by Ellis, Tim
‘Thanks, Sir. Should I report that she’s missing?’
‘I don’t see much point. You’re not going to find her, and it could jeopardise our chances of getting her back in one piece.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Leave it with me.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but the line was already dead.
It started to drizzle.
The phone vibrated.
‘Hello?’
‘You’re more difficult to get hold of than Lucifer.’
‘Have you got me on speed dial?’
‘Number one. I just keep my finger on the button until you answer.’
‘I think you need psychiatric help.’
‘What I need is . . . Well, I don’t think it’s any of your business what I need. Tell me what happened in the library.’
‘Colonel Mustard killed Miss Scarlett with the candlestick.’
There was no laughter or round of applause.
‘They’ve got Koll.’
‘Who has?’
‘Pine.’
‘And they took her from the library?’
‘No.’ He described what happened earlier when he tried to ring Koll, and subsequently the CPS.
‘Some detective you are, Sticky bun.’
‘I knew you’d think it was my fault, but . . .’
‘Pah! And there’s no one at the CPS called Nancy Green?’
‘No.’
‘You should come with a health warning.’
‘So, I rang DI Dougall . . .’
‘Before you rang me?’
‘You’re lying in a hospital bed.’
‘So you keep telling me, but I still have a fully-functioning brain.’
‘I was thinking of your physical wellbeing.’
‘You think Dougall is better than me, don’t you?’
‘I do not.’
‘So, what’s he going to do that I couldn’t do?’
‘Speak to Chief Inspector Pine.’
‘I could have done that.’
‘See, that’s exactly why I rang DI Dougall. I’m not going to help you kill yourself.’
‘You’re such a drama queen, Stick. You might want to prepare yourself though.’
‘You don’t think . . . ? Oh God!’
‘She’s a witness. In fact, she’s the only witness, because you put twelve bullets into Michelangelo.’
‘But what about the bag of money, Dougall and the CCTV footage?’
‘Circumstantial evidence most of it. They’ll argue entrapment, contravention of their human rights and a dozen other legal technicalities. They’ll try to make it all inadmissible. Then what have the CPS got?’
‘Koll?’
‘No, they haven’t got her now. If she winds up dead . . .’
‘They’ve got nothing. I have to do something.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You saw the woman, the driver and the car – and you’ve got nothing?’
‘I wasn’t taking any notice.’
‘Close your eyes, numpty.’
‘Okay.’
‘You’re waiting in the hotel reception.’
‘Yes.’
‘The car pulls up.’
‘Yes. I can see it through the window.’
‘What type of car is it?’
‘A black one.’
‘And?’
‘It has blacked-out rear windows.’
‘Is it a an estate, an SUV, or a . . . ?’
‘A saloon.’
‘Okay. Nancy Green gets out . . .’
‘Yes, but from the front passenger seat.’
‘Do you see the driver?’
‘Yes – he smirks at her as she’s getting out. I didn’t register it at the time.’
‘Then what?’
‘She shuts the passenger door and walks towards the hotel.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘She’s in her early thirties, has black hair to her shoulders, rimless glasses and a plain face with a small mouth.’
‘Go on.’
‘She’s wearing a black jacket and skirt with a white blouse. She really looks like a solicitor.’
‘You said she showed you her badge.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was there anything unusual about it?’
‘No. It looked genuine . . . otherwise I wouldn’t have let Koll go with her.’
‘Okay. Koll appears . . .’
‘She’s wheeling a black suitcase by her side, carrying an overnight bag over one shoulder and her large handbag over the other.’
‘What does she do then?’
‘She hands her key into the receptionist and pays the bill with her credit card. I say that the CPS should pay her bill, and Green tells her to keep the receipt.’
‘Who carries her bags out to the car?’
‘I take her suitcase and lift it into the boot.’
‘Is the boot already open?’
‘I hear a click . . . the driver must have opened it from inside the car.’
‘You’re standing there with the suitcase. You’re staring at the boot. What type of badge is on the lid?’
‘It’s a Mercedes.’
‘You’re doing good. You lift the lid and put the suitcase inside, and then you close the boot.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do then?’
‘Koll kisses me on the cheek and climbs into the back seat.’
‘Do you wave goodbye?’
‘Yes. As the car pulls away I put my hand up. I’m sad to see her go.’
‘Do you notice the number plate?’
‘The three letters make a word: BAT.‘
‘Can you see the location suffix?’
‘No – it’s a blur.’
‘What about the year?’
‘No. I only noticed the word, and then I was thinking of vampire bats.’
‘All right, leave it with me. I’ll phone traffic. At least we have a black Mercedes . . . Was it fairly new?’
‘I’d say in the last two years.’
‘So, we have a black Mercedes, at the most – two years old, with the rear windows blacked-out and the last three letters of the registration – BAT. If they can’t get anything from that I’ll . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I’ll do something. So, are you ever going to tell me what you found in the library, numpty? . . . And don’t say books.’
‘GB097 was the library archival code for the records of the Ionian Bank, but it ceased trading in 1978.’
‘The ceramic plate?’
‘Yes.’
‘It had the word “IONIAN” on the back.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s something to do with Greece then?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or a Greek bank?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Does your arse hurt?’
‘While I’m in London I was going to go to the Tate Modern and ask someone about the Otto Steinert picture.’
‘Did you have a thought, Sticky wicket?’
‘It popped into my head.’
‘Of course it did. So, you’re on your way to the gallery?’
‘No, I’m sitting outside the library. I thought I’d ring DI Dougall, and then . . .’
‘Yawn.’
‘I’m on my way to the gallery.’
‘See, you can do it when you want to.’
‘What about you?’
‘The public protection unit are arranging to interview the three children – they’ll get back to me.’
‘I admit I might have been a little bit wrong.’
‘Only a little bit, Stickadoo?’
‘Infinitesimal, but if I hear that you’ve got out of that bed . . . You do know Staff Nurse James is my snitch, don’t you?’
‘Of course. I’m not completely stupid.’
‘Be a model patient, or I’ll . . .’
‘. .
. . Withdraw my privileges?’
‘I think we understand each other. What about Vice?’
‘They knew nothing about Pitt, but they’re talking to their people. They’re getting back to me.’
‘And now you’re going to ring Traffic?’
‘Is that the sound of somebody painting at the Tate Modern?’
***
The journey from Telford to the small market town of Talgarth took him two hours and ten minutes along the A438 and A49 through Much Wenlock, Ludlow and Leominster.
As he approached the town, he slowed down to take in the surrounding unspoilt countryside nestling beneath the Black Mountains, the sheep and the glut of walkers with backpacks, expensive boots and the latest fashion in must-have clothing.
He decided to stop for lunch at Merlin’s Table in Talgarth before going on to the psychiatric hospital. He ordered the steak and ale pie with chips and vegetables, and a mug of tea to keep him company while he was waiting.
‘What do you know about the psychiatric hospital?’ he asked the Chinese waitress.
She smiled. ‘I know that I haven’t been in there,’ she said with a Welsh lilt.
‘I see.’
‘We tend to ignore the hospital in the village.’
‘Oh!’
‘Well, when people think of Talgarth they think of the psychiatric hospital – it’s not really a tourist attraction.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘We like to emphasise the countryside, the activities and the regeneration that’s taking place now that the relief road has taken the heavy traffic out of the town.’
‘It’s a beautiful place.’
She pointed out of the large window. ‘See the man sitting on the bench?’
A tramp had taken up residence on a wooden bench overlooking a roundabout.
‘I see him.’
‘That’s Old Chimney. They sent him to Iraq and Afghanistan, but only his body came back. He spends most of his time in and out of there. Maybe you should talk to him if you want to know about the hospital.’
‘Thanks.’
He didn’t think it would be worthwhile talking to Old Chimney, so after he’d eaten he got back into his car and followed the signs to the hospital.
The main building was a two-storey four-section Victorian structure with sash windows and a clock tower. Two of the lower sections jutted out like bay windows with crenulations on the top like a castle wall. There were four stone steps leading up to a pair of wood and metal doors.
He turned the iron handle, let himself in through the right-hand door and wiped his feet on the worn down bristled door mat.
Inside was a room with a hatch. He couldn’t see anyone, so he banged the bell – probably a bit too hard.
A woman with a face like a bulldog appeared. ‘Are you in a hurry?’
He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. Too strong for my own good.’
‘Is that all you came in for – to ring the bell?’
‘. . . And run like hell.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ring the bell and run like hell – that’s what children do.’
Her face became even more bulldoggish. ‘Not here they don’t.’
‘No, I guess not.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon in Essex. I’d like to speak to someone about a patient who was admitted here in 1997 – Rose Needle.’
‘We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Take a seat, I’ll see if Doctor Daly is free.’
He didn’t sit down. Instead, he paced around the reception like an animal looking for a way to break free. So, they’d been expecting him. Had Ian Rome called from Telford and warned them that he was coming?
The door next to the reception hatch opened, and a tall thin woman in her fifties with grey-blonde hair past her shoulders, and a thin pointed nose and face appeared in the doorway. If she’d had green skin and a black floppy hat she would have been a double for the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz.
‘I’m Dr Susan Daly, how can I help?’
‘Can you talk to me about Rose Needle?’
‘You’re a police officer?’
He showed his warrant card again. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ray Kowalski. Also . . .’ He pulled out the newspaper article, opened it up and pointed at the pictures. ‘That’s my wife, and that – I think – is Rose Needle.’
Dr Daly took the article from him and glanced at it. ‘There are still people here who remember Rose. Maybe they can identify her. I wasn’t the Director of Psychiatry at the time, but I know of her. You’d better come in.’ She ushered him through the door and along the corridor to an office with her title and name painted on the wood in gold lettering. ‘Refreshments?’
‘I’ve just had lunch, thank you.’
‘Please sit.’
He sat down in a well-worn brown leather two-seater sofa.
The doctor leaned over her desk and pressed the button on an intercom. ‘Lucy, can you find Rose Needle’s file, please, and ask Sister Lancet to come and see me.’
‘Yes, Doctor,’ said a disconnected female voice.
‘The woman on reception said you were expecting me,’ he said.
‘Not you personally, but someone.’
‘I see.’
‘Rose Needle went missing in January of 2006 during an electrical snowstorm. A bolt of lightning took out the power and smashed a hole in the wall of the secure wing – Rose walked out through that hole and simply disappeared. Of course, we contacted the police and anybody who was anybody, but they didn’t find her. So, we’ve been expecting you – or somebody just like you – since January 2006.’
An old woman – who must have been at least thirty years past the legal retirement age – shuffled in with a file in one hand and a walking stick in the other.
‘There you are, Doctor Daly.’
‘Thank you, Lucy.’ She turned to Kowalski. ‘Lucy has been an inmate here since 1925. She’s in the Guinness Book of Records as the longest-serving inmate anywhere in the world. But . . . we don’t think of Lucy as an inmate anymore – do we, Lucy?’
‘No, Doctor.’
‘Lucy’s the PA to the Director whether they like it or not. Is Sister Lancet on her way.’
‘Yes, Doctor,’ Lucy said and shuffled out.
The doctor opened the file and began skimming through the pages. ‘Yes, Rose came to the hospital in May of 1997. She was terribly traumatised. Even though she had murdered her parents, she had also saved her siblings from the fire, so the medical staff at the time felt that there might be some hope for her. However, it quickly became apparent that she was suffering from dissociative amnesia, which manifests itself through a profound inability to retrieve stored autobiographical and episodic memories. In other words, she had no conscious self-knowledge. She wasn’t Rose Needle anymore.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Nobody. She had no self-identity at all. We call it a period of wandering in which people – of necessity – must make their own reality, which can last for a few minutes to years.’
‘That’s obviously why she’s stolen other people’s identities.’
‘You mean this Julie Wilkinson’s identity?’
Kowalski took out his notebook. ‘In 2006 – presumably when she walked out of here – she became Tiffany Mara from Droitwich Spa; in 2008 – Viki Cole from Banbury; in 2010 – Bambi Bradford from Henley-on-Thames; in 2012 – Julie Wilkinson from Esher in Surrey; and this year – Erica Bull from Theydon Bois. Those are the people we know about, but who she is now is the problem.’
‘My goodness! How does your wife fit into all of this?’
‘As far as we know, Rose has kidnapped her. Why? We have no idea.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come,’ the doctor said.
The door opened. A woman in her mid-fifties wearing a dark blue uniform, an upside-down fob watch and a pocket bris
tling with pens came in.
‘Ah, Sister,’ the doctor said. ‘This is DCI Kowalski from Hoddesdon in Essex – he has news of Rose Needle.’
Kowalski and Sister Lancet nodded at each other, and he edged up the sofa as she perched on the end.
Doctor Daly thrust the newspaper article at the Sister.
‘Yes, I read this in yesterday’s paper . . .’ She examined the photographs more closely. ‘You’re not saying that the woman . . . My word! Yes, I think you may be right. It didn’t occur to me yesterday. She’s changed her hair, but that could be Rose. Have you got her file, Doctor?’
Doctor Daly handed the file to Sister Lancet, who opened it and withdrew a photograph. ‘This was the last picture Rose had taken,’ she said passing it to Kowalski.
He looked at the young woman. She was pretty, but looked as though she’d forgotten how to smile and her eyes looked like bottomless pools. ‘Do you mind if I keep this?’ he asked.
Sister Lancet glanced at Doctor Daly who shrugged.
‘Thanks.’ He put it in his pocket.
‘The Chief Inspector says she’s been stealing people’s identities,’ Doctor Daly said.
The Sister nodded. ‘Because she doesn’t possess one of her own?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said.
‘What about the people whose identities she’s stolen?’ Sister Lancet asked. ‘What’s happened to them?’
‘They’ve disappeared,’ Kowalski said. ‘We haven’t found any bodies yet, but my guess is – we will.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you will,’ the Sister said. ‘Rose was not a normal child, but then she had lived in a cellar for nine years and been physically, psychologically and sexually abused. In effect, she had no childhood, no basis upon which to formulate a personality and become a normal person. Her life began at nine years old. During her time here, she stole pieces of other people’s personality – she mimicked them. And if you’re going to copy other people, the patients in a psychiatric hospital don’t really offer the ideal role models. If events hadn’t conspired to set Rose free, she would have been in this hospital for the rest of her life. Rose Needle doesn’t know right from wrong, and that makes her a very dangerous person.
Kowalski took his newspaper article back, slipped it in his pocket and stood up. ‘Thank you for your help, you’ve been very kind.’
‘I wish we could have done more, Chief Inspector,’ Doctor Daly said as she walked with him to the reception. ‘I hope you find your wife.’
