How old did you say you were, Richards?’

  ‘When I’m building a snowman, I’m with my dad and I’m five years old.’ She smiled and took a couple of paces back to admire the snowman. ‘Not so shabby now, hey?’

  Parish bumped his hip against her arm. ‘Not so shabby. I’m sure your dad would be very proud of you.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’ She was quiet for a moment, and then said, ‘I checked and Chigwell Secondary School is still closed. Are we going to Redbridge Council to arrest everybody now?’

  ‘We certainly are, especially the Director of Education, Arnold Tindale. We’ll handcuff him and bring him back to that dungeon I was telling you about deep underneath the station and torture him. Once we’ve done that, I’m sure I’ll feel much better.’

  ***

  The same ginger-haired receptionist was standing behind the enquiry desk at Redbridge Council Offices when they arrived. According to a green badge, her name was Astrid and she looked at Parish as if he’d been sleeping in the park with skunks. She rang Mr Tindale’s secretary, only to discover that he had flown to Bermuda on a fact-finding mission.

  Parish nearly said something that would have finished his career, but Richards nudged his arm before he did. Instead, he asked if he could see Mr Tindale’s secretary.

  They went up to the fourth floor in the lift.

  Richards whispered, ‘You nearly said something then, didn’t you?’

  ‘Thanks to you I didn’t, and I still have a career.’

  ‘I’m getting to know you, Sir.’

  ‘What you see is what you get.’

  The lift pinged and the doors opened. Mrs Julia Preston, Mr Tindale’s secretary, a thin woman in her fifties with a severe-looking bun on top of her head, met them in the corridor and, after finding out what they wanted, gave Parish Mrs Rambler’s address in Surrey.

  ‘Surrey!’ Parish said, exasperated. ‘Have you got a telephone number for her? There’s no way we’d make it to Surrey in this weather.’

  Mrs Preston took the piece of paper back, wrote down a telephone number, and then returned it to him.

  On the way down in the lift, Richards said, ‘Asking questions over the telephone isn’t going to be very good is it?’

  ‘What choice do we have?’

  ‘I was thinking that the Deputy Head teacher, Miss Lupin, lives locally. She’s been at the school forever and would probably know more about Mr Taylor than the new Head teacher.’

  ‘And you’re telling me this now instead of yesterday, because. . .?'

  ‘Sorry. It only just occurred to me.’

  As they stepped outside it started snowing again.

  ‘Do you know where Miss Lupin hibernates during the winter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s go then shall we?’

  ***

  It was a large house set back from the road close to Chigwell Golf Course. A car covered in ten inches of snow was standing in the drive. The path beyond the gate hadn’t been scraped, and it was an obstacle course to reach the front door.

  Nobody answered, but a dog barked.

  ‘Doesn’t look as though Miss Lupin is in,’ Parish said.

  ‘Her car is still here.’

  They walked in opposite directions and met at the rear of the house. There were no footprints except their own, and the curtains were all closed. They returned to the front door and knocked one more time. The dog barked and Richards squatted to look through the letterbox.

  ‘I can see the dog. It’s a Yorkie. And the mail is all over the hall carpet. I think something has happened to Miss Lupin.’ She put her mouth to the opening and shouted. ‘Miss Lupin, are you there?’

  The dog barked louder, but Miss Lupin didn’t answer.

  Parish tried the front door and it opened. Richards fell onto her knees.

  ‘Sirrr!’

  The dog ran forward adopting the pose and facial expression of a guard dog, but without the bulk it wasn’t really going to be taken seriously.

  Richards climbed back up and shouted Miss Lupin’s name again, but received the same response. ‘Should we go in?’

  ‘You lead.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re not scared are you?’

  Richards tried not to step on the assortment of letters, free and paid-for newspapers, pizza leaflets and so forth, but there were at least four days worth. The dog barked, growled, and backed-up.

  ‘Can you smell it, Richards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You feed the dog and call
for an ambulance. I’ll see if I can find Miss Lupin.’

  Richards headed for the kitchen. Parish didn’t have far to look. A decomposing Miss Lupin was dead in an armchair in the lounge. Her eyes were still open. The television was on mute, and she had an open book in her lap. It didn’t look as though she had been murdered. He closed the old woman’s eyes and used a throw from the sofa to cover her up so that Richards didn’t have to see her old teacher like that.

  This case is turning to shit in a handbasket, he thought. Another morning wasted. He took out his mobile and the paper Mr Tindale’s secretary had given him and rang Mrs Rambler’s number.

  ‘Hello?’ It was a child’s voice.

  ‘Can I speak to your mother, please?’ he said.

  ‘Hello?’ The phone was now in the hands of a woman.

  ‘Is that Mrs Juliet Rambler, the Head teacher at Chigwell Secondary School?’

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Parish from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant? Has there been a break-in?’

  ‘No, there hasn’t been a break-in. I have information for you, Mrs Rambler, and I suggest you sit down.’ He leapt straight in. ‘First, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Gregory Taylor was stabbed and killed on Tuesday night outside his home.’

  There was a long silence from the phone. ‘Are you still there, Mrs Rambler?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here, Sergeant. What else?’

  ‘At the moment, I’m standing in Miss Lupin’s lounge. I’m sorry to have to tell you that it appears she has died of natural causes. I’m waiting for the ambulance to arrive at the moment.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Mrs Rambler said. ‘Perri Lupin dead? …And Greg Taylor?’

  ‘I came here to talk to Miss Lupin about Mr Taylor, but I obviously can’t do that now, so I’ll have to talk to you.’

  ‘Is that the third thing?’

  ‘Yes. We think that Mr Taylor was the intended target rather than a random killing.’