by Tim Ellis
‘I don’t need . . .’
‘That’s an order not a request, Hensby.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Richards and I have each other to talk to, you have no one.’
She nodded.
‘Take her inside and watch her, Richards.’
He wandered into the building, climbed the stairs and exited onto the roof. There was nothing suspicious that he could see. At the roof edge he looked over at what used to be his new second-hand Mazda 3 and felt dizzy – he wasn’t very good with heights. It also reminded him of the terrible feelings of loss he’d felt when he thought that his son Jack had been thrown from the roof of King George Hospital, and the knowledge that Zara Roche was still out there waiting for a final confrontation.
The pool car arrived.
After phoning the Operations Officer and explaining what had happened, he made his way down to ground level. He took the pool car driver to one side and asked him to drive Maddie’s car and deliver her safely to the station.
‘No problem, Inspector.’
Once Maddie and the driver had driven off he said, ‘Is this the best you could do, Richards?’
‘It was the only one they had left apparently.’
‘Apparently! Don’t you believe them?’
‘We have history with pool cars, Sir.’
‘We? My record is unblemished. Yours, however . . . In fact, I’m actually surprised they’ve given you this.’
They looked at the rusting dark red 1985 Skoda 120L with misgivings about whether it would start, get them to where they wanted to go and if it did – get them back again.
‘So am I. But they did say we could keep it until yours has been repaired.’
‘Repaired!’ They turned to look at the Mazda. ‘You think they can repair that?’
‘I don’t know. I hear they can work miracles these days.’
‘Talking of which – I’d better phone someone at the insurance company and have them organise a breakdown truck to come and take it away.’
They climbed into the Skoda, and while Richards drove them to Cheshunt Police Station, he phoned the insurance company and arranged the Mazda’s removal.
‘What did they say?’
‘They’ll contact me in a couple of days to give me a prognosis, but they weren’t very optimistic.’
‘Maybe you and Miranda just weren’t meant to be.’
‘Maybe.’
The Skoda got them to the police station at Cheshunt in one piece. It was a reasonably straight run down the B176 and took them twenty minutes.
‘Usually . . .’ Richards said, as she locked the Skoda with the key because it didn’t have central locking, ‘. . . we say that a person who commits suicide had everything to live for, but Janice Weeks didn’t have anything to live for, did she?’
‘No. Her life seemed to be her son. Once he was gone, her life was effectively over.’
‘It’s very sad.’
‘It is. But we don’t allow ourselves to think sad thoughts, do we, Richards?’
‘No.’
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘NO.’
‘That’s better. We have to lock those thoughts away in a triple-locked box, inside a fire-resistant safe, put it into a vault in the darkest corner of our minds and destroy the combination so that they can never escape.’
‘I know, you’ve told me that many times before.’
‘It’s good to keep reminding you. What would happen if those thoughts ever escaped from that box?’
‘All the evils of the world would destroy me.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But there’s always hope, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, Richards. There’s always hope.’
‘What about the questions about the tattoo and the gang rape we were going to ask her?’
‘Well, we won’t be able to now, will we?’
‘No, I don’t suppose we will.’
Cheshunt Police Station on Turners Hill was a 1960s flat-roof grubby monstrosity that should have been demolished years ago. On the side wall, an enlightened individual had daubed OINK in white spray paint.
‘Oink,’ Richards said.
‘That’s not too bad, but you have to deepen your voice a bit more and snuffle for truffles in the undergrowth.’
‘I’ll keep practising.’
‘You do that.’
‘Sergeant Simpson, please,’ Richards said to the support officer at the front desk.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Yes. DC Mary Richards.’
‘Take a seat. I’ll try and find him.’
He picked up the phone, dialled a number and said, ‘She’s here.’
‘Uh oh!’ Parish said.
‘What?’
‘I think they’re expecting you.’
‘I know. I told Sergeant Simpson . . .’
Just then, a door opened, a dozen people in party hats began dancing through it doing the cha-cha and singing:
La, la, la
La, la, la
La, la, la
Do the cha, cha, cha.
Oh baby
You drive me crazy
Ain’t it hazy
Do the cha, cha, cha.
The first person grabbed Richards and she squealed. The last person told Parish to hold onto the back and join in. They danced back through the door, up the stairs and into the squad room.
Do the cha, cha, cha
Yeah!
People stopped singing and instead everybody clapped, cheered and laughed.
‘Constable Mary Richards,’ an old man with grey hair, a paunch and piggy eyes said. ‘Or should I call you, Detective Constable Richards now?’
Richards was glowing like the brightest sun in the galaxy.
‘We knew you before you were famous and – seeing as you’ve never been back here since you left to join the enemy at Hoddesdon – we just wanted to say “Good Luck and Congratulations”. Well done, Mary.’ He passed her a Cheshunt plaque with her name and the message engraved on it.
‘SPEECH!’ everyone shouted.
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘That’s the first time I’ve known her to have nothing to say,’ Parish said with a laugh.
Richards slapped him on the arm. ‘Thank you all. I was only here for such a short time . . .’
‘Which was far too long,’ some shouted.
There was laughter.
‘Well, we had a whip-round,’ the grey-haired old man said. ‘And we managed to buy in some coffee and a few chocolate bourbons, so tuck in.’
They spent twenty minutes in the squad room mingling, chatting, drinking coffee and eating chocolate bourbons. Eventually, they made their apologies, said their goodbyes and headed towards the exit.
Sergeant Simpson found them just before they left. ‘The Janice Weeks’ file . . . Well, it’s two boxes actually, are downstairs . Once you sign for them, they’re all yours.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
‘From what I remember, we put all our resources into that investigation, but it still remained unsolved.’
After signing for the boxes, they carried them to the Skoda and put them in the boot.
‘That was a bit of a surprise,’ Richards said, as they climbed into the car.
Parish pulled a face and nodded. ‘I’ll say! Anybody would think they actually liked you, but from what I recall they were glad to get rid of you. Said you were nothing but trouble, which has turned out to be very much the case. They offered me money to take you. It wasn’t a lot, just enough for a couple of beers and a bag of chips.’
Richards smiled. ‘You’re such a liar.’
‘Moi? If I’d known then what I know now.’
‘You’d have still snapped me up.’
‘Mmmm! That’s a tricky one.’
‘Where to?’ Richards said, turning on the engine. ‘It’s a bit late. Are we still going to see Billy Hunter’s parents?’
‘It’s lat
e for us, but I expect Mr and Mrs Hunter are inhabiting a place where all the clocks have stopped.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
Chapter Nine
She’d been sitting on a wall opposite AutoMove on Southwood Lane in Highgate waiting for the business to close at five o’clock as it said it would on their website, but it wasn’t closing. She’d seen half a dozen people go in, but they hadn’t come out. There’d been one light still on, but then it went off and a man wearing a flat cap and a donkey jacket with the collar turned up against the cold appeared at the main entrance. He keyed in a code that locked the glass and aluminium main door, lit up a pipe, took a few puffs that lit up his face and then left on foot. She wondered what had happened to the people she’d seen go in. Maybe they’d come out and she’d missed them. Maybe they’d left through another door. Or, maybe there was a nightshift who were locked in until the morning.
She gave it five minutes before she made her move, which allowed her time to hack into the server and disable the CCTV surveillance, the alarm system and the access control on the internal and external doors. Once she’d done that, she slipped the tablet back into her rucksack and stood up.
‘I hope you’re not thinking of doing what I think you’re thinking of doing?’ a voice said from behind her.
She jumped, turned and found Kowalski with a stupid grin on his face. ‘I wasn’t thinking of having a heart attack, but you just changed all that. What the fuck are you doing here, Kowalski?’
‘Sit.’
They sat next to each other on the wall.
There was enough light from a streetlamp about ten feet away, but the weather was bitterly cold.
‘I searched Linus Frost’s flat.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I found this.’ He removed the journal from his inside pocket, slid off the elastic bands, took it out of the plastic bag and passed it to her.
She turned the small book over in her hands, opened it and flicked through the pages. ‘Mmmm!’
‘That’s exactly what I thought.’
‘The numbers remind me of something.’
‘What?’
‘If I knew that we could both go home, watch some TV and get on with our lives.’
‘I’ve got a life. You, on the other hand, wouldn’t know a life if it jumped up and bit you on the arse.’
‘What I’ve got suits me just fine.’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I thought the numbers might be a code for something else – like letters, or bottles of beer. So, I thought I’d bring it here, because I know how much you like to unpick riddles.’
‘It’s certainly something I might be interested in.’ She took the plastic bag and elastic bands out of his hands, wrapped the journal up again and slipped it into her rucksack. ‘What about the key?’
He patted his jacket pocket.
‘So, let me get this right, you’ve brought the key and the journal with you – the two clues that will probably explain what the hell’s going on with Linus Frost’s disappearance?’
‘If it’s any consolation, I did think about going back to the office to lock the key in the safe, but then I decided it was less riskier just to come straight here. Also, I have this . . .’ He half-pulled the Glock-19 out of his inside pocket.
‘Are you fucking crazy? You used to be a law-abiding citizen – what the fuck has happened to you in a week, Kowalski?’
‘I got involved with you.’
‘Don’t blame me. I can’t even remember the last time I was in any kind of trouble.’
‘Do you want me to jog your memory?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary. So, why was it less riskier coming straight here?’
‘I’d lost those two men who were in the photograph I sent you, or at least I thought I had. And I didn’t want to give them the opportunity of picking up my trail again . . .’
‘You thought you had?’
‘A woman began talking to me at the train station, and then came and sat next to me on the train . . .’
‘So you had sex with her in the toilet and now she’s pregnant?’
He laughed. ‘Ah, those were the days. But no, she asked far too many questions for my liking, so I told her a pack of lies and then took a roundabout route to reach Highgate.’
‘I hope . . .’
‘Don’t worry. I’m no amateur when it comes to losing people who are following me.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, what’s going on here?’
‘You sounded just like a copper then.’
‘I’ve had some practice. Well?
‘Nothing that should interest you.’
‘I doubt that very much. It’d be better if you gave me prior warning now, so that when I do have to come in and rescue you I’ll have some idea about what I’m getting myself into.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘You keep saying that, but history dictates otherwise.’
‘I checked the records of Linus Frost.’
‘And?’
‘You were partially right. He did have records, but they were only for show. I decided that AutoMove was a front for something else.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know, but while I’ve been sitting here half a dozen people have gone inside, but not come back out again.’
‘If the place is locked up for the night, where did they go?’
‘That’s what I planned to find out before you arrived and crashed the party.’
‘I suppose I’d better chaperone you.’
‘Don’t do me any favours.’
They waited until there was no traffic and then made their way across the road to AutoMove.
***
The Hunters lived on Lowfield Lane in Hoddesdon, not far from the High Street along which the Muma Padurii Carnival had announced their arrival in the town. And it certainly wouldn’t have required any great stretch of the imagination to hypothesise that the noise, bright lights and fanfare associated with that arrival would have attracted a young boy of ten like a moth to a burning flame.
‘We should have known,’ Sally Hunter said. She was in her early thirties with natural blonde hair, a protruding right ear and enough freckles on her face to open up a sun-tanning business. ‘Here, you’ll understand when I show you his bedroom.’
They followed her up the stairs to Billy’s bedroom. On the door was a painted aluminium sign for Billy Smart’s Circus.
‘Some kids are mad on dinosaurs, others on football, insects or girls. Billy loved everything about the circus. He’d pestered us for weeks to take him, to let him see the carnival arriving, but we said no. It was all right for him, he had a week off for half-term, but we both still had to go to work this morning . . . As it was, neither of us went to work.’
‘Where do you work?’ Richards asked.
He usually left most of the questioning to Richards. Somehow, she seemed to know exactly what to say. She displayed a lot of empathy with the victims, which he guessed was because she’d once been a victim as a young girl herself when she’d lost her own father in a robbery gone wrong.
‘I work at the Spitalbrook Building Society. The manager is leaving, and I’m in line for his job. I have an interview on Thursday, and I was reading up on the new Financial Regulations. That’s why I couldn’t take him to see the carnival arriving. I said we’d take him next time . . .’ Tears rolled down her face. ‘Now there probably won’t be a next time, will there?’
Richards squeezed the woman’s arm. ‘We don’t know that, Sally. Everything possible is being done to find Billy. Don’t give up hope. As far as we’re concerned, Billy is still very much alive until we discover otherwise.’
They looked around Billy’s bedroom. It was full to bursting with circus and carnival memorabilia – a miscellany of posters were stuck on the walls; there were clown masks and hats; a lion tamer’s whip hanging on a hook; a trapeze with a ventriloquist’s dummy dangling from the ceiling;
old sepia photographs of the tattooed lady, the bearded woman, the three-legged snake charmer, the two-headed boy, the fejee mermaid with a monkey’s head and the body of a fish; and hundreds of other freaks, oddities and curiosities.
‘I see what you mean,’ Richards said, peering at the yellowing photographs above the bed.
Parish nodded. ‘I think we can safely say he would have crept out of the house against your wishes to watch the carnival arrive in town. That’s what boys do, isn’t it?’
Sally picked up a green and white juggler’s club and stared at it as if she’d never seen anything like it before. ‘Of course it is. As soon as I saw he wasn’t in his bed this morning – I knew. Gary knew as well. I remember the look of guilt that passed between us. We didn’t have enough time for our beautiful son . . . In a way, you could say we were complicit in his disappearance. All we had to do was take him a few hundred yards to the High Street for an hour to watch the carnival arrive and everything would have been fine. We’d have been caring and attentive parents. Instead, we turned our backs on him. We knew in our heart of hearts that he’d sneak out of the house, and we let him go. We let him go to . . .’ She burst out sobbing again. ‘I know he’s dead. He’s dead, isn’t he?’
Richards took her by the elbow and guided her towards the door. ‘Come on, Sally. Let’s go back downstairs.’
Sally took them into the kitchen and they sat round an oak table.
‘Do you want tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ Richards said. ‘Thank you. Are you sure you don’t want a Victim Support Officer to stay with you and Gary?’
‘No – we don’t want someone in our house reminding us all the time of what terrible parents we are.’
‘And where’s Gary now?’
‘He’s out searching for Billy. He phones every now and again to check Billy hasn’t come home, or you haven’t found Billy’s body, but he won’t come back until he’s either found Billy, or he’s so tired he can’t drive anymore. That’s the way he is. That’s why I married him.’
