Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  Chapter Ten

  Stick left his four-bedroom house, which was situated half-way down a cul-de-sac called Kingsfield in Woollensbrook – not far from Hoddesdon Methodist Church – and drove to Woodford station where he caught the eight thirty-seven train to Holborn.

  Standing room only. The carriage was about a hundred and twenty percent full – still enough room for a rugby team and a couple of substitutes.

  He switched his phone on and listened to the three disparaging messages from Xena. He’d turned it off because she’d rung him just after five o’clock.

  ‘DS Gilbert,’ he said when he picked up the phone.

  ‘Are you on the train yet?’

  He glanced at the digital alarm clock. ‘It’s five o’clock.’

  ‘Seven minutes past.’

  ‘Why are you ringing me at this time of the night?’

  ‘I was lying here staring at the ceiling and wondering what I could do until breakfast arrived, and then I thought of you. I’d like to discuss the case . . .’

  He ended the call and switched the phone off.

  ‘Was that DI Blake?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s crazy.’

  ‘And she’s going to make me crazy as well.’

  ‘What are you doing, Monsieur?’

  ‘I think you probably have a very good idea what I’m doing, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘That Xena Blake has a lot to answer for.’

  He smiled. Yes, she probably did.

  It would take him thirty minutes to reach Holborn. He’d be first in the queue when the British Library of Political & Economic Science opened its doors at nine-thirty.

  First, he tried to ring Isolde Koll to see how she was doing, but there was no service. The call didn’t even divert to voicemail so that he could leave a message. He had no idea what it meant except that there was no such number anymore, so he couldn’t contact her. Why had Koll’s number been disconnected? Was it to prevent people from locating the GPS signal? He’d have to ring Nancy Green at the CPS and check that everything was okay. He should have asked her for a business card, so that he had her number.

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘DS Gilbert.’

  ‘You switched your phone off while a senior officer was talking to you.’

  ‘It was the middle of the night.’

  ‘The sun was shining.’

  ‘I must have pressed the wrong button in the dark.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Stickadoo, I’m keeping a detailed list of your transgressions.’

  ‘That ten pounds credit isn’t going to last very long if you keep calling me up.’

  He heard a grunt. ‘Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, for your information, I was able to get hold of someone’s credit card and had time on my hands to put a hundred pounds on my new phone.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I knew you’d be pleased.’

  ‘It’s the best news I’ve heard all day.’

  ‘I’m sure. So, let’s talk about the case.’

  ‘You read the notes I left.’

  ‘That took me all of three seconds.’

  ‘I thought they were very comprehensive.’

  ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word. Are you on the train now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have some questions.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘Did you question Pitt’s neighbours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See, there’s no mention of you doing that in your “comprehensive” notes, Sergeant.’

  ‘DC Koll and I knocked on some doors.’

  ‘Some! Did every one of those “some” doors open?’

  ‘Obviously not. Some people were out, away on holiday, or at work.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were running a sloppy investigation. Have you been back after five o’clock when people are more likely to be at home?’

  ‘It wasn’t my case before. It was . . .’

  ‘I didn’t ask you for excuses, numpty.’

  ‘Did I say how fantastic it was to have you back working with me again?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘When I get five minutes, I’ll go back and see if I can’t speak to some more people.’

  ‘It would have been a lot simpler if you’d just said that in the first place.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Oh yes! I have a veritable shopping list of things that I need to ask you.’

  ‘Sorry – here comes a tunnel . . .’ He made whooshing and crackling sounds with his mouth, and then ended the call. He wondered whether to press the off button again, but decided that in the long run it wouldn’t make any difference – she’d keep phoning him until he answered.

  A pretty young woman with green hair and three rings through her top lip smiled at him.

  ‘My boss,’ he said.

  The phone vibrated.

  ‘DS Gilbert.’

  ‘You did that on purpose.’

  ‘I can assure you . . .’

  ‘I’ll be brief.’

  ‘Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to . . .’

  ‘I have a hundred pounds remember, and I also have lots more where that came from. When you’re lying in hospital with Lucifer’s hand burning through your ankle, money is the least of your concerns.’

  ‘Go on then, but I’ll be at Holborn in twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Vice yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve had this case for one day, and if you recall I have no partner and . . .’

  ‘Do you wake up in the morning and practise your excuses in the mirror? Have you compiled a list of common excuses in the back of your notebook that you refer to in times of need? Do you want me to ring Vice?’

  ‘No to all of those.’

  ‘I have time on my hands.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Technically, I’m still your partner.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘. . . And your superior officer.’

  ‘All right . . . but that’s all. You getting better is far more important to me than solving cases.’

  ‘I’m touched. Have you formally interviewed the children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you even know where they’re being kept?’

  ‘I was hoping not to have to speak . . .’

  ‘One day, you’ll be a wonderful father . . .’

  ‘Do you really . . . ?’

  ‘But not today.’

  ‘You have to speak to those children again.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I could . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I was going to say.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They have trained people in the Public Protection Unit to conduct interviews with children now. There has to be a Social Worker in attendance, all interviews have to be recorded . . . there’s a detailed procedure to follow in case the evidence is needed in court. You don’t want everyone in the justice system to know you’re a numpty, do you? We could get them to do the work for us.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You know you need me, Stickadoo. Stop fighting it and let me in.’

  ‘All right, you can contact them and ask them to conduct the interviews, but that’s it.’

  ‘That wasn’t too hard, was it?

  ‘We’re nearly at Holborn now.’

  ‘And I expect you to ring me the minute you step out of the British Library.’

  ‘I’ll ring you.’

  ‘In the meantime . . . I’ll get a whiteboard brought to my room with marker pens and . . . I’m only joking.’

  ‘You say you are, but in the back of your mind you’re trying to work out how you can get a whiteboard smuggled into your room.’

  Demonic laughter slithered out of the phone and into his ear just before the call ended.

  He was far too soft. He was in charg
e of this investigation. He should have said, ‘No, No and No.’

  ***

  He was seriously embarrassed. Although a good night’s sleep, fifty sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups had reduced the shame somewhat. A man! How could he lie there and be massaged by a man? He should have made it crystal clear to the receptionist – Edie Golden – that he wanted a young buxom wench with hands like butterflies caressing him – not a hairy man with an accent that he could barely understand. In fact, he was of a mind to suggest that Scottish be classified as another language – it was unintelligible like Russian or Chinese.

  As it was, he’d just had to lie there and suffer the ignominy of getting turned on by a man. Never again! And he’d never tell another living soul. As far as he was concerned, he’d had dinner and then gone straight to bed. A massage? No . . . never happened – didn’t even know the hotel had a spa.

  He pulled up outside Agnew and Semple Garage Services on Chichester Street. Harry Hawkesby gave him a short beep and they set off along the A483 towards the County Adoption Team located at Shires Business Park in Shrewsbury. His satnav indicated that the journey would take an hour and ten minutes – and the rest, he thought.

  After the deep tissue muscle massage by the masseur, which he’d never had – and he’d swear on a stack of pizza delivery leaflets that such was the case – he subjected himself to the age-defying facial. As far as he could ascertain, when he’d examined his face in the mirror earlier before he’d had a shave, if he’d defied any age – particularly his current age of forty – it wasn’t evident. Worst of all, the woman who had given him the facial must have been a hundred and fifty if she’d been a day – may the gods strike him down with a bolt of lightning if he was oiling the wheels. Fifteen minutes in the hydropool, fifteen in the sauna, and less than a minute to have a heart attack in the ice fountain. In truth, he was glad to get back to his room, and he swore he’d never darken the doorstep of a health spa again.

  They arrived at the Shropshire County Adoption team premises at twenty-five past ten. It was a reasonably new two-storey flat-roofed building wedged between a veterinary practice and a company that installed stair-lifts for the elderly and infirm.

  Harry Hawkesby followed him into the car park and pulled in next to him.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Kowalski asked him.

  ‘It depends what we find.’

  ‘The worst – or best – you can find is that you have a sister.’

  ‘A sister who steals people’s identities, kidnaps and possibly murders people.’

  ‘There is that.’

  He pressed the button on the intercom screwed to the wall next to the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Chief Constable Ray Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station in Essex, and Harry Hawkesby – one of your previously adopted children . . .’

  ‘Who are you here to see?’

  ‘I have a court order to access Harry Needle’s file.’

  ‘I thought you said his name was Hawkesby.’

  ‘His birth name was Needle.’

  ‘Did you arrange to see somebody?’

  ‘The police don’t make appointments.’

  ‘That might very well work a treat in Essex, lovey, but here in Shropshire you risk turning up when there’s nobody around to see you.’

  ‘You’re here.’

  ‘I’m a receptionist.’

  ‘Are you telling me there’s no social workers in there?’

  ‘Yes, I am telling you that.’

  ‘Managers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Directors?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No one who can get a file for me?’

  ‘No one who is authorised to get a file for you.’

  ‘Can you let us in?’

  ‘Who are you here to see?’

  ‘It would be a lot easier talking to you face-to-face.’

  ‘I’m sure it would, but you could be an axe murderer for all I know.’

  ‘I’m a Detective Chief . . .’

  ‘So you say, but I’m here on my own.’

  ‘I can show you my warrant card.’

  ‘Two a penny.’

  ‘Can you at least tell me when a social worker will return?’

  ‘It would have been a lot simpler if you’d made an appointment to see someone.’

  ‘I think I’ve got that message.’

  ‘Good. Would you like the number for booking appointments?’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘Yes, but you haven’t got an appointment.’

  ‘The police don’t need appointments.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’

  He was becoming exasperated.

  Just then a car pulled into the car park and a tall thin woman got out. She opened the boot, lifted out a case with wheels on the bottom and an extendable handle on the top, and then stacked four thick files on top of the case.

  Kowalski nudged Harry. ‘This could be our way in. Go and offer your help – smile a lot.’

  Harry did as he was told.

  ‘Who are you?’ the woman asked.

  Kowalski showed his warrant card. ‘DCI Ray Kowalski from Hoddesdon in Essex.’

  ‘I love TOWIE. Do you get to see any of the cast?’

  ‘Bodyguard to the ladies sometimes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Only when I’m not being a senior police officer.’

  She keyed in her code to open the door.

  Harry followed her in with the case and files.

  Kowalski followed Harry in.

  They caught the lift up to the second floor.

  The reception was set back to the left.

  ‘Hi Ann. You’ve not let that axe murderer in, have you?’

  ‘Sorry Michelle, was I not meant to?’

  Kowalski strode over to the attractive dark-haired woman sitting behind the reception desk. ‘For you, I could be an axe murderer.’

  She wrote something on the back of a business card and passed it to him. ‘My name’s Michelle Creighton. That’s my number. Ring me when you get the urge.’

  ‘I’m not staying in Shropshire, but thanks for the offer, Michelle.’

  ‘It wasn’t an offer, it was an invitation.’

  He turned to the tall thin woman. ‘Are you a social worker?’

  ‘Yes – Kelly Taylor – why?’

  ‘I need to look at a file.’

  ‘Then you’ll need a court order.’

  He pulled out his phone and called Judy Moody.

  ‘What’s your fax number?’ he asked Michelle.

  Michelle slid another card the right way up across the counter and tapped it with a manicured nail.

  ‘Can you fax the court order to this number, please Judy?’ He read the number off the card.

  ‘The judge didn’t grant it, Sir.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Said there was insufficient justification.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Judy.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Okay,’ He said to Kelly Taylor. ‘The court order is on its way, but Harry here has a right to see his file anyway.’

  She looked at Harry. ‘You’ve had a letter?’

  His forehead creased up. ‘Oh yes!’ He dug in his pocket, pulled out a screwed-up piece of paper and thrust it at her.

  ‘Good,’ Taylor said. ‘It makes everything a lot simpler if we have a reference number. Michelle, can you go and retrieve the file, please?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I’ve only just got back.’

  ‘I want the axe murderer to come with me then.’

  Kowalski shrugged. ‘Happy to oblige.’

  Taylor laughed. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew what had happened to all the other men she’s taken down there.’

  ‘Maybe I was too hasty in my offer of assistance,’ Kowalski said.

  Michelle came round the reception desk and linked his arm. ‘Come on, lover. I promise I’ll be gentle.’

&nb
sp; ‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes,’ he said to Harry. ‘Call for back-up.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes!’ Michelle scoffed. ‘I certainly hope you’ve got more staying power than that.’

  They caught the lift down to a concrete basement full of filing cabinets.

  It only took seven minutes to find Harry Needle’s file. Kowalski was relieved that Michelle Creighton was all talk – as he was himself. If he hadn’t been married, if he didn’t have four fabulous children, if he wasn’t happily married, if Jerry wasn’t missing, if . . . then he might have looked twice at her, but there was a whole stack of obstacles between what was and what might have been.

  They returned to the second floor.

  Once he and Harry began reading the file it was obvious it wasn’t going to be of any help – the file began shortly after Harry became an orphan.

  ‘There’s no details about Harry’s parents in here,’ Kowalski called over to Kelly Taylor, who was sitting at her desk logging onto a computer.

  The social worker shrugged. ‘In the front of the file there should be a list of other files relevant to that one.’

  ‘There’s no list here,’ Harry said skimming through the file.

  She came over to the small room where they’d been put, picked up the file and rifled through it. ‘Mmmm!’ She sighed. ‘You’re eating into my day.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Kowalski said.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll see if there’s anything on the system. Harry Needle, you say?’

  Kowalski took out his notebook. ‘Yes, and his parents’ names were Missy and Larry Needle. They used to live at 17 Forester’s Close in Horsehay, Telford, and the fire that made Harry an orphan occurred on May 7, 1997 when he was two years old.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find anything.’

  She returned to her desk.

  ‘You’d think it’d all be part of the same thing, wouldn’t you?’ Harry said. ‘I mean, I have a right to know about my parents, don’t I?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just their filing system,’ Kowalski reassured him.

  ‘I hope so.’