by Ellis, Tim
‘Are you staying here or coming with me?’ he asked Cookie.
‘I need to get out of your son’s spotlight – I’ll come.’
He told Matilda where he was going.
She squeezed his arm.
In the car, he keyed the address into his satnav – fifteen minutes along the A113. His heart rate had increased to dangerous levels. Was Jerry really only fifteen minutes away from her own house? He had travelled across half the country and she was on the doorstep.
‘You want to slow down,’ Cookie said.
His driving was trying to keep up with his heart – he needed to slow both down. ‘Sorry.’
Fifteen minutes!
When they reached the address, a homely-looking woman in her sixties wearing a black and white printed dress came out to meet them. Holding her hand was a little girl of about seven years old with pigtails and pink glasses.
‘Mrs Neupauer?’ he asked her.
‘Yes.’
They followed her into an old stone cottage with a thatched roof.
‘Can I get you . . . ?’
‘No, we’re fine. What can you tell us about the woman next door?’
She sent the young girl into another room to draw. ‘In her twenties, I would say. Short blonde hair, but you can see it came out of a bottle. Pleasant, but to be honest I’ve only spoken to her once. She said her name was Amy and that she was taking a break from work.’
‘Have you seen another woman with her?’ He showed her the newspaper photograph of Jerry.
‘No, I haven’t seen anybody else.’
‘When did the woman move in?’
‘Just over a week ago.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘What has she done?’
‘We don’t know that she’s done anything yet.’
They made their way out of the cottage.
‘Wait by the car,’ he instructed Cookie.
‘I’ll . . .’
He gave her a look. ‘I’m not having a fucking debate about it. Wait by the car.’
She did as he ordered, but he could hear her mumbling something about a “. . . fucking police state.”
He walked up the path of the stone cottage.
Mrs Neupauer was standing in her doorway watching what was going on.
He knocked and waited.
Cookie was leaning against the car and kicking at stones on the pavement.
There was still no response after he’d knocked a second time, so he began walking round the building and peering through the windows. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. It looked like a normal house.
Now what?
He hadn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed. If he forced an entry and it was the wrong house . . . Well, shit happened, mistakes were made – send me the repair bill, complain to the Chief Constable, write to your Member of Parliament. He kicked the heel of his shoe against the wood next to the locking mechanism – it splintered. The door crashed open and he stepped inside.
‘Hello?’
There was no response as he went from room to room.
It looked just like a normal house. Except . . . he found the morning’s paper on the kitchen table – it was open at the page containing the various photofits of Rose Needle.
He ran up the stairs and looked in every room, but there was no one there.
What now?
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Cookie shuffled in through the front door.
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Does it look like I’ve found anything?’
‘It’s not my fault, you know.’
‘Sorry. I’m just disappointed. I thought . . .’ He stepped outside and began walking down the path towards the car.
‘You do know there’s a cellar, don’t you?’ Vanessa Neupauer called to him.
He turned. ‘A cellar?’
‘Yes. All the old cottages in the village have them . . . the door is usually in the kitchen.’
He brushed past Cookie and returned to the kitchen. On the right was a thick green curtain, behind it was a wood-panel door.
The familiar smell of death and faeces rushed up his nose as soon as he opened the door – he had to take a step backwards to stop himself from throwing up.
Oh God! Jerry!
He found the light switch, flicked it on and – with his hand covering his nose and mouth – hurried down the steps.
Someone or something was curled up in the foetal position on the floor. Hundreds of flies and bluebottles buzzed about. Manacles – attached to chains that were hooked through a ring on the wall – were snapped shut around wrists and ankles.
‘Call for an ambulance,’ he shouted up to Cookie. ‘Tell them to hurry.’
He knelt down. The smell was terrible. Who was it? Was it Jerry? He felt for a pulse, and found a slight tremor beneath the skin of her neck.
The person moved slightly, said something inaudible through dry cracked lips.
‘What did you say?’
‘Have you brought the stew?’
Cookie came half-way down the cellar steps. ‘The ambulance is on its way. Is it Jerry?’
He was cradling her head in his arms and crying. ‘Yes. Jesus Christ! Look at her. Bring some water.’
She brought water.
He held the cup to Jerry’s lips. ‘Here. Drink, my love. Slowly.’ To Cookie he said, ‘See if you can find a key for these manacles and bring something to cover her with.’
‘Is that you, Amy?’
‘No, it’s Ray, Jerry.’
‘Ray? Is it really you?’
‘Yes. It’s really me.’
‘Have you brought the stew?’
‘No. I’m going to get you out of here.’
‘I’m so hungry. Amy promised me stew.’
Tears streaked down his face and fell on her bruised and battered body.
Cookie came back with a sheet and a key.
He unlocked the manacles with the key, covered Jerry with the sheet and carried her upstairs.
While he waited for the ambulance to arrive he sat with Jerry in his arms and phoned Maureen Threadneedle.
‘I’ve found her.’
‘That’s good news, Ray. Is she all right?’
‘Not really. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.’
Mine are crossed as well.’
‘Thanks, Maureen. Can you despatch a couple of officers – Rose Needle might come back.’
‘They’re already on their way – five minutes.’
‘Also, tell forensics to get over here as well. I’m waiting for an ambulance to arrive and then I’ll be going to the hospital.’
‘Leave it with me. I hope she gets through it.’
***
Fiona Gebbie produced a list of nineteen men who matched the criteria in one way or another. He thanked her before she caught a taxi to Tilbury Riverside station and the train back to Broxbourne.
The Office Manager – Mrs Lauren Exley – provided him with a desk, and the Personnel Manager – Ms Ashley Davies – gave him the personnel files to examine. He eliminated three men from the list and prioritised the other sixteen.
In an ideal world he would have interviewed the men in order, but only seven on his prioritised list were at work. The other nine were either on shift work, holiday, or sick.
The other obstacle, of course, was CEOP. He recalled Richards’ words: “Don’t take any action unless you’ve cleared it with them first.” He wasn’t used to kowtowing to quangos – he liked being his own boss. What did “any action” mean? If he’d had a clearer head he might have been able to justify going it alone. Instead, he rang Chief Inspector Tina Marzocca.
‘Yes?’
‘DI Jed Parish from Hoddesdon.’
‘What is it? I’m up to my eyeballs in shit at the moment.’
‘You told my partner we had to get clearance from you before we took any action on the murder of Sally Bowker and the paedophile ring.’
>
‘Would you like me to come and hold your hand?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Just get on with it, for fuck’s sake. You’re a DI, aren’t you? If you get it right we’ll ignore you. If you get it wrong, you’ll be looking for another career. Is that clearance enough for you?’
He opened his mouth to offer some fabulous witticism, but the call had already ended. Well, he knew exactly where he stood if things went pear-shaped.
‘Is there an office I can use to interview the men who are here at work,’ he asked the Personnel Manager. She looked like a stereotype – light brown greased hair combed back like a man’s, make-up to emphasise her square jaw and high cheekbones, and a three-piece dark grey trouser suit with a white shirt and multi-coloured dickey bow. He imagined that she wouldn’t have appeared out of place on the set of Moulin Rouge!
‘I have to go out, so I suppose you can use my office, but don’t touch anything – I like everything exactly where it is.’
‘I’m grateful, and I won’t touch a thing.’
Because the internal telephone system was under repair, the office manager gave him a newly appointed junior clerical assistant called Mary Tierney to go and find each man on the list when he was ready to interview them, and to keep him supplied with coffee.
‘Are you sure you’re up to the job, Mary?’ he asked her.
She had yellow spiked hair, three dangly earrings in her left ear, a mouthful of gum from which she kept blowing bubbles and carried her mobile phone as if it had been grafted on to her left hand.
He wondered if evolution had hiccupped again.
‘Whad’ya mean?’
‘Have you been working out in the gym?’
She giggled. ‘Ya gettin’ fresh with me, Mister?’
‘I was referring to the size of this place, Mary. You’ll need to be fit.’
‘D’ya think I’m fit? My boyfriend Juicer thinks I’m well fit.’
He gave up.
‘Okay, can you go and ask Garrett Forsythe to come and see me?’
After fifteen minutes she still hadn’t returned.
He wandered out into the clerical office to find Lauren Exley, but she wasn’t there. ‘Anybody know how I can find out where Mary is?’ he said to no one in particular.
‘Ring her,’ a plump dark-haired woman called Karen Goodyear said.
‘I would, but I haven’t got her number.’
She keyed in a number on her desk phone and passed him the handset.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mary?’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is Detective Inspector Parish in the office.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Well, I was in the Switchyard, cos that’s where Garrett works, but now I’m in the works canteen having a milkshake with some of the men.’
‘Did I say how important it was that I see these people quickly?’
‘No.’
‘Well it is, so could you get Mr Forsythe up to the office in the next five minutes, please?’
‘Gotcha.’
‘Good.’
Garrett Forsythe appeared, and Parish told Mary to keep bringing the men up to the office. ‘As soon as you get one, go back for the next man on the list. No more stopping for milkshakes.’
‘Gotcha.’
After Garrett Forsythe, he interviewed Michael Kemp, Gary Weatherly, George Rose, Alan Edgerton, Nathan Ford and Andrew Bender. He made sure that each of them knew they had a right to remain silent and/or have a lawyer present, but all of them declined.
Regardless of that, he knew within thirty seconds of starting each interview that none of them was the man he was looking for.
He had been gazing into the eyes of killers for many years, but today he found no evidence of lying, misogyny, paranoia, or a lack of empathy and compassion. They weren’t disconnected from reality, and none of them were manipulative or overly charming. They appeared to be average guys with issues, and didn’t most guys have issues? He had issues – in fact, with the issues he had, no one would be surprised to discover that it had tipped him over the edge.
Afterwards, Mary guided him to the works canteen. He offered to buy her lunch, but she declined.
‘Gotta see a guy.’
‘I thought you already had a boyfriend.’
‘Yeah . . . you won’t tell Juicer will ya?’
‘Your secret is safe with me, Mary.’
‘Wicked. See ya.’ And she was gone.
He was tempted by the full English breakfast, but as he was licking his lips he remembered that he was meant to be losing weight and in training for the London Marathon, so he ordered a fresh orange juice and a baguette with cheese and pickle.
He phoned Richards.
‘Hello?’
‘You know who it is.’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Are you missing me?’
‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.’
They both laughed.
‘So, have you found the killer yet?’ he asked her.
‘No. There’s been a couple of cases where Rattinger and Jacobs have both been involved, but nothing that would prompt anybody to murder them. We’re just about to order lunch in, and then we’ll carry on by looking at cases further in the past.’
‘You’re sure about the other cases?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Because if you’re not sure you could send a couple of uniforms round to interview someone you’re not sure about.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay, but make a note of the cases, so that I can sign off on them.’
‘Already done.’
‘I’ve taught you well.’
‘Huh! What about you?’
‘The technician from forensics produced a list of nineteen suspects. After looking through their personnel files I reduced that down to sixteen. I’ve interviewed the seven men who were at work, and now I’m having a quick bite to eat before I go and visit a couple of the men that aren’t at work today.’
‘A couple?’
‘I’ve got to get back for the press briefing with the Chief by three-thirty. I was nearly late yesterday, so I’d better be on time today.’
‘Are you going out to visit these people on your own?’
‘No. I’ll grab an officer from the local station to go with me.’
‘Good. I’d be worried all afternoon if you went on your own.’
‘I’m a grown man, you know.’
‘I know. See you later, alligator.’
The call ended.
He looked through the remaining nine files while he ate the baguette and drank the orange juice, and decided that the first person he should visit was Charles Rottman.
***
He found himself at the bank again, but had no idea how he’d got there.
Isolde Koll was dead.
The words bounced around inside his head, and he was struggling to move beyond them.
Isolde Koll was dead.
How had it happened? How had he allowed it to happen? Why weren’t those responsible for her death being locked up?
‘Yes?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’ve reached the head of the queue,’ the woman at the information desk said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Oh sorry. Mrs Mitford . . . the manager . . . here to see about a box.’
‘Just one moment, Sir.’ She called an internal number and then said, ‘Mrs Mitford is on her way. Please take a seat.’
He wandered to a vacant seat.
‘You again.’
‘I’m sorry?’
A silver-haired man holding a walking stick covered with little place-shields smiled at him. ‘You were here a couple of hours ago.’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I often come in here.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s warm. I can help myself to the free coffee, and I like to watch t
he people come and go.’
‘Why?’
‘I try to guess their stories. Take you, for instance. You look as though you’ve had bad news – am I right?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘People who have had bad news look vacant – just like you.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t mean to pry, but has somebody died?’
‘Yes. I’m a police officer. I’ve just heard that my partner has been murdered.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ He stood up, but left his walking stick leaning against the chair. ‘Can I get you a free coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
He shuffled to the machine, helped himself to a coffee, and shuffled back. ‘In my experience, forgiveness is not the answer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The relatives appear on the television saying that they forgive the person who murdered their child, wife, parents and so on . . . that’s not the answer.’
‘Oh.’
‘Their loved one is dead, and British justice – if that’s what you can call it these days – allows the killer to live the life of Riley in a prison with all the modern amenities that your taxes pay for. No, forgiveness is definitely not the answer.’
‘Oh.’
‘There’s only one answer.’
‘And that would be?’
‘Revenge. An eye for an eye. Revenge is mine sayeth the Lord. Well, that’s all well and good if you believe in God, but where do you go if you’re a non-believer?’
‘Sergeant Gilbert?’ Fiona Mitford said.
‘Yes.’
‘Please follow me.’
‘Been nice talking to you,’ the silver-haired man said.
He gave him a weak smile. ‘Yes, and you.’
‘I see you’ve met our resident squatter,’ Mrs Mitford said as she led him down a set of marble steps.
‘You know about him?’
‘Of course. He comes in when we open, helps himself to the coffee, talks to people and leaves when he’s ready.’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘What’s to mind? He takes up one seat, has about three cups of coffee and keeps our customers from getting bored.’
‘I suppose.’
They were let into another room through a steel door by a security guard. The walls were lined with four by six inch boxes.
‘I should have asked before,’ Mrs Mitford said. ‘But you do have Mr Pitt’s key?’
