Lamb to the Slaughter (9781301399864)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘My dad died of cancer when I was ten, and my mum died in a train accident eighteen months later. We were brought up after that by my dad’s sister. I moved out of their house when I was eighteen, and Tiffany came to live with me.’

  He finished the orange juice. ‘Mind if I use your toilet?’

  ‘At the top of the stairs. Put the seat down after you.’

  ‘Of course, I’ve been well trained.’

  She was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said to her.

  ‘I hope you find your wife.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Sitting in the car, he wondered if he’d discovered anything that might help him. He couldn’t think of a single thing. As Sally Gisborne had said – one minute Tiffany Mara was there, the next she wasn’t. No one appeared to have seen Rose Needle. Maybe she’d befriended Tiffany, wheedled her way into Tiffany’s flat, and then killed her and taken her place.

  Rose had walked away from Talgarth with nothing but the clothes she’d been wearing. She’d made it to Droitwich Spa as a nobody, and left as Tiffany Mara – with her possessions, her documents and her life. As long as nobody looked too closely, she was Tiffany Mara – at least until 2008 when she became Viki Cole from Banbury.

  He keyed Louise Cole’s address into his satnav, turned the ignition on and headed towards the M40. It would take him an hour, and driving on the motorway would mean he didn’t have to think too much – he’d done enough thinking in the past week to last him two lifetimes.

  ***

  She didn’t have to look at herself in a mirror to see that she was a damned mess. Gingerly, she touched the scabs on her head. They had stopped bleeding, but they still hurt.

  Each day her determination to stay strong for Ray and the children diminished bit by bit. She was beginning to accept her fate. Every beating ate away at her self-confidence. She was losing herself. Gradually, she was becoming somebody other than the Jerry Kowalski everyone knew. Who was she now?

  She felt humiliated, ashamed and worthless. How long had she been in this cellar? The days mingled with the nights, and each day became the same day over and over again. There was nothing but the pain, the beatings, the cellar and Amy.

  Kind Amy brought her food and drink, emptied her bucket of the filth she’d created, washed her, and tended to her cuts and wounds – what would she ever do without kind Amy?

  Sometimes, Amy kept her company. Came and sat with her, told her what was going on in the world. Amy was her life now. This cellar was her home. These chains were her ties to her new reality.

  The door opened.

  The light went on.

  She smiled, glad to see a friendly face. How long had she been alone?

  ‘Hello, Amy.’

  ‘Hello, child. Have you been good?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You hope so, you mean. Tell the truth. You can always tell me the truth.’

  ‘Yes, Amy. I hope I’ve been good.’

  ‘That’s better. I’ve made a special dinner for my special child.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Amy.’

  ‘First though, I’ll empty . . . It stinks in here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy.’

  ‘You’re an animal.’

  She cowered against the wall.

  ‘I should make you eat it. That’s what animals do – they eat their own faeces.’

  ‘Please . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘You say you’re sorry, but you’re not sorry at all. I’m going to make you sorry though.’ She reached for the cane. ‘You’re a filthy animal. What are you?’

  ‘I’m a filthy animal.’

  ‘Get on all fours like the filthy animal you are.’

  She did as she was told.

  ‘Move away from the wall, animal.’

  She edged away from the wall.

  Amy began reigning blows down on her back, her backside and the back of her legs.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll teach you to stink the place out. I worked hard to make this room special for you, but you’re just an animal – a filthy, disgusting animal. You don’t deserve a nice room.’

  The beating stopped.

  Through the sobs, she looked up at Amy.

  ‘Get off the mattress.’

  Jerry didn’t move fast enough.

  Amy began hitting her on the back and the head again.

  The end of the cane caught her ear and blood began dripping onto the mattress and then the floor as she shuffled sideways onto the cold, damp stone.

  Amy dragged the mattress over to the far side of the cellar. ‘An animal doesn’t deserve a nice mattress. You can sleep on the floor like the filthy animal you are.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Eat it.’

  ‘No, please don’t make me do that.’

  The cane rained down on her again.

  ‘Eat it.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that.’

  ‘I’m going up those steps now. When I come back down, that bucket had better be licked clean. Do you hear me, child?’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘If there’s even a drop of your filthy mess in that bucket I’m going to kill all your children.’

  Children! Yes, she had four children. She repeated their names in her head: Gabe, Oceana, Tabitha and Gabi. She had a husband. Where was Ray? Would Amy kill her children?

  ‘Do you hear me, child?’

  ‘Yes, Amy.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to clean that bucket.’

  ‘And you know what will happen if you don’t?’

  ‘Yes, Amy. You’ll kill my children.’

  ‘Every last one of them.’

  Amy went back up the stairs, turned the light off and closed the door.

  Jerry slid her hand into the bucket.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The man sat down at his desk and indicated a seat on the other side for Stick.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Stick said. He wished his desk was as clean and tidy as the one in front of him. Everything was squared off and tickety-boo.

  ‘Can I see some form of identification?’ the man asked.

  Stick showed his warrant card. ‘And you are?’

  The man gave him a business card. ‘Lucien van der Sloot at your service. I’m an art historian.’

  He put the card in the top pocket of his jacket. ‘What can you tell me about Otto Steinert’s Luminogramm then, Lucien?’

  ‘Otto Steinert was born on July 12, 1915 in Saarbrücken, Germany. He was a medical doctor by profession, but much preferred photography. He was a self-taught photographer and experimented by integrating innovations from the 1920’s avant garde art movements into the photographic medium. He is known as the initiator and leading figure of subjective photography. After a successful career, he died on March 3, 1978.’ Lucien brushed a non-existent speck from his desk. ‘Many of Otto Steinert’s assets are now held in the Museum Folkwang in Essen. The photograph you are interested in – the Luminogramm – was taken in Paris in 1952 and measures 41.5 by 60 centimetres. What do you want to know about it?’

  ‘I’m wondering if it’s connected to the Ionian Bank in some way.’

  ‘They bought the photograph in 1967.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But you probably know that the Ionian Bank ceased trading in 1978, the same year – interestingly – that Otto Steinert died.’

  ‘Yes. What happened to the picture then?’

  ‘The assets of the Ionian Bank were bought by the Alpha Bank, and they are still trading today. However, they sold the Luminogramm for £1.3 million to a private collector in 1982. Since that time, it has been sold a further five times. The last sale was in 2011 to a private collector for £7.5 million pounds.’

  ‘Do you know the name of this private collector?’

  ‘No. You showed me the picture on your phone, do you have it
in your possession?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must know who the buyer was.’

  ‘I have the name of the man whose possession we found it in, but he didn’t have anything like the kind of money you’re talking about.’

  ‘Mmmm! Maybe he was acting on behalf of a syndicate.’

  ‘Where did this sale take place?’

  ‘Just one moment,’ Lucien said, taking out a tablet from a drawer in his desk. He turned it on and began moving things about on the screen with his index finger. ‘Here it is. Yes, I thought so – Old Red Barn Auctioneers in New York.’

  ‘New York?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose he could have bought it online or over the telephone.’

  Lucien nodded. ‘Or he could simply have flown over there and bought it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have had to pay import tax or something when he brought it back through customs?’

  ‘Yes, but there are no records of that here.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ He sat back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. Where did Mathew Pitt get the money to buy a photograph of squiggly lines for £7.5 million? If it was one of the three clues – it was certainly an expensive clue. He’d taken Shirley Bridges at her word, but maybe he shouldn’t have done. All Lucien van der Sloot had told him was what he already knew – the Ionian Bank wasn’t in business anymore. Were the other purchasers between the Alpha Bank and Pitt relevant? Was the Alpha Bank relevant? Maybe that’s where everything was leading. After all, he still had a password: Fata Morgana. That was probably his next move – to find out where the nearest Alpha Bank was to Pitt’s work and home.

  He stood up. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr van der Sloot.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sergeant. Can I ask . . . what will happen to the Luminogramm?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘At the moment it’s a clue in a police investigation, but it belongs to a murdered man’s next-of-kin. It could, however, be something else. What? – I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Oh! Well, the gallery might be interested in purchasing the picture.’

  ‘I’ve got your card. As soon as I know what might happen to the photograph I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  Lucien guided him back out into the cavernous atrium, they shook hands and Stick made his way outside. Without the Mayor of London’s bicycle he had to walk back to the tube station. While he was walking he phoned Xena.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ Xena said in greeting.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Giving ultimatums to a person teetering on the edge of . . .’

  ‘Do you want to know what I found out?’

  ‘If I must.’

  ‘The Luminogramm was bought in New York by Pitt for £7.5 million pounds.’

  ‘You never said that he was a millionaire as well as a senior administrator in a university.’

  ‘He wasn’t.’

  ‘Where did he get the money to buy it then?’

  ‘It’s got to have something to do with those children. He must have bought the photograph for somebody else.’

  ‘Then why was it on display in his house?’

  Even though Xena couldn’t see him, he screwed up his face. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s not really why you went in there though, is it?’

  ‘Oh no! I told you that the Ionian Bank ceased trading . . . ?’

  ‘. . . In 1978. Yes.’

  ‘Well, their assets – including the Luminogramm – were bought by the Alpha Bank, which is still in operation . . .’

  ‘. . . And you’re thinking that this Alpha Bank is where the clue is leading us, and where the money might be?’

  ‘Possibly, but . . .’

  ‘Go on, numpty?’

  ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘What have I told you about thinking? You’re going to the Alpha Bank with the password, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’ll need a court order to . . .’

  ‘It’s no good getting a court order if Pitt hasn’t got an account there.’

  ‘What came first – the chicken or the egg?’

  ‘I despair of you sometimes, Sticky wicket.’

  ‘No, what I mean is: they won’t tell me if Pitt has an account with them unless I have a court order. So, I thought I’d organise the court order this afternoon before going to visit Pitt’s neighbours, and then I’ll come to the hospital to check up on you.’

  ‘You needn’t bother coming here.’

  ‘I know, but you’re forgetting that one of my responsibilities as your partner is to ensure that no whiteboards have slipped through the security cordon and into your room.’

  ‘Knock yourself out, numpty.’

  ‘Did you ring Traffic about the car?’

  ‘What with all the shifting of whiteboards, being rushed to theatre close to hell’s door again due to all the pressure and stress from my partner, and the pain and agony I’ve had to suffer – You know what? I clean forgot – sue me.’

  He waited.

  ‘They identified the car.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘That’s correct. I knew very well that you’d want to drop everything and rush to the address they’d given me, so I informed Tom Dougall instead. He’s looking into it, and I’m waiting to hear back from him.’

  ‘I thought we were partners?’

  ‘Stop being a cry baby, numpty. Was there anything else?’

  ‘You’ll ring me when . . . ?’

  ‘If I had a whiteboard . . .’

  The call ended.

  He knew she’d ring him. Yes, she’d ring him. As soon as Tom Dougall rang her, she’d ring him. He had no doubt she’d ring him. She wouldn’t let him worry unnecessarily – she’d ring him. He pressed her number again.

  ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘You will ring me, won’t you?’

  ‘This is a hospital, you know. There are sick people in here without whiteboards trying to get some sleep.’

  The call ended.

  She’d ring him.

  He called Judy Moody and asked her to organise a court order to access Mathew Pitt’s account at the Alpha bank, and then he strolled into Southwark tube station.

  ***

  The derelict farm building located at the edge of Icehouse Grove next to the A10 had been built using blocks of stone – with slate tiles added sometime later. On the left was a lean-to with a sloped tiled roof, and with each passing day Mother Nature was gradually reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

  Inside, it was dark and damp. Three forensic officers were crawling across the stone floor in their white paper suits looking for scraps of evidence.

  An overweight and black-mottled Henry Rattinger was suspended by two lengths of rope, which had been thrown over one of the wooden roof beams and looped around his wrists and ankles. He had then been hoisted up so that he was at a thirty degree angle to the floor. His shoulder joints had rotated backwards and upwards, and then dislocated to accommodate the weight of his body. His tongue had been cut out and there was three words carved on his forehead.

  ‘They used to dislocate people’s shoulders like that as a method of torture during the Spanish Inquisition,’ he said to Richards.

  ‘A minor inconvenience when compared to some of the methods employed,’ Toadstone said, coming out of the shadows like the Inquisitor General. ‘Did you know, they used to put red hot irons up vaginas and rectums, and tear eyes from sockets?’

  ‘That’s disgusting, Paul,’ Richards said.

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’

  Parish grunted. ‘Has the pathologist been, Toadstone?’

  ‘And gone. He told me to tell you that the victim mostly bled to death and the slit throat was merely the coup de grace. Time of death was approximately twenty-four hours ago, but he’d be able
to fix it within a two-hour window once the post mortem had been carried out.’

  Parish examined the message: SPEAK NO EVIL carved into the corpse’s forehead. ‘A dissatisfied customer by the looks of things.’

  Toadstone nodded. ‘It certainly suggests that he had his tongue cut out for saying something in court that the killer didn’t particularly like.’

  ‘I suppose we should expect another two dead people,’ Richards said. ‘SEE NO EVIL and HEAR NO EVIL.’

  ‘Do you want to tell her, or should I, Toadstone?’

  ‘There’s a fourth wise monkey as well, Mary: DO NO EVIL.’

  ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘It was worth getting up this morning then,’ Parish said. ‘Anyway, the idea is that we try to catch the killer before he kills another three people.’

  Richards smiled. ‘I knew that.’

  ‘I should hope so. We need to find out who Henry Rattinger’s disgruntled clients were.’

  ‘Aren’t barristers’ clients covered by confidentiality, or something?’

  ‘Or something. Legal professional privilege is an absolute right recognised by English common law. Do you know who else recognises it?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘No, they don’t even know it exists.’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘We can hear the cogs turning, can’t we, Toadstone?’

  ‘I know,’ Toadstone said.

  ‘Yes, but you’re not in training, are you?’

  ‘The European Court of Human Rights?’ Richards said.

  ‘A lucky guess. Which article of the convention?’

  ‘Has somebody written an article about it?’

  ‘Yes, of course they have.’

  ‘Eight?’

  He turned round to see Toadstone’s hands disappear behind his back. ‘Cheating again, Richards. And you should know better, Toadstone.’

  ‘Paul was just jogging my memory.’

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Richards. I feel betrayed, double-crossed, stabbed-in-the-back. I might have to reconsider my whole future in the police force now. Maybe it’s time to hand in my warrant card, let the young galácticos take up the mantle of justice for all, rest my weary head, turn my hand to origami . . .’