by Tim Ellis
‘Surely you can tell us a bit more than that, Inspector?’
‘How did she die?’
‘If you’re here she must have been murdered?’
Followed by Stick, she shouldered her way through the morass of sweating bodies to the car.
‘There’s something wrong with our society, Stick.’
‘Natural curiosity.’
‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘Yes, but satisfaction brought it back.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘I have no idea. I heard it once and just remembered it.’
‘Well, don’t fucking say things that you don’t know the meaning of.’
‘Sorry.’
She pulled out her phone, found the number for the Department of Climate Change at King’s College London and called it.
‘Department of . . .’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The departmental administrator – Lesley Groom.’
‘You have a Professor Tyndall working there?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘I know he’s away on a field trip in Greenland, but his wife is dead and I need to speak to him.’
‘I’m sorry – who’s speaking?’
‘Detective Inspector Xena Blake from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘Just one moment . . .’
‘Fuck!’
Stick glanced at her. ‘What?’
‘The bitch put me on hold.’
‘Hello?’ a male voice said.
‘Who’re you?’
‘Professor Jeff Moore.’
‘Is everybody a professor there?’
‘More or less. Is that what you rang to ask?’
‘Professor Tyndall’s wife has been found murdered, so I need to speak to him.’
‘That’s terrible. He’s on a . . .’
‘Yes, I know where he is. Do you have a video link with him?’
‘There’s a geostationary satellite orbiting the earth above the equatorial . . .’
‘A simple yes or no will suffice.’
‘Yes, but it occasionally shuts down for no reason at all and can take up to half an hour to reconnect.’
‘I can live with that. When can I talk to him?’
‘Greenland is three hours behind the United Kingdom. Local time there at the moment is eight-fifteen in the morning, so you can talk to him any time in the next two hours. After that, he’ll be out on the glacier.’
‘We’re on our way. If you do speak to him before we get there, don’t inform him about his wife’s death, but you can tell him to stay where he is.’
‘I can do that.’
‘I’m glad.’
She ended the call.
‘I’m sure a “thank you” would have been appreciated.’
‘I’m blessed,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘Earlier you were my gynaecologist, then you were my relationship consultant, and now you’re my speech therapist – is there no end to the fringe benefits of you being my partner?’
‘I was only . . .’
‘Well, don’t only. Anyway, I thought you were going to buy me a BLT sandwich from that food van.’
‘I was, but . . .’
‘Well, go and get me one then . . . and don’t make a meal of it, we have to travel to London.’
‘Okay,’ Stick said, climbing out of the car.
He came back after five minutes and passed her the sandwich and deposited a paper cup of coffee in the cup holder.
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ she said, opening up the white paper bag. ‘Why are we still here instead of half-way to the train station?’
‘Which train station?’
‘Mmmm!’ She pulled out her phone, found the nearest tube station and said, ‘Theydon Bois. It’s seven and a half miles away. I want you to get there in fifteen minutes – go.’
He was half-way through a hotdog with onions and mustard. ‘But . . .’
‘We haven’t got time for you to sit there stuffing your face with a cholesterol bun – get going.’
Stick made the tyres screech as he tried to get from zero to sixty in ten seconds.
‘In one piece.’
‘Sorry.’
***
‘Name?’ Parish said to the stick-thin middle-aged woman sitting on a fallen tree half-way up the spinney. She had short blonde hair, a hollow face and dark rings around her eyes. Someone had given her a blanket that she’d pulled tight about her shoulders. Beneath that, all she had on was a pair of thin tracksuit bottoms and a loose t-shirt.
‘Stephanie Rolfe.’
‘Sorry to keep you Mrs Rolfe . . .’
‘Miss.’
‘I always get it wrong. Anyway, I won’t keep you much longer. You were out jogging when you found the body . . . ?’
‘That’s right. Who could do something like that?’
‘Who indeed?’
‘The poor child . . . and his mother.’
‘Did you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary?’
‘No, no one. I run through here most mornings. Things were no different than usual . . . Well, except for the boy.’
‘Did you touch the body?’
‘No – it was obvious he was dead.’ She held out her mobile phone. ‘I called the police straight away. I always carry my phone with me. You never know these days, do you?’
‘You didn’t take any photographs of the body, did you?’
‘I know there are people out there who might have done such an awful thing, but I’m not one of them.’
‘I had to ask. If you give your contact details to Detective Constable Richards, you’ll be free to go. And thank you for your help’
‘I only did what any normal person would have done.’
‘Of course. And with that in mind, I’d be grateful if you didn’t speak to the press – even if they offer you a lot of money to tell them what you saw.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Miss Rolfe headed back up the hollow to go home..
‘What now?’ Richards said.
‘Now, we need to visit the mother, but on the way we’ll feed the press some scraps.’
At the crime scene tape he waited for the noise from the press to die down. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. The body of a young boy has been found . . .’
‘Is it Adam Weeks, Inspector?’
‘The identity of the boy has yet to be determined.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the cause of death?’
‘Not at this time. There’ll be a full press briefing at Hoddesdon Police Station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
They made their way to the car.
Richards keyed in the postcode for 44 Slipe Road into the satnav and set off towards Broxbourne. ‘What do you think, Sir?’
‘I think we have a conundrum, Richards.’
‘Surely the mother must have known about the tattoo on the inside of her son’s lip.’
‘You’d think so. But whether she’s willing to admit it . . . Although the law relates to tattoo artists not to the parents of someone under the age of eighteen.’
‘It’s in a funny place.’
‘It is.’
‘I mean, when was the last time you had a look under your top lip?’
‘Probably never.’
‘That’s what I mean. You have to physically lift the lip up to see under it – try it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Afraid of what you might find?’
Parish laughed. ‘When we get to where we’re going, I’ll take a look under your top lip.’
‘You will not.’
‘Oh, I think I will.’
‘Then we’re never going to get to where we’re going.’
It took them twenty-five minutes to reach the address. It was a fairly new three-storey building with a flat roof and enough parking spaces for the residents. Richards parked the car in a space next
to the building. Then without waiting for Parish she jumped out of the driver’s side, ran to the ground-floor two-bedroom flat and rang the bell.
‘We have all day,’ he said.
‘Huh!’
The door was opened by the Victim Support Officer – Maddie Hensby – who had been with Janice Weeks since she’d reported her son missing on Friday night.
‘How is she?’ Parish said.
‘Distraught. I’ve asked her not to, but she insists on watching the news.’
‘Okay.’
‘Is the body her son?’
‘Yes.’
They walked along the hallway and into the living room.
Janice Weeks was sitting on the edge of the sofa with her eyes glued to the news on forty-two inch television. She was a slim, attractive woman with dark hair who had obviously made an effort to look presentable by getting dressed and applying some make-up. There was a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of her and she was wiping her running nose and eyes with a dozen tissues she had clenched in her hand.
Parish picked up the remote and switched the television off.
Janice looked through him. ‘I need to find Adam.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Parish and this is Detective Constable Richards,’ he said.
Richards sat down beside her and put a hand on the woman’s forearm. ‘There’s nothing to see on the television, Janice.’
‘You’re here to tell me about Adam, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God!’ She crumpled into Richards’ arms like a rag doll.
Maddie Hensby came and sat on the other side of Janice.
‘It’s bad news, Janice,’ Richards said.
‘I always knew it would be. Adam was my rock, the man of the house. As soon as he didn’t come home – I knew . . . I knew something bad had happened to him.’ She broke down again.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Maddie Hensby said.
‘Tea? You think tea will bring my Adam back? What will I do now? Adam was my life. What . . . ?’
Richards squeezed the woman’s arm. ‘I know this is the worst time ever, but we have to ask you some questions, Janice.’
‘Questions?’
‘Yes. Adam is gone, but we need to focus on catching the person who took him away from you now.’
‘How did he die? Did he suffer?’
Richards looked at Parish.
Parish knelt down in front of the woman. ‘Listen to me, Janice. We have some questions for you.’
‘Questions?’
‘Why did you never marry Adam’s father?’
‘I never knew who the father was. I went to the Paradise Club on Windmill Lane in Cheshunt . . . of course, it’s not there anymore, it closed down a couple of years ago. I was only fourteen years old at the time. They drugged me and took me to an abandoned building somewhere, then they took turns in raping me for a week. I was found by a woman driver half-naked wandering along a road in Epping. She took me to King George hospital. The police were involved, but I couldn’t remember a thing – still can’t. They never found the people who did that to me. I wanted to get rid of Adam, but I didn’t. In the end, I was glad – he gave me something to live for. Now . . . I don’t have anything to live for anymore.’
‘You have everything to live for, Janice,’ Richards said. ‘You’re still young, beautiful and . . .’
‘Those things don’t matter. I haven’t been able to go with a man since I was raped. I’d always wonder if he was one of them if I did. I can’t have any more children – they damaged me down there. What’s the point of my life now? Before, I had Adam. Now, I have no one.’
‘There’s your parents . . .’
‘I have no parents. They thought it was all my own fault. And when I decided to keep Adam, they threw me out. I haven’t seen them for ten years, and I don’t want to either.’
‘What can you tell us about the small tattoo of a three-link chain on the inside of Adam’s top lip, Janice?’
‘I don’t understand . . . What tattoo?’
‘There’s a small tattoo of a three-link chain on the inside of Adam’s top lip . . .’ He pulled out his phone and showed her the picture he’d taken at the crime scene.
‘There must be some kind of mistake . . . The boy you found isn’t Adam, is it?’ she said with a sliver of hope in her eyes.
‘It is Adam, Janice. We just want to know about the tattoo . . .’
‘Adam didn’t have a tattoo . . . Unless, the person who took him put the tattoo . . . ?’
‘It’s at least a year old.’
‘A year old! How can it be Adam? He didn’t have a tattoo inside his top lip. I would have known . . . wouldn’t I?’
‘Think back,’ Richards said. ‘Did you ever see the inside of his top lip?’
Janice’s face creased up as she tried to remember. ‘Surely I must have, but I can’t think when. I don’t understand. You say the boy you’ve found is Adam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I would never have allowed him to have a tattoo.’ She held out her bare arms. ‘See, I don’t have any.’
‘Would Adam have got the tattoo himself?’
‘He wouldn’t have done that. I mean, I suppose anything is possible, but he just wouldn’t have done it. He wasn’t that type of boy. But if he didn’t get it done himself, and I didn’t make him have the tattoo – where did it come from? Who did it? And when?’
‘That’s something we need to find out, Janice,’ Parish said.
‘Do you think it’s why someone took him?’
‘We don’t know.’ He stood up. His knees cracked like someone with arthritis ‘Look, you’ve had the worst news possible, which you need to come to terms with. Maddie is going to stay here with you for as long as you need her. I want you to get some rest now. We’ll come back later this afternoon once you’ve had time to digest what’s happened to Adam, and given some thought to how someone might have been able to engrave a tattoo on the inside of Adam’s lip.’
‘All right. I am exhausted. I feel as though I’ve been crying forever. A lie down will probably help a little.’
‘And we’ll see you later.’
‘Okay.’
Janice made her way to the bedroom and closed the door.
‘She’s on suicide watch, Maddie,’ Parish said. ‘At the moment she feels as though she’s lost everything and has nothing to live for. Keep a close eye on her. She’s shut the bedroom door. Open it. Tell her it has to remain open for her own safety. Sit inside or outside the bedroom, but stay where you can see or hear what she’s doing.’
Maddie nodded. ‘I will.’
‘And we’ll be back later to talk to her again.’
They let themselves out of the flat.
‘Do you think she’s telling the truth, Sir?’
‘Yes. She has no reason to lie. Even if she was responsible for getting someone to engrave the tattoo on Adam’s lip, no one is going to prosecute her now. There’s something else going on here. We have to find out what, and that tattoo is the key.’
‘Lunch?’
‘I don’t see why not. And while we’re doing that we can unravel the secret of what’s under your top lip.’
‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’
‘That seems like a reasonable compromise.’
***
‘What do you think?’ he said to Bronwyn.
‘I’m wondering why anybody would shred a newspaper. How many strips are there?’
‘I’d say about a hundred.’
‘Put both sides of each shred on the scanner in groups of about thirty, scan them and send them to me as attachments to an email. I’ll use the Humpty Dumpty document reconstruction software to put them back together again. It might be nothing, but it might also be something.’
‘I didn’t realise I was working for you.’
‘Well now you do. Also, I can hack into AutoMove’s network and find out where Linus Frost d
elivered cars before he went missing. It might give us a location for the left-luggage locker . . .’
‘I don’t think you’ll find any records relating to Linus Frost.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think he worked for the government.’
‘A spy, you mean?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, we still have to look, don’t we?’
‘Of course.’
‘Also, send the box and jiffy bag to me by courier.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m being thorough. Maybe Frost wrote a secret message on the box. Or, you could ask your friends in forensics to analyse it for us?’
‘I hardly think it’s appropriate a week after leaving to go crawling back asking for their help. I’ll organise a courier on my way to Frost’s flat.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll call you later.’
‘I look forward to it. Oh . . . !’
‘Yes?’
‘Stay out of trouble.’
‘Trouble! Me? I think you’re confusing me with your wife.’
‘How many times have I had to rescue you from the brink of disaster?’
‘About as many times as I’ve dug you and Jerry out of the holes you’ve stumbled into. In fact, wasn’t that how we met?’
‘All I’m saying is: Be careful. And if you need help don’t be too proud to ask.’
‘The same goes for you too, old man.’
‘I . . .’
The line went dead.
He wasn’t sure whether he liked working with Bronwyn, or not. Before, he could take her or leave her, but now . . . Well, he only had himself to blame – it was his idea that they should work together. Maybe, after this case, they could sit down and agree on a few basic rules.
While he was constructing a list of those basic rules in his head he scanned the strips of newspaper from the box and sent them to Bronwyn as jpegs attached to an email. One rule might be that he was the boss, that the boss was always right, and that if there was ever any doubt about whether the boss was right or not, then the worker – Bronwyn – should remember that he was the boss and the boss was always right. He liked that rule, he liked it a lot. It left no room for any misunderstanding.
