by Tim Ellis
It took her eight matches to reassemble the cube. During which time she’d decided to put the puzzle into position first, and then slot the metal plug home.
Nothing happened.
She lit her last match.
The plug had a thin grove in the outwards end of it. She found a penny piece, pressed it into the groove and turned it clockwise.
The match began to flicker. She pulled the matchbox apart and held it over the dying flame. When it caught light, she threw it onto the floor.
Her heart skipped a beat when the wall began sliding to the left until it was flush with the adjacent wall.
The rats scuttled off.
Good riddance, she thought.
On the other side of the wall – sitting in the middle of the floor – was half a candle, a box with ten matches in it, a bottle of what looked like orange juice, and two sandwiches.
The matchbox burnt itself to nothing.
She fell onto the sandwiches and orange juice in the darkness like a ravenous vulture in the desert. Neither had ever tasted so good. Chocolate spread and sugar sandwiches were her favourite. Shit! How did they know that? Maybe it was a lucky guess. And the orange juice with three eggs whisked into it. Who the hell knew that except Quigg, Ruth and Duffy? Maybe it was a lucky guess as well. Everybody likes chocolate spread and sugar sandwiches, don’t they? And what’s orange juice without eggs mixed in it?
Now, she needed to pee. She squatted where she was – what choice did she have?
She lit the candle and checked the drawing she’d made of the exit route – right, left, left, right, left, left was committed to memory after repeating it three times. She snuffed the candle out and used the walls as a guide – first the right wall and then the left.
Everything was going fine until she walked into a wall and nearly broke her nose.
‘YOU FUCKING BASTARD! YOU DO KNOW YOU’RE A DEAD MAN WALKING, DON’T YOU?’
She lit the candle.
There was a padlock through a ring on the wall and two keys on the floor. It seemed quite simple – open the padlock with the keys, turn the metal ring and push it into the slot behind it, and the wall would open up in front of her.
But it wasn’t that simple. No, not that simple at all. There were two keys and only one keyhole.
***
After a couple of hours of sleep, he showered and put the same clothes on. It was five to eight. He hadn’t planned on staying overnight and having the life sucked out of him. As he left, he pulled the door closed behind him. His car was where he’d left it. He removed the Tomkins’ file from the boot and climbed into the passenger seat.
Not far along the road he found a cafe called Cuba’s and pulled in for breakfast. He was dehydrated, and needed liquid and solid fuel to replenish what he’d expended during the night.
‘What’ll it be?’ the young waitress said to him, her pen hovering over a small duplicate booklet. She was probably in her mid to late twenties, with lime green hair tied up like a cascade of water, a short lawn green t-shirt over 36B braless breasts that showed off her nipples and her midriff, a mint green mini skirt and fluorescent green leggings. He still wasn’t too old to appreciate a pretty girl when he saw one.
He smiled. ‘You look ravishing this morning.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you one of those perverts they let out of prison early ‘cause there ain’t enough room?’
‘I was simply paying you a compliment.’
‘Yeah well, keep your condiments to yerself. What’ll it be?’
‘Scrambled eggs on toast and a pot of tea.’
‘Three eggs?’
‘Please.’
‘Cracked black pepper?’
‘Please.’
‘Full cream and butter?’
‘Please.’
She wrote his order down, tore the duplicate out of the booklet and placed it on the table beneath the pepper pot. ‘Be about five minutes.’
‘Okay. Mmmm! You smell lovely as well.’
‘You being funny?’
‘I was merely saying that I liked your perfume.’
‘You want me to get the manager?’
‘No, just the scrambled eggs, please.’
While he was waiting, he opened up the social services file on Sally Tomkins and began skimming the pages. After the suicide of her parents on February 15, 1993, eight year-old Sally was taken into the care of Eastbourne Social Services and placed with a local foster family – Maria Perez and her husband Alfonso – at 15 Dallaway Drive in Stone Cross. She stayed with the Perez family for eighteen months, and then was adopted by Carol and Kenneth Hughes who lived at 44 Underhill Road in East Dulwich.
And that was it. If Social Services had carried out any follow-up visits the reports were not in the file.
The waitress brought his scrambled eggs and tea. ‘Anything else?’
‘Your hair looks good.’
‘You want me to call the police?’
‘Sorry.’
He could have gone straight to see Mr & Mrs Hughes in East Dulwich, but he decided that if a job was worth doing it was worth doing properly. Not only that, as Senior Investigator at Bulldog Investigations, he had to set an example. So he decided to visit the Perez family first and see if they remembered little Sally Tomkins.
His phone vibrated.
‘Rodney . . .’
‘Where are you?’
‘Good morning, Sandrine. How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, Rodney. Where are you?’
‘In a cafe just outside Eastbourne.’
‘Isn’t that where you were yesterday?’
‘In Eastbourne, not the cafe.’
‘Did you stay there overnight?’
Ah! A trick question. If he said yes, she’d expect to see a hotel receipt. If he didn’t have one, which he didn’t, she’d want to know where he’d spent the night. And if he told her, it could jeopardise his chances of an extra-marital affair with her. ‘No, I got back late last night, and I set off again early this morning to avoid the traffic.’
‘Why didn’t you just stay there?’
‘I like my own bed too much, and it’s only a two-and-a-half hour journey.’
‘That’s not an “only”, Rodney.’
‘Well anyway, I’m in Eastbourne at the moment, and then I’ll be going to East Dulwich after that, but I’ll be back in the office later this afternoon.’
‘All right, but you must keep me informed of your whereabouts.’
‘Sorry. You’re absolutely right. I will in future.’
‘Oh, and I have some good news for you.’
‘You do?’
‘It’s a yes.’
‘Yes! Is that, yes you do? Or, yes you will?’
‘The second one.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Rodney.’
‘That’s fabulous news.’
‘We’ll iron out the details when you come back to the office this afternoon.’
‘I like ironing out details, Sandrine.’
‘That’s what I was hoping you’d say, Rodney.’
The line went dead.
Well, well, well! He’d asked, but he didn’t really expect her to agree to an extra-marital. She was hotter than chilli peppers, and she had a husband and three children. After the miserable time he’d had during the past month, things were on the up.
He ate the scrambled eggs, which were delicious, and made short work of the pot of tea. After paying at the counter, and leaving the young lady a five pound tip for the excellent service and any offence caused, he made his way to his car.
‘Excuse me, Mister?’
He turned.
It was the young lady.
‘Why did you leave me a five pound tip?’
‘For the excellent service you provided.’
‘I ain’t exactly sure what ten percent of seven pounds ninety-five is, but I know it ain’t five pounds.’
‘Call me a generous old fool.’
‘I wasn’t very nice to you.’
He shrugged. ‘Your youth and prettiness made up for it.’
‘There you go again being weird. You’re not expecting anything for this five pounds, are you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You know, of a sexual nature?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Just a tip?’
‘Just a tip.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Rodney.’
‘Well, next time you’re passing Cuba’s you ask for Echo, Rodney.’
‘Who?’
‘Echo.’
He smiled.
‘Oh, I see what you just did.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Echo.’
‘I don’t normally like bald-headed old men, but I suppose I could make an exception in your case.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you are.’ She made her way back into the cafe.
He climbed into his car. That was really nice of her to come out and thank him for the tip like that. Most people would have simply taken the five pounds and said nothing. Maybe the youth of today weren’t a lost cause after all.
Number 15 Dallaway Drive in Stone Cross was a three-bedroom detached house with a single garage on the side. The top half was whitewashed, the lower half was brick. The front garden looked as though it was regularly tended. The grass had been cut, and there were roses and hydrangeas in full bloom.
He knocked on the white uPVC door.
The weather wasn’t too bad for this time of year. He’d be a fool to go out in just his vest, but he wouldn’t freeze to death if he did. Thankfully, he had a shirt and a jacket on.
‘Hello?’ a woman in her early thirties said, standing in the open doorway with her hands pressing into her lower back. She was heavily pregnant, dressed in a full-length pink and white towelling dressing gown, with a world-weary expression instead of make-up on her face.
‘Oh, hello.’ He proffered his identity card. ‘Rodney Crankshank, Senior Investigator with Bulldog Investigations in London.’
‘Is that an official ID card?’
‘No. Private Investigators aren’t issued with licences in the UK. In America they are, but not here. We made this up, so that it looks official. I can show you my driving licence if you’d like to see that?’
‘No, that’s all right. What do you want? I was just about to get into the shower.’
‘I’d like to talk to Maria and Alfonso Perez if that’s possible?’
‘Perez?’
‘Yes. You’re not Maria Perez, are you?’
‘No, I’m Hannah Hutchins.’
‘I see. And how long have you lived here?’
‘Eight years.’
‘What about the people before you?’
‘Watson – Bill and Freda Watson. They were an old couple. Bill died, and then Freda moved into an assisted-living apartment. I bought the house from them.’
‘The Perez’s used to foster children for the local authority.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Thanks for your time anyway, Mrs Hutchins.’ He turned to go.
Rubbing her bump she said, ‘I can understand how you might be confused, but I’m a Miss not a Mrs.’
‘Oh – okay.’ It wasn’t really any of his business.
‘I know a way you could find out about the Perez’s.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. But first you have to help me.’
‘With what?’
‘Come and scrub my back in the shower.’
He screwed up his face. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Miss Hutchins. I mean, you’re pregnant. When’s it due?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Oh! No boyfriend? Fiancé?’
‘No, neither of those. Do you know how difficult it is finding a man when you’re pregnant?’
‘Not personally.’
‘Believe me, it’s difficult. So, are you coming in, or not?’
He dithered. He didn’t normally dither, but she was pregnant. Surely she wouldn’t want sex, would she? Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe all she really wanted was her back scrubbed. He could imagine that it would be extremely difficult reaching your back when you were knocking on childbirth’s door. It was hard at the best of times, never mind when you were being stretched every which way. He stepped inside.
She shut the door behind him. ‘Follow me.’
He followed her up the stairs, through the master bedroom and into an en suite bathroom.
‘You’re not squeamish, are you?’
‘No.’
Her dressing gown fell to the floor. She leaned into the shower and turned on the water. It was a fitted curved Perspex corner unit with sliding doors.
‘You look good.’
‘Tell it to the Marines. I look like shit and I feel even worse.’ She stepped under the water. ‘Well?’
‘Do you have a brush or a loofah?’
‘Are you a man or a mouse. Take your clothes off and get in here with me.’
What choice did he have? He needed to know about Maria and Alfonso Perez, and the only way to do that was to step into the shower and do his duty for England and St George.
The trouble was, performing his duty made her waters break and brought on labour. He had to manhandle her out of the shower, put her dressing gown on, and after getting dressed himself he called the ambulance.’
‘You’ll come with me, won’t you?’
‘Me?’
‘I have no one else.’
‘We hardly know each other.’
‘You don’t have to do anything – just be there for me.’
Again, he was wedged between a rock and a hard place. He had things to do, but he didn’t want to appear callous. Not only that, she hadn’t told him how to find out about the Perez’s.
The ambulance arrived.
Huffing and puffing, the paramedics carried her down on a collapsible stretcher and slid her into the back of the ambulance through the gaping rear doors.
Her eyes pleaded with him.
He climbed up the three steps, sat down and held her hand.
Chapter Eight
A vasectomy!
No – that was out of the question. With severed tubules he’d be a laughing stock, half a man, a shrivelled-up Gollum. How could they possibly think he would agree to his tubules being cut? His personality would change, he’d spiral into a deep well of psychotic depression, he’d become Frankenstein’s monster – wandering the unlit corridors of an abandoned medical facility like an experiment gone wrong . . . what would become of him?
He sat down behind the table in the press briefing room and poured himself a glass of water. The backdrop reminded him of footballers on the television giving press interviews in front of graphics of all the league sponsors. No one was sponsoring the police except the government. Maybe that was where they were going wrong. Maybe it was the answer to all their funding problems. Maybe, instead of: Metropolitan Police – Working Together for a Safer London, there could be something like: Pizza Hut – Feeding the Met for a Safer London. The police officers and grieving relatives could be filmed munching pizzas donated by Pizza Hut, bullet-proof vests could have: Sponsored by Wonga printed on them, or police cars might display LED strips on the roof with messages of support from the sponsors . . . Maybe he’d mention his suggestion to the Chief.
‘Ladies and gentleman . . .’
A hush descended on the room.
‘. . . In the early hours of Monday morning a young woman was murdered by a person or persons unknown and left in Highgate Cemetery. Despite strenuous efforts thus far, we have been unable to identify the victim and would urge anyone with information about her or the crime in question to come forward . . .’
The press officer’s minions moved about the room like harbingers of doom handing out photographs of the corpse’s face.
‘. . . I would be grateful if the photograph of the victim you’re holding in your sweaty hands could be widely distributed with something like: Who is this woman? written underneath together with the usual police helpline number. I’m sure you get the idea. You don’t need me telling you how to do your jobs like you try to tell me how to do mine. As you can see, the woman is in her early twenties. She was wearing an expensive engagement ring, so if there’s a man out there missing a fiancée . . .’
The questions began.
A black woman wearing a chunky necklace, with strange straight hair and carrying a handbag the size of a black sack shouted the loudest. ‘Helen Adams from Cablevision, Inspector. Was the woman sexually assaulted?’
‘No.’ He thought about mentioning the abortion, but had the idea that it would have been cruel to do so if the father of the foetus and the woman’s relatives were unaware that she’d been pregnant in the first place.
‘Julie Ellis from The Putnam Post,’ a woman with short grey hair said. She wore thick-rimmed glasses and there was a hairy mole squatting on her top lip like a parasite. ‘Do you know the cause of death yet?’
‘I’m informed that it was blood loss, which resulted in massive organ failure. However, there was very little blood where the woman was found, which suggests that she was murdered elsewhere.’
A man wearing a beanie with a full beard and moustache, and what looked like a staring glass eye in his left eye-socket stood up. ‘Philip Sutton from the Chiswick Courant. Do you think the woman’s death has anything to do with the Highgate Vampire, Inspector?’
A shadow of a smile crossed his face like a Mexican wave. ‘Is that really a serious question, Mr Sutton? The last time I looked, vampires were mythical creatures confined to the Hammer House of Horrors. Surely you’re not suggesting that they’ve now crossed over into the realms of reality and walk among us?’
Before Philip Sutton could answer, a woman with dirty-blonde shoulder-length hair who seemed to blink considerably more than was medically possible said, ‘Diane Posey from the Einstein News Channel. I’m sure we’re all impressed by the way you make a joke of it Inspector, but didn’t the woman have puncture wounds in her neck?’
He gave a strangled laugh and took a swallow of water. Maybe he should leave the investigation to the press – they seemed to know more about the murder than he did. ‘Hardly puncture wounds, Miss Posey. I’d be more inclined to describe them as scratch marks.’
