by Tim Ellis
‘Thanks for coming, Carrie. Hopefully, we can get some things cleared up this afternoon.’
‘You’ve had your hair cut, Inspector. It makes you look ten years younger.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled, surprised that she’d noticed.
Richards nudged his arm.
He banged on the door and a security guard appeared. Parish pressed his warrant card to the glass. After a question and answer session they were in the lift on their way up to the fifth floor.
Once they were ensconced in the Personnel Department, Carrie took off her coat and hat, and sat her children down in the waiting area with strict instructions to behave themselves. The girl had a colouring book and pencils, while the boy couldn’t take his eyes off a small hand-held computer console. Parish had never had time to play computer games and had no idea what games were available for children, but given the choice he would much rather have read a decent book.
It took Carrie twenty minutes to produce two lists of people, with addresses and telephone numbers, who had worked with Gregory Taylor and Diane Flint during the period 1982 to 1986. There were only thirteen who had worked with Gregory Taylor and four of those were dead, which left nine to contact. The turnover in the Social Services Department proved to be very different. Over the four years there had been seventy-four people who had worked with Diane Flint, and only seven were dead.
‘There’s nothing on the database about Brian Ridpath,’ Carrie announced. ‘Do you know when he stopped working for the council?’
‘We know very little about him,’ Parish said.
‘Then we’ll have to go down to the lower basement and look in the archives. It’s really spooky down there. Will you come with me, Inspector?’
Parish felt his heart rate increase, and saw Richards throw Carrie a look of disgust. ‘Of course,’ he said to her.
‘Richards, you stay here. Start phoning the people on the lists, and keep an eye on those kids. You need to ask whether they know anything about the tokens, or whether either Taylor or Flint were involved with a school of any kind. If so, which one. Clear?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Good. We’ll be back up as soon as we can.’
He knew Richards had tried to keep him away from Carrie, and wondered why. Anybody would think that Carrie Holden was the reincarnation of Lucretia Borgia. With a husband and two kids she was hardly going to be interested in a worn out copper like him.
The lift doors opened in the lower basement. Carrie stepped out and led him along a dark corridor towards a metal door. Parish silently agreed with her that the lower basement was spooky and he was reminded of his nightmare again. She opened the metal door and switched the light on. It smelled musty. Filing cabinets and other furniture filled the long room. She shut the door and locked it.
As he stared at the locked door in confusion, Carrie pounced on him. In a tangle of arms, legs and lips, he was propelled backwards until he fell across a table. She sat astride him.
‘What…?’
‘Don’t talk - words are meaningless.’
She tore at his jeans and exposed him. He was as hard as Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square. She pulled her panties sideways and slid him into her.
He saw the whites of her eyes as she pushed herself down on him. When she rocked forward he slid his hands up underneath her blouse, undid her bra with nimble fingers, and kneaded her firm breasts. The nipples fitted easily between his thumb and forefinger. She moved up and down, and he thrust upwards to meet her descent. Their breathing was heavy and laboured and he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. Then, before he knew what had happened, she screamed and he struggled to breathe as he climaxed for the first time in a very long while.
After they’d rearranged their clothing, they looked for Brian Ridpath’s file in the filing cabinets as if nothing had ever happened between them. They didn’t find the file. What they found instead was an empty space where the file should have been. Someone had removed it. But it did at least confirm that Brian Ridpath had worked for Redbridge Council.
Parish leaned against a cabinet and looked at Carrie. ‘What…?’
‘My husband is having an affair with a young bimbo,’ she said, anticipating his question. ‘I wanted to get back at him, and I quite fancied you.’
Parish didn’t know whether he objected to being used for sexual revenge or not, but found it hard to believe that her husband would want another woman when he had Carrie. ‘All I can say is your husband must be a blind and very stupid man.’
‘You’re just saying that because…’
‘I’m saying it because it’s true, Carrie. You’re beautiful, and if you were my wife I’d never look at another woman.’
‘I have every right to begin an affair of my own,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘Do you want to make love to me every day?’
He had an erection at the very idea of it. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ he said, ‘but you know it will end in disaster.’
‘Not if we’re careful.’
He knew they would make mistakes: her husband would find out; Jed Parish would be named in a messy divorce; there would be wrangling over the children, the money, the house, and the hamster. It was as if he could suddenly predict the future, but he didn’t care. Carrie was someone he was willing to fight the monsters for.
‘Okay.’ He wrote his mobile number, email and address on the back of one of his cards and gave it to her. ‘We can use my flat for now until we get organised, if that’s okay with you, and the sooner you commit what’s on that card to memory the better.’
They kissed.
‘What about tomorrow?’ she said.
‘I’m having lunch with Richards and her mum, but I’ll be home for about four o’clock. Are you sure you can get away? We don’t want to mess it up right at the start.’
‘The cheating bastard’s away until Wednesday, and he’s probably got her with him. I can get my mother to look after the children for a couple of hours.’
‘Let’s do it then, if you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, looking away. ‘It’s been a long time since a man appreciated me.’
‘We’d better go back up before Richards sends a search party down for me.’
‘Your partner doesn’t like me much, does she?’
‘Richards is a bit over-protective, that’s all.’
‘She wants you for herself.’
‘No, it’s not that. We’ve only known each other for four days. It’s something else. I think she’s trying to save me for her mother.’
Carrie laughed. ‘Her mother! Do you like old women?’
‘There’s no need to be bitchy.’
They’d been gone twenty-five minutes. Richards gave him a strange look as he walked towards her, but said nothing.
‘How are the phone calls going?’
‘Of the few people that I’ve been able to talk to, I’ve got nothing. No one knows anything about any tokens, or a school. What about you? Did you get what you wanted?’
Scrutinising Richards’ face, he decided to take the question at face value. ‘No, somebody had removed Ridpath’s file.’
‘There’s definitely something going on here, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, there is.’ He turned to Carrie. ‘You don’t have access to any financial records, do you?’
‘No, I don’t, and only Martin Squires, the Financial Director, has the authority to give you access to those.’
‘Okay, we’ll be back first thing on Monday morning to speak to Mr Squires. Thanks for your help, Carrie. Come on Richards; let’s call it a day.’
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday 19th January
He woke up in a panic at some ungodly hour, but managed to slow his heart rate down and get back to sleep. Now, staring at the snow-reflected fingers of light piercing the gaps in the curtains, he wondered if what had happened with Carrie was a figment of his warped imagination. It was six fifteen. He dec
ided he’d lie in bed and run things through his mind, but the more he tried to focus on the case, or the lunch with Richards and her mum, the more he kept thinking of Carrie. He thought about what had happened between them and what was going to happen later. He recalled her softness, the smell and the taste of her. He was a Detective Inspector now. Should he have agreed to an affair with a married woman who was the mother of two children? Surely he was expected to be better than that? Wasn’t he letting the Chief down? Wasn’t he letting himself down? If Richards found out she’d be disappointed in him, but didn’t he have a right to a life? Didn’t he have the right to love and be loved? He drifted off to sleep again with his jaw set hard.
It was ten past eight when he woke up. He climbed out of bed and made himself a coffee and four pieces of buttered toast from the provisions he’d bought on his way home yesterday afternoon. While he was crunching through the toast, he logged on to FindLove.com. Jenny Rennie had sent him a message and there were another seven hopefuls languishing in his in-tray.
Hi Brad. I could be your Miss Right if you’d let me. Let’s meet in Redbridge at the Hairy Lemon pub tomorrow night at eight. I’ll have a red carnation in my hair, Jenny.
She’d written that last night, so she meant tonight. Carrie was going to be here from four until probably six. If he met Jenny, wasn’t he betraying Carrie? Didn’t he say he’d never look at another woman? He didn’t really mean that he’d never look at another woman, but both of them knew what he meant. Yet, here he was, contemplating meeting another woman only two hours after he would probably have had sex with Carrie. It was clear what he had to do.
Hi Jenny. I’ve met someone, and I’m not a guy that cheats on women, so unfortunately I’ll have to decline your invitation. If the relationship breaks down, I’ll contact you, if you’re still interested. Brad.
He deleted the seven hopefuls from his in-tray as well, and felt much better for having done so. It had been a very long time since he’d had any kind of social life, but suddenly it was becoming complicated. What a difference a day makes, he thought. He switched to his emails and pulled up the one he’d sent to the Chief last night.
Hi Chief! Hope you’re feeling okay? Diane Flint’s PM didn’t produce anything of interest. Doc Michelin is doing Brian Ridpath’s on Monday at 1030, but I’m not optimistic that it will give us anything more than we’ve already got. Richards and I went to Redbridge Council this afternoon and the Personnel Director’s secretary met us there. She produced two lists of people who worked with Taylor and Flint between 1982 and 1986. Richards started to contact them, but up to now she’s had no luck. There was no record of Brian Ridpath in the council’s computer database, so we looked in the archives. Brian Ridpath’s name was there, but someone had taken his file. Whatever is going on, Redbridge Council is at the centre of it. Richards and I will be there first thing Monday morning to quiz the Finance Director, and I’ll see you when I come back. If they were paying Ridpath £2,000 a month, there must be some record of it, and someone must also know why he was being paid that amount. PS. I’ve not forgotten about the press briefing at eleven o’clock. I’m taking a day off tomorrow, so I’ll see you on Monday at about 10:30. DI Parish.
It was a good email. He’d had time to compose it properly last night instead of the rushed disjointed ones he usually sent.
Was that all he could do to find out about Brian Ridpath? He was also expecting an analysis of the paperwork in Ridpath’s flat from Toadstone tomorrow morning, which might tell him which school Ridpath worked at. Carrie had sent the email to the council’s employees late on Friday, so he should start getting some replies tomorrow when the staff came in and read it. Maybe he needed to get a team of forensic accountants to burrow into the council’s finances. The Finance Director might be involved in any cover-up. He’d give Squires one chance to come clean. If he didn’t deliver, then Parish would happily send in the accountants to find the dirty laundry. If he did that though, the press would be all over the case like limpets.
What was he going to tell the press? One or more of the eager reporters might have fitted the pieces together and realised the victims were all killed by the same person, but what more could they find out? He doubted they would discover the link to Redbridge Council. On the outside, it was merely three random knifings over five days – a teacher, a Director of Social Services, and a drunk. There was no reason to give the murders any more importance than that. Unlike the press, he knew about the marlinspike, the tokens and the connection to Redbridge Council, but he was still struggling to complete the jigsaw. Without the key pieces, what chance did the press have of discovering the truth? He began to type up the press briefing. Yes, there had been three unconnected knifings in the local area and investigations were ongoing. No, there were no suspects as yet, but leads were being pursued. What more could he say without creating a rod for his own back?
He set the alarm for twelve thirty and dozed off again. When he woke, he wondered why Carrie had been dragging him naked along a dark corridor.
***
Parish arrived outside 38, Puck Road at exactly quarter to two. The three bedroom semi-detached house in Chigwell was buried deep within an anonymous road where the houses all looked the same. Snow lay like a blanket over everything, except the path leading to the house, which had been cleared. A snowman with a grin was standing next to the front door. It held a board with ‘WELCOME INSPECTOR’ written on it in bold black lettering. He smiled, knowing that Richards had spent some of her morning building it.
As he climbed out of his car, he felt unusually nervous. Although he was looking forward to a home-cooked Sunday roast and a conversation with real people, he knew Richards was matchmaking and hoped her mum wasn’t going to be disappointed when he didn’t play along. He took the bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates he’d bought from the back seat of his car and walked slowly down the path to the front door as if he were going to his execution. He’d had no idea what to wear, had forgotten to ask Richards, and had tried on every stitch of clothing he possessed, including his suits, until he eventually decided on a pair of slacks and a loose-fitting shirt. Now, he felt underdressed and wondered whether he should rush back home and put a suit on.
The door opened before he had a chance to knock. Richards was standing there bare-footed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with Chastity is Curable, If Detected Early printed across her firm, well-rounded breasts. Her long, dark hair fell about her shoulders, and he knew that if he’d been ten years younger, and she wasn’t his partner, he’d have asked her out on a date.
‘Nice T-shirt.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
‘Is your boyfriend here today, as well?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘What about that paramedic you gave your number to?’
‘He rang up and told me what a creep he was.’
‘Should we arrest him and give him a tour of the dungeon?’
‘He’s not worth it.’
‘Your call. I like your snowman, by the way.’
She grinned. ‘I built it this morning. It’s not a shabby one, either. Do you want to come in, or do you want to have lunch served on the doorstep?’
He stepped inside.
‘Before my mum comes, I finished calling those people on the list and none of them remember anything about a school or know anything about the tokens.’
‘It was a long shot anyway. I hope you used your work mobile and not your home phone?’
‘Of course.’
Another woman, who looked like Richards’ younger sister, walked down the hall to meet him. She wore a smile and a green velvet dress that emphasised her hourglass figure and perfect breasts.
‘You didn’t say you had a younger sister.’
Both women laughed. ‘This is my mum. People always think we’re sisters.’
Parish was standing in the hallway, holding the flowers and chocolates, with his mouth open like the jaws of a Venus flytrap. Time clearly had n
ot affected Angela Richards. She was beautiful. Her dark crinkled hair cascaded over her shoulders framing a face which would not have looked out of place in a montage of the ten most beautiful women in the world. She was taller than her daughter, Mary, and the bottomless brown eyes were level with his mouth.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Angela Richards said. ‘Can I take your coat?’
He was going to kill Richards. She should have prepared him, told him her mum was a goddess living on earth.
‘Should I take them?’ Richards said, holding out her hands.
He passed the flowers and the chocolates to her, but then said, ‘They’re for your younger sister, you know, Richards.’
Richards smiled, ‘They always are.’
He shrugged out of his coat, and Angela hung it in a closet.
‘Come through, Inspector. Would you like a lager, or something else?’
He followed the two women into a living room that oozed femininity. There were no males living in this house. The curtains were white with barely noticeable pink flowers. The three-piece suite was soft, white leather with a mountain of cushions in the same material as the curtains. The carpet was white with a hint of pink. There were antique looking ornaments in strategic positions around the room. ‘Well, I’d like you to call me Jed, for one thing, and, yes, a lager would be good, thanks.’
‘Okay, Jed. You can call me Angie.’ She took the chocolates and flowers off her daughter and said, ‘Thank you.’
