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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I didn’t know him very well, but I find that hard to believe. He was well liked by faculty and pupils alike.’

  ‘I was going to ask you if Mr Taylor had any enemies – current or ex-pupils.’

  ‘As far as I am aware there is no one, but I haven’t been at the school long.’

  ‘Is there someone who lives locally that we could talk to about Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Mr Bell, Mr Taylor’s Head of Department, lives in Chigwell. Just a moment while I get his address…’ The phone went dead for over a minute. ‘Sorry Sergeant, someone had moved my briefcase. Have you got a pen and paper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ’45, London Road.’

  ‘Yes, I know where it is,’ Parish said.

  ‘I’ll have to drive up there, speak to the governors, the Director of Education, and…’

  ‘Mr Tindale is on a fact-finding mission to Bermuda apparently.’

  ‘Yes… Is there anything else, Sergeant? I have a million things to do as a result of your phone call.’

  ‘No, but you….’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. Goodbye.’

  The call disconnected. Bitch, he thought. He was going to offer his condolences.

  Richards walked in. ‘I’ve fed the dog, and the ambulance will be here soon. I’ve also rung the RSPCA to come and collect the dog, unless you want it?’

  ‘What would I do with a dog? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Did Miss Lupin die of natural causes?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Mrs Rambler. I told her about the two deaths and asked her about Mr Taylor. She’s pointed me in the direction of Mr Bell, Head of History.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been at the school for a long time as well.’

  The ambulance arrived. They told the two paramedics everything they knew and left.

  ‘Number 45, London Road,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope Mr Bell doesn’t die before we get there.’

  Chapter Six

  It was ten past twelve as they drove past a café with steamed-up windows on the way to 45, London Road.

  ‘Pull in here,’ Parish said. ‘I’m starving.’

  Richards parked outside the Hungry Hippo café on High Road in Chigwell. The café boasted: “The Best Breakfast in Essex”. Parish licked his lips in anticipation.

  Inside, the café was reasonably busy with a mixture of truckers and families. Parish ordered the Olympic Breakfast and a tea, while Richards eventually chose brown toasted bread with organic jam and a bottle of still water.

  ‘You’ve got no chance of being in the 2012 Olympics, Sir. Your cholesterol level must be sky-high. Do you always eat like this?’

  ‘Are you doing a survey for the NHS?’

  ‘I’m just thinking of your health. Would you like to come to my mum’s house for Sunday lunch?’

  ‘Do I look like I need a decent meal?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘One o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks, I’d like that. It obviously depends on what’s happening with the case.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you sure your mother won’t mind?’

  ‘No. She’ll be pleased as Punch.’

  ‘You’re not trying your hand at matchmaking are you?’

  ‘Me, Sir? I wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘I bet.’

  Just then the food arrived and Parish focused all his energies on devouring the cooked breakfast.

  Richards barely touched her brown bread and jam.

  ‘Today isn’t going so well is it, Sir?’

  ‘I’ve had better days. Up to now, we’ve wasted a whole morning, and this afternoon doesn’t look too promising either. It’s not a pupil and seeing Mr Bell is purely a process of elimination.’

  ‘We haven’t got any other suspects. What will we do after we’ve seen Mr Bell?’

  ‘At the moment, I have no idea.’

  ‘What about going to see Mrs Taylor and asking her about Mr Taylor’s past? If Mr Taylor was the intended target, then the killer must have had a reason to kill him. And if the killer isn’t a pupil, then who else would have had a reason to murder Mr Taylor? He’s been teaching history at Chigwell Secondary School for at least ten years, but what did he do before that? Maybe Mr Taylor’s past came back to stab him in the heart.’

  ‘You were doing well until you started getting overdramatic, Richards.’ He pulled his phone out and found the number for the mortuary in his contact list. Only a copper would have the mortuary on speed dial, he thought.

  ‘Michelin?’

  ‘Hi Doc. It’s Parish.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Has Mrs Taylor been in to formally identify her husband yet?’

  ‘Three o’clock this afternoon.’

  Parish checked his watch. It was five to one. He had two hours. ‘I’ll be there. I need to talk to her. Thanks, Doc.’

  ‘Glad to be of assistance, Sergeant.’

  Parish disconnected the call.

  ‘Maybe this afternoon isn’t such a good time to speak to Mrs Taylor,’ Richards said. ‘She’ll be upset from identifying her husband.’

  ‘I’m as empathetic as the next guy, Richards, but we need to keep the momentum going. We haven’t got the luxury of time.’

  He gulped down his tea. ‘Have you finished starving yourself?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He went up to the till and paid.

  Outside, he spotted an Internet café two doors away. ‘You go and warm the car up. I’m going to see if there’s an email from Arvid Carlgren. Maybe today won’t be a waste after all.’

  The place was filthy, with dirty monitors and keyboards positioned around the room. A group of Goths, dressed all in black, stared at him as if he were the Marquis de Sade carrying a whip and chains. He ignored them and sat down at a free computer.

  Arvid Carlgren had sent him a short email. He printed it off. There was also an email from the Chief changing the time of tomorrow’s meeting from 8.15 to 10.15. He was out on the town with LoopyLou tonight, and God knows what else afterwards, if he was lucky. A lie-in might be just what he needed.

  He collected the printout, paid £2.50 for the pleasure and went out to the car.

  ‘Was there an email?’ Richards asked.

  Parish opened the folded printout and read it out:

  Without the issuing authority stamped on the token, it is nearly impossible to give you any relevant information. However, if you provide me with the metal content of the token, I should be able to help you. I have other tokens with only numbers on, but I have none with the number 27 on, which might be relevant.

  Arvid Carlgren

  Token Specialist

  Stora Herrestad

  ‘That sounds promising.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll have to go and see Mr Toadstone in forensics and get him to analyse the metal content of the token, if he hasn’t already done it.’

  ‘Mr Bell’s house?’

  ‘When you’re ready, Richards.’

  She pulled out and headed towards London Road.

  ‘I also received an email from the Chief postponing my eight fifteen meeting with him until ten fifteen, which means we can both have a lie-in tomorrow morning. Come to the station at eight thirty-five instead of eight thirty.’

  ‘Don’t be mean.’

  Parish grinned. ‘All right, I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of mean-spirited dictator: make it nine-thirty.’

  Richards smiled. ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of being mean, the Chief wants to know if you’d like to be transferred to Hoddesdon?’

  The car swerved. ‘To be a detective?’

  ‘Try not to kill us both.’

  ‘Sorry, but…’

  ‘To be a detective it takes five years on the beat, and then you have to do a three-phase competency-based course over twelve months at the
end of which you sit the National Investigators Examination.’

  ‘Then…’

  ‘Once you’re at Hoddesdon, the Chief will allocate you to me on special assignment.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘It’s seriously bending the rules. If you do something wrong, heads will bounce in the basket. Especially mine.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘If you say yes, I’ll let the Chief know in my daily report. He’ll then start oiling the machinery. It should be a done deal by the time your two weeks are up.’

  ‘Okay. I like this work better than what I was doing before.’

  ‘That was the wrong response, Richards.’

  ‘Okay, I like working with you.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere, but it won’t be a walk in the park, you know. Everybody will hate you for pole-vaulting over the hundreds that are waiting for their chance to become detectives. You’ll become a pariah.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to say yes?’

  ‘I want you to come into this with your eyes open. I like working with you. You’ve shown initiative and I need someone I can get on with, that I can bounce ideas off. So yes, I do want you to say yes.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘Also, you’re lucky because I’m a tutor detective, which means I can train you to be a detective so that when the five years are up, and you’re ready to go on the course, you’ll be way ahead of everyone else.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re partners now?’

  ‘I guess it does. Now stop talking so much and drive the damned car.’

  The grin was sculpted onto Mary Richards’ face. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ***

  Constable Mary Richards pressed the bell of 45, London Road in Chigwell, and Mr Roland Bell opened the door.

  ‘Yes…?’ The bald-headed man was sloppily dressed in a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and an Arsenal shirt. He stared at Richards more closely. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  ‘Mary Richards, Sir.’

  ‘That’s right - you got an A* in your History A Level… three years ago?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So, why are you ringing my doorbell when school is out?’

  Parish showed his warrant card and introduced himself. ‘Constable Richards is working with me, Sir.’

  Bell turned back to Richards and looked wistful. ‘A policewoman already? It only seems like yesterday that I was telling you to stop chewing gum and sticking it under the table.’

  Richards gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘So, you’ve come about Greg Taylor?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parish said.

  ‘The Head – Mrs Rambler – rang me about thirty minutes ago. I’ve had time for it to sink in. He’ll leave a massive hole in my department. He was an excellent teacher.’ Remembering where he was, he said, ‘Oh, sorry, we don’t want to be standing out here on the doorstep freezing to death, do we? Come in.’ He moved to one side while they entered, and then he shut the door. ‘Please, follow me,’ and he led them into a dishevelled living room. ‘Excuse the mess; I was trouncing my son on the Xbox.’

  ‘Huh, as if,’ came from another room.

  Mr Bell smiled. ‘I’m one of the four hundred thousand divorced men paying a fortune to the CSA, but I can stretch to a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bell, but we’ve just had lunch. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about Mr Taylor, if I may?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell you what I can.’

  Richards had her notebook and pen ready.

  ‘How long has Mr Taylor been at the school?’

  ‘His whole teaching career. Well, that’s not strictly true. He used to be at Ravenscroft School before it amalgamated with Chigwell in 1994 under the Conservatives Grant-Maintained initiative.’

  ‘Was he always a teacher?’

  ‘As far as I know. He never mentioned having done anything else.’

  ‘Which university did he attend?’

  ‘Bristol.’

  ‘From what I understand, he had no enemies?’

  ‘The pupils loved him.’ He looked at Richards and she smiled. ‘And apart from the odd squabble, none of which was life-threatening, he was well-liked by the staff.’

  ‘A past pupil?’

  ‘No-one springs to mind. Yes, there have been some toe-rags, but I’m sure none of them are killers. You don’t teach people for five years or more without knowing what they’re capable of.’

  Parish rose to his feet and extended his hand. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Mr Bell.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t identify the killer for you. I hope you catch the bastard.’ He glanced at Richards. ‘Sorry, Mary.’

  ‘That’s okay, Sir. I’ve heard you say it before.’

  ‘Are you trying to get me arrested?’

  Parish led the way to the front door.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Richards said to him as they were climbing into the car. ‘We need to see Mr Taylor’s personnel file; that will give us his career history.’

  Parish smiled. ‘It was a good day when I chose you, Richards. I was thinking exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  He looked at his watch. It was one fifty. ‘First, though, we’ve got to get to the mortuary for three o’clock to see Mrs Taylor.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, all she will tell us is probably what Mr Bell told us, and it’ll be based on her memory. I think we’d be better getting Mr Taylor’s file; it will give us objective facts.’

  ‘Objective facts! Are those something they told you about at university?’

  Richards pouted. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘All right; we’ll go in search of these objective facts you’re so fond of.’

  After ringing Mrs Rambler to obtain her secretary’s number, he called the said secretary – Mrs Rowena Lovitt – who lived locally, and arranged for her to meet them at the school to hand over the file at four o’clock.

  ‘Four o’clock? We could go now.’

  Parish still had an idea that he might be able to talk to Mrs Taylor after the identification process. ‘Someone has to witness the formal identification. It’s the law.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Three weeks on the job – I’m sure there’s a lot you don’t know.’

  ‘Does it have to be us that attends?’

  ‘No. Usually when victims are being formally identified, someone at the mortuary will ring the station. The duty sergeant will send a constable at the specified time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Now drive, and stop talking.’

  ‘Yes…’ She closed her mouth when Parish’s head swivelled to stare at her.

  ***

  When they arrived at King George Hospital there were still thirty minutes to fill before the formal identification, so Parish suggested that they go up to the hospital restaurant and get a cup of tea.

  At the counter, he helped himself to a triple chocolate muffin as well as a mug of tea. He saw Richards looking at him as she took a bottle of water from the cooler shelf.

  ‘Don’t say a word, Richards. If I don’t have my daily intake of chocolate, I get really crabby. And anyway, they’ve found that chocolate prevents cancer.’

  ‘You won’t have to worry about cancer. You’ll have died of a heart attack long before that.’

  ‘You couldn’t help yourself could you?’

  Parish paid and they found a table.

  ‘This is becoming a difficult case, isn’t it?’

  The muffin was like glue sticking to his upper palate, and he had to swill his mouth with tea so that he could talk. ‘Let’s say that I was hoping to have it solved by now.’

  ‘I’d hate my first murder case to go on the unsolved pile – especially as it’s someone I know.’

  He gave up with the muffin and pushed the plate to one side. ‘In a way, this is my first case as well �
� in charge anyway – so it’s not going on the unsolved pile.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Mrs Taylor was sitting on a wooden bench, with her two children, outside the viewing room waiting to formally identify her husband. It was five to three. Parish and Richards nodded respectfully as they approached, words would be superfluous.

  Parish told Richards to stay with the family while he went into the mortuary to speak to Doc Michelin.

  ‘Did you get the post-mortem report, Sergeant?’

  ‘I haven’t been back to the station since early this morning, Doc. Anything new in it?’

  ‘Nothing. I gave you everything I had yesterday. Any progress on the token?’

  He told him about Arvid Carlgren in Sweden and his request for the metal content of the token.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that would be a bit like a fingerprint. Oh well, let’s get this identification over with. One of the more unpleasant aspects of my job unfortunately.’

  Parish followed the Doc out into the corridor. ‘When you’re ready, Mrs Taylor - If you’ll follow me.’

  Mrs Taylor stood up and followed the doctor into the viewing room.

  Richards held her arm.

  Gregory Taylor lay on a stainless steel table. His head was showing, but a starched white sheet covered his body.

  It was over very quickly. When asked by Doc Michelin if the corpse was her husband, Mrs Taylor nodded. Her face was a map of wrinkled grief. She turned and rushed back into the corridor, and her children hugged her. The doctor informed Mrs Taylor that she could arrange the funeral as soon as she wanted to. Richards made encouraging noises.

  Parish realised that Richards had been right. There was no way he could have asked Mrs Taylor any questions. Richards was good – he had to admit it. She seemed to know instinctively what to do. And better still, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. It made a nice change to have a partner he got on with. His last partner – DC Toby Gorton – had been a right miserable bastard. All he’d wanted to do was study the horse racing form guides. And he smelled. God, you had to make sure you were standing upwind, because if you were downwind the rancid stench of an unwashed body would have put you in the hospital. The deterioration began after his wife had left him and taken the kids with her. He was addicted to gambling. Everything and everyone became subordinate to that addiction. When he hadn’t been to work for two weeks, Parish went round to his house. He had to break the door down because Gorton was sitting naked in a heavily stained bath with hundreds of horse racing form guides looking for the perfect winner. They committed him to Claybury Psychiatric Hospital on the outskirts of Chigwell and, as far as Parish knew, he was still there.