by Tim Ellis
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good work, Toadstone. You’ve made an old man very happy.’
‘Then it was worth getting out of bed this morning.’
He wandered back downstairs to the squad room. Richards was sitting at her desk.
‘Well, what did the Duty Sergeant say?’ he said.
‘They haven’t found anything yet, but they’ve still got a dozen or more paedophiles to find and torture.’
‘Interview.’
‘Oops!’
‘And the people at Cheshunt?’
‘I used to work there, you know?’
‘Before I saved you?’
‘Before you saved me. Just imagine what my life would have been like if you hadn’t.’
‘Different, that’s for sure. You’d probably still be pounding the beat, I would never have met you or your mother, I wouldn’t have two children . . .’
‘Don’t you mean three?’
‘Of course. You make my life complete.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes . . . Well, except for Digby.’
‘You love that dog more than me.’
‘He’s a special dog.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘You can be a special dog, if you want to be. And then there’s the new car . . .’
‘Are you saying that I come after a mangy dog and a second-hand car in your affections?’
‘I’m not saying that at all. Let’s not forget your mother . . . And then there’s Kowalski, Toadstone . . . You’re way down the list.’
She threw a Post-it pad at him. ‘You’re a pig.’
He dodged the flying object and watched it skitter across the polished and buffed parquet floor.
‘I suspected as much.’
‘So, let’s get back to what we’re meant to be doing here,’ he said. ‘Have Cheshunt got the old Janice Weeks file?’
‘A Sergeant Don Simpson said he’ll dig it out.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Have they buried it?’
‘Probably under a mountain of unsolved cases.’
‘Did you know that our clear-up rate is one of the best in Essex?’
‘One of the best! Not the best?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was hoping you’d be able to enlighten me.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, I’m not competitive like you. I thought you’d be on top of things and . . .’
‘I’m not in the slightest bit competitive . . . Where are the figures?’
He passed her a thick file. ‘I’ve been too busy . . .’
‘And other people’s figures are in here as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where exactly are we on the list?’
‘Joint-fifth.’
‘Joint-fifth!’
‘Yes.’
‘Somebody must be cheating. Who are we joint-fifth with?’
‘Blake and Gilbert.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘It’s hardly a joking matter, is it?’
‘No, it is not. I’ll take a look in the file and find out who’s been providing the Chief Constable with false information and making their numbers up.’
‘You don’t need to. I’ll carry out an analysis when I get time . . .’
‘I want to.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I expect I’ll uncover an evil conspiracy that reaches all the way to the very heart of government. I’ll look at the numbers in bed – I have nothing else better to do in there.’
‘Okay.’
‘What did Paul say? Did he disappoint you again?’
‘Strangely enough – no.’
‘No?’
‘Even you’re surprised, aren’t you?’
‘I am. Maybe he’s the reason we’re . . . ?’
‘His people found a button . . .’ He told her about the Order of Chaeronea, the Grand Lodge in Ware and the chain symbolising the secrecy of the society.
‘I thought we weren’t meant to mention the chain?’
‘No, that was the tattoo.’
‘The chain keeps coming up though, doesn’t it?’
‘It does.’
‘It can’t be a coincidence, can it?’
‘I wouldn’t imagine so.’
‘Do you think the murder has anything to do with this secret society?’
‘Maybe the reason that we’re not the best two detectives in Essex is that I’m not clairvoyant.’
‘That could be it. I wish Doc Riley would hurry up with her post-mortem. Do you think . . . ?’
He stood up and began putting on his coat. ‘I think we should go and talk to Janice Weeks again.’
‘Yes. I suppose we should.’
‘Then, we’ll say hello to your old cronies at Cheshunt, collect the file from Sergeant Simpson and pay Billy Hunter’s parents a visit.’
‘Am I driving?’
‘Do you think Miranda likes you driving her around?’
‘I think you’re crazy.’
Chapter Eight
‘What else could it be if it’s not a route on a map?’ Xena said.
Stick had come back with a handful of local maps and the fax of the squiggly line from the back of the corpse sent to them by Doc Paine. They’d spent half an hour trying to fit the line on the maps without any success.
‘Part of a maze?’
‘Be serious.’
‘I thought I was.’
Xena pulled a face. ‘Keep going.’
‘Don’t you have any ideas?’
‘You need the practice.’
‘I forgot. Maybe we just haven’t got the right map?’
‘We? You got the maps.’
‘That’s all the local maps there were.’
‘So, what else?’
‘Maybe it isn’t a local map at all?’
‘If it’s a map, it’s a local one – trust me.’
‘Okay. Maybe we should think while we’re doing other work?’
‘You’re probably right. Are you sure you can think about two things at once? I mean, men aren’t renowned for multitasking.’
‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘I suppose that’s the best there is with you.’
They listened to the recording of the anonymous call:
“Police,’ the female officer at Central Despatch said. What seems to be the problem, Sir?’
“There’s a dead body at 167 Hamlet Hill in Roydon Hamlet.” It was a man’s voice, but it sounded far away.
“How . . .”
There was a click as the call ended.
‘Short and sweet,’ Stick said.
‘Very helpful. What do forensics say about it?’
‘They say it’s a man’s voice . . .’
‘I didn’t expect much more from them.’
‘. . . And that the call probably came from the landline phone inside the house.’
‘Probably?’
‘The person wasn’t on the phone long enough for a trace, but they’re seventy-nine percent sure.’
‘Seventy-nine percent? I’d like to know how they came up with that figure.’
‘Do you want me to ask them?’
‘No, but I’d like you to ring Hefferbitch . . .’
‘I’m not putting it on loudspeaker.’
‘I’ll call her myself then.’
‘Okay, I’ll go to the toilet while you do that.’
‘You will not.’
‘I will. I need a number one.’
Xena stared at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you having an affair with that bitch?’
‘No, but it upsets me when you two fall out.’
‘Upsets you? Makes you want to cry, you mean?’
‘If you like. I never told you about my parents, did I?’
‘You said that they died in a car crash.’
‘Yes, but before that when I was a child.’
&nbs
p; ‘And?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, they were good parents . . .’
‘But?’
‘They had terrible arguments.’
‘About what?’
‘I think my father went with other women.’
‘And they argued?’
‘Yes. But not just that. My father used to hit my mother as well.’
‘And where were you when all this was going on?’
‘Under my bed with my hands over my ears crying.’
‘And when Hefferbitch and I argue it takes you back to the dark days of your childhood?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a load of garbage. I feel like puking in an eggcup. Ring Hefferbitch and ask her if she checked the house phone for fingerprints and DNA.’
‘No loudspeaker?’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to her anyway.’
Stick called Di Heffernan. ‘Hi Di . . . No, you’re not . . . I understand . . .’
‘WHAT’S THE BITCH FUCKING SAYING ABOUT ME?’
Stick put his finger over the mouthpiece. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Yes, I do fucking mind.’
He spoke into the phone again. ‘Did you check the internal phone for fingerprints and DNA? . . . Because we think the anonymous call was made by the killer from that phone . . . Great . . . You’ll let us know? . . . Thanks, Di.’
‘What was the bitch saying about me?’
‘Much the same as you say about her, but that’s not why I called her, is it?’
‘Go on?’
‘They dusted it for fingerprints, but didn’t find any.’
‘And DNA?’
‘No swabs taken, but she’ll make sure that it’s now done.’
‘I’d say it was pretty piss-poor when we have to tell her how to do her job.’
‘Have you thought about relationship counselling?’
‘No, but I’ve thought about swapping you for a saddleback pig.’
‘To eat?’
‘That was my original idea, but I’m now thinking it’d probably make a better partner as well.’
‘It wouldn’t smell so good though.’
‘Neither do you.’
‘Ah! That was more than likely the garlic bread I had last night. Jenifer made lasagne and . . .’
‘Have you had any more thoughts on that squiggly line yet?’
‘I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘I thought so. A man’s brain can only undertake one task at any one time.’
‘I just had a thought though?’
‘Hallelujah!’
‘What if it’s all connected?’
‘Everything in the universe, you mean?’
Stick smiled. ‘The body painting of the clown, the shaved head, the prosthetic eye, the hidden message . . .’
‘You’re a fucking genius, Stickamundo.’
‘I am?’
‘You are. Phone Doc Paine-in-the-arse again and tell her we want the eyeball serial number now.’
Stick called the pathologist. ‘Hi, Doc . . . I know, but DI Blake . . . I’m really sorry. I know she can sometimes be . . .’
‘STOP FUCKING APOLOGISING FOR ME!’
‘. . . Anyway, is it possible you could give us the eyeball serial number? . . . We just knew . . . Really?’ He found a pen and began writing numbers on a piece of paper. ‘Thanks, Doc.’ He ended the call.
‘In future, never apologise for me.’
‘I thought . . .’
‘Don’t tell lies – you never think.’
‘You said I was a genius?’
‘I say a lot of things I don’t mean. Well, what did she say?’
‘There was no serial number on the ocular prosthesis . . .’
‘Oh!’
‘But there was a number that had been engraved by someone who knew what they were doing on the inside of the acrylic eye.’
‘And?’
‘Do you want me to read the number out?’
‘Feel free.’
‘It’s a long number: 518734570547962.’
Xena’s brow furrowed. ‘How does that relate to the squiggly line?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Just when I thought I could see a sliver of light.’
‘Isn’t it time for the press briefing?’
She glanced at the clock on the wall – it was ten to five. ‘Yes, I’d better go to the toilet and make myself beautiful.’
Stick cleared his throat.
‘Is there something you’d like to say?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Good job as well. Take that number up to forensics, find someone who has a few more brain cells than you and tell them to find out what it relates to.’
‘What if they can’t?’
‘Is “can’t” even a word?’
‘I guess not.’
‘You guess right.’ She stood up and made her way to the door.
‘Do you think the number has anything to do with a map?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Shall I see you in here after the press briefing?’
‘No, I’ll be going home.’
‘What about the security DVDs from the four train stations?’
‘All right you stay here and look through those.’
Stick grinned. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for, do I?’
‘No, numpty. Not until we get the photograph of the dead woman from Doc Paine.’
‘Of course.’
‘If you had a brain it’d be lonely.’
‘Very kind.’
She looked over the sea of faces. They carried on chattering as if she hadn’t just come into the room. She’d made an effort as well – brushed her hair, checked between her teeth for any bits of food after lunch, rinsed her hands following a trip to the toilet and sprayed a few squirts of Ghost: Deep Night on her neck and wrists, which had cost her sixteen pounds on offer at the local bargain basement – a Christmas present to herself.
Eventually, the noise reduced to an acceptable level.
‘Early this morning we were called to a house in Roydon Hamlet . . .
***
Like some kind of pathetic criminal he’d stolen the poster from the notice board in the public waiting area of the station. Now, he was sitting looking at his swag as Richards drove to Janice Weeks’ house in Broxbourne.
‘It’s foreign,’ he said, reading the message on the poster:
THE
MUMA PADURII TRAVELLING CARNIVAL
IS COMING TO TOWN
ON SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7
FOR ONE WEEK ONLY
ARE YOU READY?
‘That sounds like fun. Should we go?’
‘We’ve got one dead child and another missing, and you want to go and have some fun at the circus?’
‘Carnival.’
‘They’re the same thing.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I wasn’t meaning we should go for fun.’
‘That’s what you said.’
‘No, no! You misunderstood me. I said it sounded like fun, but I think we should go there to question the people.’
‘Not torture them?’
‘Maybe that would produce quicker results.’
‘You’re familiar with the United Nations Convention against Torture?’
‘Vaguely, but I wasn’t sure if it applied to everybody under all circumstances – aren’t there exceptions?’
‘No exceptions.’
‘Maybe there should be.’
‘Maybe you ought to write to the UN Secretary General asking him to make a few changes to the Convention and explaining your reasons why.’
‘Maybe I will.’
They arrived at 44 Slipe Road and Richards parked the car in the same space as earlier against the building wall.
‘You think it’ll be safe here?’ he said.
‘It was this morning.’
‘That was before the criminals slithered
out of bed.’
‘I’m sure any self-respecting criminal would give your cheap second-hand Mazda a wide berth.’
‘Miranda has feelings, you know.’
‘Of course she does.’
As they made their way to the ground-floor flat there was a deafening thud behind them, followed by a cacophony of sounds which included breaking glass, a car alarm and two airbags activating.
They turned.
Janice Weeks was lying on the buckled roof of Parish’s new second-hand Mazda 3 half-naked and bloody.
‘Jesus,’ Parish said. ‘Quick, call for an ambulance.’ He ran back to his car and checked the pulse in the woman’s neck, but he knew it was useless – her eyes were wide open and staring.
The Victim Support Officer – Maddie Hensby – came running out of the building. ‘Oh God! I had to go to the toilet. I was only gone for a minute at the most. I thought she was still in her bedroom. Oh God!’
Parish put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s not your fault, Maddie. She’d made up her mind to take her own life and would have found a way to do it whatever you did.’
People began to gather round – strangers from the street, residents from the block of flats, a group of children on BMX bikes, the press . . .
‘Go inside and bring a sheet to cover Janice up,’ he said to Maddie.
When the VSO returned they opened up the sheet and draped it over the broken and twisted body.
‘Okay, people,’ he said to the gathering crowd. ‘Move off now, there’s nothing more to see.’
Soon, the onlookers began drifting away.
The ambulance arrived and took Janice Weeks away.
‘Look at your car, Sir,’ Richards said.
‘As you quite rightly pointed out – it was only a second-hand Mazda. It can be replaced. Wait here, I’m going onto the roof to confirm what happened. At some point, there’ll be a Coroners’ inquest into Janice Weeks’ death and we’ll be called as witnesses. I want to make sure it is what we think it is – a suicide. In fact, while I’m doing that, you can organise a pool car to be brought to us so that we’re not stuck here.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
He looked at Maddie. ‘What about you? Do you need to go to the hospital?’
‘No, I’m all right, Sir.’
‘When the driver brings the pool car, you can take him back to Hoddesdon. That way, you’ll have some company during the journey. When you get back to the station, I want you to write your report while the events are still fresh in your mind, and I’ll contact the station counsellor to organise an appointment for this evening . . .’
