by Ellis, Tim
‘Hey, DCI Kowalski,’ Michelle called.
He sauntered to the reception desk with a good idea what she was calling him over for.
‘The fax hasn’t whirred once with a court order.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be here. Maybe my PA wrote the number down wrong. I’ll give her another ring.’
‘We’re not all imbeciles this side of the Watford Gap, you know.’
‘I never suggested you were.’
‘The court order isn’t coming, is it?’
‘No.’
‘I should call the police.’
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, withdrew a folded page from a newspaper and spread it out on the reception counter.
‘I read that,’ Michelle said. ‘It was in yesterday’s paper.’
He pointed to the last photograph. ‘That’s my wife.’
‘Good looking. No wonder you don’t want to accept my invitation.’
He pointed to the photograph of the unknown woman. ‘I think that woman is Harry’s sister. We found a DNA match between her and Harry.’
‘And she stole Julie Wilkinson’s identity and kidnapped your wife?’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘It sounds like a script for a Hollywood film.’
‘I know.’
She tapped the final photograph. ‘What’s happened to Julie Wilkinson?’
He shrugged. ‘I think she’s dead.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Exactly. So, I’m here trying to get a lead I can follow, so that I can find my wife.’
‘So, why didn’t you tell us all this right from the start?’
‘It’s superfluous. You still need a court order.’
‘Which brings me back to my first question – Where is it?’
‘The judge said I had insufficient justification for a court order apparently.’
‘I see. What do you think I should do with that information?’
He didn’t have the time to answer.
Kelly Taylor returned. ‘Okay, I think I know what’s happened. This is the adoption team. We only keep adoption files here. You need to go to the children and families team on Wrekin Road in Wellington, Telford. The trouble is, it’s a different file and you’ll need another court order.’
Kowalski sighed. He felt like crying. At every turn he came up against what seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle.
‘I’m a bit confused,’ Harry said.
Kelly Taylor stared at him.
‘I mean, if Social Services only got involved when the fire happened and I became an orphan – why is there another file?’
‘Three files,’ Taylor said. ‘That’s what it said on the system.’
‘Are the contents of the files on there?’ Kowalski asked. He was wondering if Cookie could do a number on them.’
She gave a half-laugh. ‘No. The government would like to think that’s even possible, but we’re sinking under the weight of all the paperwork.’
‘I want to see them,’ Harry said.
She held out her hand. ‘Let me take a look at that letter again.’
He passed it to her.
‘It only gives you access to your file,’ she said.
‘But . . . that can’t be right.’
She shrugged. ‘The letter has been signed by Ian Rome, the Service Manager of Children & Families. You’ll need to speak to him.’ She stuck a post-it note onto the letter. ‘That’s the reference numbers for the other three files. I suggest you go to Children & Families and ask him if you can see the files – at least then you’ll know where you stand.’
‘Are you coming?’ Harry asked Kowalski.
He pulled a face. ‘I suppose I don’t have much choice. I came here to find out about your parents and sister, but I’ve not had much luck so far.’
‘Neither of us have,’ Harry said.
Kowalski offered his hand to Kelly Taylor. ‘Thanks very much for your help, Miss Taylor.’
‘I’m always happy to help the police, but next time bring the court order with you.’
He glanced at the receptionist.
She shrugged.
‘I thought I did have one.’
‘You know what thought did.’
Outside, Harry said to him, ‘What did thought do, Mr Kowalski?’
‘Thought he had, but he hadn’t.’
Chapter Eleven
‘There’s nothing half so pleasant as coming home again,’ Parish said when he saw Toadstone walking towards him with Richards on his arm.
‘Margaret Elizabeth Sangster – around the turn of the last century, I believe.’
Richards grinned. ‘He gets you every time.’
‘I phoned him up last night and told him the answer,’ Parish said.
‘As if.’
‘How come you’ve got a sun tan, Toadstone? I thought the sun brought you out in red blotches.’
‘Apparently not. That was what my mother used to tell me when I was a child.’
‘And correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you came out in a livid rash if you were forced to take your clothes off in front of other people.’
‘Another lie my mother told me.’
‘You obviously had a strange childhood, Toadstone. How’s Maddie?’
‘Maddie’s fine. She sends her love to you both, and she’s coming over for a visit next month.’
‘I thought you didn’t like people in your one-bedroom flat?’
‘I’ll obviously have to acquire something a bit bigger.’
‘Really? Have you heard this, Richards? Is it me, or is Toadstone becoming less boring?’
‘Don’t be horrible, Sir. Paul has never been boring.’
‘You little liar. Don’t listen to her, Toadstone. She’s always said that you were the most boring crustacean on the planet.’
Richards’ face reddened. ‘I never said anything of the sort. Take no notice, Paul.’
‘Don’t worry, Mary. I know he’s making it all up.’
‘Anyway, enough about your debauched holiday stories. What the hell are you going to do about this shrivelled tongue on my desk?’
Parish moved out of the way so that Toadstone could examine the bloody package.
‘It’s a human tongue,’ he said putting on a pair of plastic gloves. ‘Adult male, I would say. Removed while the person was still alive by the amount of blood.’
‘We’re not complete amateurs in the Murder Investigation Team, you know. What about the numbers on the inside of the lid?’
‘Longitude and lattitude.’
‘If I’d wanted someone to come down here and tell me things I already knew I would have asked Richards to bring me one of your lab rats.’
Toadstone looked at Richards. ‘Type into your search engine “findlatitudeandlongitude” – all one word.’
Richards sat at her desk and did as he said.
‘Click on the website and type the numbers in the boxes provided.’
They waited.
‘That was simple,’ she said. ‘The edge of Icehouse Grove, just off the A10.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Parish said. ‘Phone Inspector Threadneedle and get a squad car out there.’ He turned to Toadstone. ‘And why is this package still on my desk?’
Toadstone slipped everything into a plastic evidence bag and left without another word.
‘You can be really mean sometimes,’ Richards said.
‘Have you phoned Threadneedle yet?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Get on with it, and don’t you have other jobs to do as well?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m making sure my subordinates do their jobs.’
‘Huh!’
Lily Gold arrived looking like the main character in a zombie movie.
‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ Parish asked.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Going to bed early obviously doesn’t work for you.’
/> ‘It might have done had I stuck to the plan.’
‘Ah! Don’t tell me, you went to bed via the hotel bar?’
‘All right, I won’t tell you.’
Chief Bonnard appeared looking like he’d just finished a photo shoot. His hair was slicked back, his shave was the closest in town and he smelled like an aftershave advert.
‘I’m glad you two are here. I have bad news, I’m afraid. Another child was abducted in the early hours of this morning.’
‘The removal man?’ Lily asked.
‘Yes – he left his card.’ He peered at her. ‘Are you feeling all right, DI Gold? You don’t look so good.’
‘You’re not meant to say things like that to a lady, Sir.’
‘Sorry. You’re quite correct.’
‘And for your information, I didn’t sleep too well. The hotel bed was a bit cramped.’
‘I see. Well, let’s not get into the details concerning your sleeping arrangements. A seven year-old boy called Billy Crockett was taken from 29 Maltings Lane in Witham. I suggest someone gets over there. Forensics are already on the scene.’
‘Leave it with us, Chief,’ Parish said.
Chief Bonnard nodded and left them to it.
‘Should Richards and I take this one?’ he said to Lily.
‘Yes, please. I’ll phone round the parents of the other abductees and get going, but I doubt whether I’ll be back tonight.’
‘Okay. I’ll give you a call about three-thirty and get an update before the press briefing.’
‘We have a plan,’ she said, and wandered off to sit at Xena’s desk.
‘Well?’ Parish said to Richards.
‘A car is on its way to Icehouse Grove.’
‘And?’
‘Inspector Threadneedle will phone you if they find anything.’
‘We have to go now.’
‘I haven’t had chance to . . .’
‘That’s because you’ve been shilly-shallying.’
‘We’ve only just arrived.’
‘Three hours ago.’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘And instead of doing the work you’re paid an enormous amount of shekels to do . . .’
‘You’re confusing me with a banker.’
‘. . . You’re giving lip to a superior officer.’
‘I’m not talking to you.’
‘Peace and quiet at last. Come on, we have to go.’
‘But . . .’
‘You can make the phone calls from the car. Everything else will have to wait until later.’
***
He stepped out into the fresh air at Holborn. He wasn’t a great fan of the underground. Yes, it was a really convenient transport system, but it was stuffy and hot, and he always had the feeling that he was going to be buried alive at any time.
His phone vibrated.
‘DS Gilbert.’
‘Have you been to the library yet?’
‘If you phone me one more time . . .’
‘You don’t know what it’s like lying in this bed hour after hour with no one to pick on . . .’
After ending the call he switched the phone to silent.
He walked along Kingsway, turned left along Remnant Street, right down Gate Street past Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the Royal College of Surgeons and the Peacock Theatre to 10 Portugal Street.
The heavy wood and glass doors were already open.
He shouldered himself in.
The interior was enormous. A spiral walkway disappeared up to the glass domed roof and a pair of lifts ran up the centre. It was certainly impressive, and already students from the London School of Economics were swarming over the place looking for nuggets of wisdom.
He approached the long wooden reception desk in the atrium.
A woman with grey wiry hair, a large mole on her top lip and “Ann French” on her name badge looked up and said, ‘Yes?’
He was struck by the lack of a welcome. In a shop or a cafe – people smiled when they asked what you wanted. In fact, in most places people offered a friendly smile, but in a library it was a whole different ball game. He expected it was because they were the custodians of peace and quiet. People were deemed to be raucous troublemakers until proven otherwise. A smile had to be earned by good behaviour and industriousness.
He offered a smile anyway and brandished his warrant card. ‘Good morning, I’m Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘How interesting.’
She didn’t look at all interested.
He showed her William Pitt’s library card. ‘This belonged to a murdered man called . . .’
‘. . . William Pitt – that’s the name on the card.’
She tried to prise it from between his thumb and forefinger, but he held on tight.
‘It’s also evidence in a murder inquiry,’ he said, which wasn’t strictly true – it was evidence in . . . what? Child abductions? Child trafficking? Well . . it was evidence anyway, and he wasn’t about to let the miserable Ann French have it.
She let go. ‘By rights, it belongs to the British Library. We don’t want anybody masquerading as William Pitt, do we?’
‘As I said – at this moment in time it belongs to me, and I’m not masquerading as anybody.’
‘Really! Well, if you’re not here to hand in the obsolete library card, why are you here?’
‘I’d like to know why Mr Pitt had the card.’
She pulled a face, which suggested that she thought he was something a student had brought in on the bottom of his shoe. ‘This is a library and that’s a library card. Are you not familiar with the concept of a lending library?’
He looked around to see if there was someone more friendly and amenable he could talk to, but everyone else looked busy helping instead of obstructing.
‘Could you take a look on your computer system and tell me what items Mr Pitt loaned in the past?’
‘I’m sorry, there are strict confidentiality rules.’
‘In a library?’
‘Yes – in a library. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
Xena’s words reverberated inside his head. ‘You’re too soft, numpty.’
He puffed out his pigeon chest. ‘Up to now, you haven’t helped me one little bit. All you’ve done is obstruct a police officer in the performance of his duties. I’d like to speak to your supervisor.’
‘Wait here.’
She wandered along the desk and spoke to a bald-headed man wearing a green and black checked shirt and a sleeveless cardigan.
‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, and smiled. ‘My name is Thomas Nicholson and I’m the ground floor manager. How can I be of assistance?’
He flashed his warrant card again. ‘It’s very simple. I’m a police officer in the middle of a murder investigation, I have the library card of a murdered man and I want to find out what he loaned from the library – how is that a problem?’
‘It isn’t a problem, Sir.’
‘You want to try telling that to Miss French.’
‘Just one moment, Sir.’
He turned to the librarian and said, ‘This is your last warning, Ann. You’re here as a guide not a gatekeeper. We want to welcome people in, not keep them out.’
‘I’m done,’ she said. ‘It’s like a supermarket instead of a library. I’m surprised we’re not all wearing party hats, fleeces and “Happy to Help” badges.’
She flounced off.
Mr Nicholson gave him a weak smile. ‘A minor staffing issue.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for her to lose her job.’
‘It’s hardly your fault, Sir. Please wait while I get another member of staff to help you.’
A young man with tight curly hair and long sideburns appeared in front of him. ‘My name is Algernon. How can I help, Sir?’
He showed Algernon the library card and told him what he wanted. Algernon typed in the serial number on Pitt’s card and then said, ‘Mr Pitt accessed only
one area of the archives section – GB097. You need to go to the lower basement, Sir. There’ll be a librarian there – ask for GB097 and she will direct you accordingly.’ Algernon handed the library card back.
‘Thank you for your help, Algernon.’
‘That’s what we’re here for, Sir. Next, please.’
Why couldn’t Ann French have been as helpful as Algernon?
He made his way to the lifts, but they were both at the top, so he took the stairs. After only a few steps he stopped – GB097! He pulled out his notebook and turned to the page with the deciphered alphanumeric characters:
Fata Morgana GB 970
At least now he knew that GB 970 should be written: GB097. and was an archival coding reference. He immediately thought of letting Koll know, and then remembered that he was going to ring Nancy Green at the CPS to find out why Koll’s phone number had been discontinued.
There were signs on the walls telling him that the use of mobile phones was strictly forbidden. He was torn between going back outside to call the CPS and continuing down the steps into the lower basement. He carried on walking down the steps and made a mental note not to forget to ring Nancy Green.
The librarian in the lower basement directed him along an aisle full of box files to the end. He found the section marked as GB097. There were forty-seven shelves of boxes. He took a box at random off one of the shelves and sat down at a small table next to the concrete wall.
Inside the box were the central records of the Ionian Bank for 1945, which was founded in London in 1839 to finance the trade between the Ionian Islands (a British Protectorate) and Great Britain.
He looked up at the row upon row of shelving and decided that reading what was in the boxes wasn’t necessary – the clue was the Ionian Bank itself. He put the box back in its place, headed towards the far shelves and pulled out another box. Inside were the Minutes of a General Meeting dated November 27, 1978, and contained only one resolution – to cease trading with immediate effect.
The Ionian Bank didn’t exist anymore, but he recalled the six-inch coloured ceramic plate with IONIAN engraved on the back and signed by the artist Janice Wicks, 1970. Yes, he was one step closer to finding out what lay behind the clues.
Now, all he needed to do was find out about the 1952 picture by Otto Steinert, and he thought he might do that while he was in London.
