by Tim Ellis
He called a local courier company who picked up the package within fifteen minutes.
That was his work done for Bronwyn. Now his time was his own. He set the security alarm, locked the door and climbed into his car. After inputting Linus Frost’s address in Woodford into the satnav he set off along the A113. It estimated the journey would take him eleven minutes.
And it might have taken him eleven minutes if he wasn’t being followed by a Mercedes four-by-four with blacked-out windows. He was still driving his 2006 Volvo V50 Silver Estate. It wasn’t the fastest or the prettiest car on the road, but it was reliable, more than adequate for a family of six and it was built like a tank.
He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, yanked the steering wheel hard right and drove down Chigwell Rise. The Mercedes followed him. He screeched round the next corner into Chester Road and followed it into Brook Way, Brook Mews and then turned right to re-join the A113.
He realised that he was never going to lose the Mercedes in the Volvo. So, at Chigwell station he parked up, hurried into the ticket office, bought a ticket to Grange Hill and had the intention of crossing over onto the westbound platform, but there was a broken window on the internal footbridge, so he stopped and took a couple of photographs with his phone camera of the men who were following him as they ran onto the platform.
There was an old wooden door on the walkway for STAFF ONLY. It was locked, but it didn’t take much to shoulder it open.
Five minutes out of the job and he was already a hardened criminal. He slipped inside and waited for the two men to walk past and head down the stairs to the westbound platform. He then went back the way he’d come, hurried out to his car and carried on with his journey. As he drove away, he made a mental note of the four-by-four’s number plate.
He was in two minds about whether the men were government employees or not – they were easily fooled, but then he wasn’t so intelligent himself. It was obvious they wanted the key. And he’d made it easy for them by bringing the damned thing with him. He should have locked it in the safe. If they were armed, what choice would he have but to hand the key over. That would be the end of the case, the end of Abacus Investigations, and probably the end of him as well. As he slid the key into the CD drive opening, he made another mental note to be a bit more savvy in the future.
Chapter Four
They travelled all the way to Liverpool Street from Theydon Bois on the Central Line and had to change to the Circle Line to reach Temple. It took them an hour and five minutes giving them ten minutes to walk to the Department of Climate Change at King’s College London.
‘Only just,’ Jeff Moore said when they arrived.
Xena’s lip quivered. ‘I’m only just not arresting you for obstructing a police officer in the performance of her duties.’
Moore gave them a crooked smile. ‘Shall we?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
He led them along a corridor to a room where a young woman with lank brown hair hanging to her shoulders, tattoos all down both arms and a black t-shirt with a death’s head printed on the front was sitting at a computer chewing gum.
‘When you’re ready, Morgan.’
‘Okay, Prof.’
‘Morgan is one of our students, but she seems to know how to get the best out of the limited arctic communications coverage from the geostationary satellite.’
‘Don’t you have a dress code here?’
‘Only for the staff.’
‘Hello, Professor Tyndall,’ Morgan said to a man who had appeared on the computer screen. ‘There’s a fugly here to speak to you.’ She stood up so that Xena could sit down.
Xena turned to Moore. ‘What’s a fugly?’
‘You’d be better off not knowing.’
‘Mmmm!’ Tyndall was in his early thirties, thin with a full beard, bushy eyebrows and a sunburnt nose. ‘Professor Tyndall?’
‘Yes.’
She held her warrant card up to the web camera on a book shelf above the monitor. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Xena Blake from Hoddesdon Police Station in Essex.’
‘Hey! I live in Essex – in Roydon Hamlet.’
‘That’s why I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’
‘Go on?’
‘Your wife is dead.’
‘I’m sorry, but did you say she was dead?’
‘Yes, she was murdered yesterday at your house in Roydon Hamlet.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s four months pregnant, so we thought that while I’m here in Greenland she should go and stay with her mother in Worcester.’
Xena looked at Stick. ‘Jesus! Phone Doc Paine, or Heffernan.’ She turned back to the screen. ‘I’m hoping you’re right . . . I think. But if you’re right, it means we’re wrong.’
‘I’m hoping I’m right as well,’ Tyndall said.
Stick leaned over and whispered in her ear, ‘Doc Paine is checking now.’
‘Hopefully, we won’t keep you a minute, Professor. There are people checking if it’s your wife or not as we speak.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘Not really. All I can say is that a woman – who may or may not be your wife – was murdered in the bedroom of your house yesterday.’
‘There are pictures of us both all over the house. I don’t understand why you’re confused about whether the woman is my wife, or not.’
‘All I’m prepared to say is that she’d been painted.’
‘Painted . . . ?’
Stick ended the call and shook his head. ‘The woman isn’t Valerie Tyndall.’
‘Crap!’ She turned back to the computer screen. ‘I’m glad to say you were right, Professor. The woman found in your house is not your wife. All I can do is apologise for the terrible mistake. Can you give me your mother-in-law’s telephone number? We’ll double-check, which is something we should have done in the first place.’
‘Yes, I’ve got it here somewhere.’ He disappeared from the screen for a handful of seconds and then came back. ‘Have you got a pen and paper?’
She glanced at Stick. ‘Yes, go on.’
He told them the number.
Stick keyed it in as Tyndall said it.
‘Is that Mrs Tyndall?’ Stick said . . . He nodded, and then moved away to explain why he was calling.
‘I apologise again, Professor. Did you allow anyone to use your house while you were away?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if anyone has a key to your house?’
‘Only my mother-in-law. Both of my parents are dead.’
‘No brothers or sisters?’
‘No.’
‘What about your wife’s relatives?’
‘She has two sisters. One lives in Cornwall, the other in the south of France. Neither of them have keys.’
‘Neighbours?’
‘No.’
‘Absolutely positive no one has another key?’
‘Positive. You think the killer entered my house with a key?’
‘Yes.’
‘There is a spare key.’
‘I thought you said there were only three keys?’
‘No. I said no one else had a key.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s in an old wooden cigar box in the middle drawer of the Welsh Dresser in the kitchen.’
‘Okay, we’ll check if it’s still there,’ She signalled for Stick to call Hefferbitch. ‘. . . And tell her it could have the killer’s prints on it.’
He nodded.
‘Thanks for your help, Professor. And once again, I’m sorry for any misunderstanding.’
‘I’m glad that you got it wrong. What about my house?’
‘Well, at the moment it’s a crime scene. We’ll liaise with your wife about when you can have it back.’
The screen went black.
‘Do you want me to reconnect
, Professor?’ Morgan asked Moore.
‘Inspector?’ Moore asked her.
Xena shook her head. ‘No. We’d finished.’ She stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Professor Moore.’
‘You’re welcome. I think we’re all glad you were wrong about Professor Tyndall’s wife.’
‘I can imagine.’ She glanced at Stick. ‘Are you ready?’
Stick nodded.
Professor Moore escorted them out to the departmental reception and from there they made their way down to street level.
‘Was the key still there?’
‘Yes, and it has prints on it. Of course, she doesn’t know who they belong to yet.’
‘What the fuck happened, Stick?’
‘We got it wrong?’
‘We? It was that bitch Heffernan – she got it wrong.’
‘We didn’t check she was right.’
‘It’s not up to us to check that she’s right. It’s up to her to be right.’
‘It was an easy mistake to make. The woman was dead in Mrs Tyndall’s house, in her bed. Why wouldn’t it be Mrs Tyndall? And she was painted, her hair and face had been altered. We also fell into the trap of assuming it was Mrs Tyndall. We’re detectives. It was our mistake as much as Di’s.’
‘We rely on people to get it right.’
‘But sometimes they get it wrong. Doc Paine also thought it was Mrs Tyndall.’
‘Who’s fault is that?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to get Hefferbitch the sack.’
‘I don’t think you should do that.’
‘Why not? Give me one fucking good reason why I shouldn’t?’
‘You’ve made mistakes in the past.’
‘Me? I doubt that very much.’
‘Do you want me to list them?’
‘Have you been keeping count?’
‘No. But I remember them.’
‘Well, you can stop remembering them right fucking now.’
‘If you give Di another chance?’
‘You’re too soft.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I should swap you for a Minion.’
‘I’m sure one of those little people would be a better partner than I am.’
‘Damn right. I’m going to rip her to shreds.’
‘In private.’
‘That will work just as well.’
***
‘Well?’ Parish said, nursing his half a Guinness.
‘Well what?’
‘Let’s see it.’
Richards grinned. ‘You’re crazy. You first.’
He curled back his top lip using both his index fingers.
‘Ugh! That’s disgusting. I can see blue veins under there. And when was the last time you saw the dentist?’
‘Stop trying to throw me off the scent.’
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do – like collect crabs?’
‘You’re the main focus of my attention at this moment in time. Roll it back . . . Would a pencil help?’
‘There’s something seriously wrong with you.’ She pulled her lip up.
‘Just as I thought.’
‘What?’
‘It’s the same as mine.’
‘I doubt that very much. Mine probably looks more feminine, soft and inviting.’
They were sitting in The Old Star on High Road in Wormley waiting for their food to arrive. Parish had ordered the Philly steak, Richards the grilled chicken salad.
‘So, what now, Richards?’
‘I usually ask you that.’
‘I know. Well?’
‘I’m not in training anymore, you know. I’m a fully-qualified detective.’
‘If that’s the case, then you’ll have no trouble in telling me what we should be doing next, will you?’
She took a swallow of her iced water, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and brushed away a stray strand of hair from her forehead.
‘Stop dilly-dallying.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I think we should contact CEOPs and ask them if they know anything about the three-link chain tattoo.’
‘And after that?’
‘It depends on what they say.’
‘What do you think they’re going to say?’
‘Well, I don’t know until we hear what they’ve got to say.’
‘Let’s say that they say they don’t know anything about a three-link chain tattoo. What would you say then?’
‘I’d say . . . Oh, here’s lunch.’
A waiter wearing trousers like a second skin put their food down in front of them. ‘Any condiments?’
‘No, we’re fine thanks.’
‘Enjoy.’
‘You were saying?’
‘I’m eating now.’
‘Tell me what we’ve got?’
‘You’ve got the Philly . . .’
‘On the case?’
‘Oh! Well, we’ve got a dead ten year-old boy called Adam Weeks. He was abducted on Friday evening and found this morning. During that time, he was restrained and sexually assaulted by more than one man . . . Paedophiles! We could round up all the paedophiles and torture them?’
‘Interview them, you mean?’
‘A slip of the tongue.’
‘Keep going.’
‘We should find out if any other children have gone missing in similar circumstances?’
‘Good.’
‘Do you think it could be related to his mother’s gang rape?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘We should obtain the original file and include it as a thread of our investigation?’
‘Right.’
‘It’ll be difficult after all this time.’
‘When you applied to be a detective, did it say “Easy Job” on the application form?’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘You recall well enough. What about the tattoo?’
‘I’ll call CEOPs now, shall I?’
‘You do that.’
He focused on his steak sandwich while she spoke to someone called Mitchum.
‘No,’ she said once she ended the call. ‘They have no records of a three-link chain tattoo relating to paedophiles, or anything else for that matter.’
‘So, where do we go from here with the tattoo?’
She picked at her salad. ‘I’ll call Missing Persons while I have my phone out, shall I?’
‘It’ll give you time to think.’
She called Missing Persons and then said, ‘They’ll put copies of the reports on your desk this afternoon.’
‘Okay. Now let’s get back to the tattoo.’
‘How’s your Philly steak?’
‘Very nice. Well?’
‘Mmmm! It’s certainly an interesting question.’
‘It is. Who gave him that tattoo? Where? When? How?’
‘Maybe we could ask a tattoo artist – they seem to know a lot about tattoos?’
‘At last! Do you think there’s a tattoo artist nearby?’
‘You’re being sarcastic now, aren’t you?’
‘That’s a heinous accusation against a senior officer.’
‘Here’s one,’ she said tapping the screen on her phone. ‘What about Ink Criminal in Hoddesdon?’
‘Ink Criminal?’
‘It’s just a name.’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. We could park my mud-splattered new car at the station and walk to the place. Afterwards, we can go back to the station to look at the Missing Person reports and see if Toadstone has found anything useful for us.’
‘Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?’
‘No. What about you?’
‘Maybe a little one.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘I’m your father – I forbid it.’
She laughed. ‘As if!’
***
Linus Frost’s flat at 17 Mulberry Way in South Woodford was o
n the third floor of a five-storey block of flats with concrete balconies, a flat roof and washing hanging out to dry as if it was the middle of summer.
He parked behind a white van in the car park at the front of the flats, so that his car couldn’t be seen from the main road. Before he went up to Frost’s flat he decided to send Bronwyn an email with the photographs of the two men who had been following him together with the registration number of the Mercedes 4x4 and ask her to see what she could find out about the men and/or the SUV.
As he was about to get out of his Volvo he saw the Mercedes crawling along the main road. The two men were obviously searching for his car, but he also realised that they must have known where he was going, or a tracker device had been fitted to his car.
There were a number of things he could have done such as stayed in the car and waited for them to leave, gone about his business and ignored them, or driven back to the office and come back another time to search Frost’s flat. In the end, he decided that he had no choice but deal with the two men here and now. Who the hell were they?
He approached the Mercedes at an angle that kept him out of sight of the wing mirrors. The driver’s window was open and the man had his elbow hanging out.
Kowalski took one last stride and gripped the man’s bent elbow with his left hand. Not too hard to make him cry out in pain, but hard enough to demonstrate he meant business.
The man tried to pull his elbow back inside the vehicle, but Kowalski held on tight.
‘What the fuck!?’
He smiled, but his eyes were as cold as a Siberian winter. ‘You beat me to it. I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘We’re minding our own business.’
‘I wish you were, but as you followed me all the way from Chigwell I’d say you were minding my business as well. Let’s see some ID.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ the passenger said, and began sliding his hand into the inside of his coat.
Kowalski dug his fingers into the soft flesh surrounding the driver’s elbow, pressed down hard on the ulna nerve and yanked the man towards him.
The man yelled.
At the same time, he thrust his right hand inside the man’s coat and it closed around the grip of a handgun.
He slid the pistol out of the man’s coat, eased the safety catch off and jammed the muzzle under his jaw.
