by Greg Keen
‘Okay, so that means whoever took me there knew how to reconnect the supply, which means they had some expertise as far as electricity is concerned.’
‘Sounds as though they were quite sorted in general,’ Odeerie said. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Not much I can do until you crack the email encryption.’
‘If I can crack the email server,’ Odeerie reminded me. ‘You’re going into hospital the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re likely to be in for a while?’
‘Probably.’
Odeerie’s silence was freighted with meaning. What was the point in pursuing something that I wouldn’t be able to follow through?
‘Let me know as soon as if there’s any news on the email,’ I said.
‘No problem,’ Odeerie replied. ‘But to be honest, I wouldn’t hold your breath. What have you been doing this morning?’
‘Nothing important,’ I said.
I was about to make an omelette that I didn’t particularly fancy eating when the call came through. ‘Is that Kenny?’ a half-familiar voice enquired.
‘Speaking,’ I said.
‘It’s Davina Jackson. You came to see me at City Stretch . . .’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well, thanks. After our meeting I had a look to see if I could find the card that Emily sent when I was in hospital. I’m a bit of a hoarder when it comes to that kind of thing. And it was the last time that I had any contact with Em . . .’
‘Did you find it?’ I asked.
‘Actually, I did. It was in the loft with a load of photographs. I’m not sure if this is going to be much use to you – in fact I think it might just make things even more confusing. Anyway, you know I said that Emily wrote that she’d given the Dean Allison tapes to Humphrey?’
Excitement welled in my chest.
‘Well, I think I might have got it wrong. It looks more like Humpty.’
‘Humpty?’ I said.
‘That’s right. Emily’s handwriting wasn’t that clear but I’m ninety per cent sure that it’s Humpty and not Humphrey.’
‘Did you know anyone called Humpty?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s an even more unusual name than Humphrey, isn’t it?’
‘It is a bit,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry, Kenny, I probably shouldn’t have bothered you with it but you did seem to think that it was important.’
‘You did the right thing,’ I said. ‘And it could prove useful. I’ll check to see if there was anyone Emily knew who went by that name.’
Asking Pam Ridley if her daughter had known anyone called Humpty wasn’t something I fancied on an empty stomach. I opened the fridge to find there was a single egg left in the rack. I was putting my coat on to pop out to the Yip Hing when suddenly I was back in Emily’s room staring at the large cuddly toy on her shelf.
Thirty seconds later I was praying her mother would answer my call.
THIRTY-FOUR
The car gained ten yards. It had been a toss-up whether to take the Tube or a cab to Finchley. When we hit roadworks it became clear that I’d chosen poorly. I asked the driver if there was another route we could take. There wasn’t another route we could take. I called the Worldwide Aid head office for the ninth time in thirty minutes. On the other eight occasions I’d been routed to voicemail. Having already left two messages asking that someone return my call as a matter of urgency, I was preparing to leave a third when an actual human being answered. ‘Worldwide Aid Direct, Jeremy speaking, how can I help you?’
‘Could you give me the number for your Finchley shop?’
‘May I ask what it’s in connection with?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Someone donated several items recently on behalf of a woman called Pam Ridley. One of them was an egg-shaped cuddly toy. I need to get it back as soon as possible.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ Jeremy said. ‘The signal broke up.’
The car advanced another ten yards.
‘What’s the number of your Finchley shop?’ I almost screamed at him.
‘May I ask what it’s in connection with?’
I took a deep breath and repeated the bit Jeremy had missed, adding that the item was of huge sentimental value.
‘I’m afraid we don’t return items once they’ve been donated,’ he said.
‘I’ll buy it,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ll pay ten times the price you’ve got on it. All I want to know is whether it’s still in the fucking shop.’
The driver changed lane and we picked up speed.
‘Worldwide Aid has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to foul and abusive language,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’m putting the phone down.’
‘Please don’t do that! I’m sorry about the swearing. It’s just that the toy used to belong to someone who’s deceased and it’ll break her mother’s heart if we can’t get it back. All I need is the number of your Finchley shop.’
Jeremy sighed. ‘Hold a moment, please . . .’
While I was listening to a message that explained Worldwide Aid’s mission to irrigate the poorest parts of the planet, the car stopped abruptly. ‘Sorry, mate,’ the driver said. ‘Might clear up a bit after the next roundabout.’
We gained another ten yards. Jeremy came back on the line.
‘Okay, this is the Finchley number,’ he said. ‘Although you might be unlucky, I’m afraid, as all our UK shops shut at two o’clock today.’
I wrote the number on the back of my hand. My watch read 2.05 p.m. The number rang for about twenty seconds before the bastard message kicked in.
‘This is the Finchley branch of Worldwide Aid Direct,’ a female voice intoned. ‘I’m afraid no one is available to take your call at the moment. Items can be donated directly to the shop and we offer a collect service for larger items such as household or garden furniture. For legal reasons we are no longer able to accept electrical items such as washing machines, televisions, hair dryers, refrigerators, radios or cookers. If you want to leave a message, please do so after the beep.’
No beep. I called the number and suffered the message again. This time there was a beep. ‘Please pick up if there’s anyone there,’ I said. No one picked up. ‘My name is Kenny Gabriel, there’s something in the shop that was donated in error and I need to get it back urgently. If you get this message in the next few minutes then could you please return my call?’ I left my number and rang off.
The car gained ten yards.
We pulled up outside the shop at 2.28 p.m. The chances of it being open half an hour after it was due to close were next to zero. If the Humpty Dumpty toy was in the window then I could call Jeremy and ask if someone could let me into the shop, or put a brick through it and snatch the toy. The latter option was the favourite, apart from there being no sign of the thing. I put my face to the grimy glass and peered into the gloomy interior.
There was a dining room table with a balsa-wood toucan perched on top in the centre of the room. To its left were two armchairs upholstered in lime-green cloth and to its right several racks of unmatched pots, pans and plates. Also present were two shelves of paperback books, what had to be at least a hundred DVDs, and five racks of assorted clothing. Contrary to its position on accepting electrical goods, there was an old upright vacuum cleaner. Absolutely no sign of a large egg-shaped toy.
A door opened at the end of the room. Through it walked a woman in her sixties wearing an anorak and a green bobble hat. I banged on the window and she started. I pointed to the door. The woman walked towards it in what seemed like slow motion. She flipped the latch and opened it cautiously.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Someonedonatedaneggtoyacoupleofdaysago,’ I said. ‘Haveyoustillgotit?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
I repeated the sentence, leaving gaps between the words. Recognition dawned on the woman’s face. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘A couple bought i
t for their boy. The little chap saw it in the window as I was closing up.’
‘What couple?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Who were they?’
The woman frowned. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Which way did they go?’
‘Oliphant Road car park,’ she said. ‘They were complaining about the council putting up the charges.’
‘Where’s Oliphant Road?’
The woman pointed to my right. ‘Just after you pass the garden centre,’ she said. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’
I was already running.
By the time I reached Corrigan’s Home & Garden, my heart felt as though it was attempting to batter its way out of my chest and my head was pulsating with pain. Chances were the family who had bought Humpty were already halfway home. The last thing I’d see before suffering a seizure was a sign offering Supastrength Weedex at £9.99.
A guy carrying a sack of potting soil asked if I was feeling okay. Between pants I assured him I was and asked how far down Oliphant Road the municipal car park was. He pursed his lips and decided about half a mile. I felt disappointed and relieved in equal measure. Given they had a fifteen-minute head start, my chances were zero that I’d be able to catch Humpty’s new owners. The best thing I could do was return to the shop and ask the woman for a description of the family.
And then Humpty went past in a Nissan Pulsar.
Specifically, he was in the back seat wrapped in the embrace of a kid who looked as though he’d met his soulmate in corduroy form. The car stopped at the traffic lights. I took as deep a gulp of oxygen as my lungs would permit and began running again, to the amazement of the Samaritan gardener. I was almost within touching distance of the Nissan when the lights turned green and it began to move off.
The kid noticed me out of the back window. I’ve no idea what he said to his father, although I’d imagine it was along the lines of Daddy there’s a funny man running behind us waving his arms around. The car pulled to a halt at the side of the road. A tall guy in black jeans and a denim shirt got out of the driver’s side. I approached him like a shipwrecked sailor staggering on to a deserted beach.
‘Were you following us?’ he asked.
All I could manage was a brief nod.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Although broad and athletic, the man had the unsettled look that people tend to get in the presence of the deranged.
‘The . . . doll,’ I managed to say. ‘Need . . . Humpty . . .’
He looked at the back of the car. ‘Robbie’s toy?’
I nodded.
‘I . . . just want . . . to examine it.’
Robbie’s dad looked through the rear window and back to me. His partner was craning around in the passenger seat, looking equally perplexed. For a moment I thought that he was about to get into the car and start the engine. Instead he opened the back door and addressed his son. ‘Robbie, could I borrow Noggy a moment?’
Reluctantly the kid handed the rechristened Humpty over.
‘What’s all this about?’ his father asked me.
‘Something . . . inside. Won’t take . . . more than . . . a . . . minute.’
The man handed me the toy. It was in good condition, largely as it had sat undisturbed in Emily Ridley’s bedroom for over twenty years. Inside was something that had remained secret for the same amount of time. Or maybe it wasn’t.
I felt the oval toy for any bulges and found none. The zip running around Humpty’s midriff refused to budge. I tried to force it and the kid began to cry.
‘He’s hurting Noggy, Daddy. He’s hurting Noggy.’
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ the man asked.
‘I’ll give . . . it back . . . in a bit,’ I said.
‘You’ll bloody well give it back now!’
He grabbed one end of Humpty and I held on to the other. As we both pulled, the toy elongated to the point that it was no longer obese but severely anorexic. The kid began to wail. His father released his left hand, took a swipe at me and narrowly missed. He would probably have repeated the action were it not for a tearing sound and a ragged five-inch gash appearing around the toy’s circumference.
The guy lost his hold and careered backwards into the car. I plunged a hand into Humpty’s guts. By now the kid had been shocked into dumbfounded silence.
‘Right, you asked for this, mate,’ his father said.
He balled and raised his fist at around the same time my hand encountered something hard. Out of Humpty came a polythene bag.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the bloke said, lowering his hand.
THIRTY-FIVE
Odeerie made several calls before he could locate a contact who had equipment capable of playing both the cassettes I’d found in Humpty’s guts. While waiting for a Handycam and a Dictaphone to be biked round, we handled the tapes like a pair of archaeologists poring over ancient artefacts.
‘They look okay,’ I said. ‘And they can always be re-spooled if necessary, can’t they?’ The fat man dunked a digestive into a mug the size of a small Jacuzzi and pursed his lips.
‘Depends whether they’ve been near any strong magnetic fields. That could wipe the content or make it unwatchable. We’ll have to see . . .’
He dropped the soggy biscuit into his mouth and swallowed it after a cursory chew. I popped another couple of Nurofen and dispatched them with a gulp of water. The pain in my head had dissipated since the roadside drama, although the vision in my left eye was blurry around the edges again.
‘What did the kid’s old man do when you pulled these out?’ Odeerie asked.
‘Looked a bit taken aback,’ I said. ‘I told him the tapes were evidence in a cold case investigation and that I’d need them and the doll as evidence.’
‘Was he okay with that?’
‘He was when I told him that I was a plain-clothes Met officer and gave him twenty quid to buy his kid a new toy.’
Odeerie levered another biscuit free and offered me the packet. I shook my head. Along with the presence of blurry vision, my appetite had disappeared. More alarmingly, there was a buzz in my left ear that sounded as though a fly had become trapped inside it.
‘So you think it’s footage of Dean Allison and Emily having sex when she was underage?’ Odeerie asked.
I nodded. ‘It was Davina Jackson’s suggestion that Emily ask for a copy of the tape. If Dean showed it to Cas, then she could show it to the police.’
‘Which effectively made it a standoff?’
‘That Dean resolved by murdering her.’
Odeerie put aside what remained of the biscuits and brushed the crumbs that had collected on his chest to the floor.
‘Didn’t Dean leave the club while they were both alive?’ he asked. ‘And I thought he had an alibi . . .’
‘None of the evidence pointed to Dean being a suspect at the time, so his alibi probably wasn’t tested that rigorously. And don’t forget this didn’t become an official murder inquiry until a few days ago.’
‘D’you think he did it, Kenny?’ Odeerie asked.
I stared at Humpty propped up on the sofa. Quite a bit of his stuffing had been left on the road, causing him to sag as though he was a victim of a pernicious wasting disease. The crooked grin was still in place, though, even if it did resemble a smirk.
‘I think he’s capable of it,’ I said.
‘Not what I asked,’ Odeerie said. ‘And what about the business in the abattoir? If Dean’s our man, what the hell was that all about?’
‘I don’t have a clue,’ I admitted. ‘But we’re assuming Castor’s disappearance is connected to Emily’s murder. It doesn’t necessarily follow that’s the case.’
‘You think Dean killed Em at the same time Castor took the Golden Road?’
‘If he took the Golden Road. Maybe Dean cooked up the slaughterhouse bullshit because he doesn’t want us to find Castor.’
‘Apart from he’s got a busted jaw and he can barely walk. Not to me
ntion he’s a total loner and would have needed accomplices to set the whole thing up. And the fact that we’re nowhere near finding Castor Greaves—’
The intercom interrupted Odeerie. He looked at the unit and then stared at me expectantly. I rolled my eyes and got out of my chair. ‘I have a package for a Mr Odeerie Charles,’ the messenger said. ‘Can someone sign for it, please?’
‘Be right down,’ I told him.
Odeerie’s hands may look like two bunches of sausages but he’s dexterous enough when it comes to anything digital. Within five minutes of removing the Handycam from its box, he had inserted the tape and connected the cables to the larger of the two monitors in the office. It would have been easier to play the audio cassette first, but we had opted to watch the video before listening to the tape. Hopefully . . .
Odeerie squinted at the control panel and prodded it with a fingertip. The monitor flooded with static. After twenty seconds my heart began to sink. It seemed that two decades had indeed degraded the tape. And then suddenly we were looking at a bed covered in a black duvet on which Dean Allison was lying naked.
His pale body was slim and his cock semi-erect. He stared directly at the camera for a few seconds, perhaps wondering if it was working properly. The loud bebop we could hear was presumably there to mask the sound of the mechanism.
Emily came into shot wearing a T-shirt and knickers. She removed both and Dean pulled her on to the bed. For the next fifteen minutes the pair had sex that would have been unremarkable had Dean not persistently engineered positions for the benefit of the camera. And the date showing in the bottom right of the screen.
According to Wikipedia, Emily Ridley had been born on the tenth of April 1977, which meant that she was two months short of her sixteenth birthday in the video. This, combined with the fact that Dean was clearly aware of the camera’s presence and Emily had no idea it was there, would have added up to a slam-dunk prosecution in court.
The tape made for very uncomfortable viewing, above and beyond its voyeuristic nature. I reached for the remote and switched the monitor off before the event reached its conclusion.
