by Karen Long
Eleanor rewarded her with a smile. “So you have a son or daughter either living with you or nearby. “I have two daughters and they live over by the school,” she replied happily.
“No sons?” said Eleanor smiling.
“Three grandsons!” she chirped.
“I only say that because I used to work at the ROM and there was a lovely guy there called Toby Adams. I wondered if he might have been your son.”
Mrs Adams shook her head and smiled. “No, I’m sorry I don’t know him.”
“Now tell me I’m being nosy but Adams isn’t a Portuguese name is it?”
Mrs Adams laughed heartily. “My husband’s family were from England to begin with.”
“Ah,” laughed Eleanor. “That would explain it. You have been extremely helpful Mrs Adams,” she said, as she quickly ticked a couple of boxes. “Have a good day now.”
“I want to see this guy.”
“You can’t,” said Mo. “Give me something so I can bring him in.”
“He lied about where he lived,” she replied.
“You lied about who you were to the resident too, I’m guessing.”
Eleanor sighed. “Get Whitefoot to interview him again.”
Mo was frustrated. “I can’t before I’ve sent a patrol officer to check out the address and for that I need grounds for suspicion.”
“Then do it!” snapped Eleanor. “I’m sorry I –”
“Don’t! I should be finding ways to help you, not putting up more barriers…” his voice trailed off. “You’re sure this guy took Tommy? It’s a gut instinct?”
She wasn’t sure how to talk to Mo about these matters. She’d hoped he’d understood over the years, accepted why she could get into the minds of the dangerous and the insane. “Mo, it’s not a gut instinct, a hedged bet or a psychological evaluation… It’s because I look into the mirror.”
There was a pause before Mo cleared his throat and asked quietly. “Is Tommy alive?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said carefully and disconnected.
Eleanor slumped back into the driver’s seat and closed her eyes. She debated calling Whitefoot but without a more considered approach and some degree of evidence what was she going to say? That a man she hadn’t met yet was the likely murderer and preserver of several women known and probably several yet to be unearthed and, in her opinion, the probable kidnapper of a seven-year-old boy. Eleanor tapped her hands against the steering wheel and for a brief moment an image of a car flashed into her mind. A classic car: an Oldsmobile Deluxe 88, just like the one her uncle used to treasure; and then she saw it clearly as she pulled in next to it in the ROM car park. She’d been told exactly what car Giselle’s new boyfriend had been driving by Chantelle; she just hadn’t listened. He drove an old car, Chantelle had said several times but what she’d meant was an Oldsmobile. What else had she missed? That his eyes had made Giselle feel sick. Steering the car through the late afternoon traffic she reached for the phone. “Susan?”
“Hey honey? What’s up?”
“I need help on a technical question.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Would exposure to arsenic in powder form affect the eyes?”
“Absolutely, it’s an irritant and usually doesn’t cross the dermal barrier but it does affect the eyes. They’d be red, crusted, maybe constantly watering. Probably would appear like a common bacterial infection such as conjunctivitis.”
“You’re a star!” said Eleanor.
“I am indeed.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t live at that address?” asked Laurence.
“Ellie checked it out and he doesn’t and never has lived there,” said Mo, as he scanned through the long list of names and addresses thrown up by the data search.
“Shit!” Laurence replied, climbing out of the car. “We’re just picking up the Parminder Kaur and Giselle boxes from forensics and will get back over to the museum as soon as we’ve dropped them off with evidence.”
“How long? Don’t let this guy go without talking to him again. Did he offer his address or just confirm it?” asked Mo, rechecking the museum listing again.
Laurence glanced at Smith’s back as he disappeared into the atrium of the Forensics building. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“Huh?” said Mo on the other line. “If he lied to your face there’s a reason. I’m not going to have time to send down patrol, so you’re going to have to bluff.”
“Okay. Find out where he actually lives and I’ll get back before he clocks off,” replied Laurence sprinting up the steps to the building.
“It’s five now!” snapped Mo.
“I’ll be there!”
Timms opened the fridge door and looked at the empty shelves glumly. “Where’s the food and where’s Raven?” he asked.
“Gone,” answered Mo distractedly, as he hovered over a pile of print-outs, marker pen poised.
“Why and what the fuck’s going on?” asked Timms, slamming the door.
Mo looked up. “She was deemed unfit for work.”
“By who?” snarled Timms. “You implying that there’s a fitness standard that has to be adhered to, to work here?”
“Not if you’re the poster boy for recruitment,” quipped Wadesky, stacking three polystyrene containers on the table. Timms grabbed a box and tucked in, pushing one over to Mo. “We got you a salad,” he said meaningfully, raising both eyebrows. “So explain to me and my overworked partner here, why the only thinking member of this squad is on sick leave?”
“You are shitting me!” said Wadesky, letting her mouth drop.
Mo shook his head and sighed. “Samuelson considered her unfit for work.”
“The fuck he has! What happened? Was it that asshole Whitefoot?” Timms put up a hand. “Don’t bother! So you running her case now?”
“I’m helping,” replied Mo. “You got news on Tommy Banks?”
“Christ there’s nothing! No one saw shit. There’s no evidence and we’ve ruled out every possible lead. It’s like he vanished.” Timms clicked his fingers together, magician style.
Mo looked up. “You’ve got nothing huh?”
Timms looked at him suspiciously. “Where are we going with this?”
“Give Raven’s idea a go.”
Timms shook his head slowly. “There is no idea! You’ve pulled in one guy who fucks squirrels and unless Whitefoot’s uncovered some new evidence since yesterday, that’s all you’ve got him on. You don’t even have any proof that he’s been peddling museum shit either!” Timms arranged a mouthful, in much the same way as he would a Tower of Hanoi. Mo watched him with a sour expression as he chewed.
“Tommy was at the museum on the day he vanished, wasn’t he.”
Timms growled. “For fuck’s sake! Who do I go interview?”
“Toby Adams,” said Mo carefully.
“And who the fuck is he?” snapped Timms, pushing his half eaten tray away.
“He shares the same office as Enda Miller, the squirrel guy.” Mo ploughed on, despite Timms leaning back in the chair, his arms crossed. “He fits Doc Delaware’s profile and he gave Whitefoot and Smith a false address.” Mo let this sink in before resuming his argument.
Timms knotted his brow. “Go on…”
“He was asked to confirm the address provided by the museum and he did. But when it was checked out…”
“… By Raven I’m assuming,” Timms interrupted.
Mo nodded. “It was the long-term abode of a Mrs Adams and her husband. They were neither related to nor knew a Toby Adams.”
Timms glanced at Wadesky. “What you thinking?”
“Museum curator’s not the right job to be giving false details,” she replied.
Timms nodded. “So Whitefoot’s bringing him in?”
Mo shook his head. “They’re over at forensics on a box drop.” He was almost there. “Tommy Banks went to the museum on the morning of his disappearance didn’t he, for his Saturday class?”
> Timms checked the clock. “You send me what you’ve got, ok?”
Mo made sure it was an inward smile, as he watched Timms and Wadesky leave.
Laurence was about to blow. He’d collected the boxes, signed for them and was now waiting in evidence while Smith negotiated a location for them and caught up with the hockey results from the uniform on duty. Slamming the boxes onto a shelf he quickly checked off the contents on the four boxes and signed off on them. “I’m going now!” he announced and stormed out. If Smith wanted to stay then fuck him! He’d made it to the bottom of the stairs, pleased to hear Smith’s heavy trot behind him when he stopped dead.
“I thought we were in a goddamned rush,” snarled Smith.
Ignoring him, Laurence hurried back into evidence and pulled from the shelf the Parminder Kaur evidence box. Using his knife, he sliced through the tape and rummaged through the sealed bags until he found the one that contained the garrotte. Holding it up to the light he carefully studied the wire. “Fuck!”
“What you found?” asked Smith.
“I think I’ve seen this same wire in Toby Adams’ desk drawer.”
“He’s not responding to his pager I’m afraid,” said Isabel Drake anxiously.
“When is he due to clock off?” asked Wadesky.
“About now but he has a tendency to be elusive.”
“Elusive how?” asked Timms.
“Hard to locate, rarely answers a page and I suspect, though have no proof, that he is not always in the building when he should be.”
“Ok, this is the puzzle. When he was interviewed by Detective Whitefoot a couple of hours ago he confirmed that he lived at the address in Little Portugal that you have down on your records. He doesn’t.”
Isabel looked ashen. “He lied?”
“I’m guessing that’s what that means. Now, can you take a look at your files and give me his SIN number and the address where his monthly salary goes?” asked Timms firmly.
She nodded, “Of course. I should be able to access them from here,” she said logging on.
“Does Toby Adams have anything to do with the Saturday morning children’s club?” asked Wadesky.
“Not really…sometimes, depending on how understaffed we are.”
“Does he drive a car? We could see if it’s still in the parking lot?”
“Very occasionally I see him arriving in a beautiful fifties Oldsmobile but mostly, I believe, he takes the tram or walks.”
Timms nodded to Wadesky, who slipped out of the room to go and check.
“Did he help out this Saturday gone?” he said, leaning in to see the screen.
She nodded. “I’m fairly certain he did.”
Isabel adjusted her glasses and peered at the screen. “Ok, that should be all.” She collected and handed three printed sheets over to Timms.
“He’s gone and all the museum have got is a postal box number for Spadina, the decoy address and his SIN,” said Timms.
“Spadina Post Office covers the University and the Annex doesn’t it? Let me check his Insurance number and I’ll get back to you,” replied Mo.
Timms disconnected and was just opening the door to Toby’s office when Whitefoot appeared, a breathless Smith in tow. Without further discussion, Laurence slipped on latex gloves and pulled open the desk drawer and placed it on the table-top. Laurence put the evidence bag next to the wire, adjusting the plastic so that a comparison could be easily made. Timms leaned over and looked. “Fuck! Get Raven on the phone now!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There had been absolutely no doubt in Eleanor’s mind, when she saw Toby Adams slip out of the staff exit, that he was the man whose face had been obscured by his hands in Giselle’s spoiled photograph. The fact that his eyes were red and crusted, with what looked like conjunctivitis, was a bonus to proof. She was too focused to feel frustrated or angry, just determined to keep out of his sight and keep him in hers. He hesitated momentarily at the tram stop, but then presumably decided to walk home. She kept several hundred feet behind at all times, keeping as many people in between them as possible. He walked quickly, but didn’t show any sign that he suspected he was being followed, and it was with some degree of satisfaction when it became clear that he was heading for the Annex residential quarter. The last half-mile was more challenging, as other pedestrians thinned out and she was left pretty much the only person, other than Toby Adams, walking in that direction.
Noting that he had adopted a more alert demeanour, she slipped into the entrance of one of the houses. Giving it ten seconds, she peered out and saw Toby unlocking a gate next to a high privet hedge. Peering through the foliage she could just make out his outline as he walked towards the front door. He entered quickly and she heard the sound of a lock being turned in the quiet of the traffic-free avenue. Skirting cautiously along the hedge line, she took in the features of the house. It was in poor condition, brickwork supporting a heavy creeper was missing large sections of its mortar, and where she could see the roof there were several broken and missing tiles. As far as she could determine, there was access to a detached garage through a wooden gate, which was secured with a heavy lock. The rear of the house was inaccessible, as it backed onto the fenced gardens of the adjacent avenue. She would have to enter via the garage and then make her way along the back of the house, hoping there was a less secure means of entrance. For a brief moment she toyed with the idea of switching on her phone and texting Mo her plans, or at least the location, but to what end? She had no official sanction for her actions and once she’d established that she was correct in her assumption of Toby Adams as The Collector, she would hand the facts over to the team. No one was going to follow up on any of her ideas, unless they were backed up with solid evidence. What she dreaded most was that she would find Tommy Banks floating in a tank of formaldehyde.
Swiftly, Eleanor vaulted the wooden gate and ran to the concealed edge of the garage. Squinting in the early evening sun, she could make out that the ground floor windows had all been shuttered from the inside and those of the upstairs rooms bore ancient, weather-stained net curtains. This was a house that hid its secrets. Peering through a small window, she saw the Oldsmobile parked next to what appeared to be a black and silver woman’s bicycle. Unsure of whether Toby was watching her, she ran from the garage to the house. Keeping her back against the wall she moved methodically, trying each window as she made her way round to the back. Using her penknife, she pried at each frame but there was no give in any of them. Frustrated she slowly turned the doorknob on the kitchen door but it too was locked. To the right of the kitchen door there was a small basement window, just wide enough for Eleanor to slip through. The glass had, rather ominously, been painted on the inside with black paint, and was firmly locked. Despite her reluctance to enter below ground level, she couldn’t see any other way. Leaning against the side of the house to minimise her profile, she gazed around the overgrown garden. The garden was unusual in that it was very uneven and unkempt. No effort had been made to restrict the rampant progress of wild rose, or poison ivy. Clumps of poppies and cornflowers flourished in a manner reminiscent of a battlefield. If there had been any doubt in her mind as to Toby Adams being the likely suspect, it was dismissed.
This garden was a burial ground.
Toby was irritable and unnerved. Why were the police hounding him? They had Enda in custody as far as he was aware, so why the constant bombardment of questions, and why had they a list of employees’ addresses? He calmed himself with a glass of single malt and downed it quickly, pouring himself a second for savouring. The drink soothed him, pouring oil on the turmoil. It was standard procedure, that’s all, he reasoned. They were running through the staff records because Enda had committed a crime against the people. So, no wonder the police were being vigilant: they had to have a well-documented case to present to the prosecution services. He really needed to relax. What were the chances of the police heading round to interview him at the address in Little Portugal? Mayb
e, the recent stress of becoming a parent had made him jumpy and irrational. Anyway, all that was in the past now. He would finish his drink, change out of his work clothes and begin the chemical procedures that would preserve Little Tommy for years, if not a lifetime. Tara was in the final stages of the forced impregnation. The acetone was being sucked out of her body, drawing in the active polymer. By his calculations, if he were to embalm Little Tommy this evening he could soak him in the freezer full of filtered acetone, and still have a large window of opportunity to position and harden Tara, while filtering the polymer ready for his son. It was hard work but the rewards would be worth every bead of sweat, and as a mark of his caring nature he would warm the liquid in the syringe, to make his son’s passing more comfortable. Toby placed the loaded syringe in a steel kidney bowl full of warm water, finished his drink, and headed for the basement.
Eleanor suspected that the basement window had been nailed closed and any attempt to knock a hole through the glass next to the latch would prove fruitless. The paint had flaked away in several places, and lying on her belly and peering through a gap she could just make out a small storage room, with several large glass containers stacked against the wall. Suddenly, the room was illuminated and she could see with startling clarity the figure of Toby Adams as he moved around inside. She kept absolutely motionless; any movement on her part might draw his attention to the window where her silhouette, the sun low behind her, would be visible. She held her breath and watched. He had placed a small metallic object on a shelf behind him before lifting one of the liquid filled carboys. Eleanor noted that despite his pudgy appearance, Toby Adams was strong, lifting two of the full carboys with apparent ease. As he manoeuvred the huge bottles through the small door, she saw clearly what the metallic object was. It was a syringe suspended in a surgical bowl. A wave of nausea swept through her.
The door to the storage room opened once more, but she rolled quickly away from the window. She had minutes to get into that house and find the child before Adams killed him, and without a firearm she was powerless. She looked around desperately and saw, leaning against the side of the garage, a spade next to a small pile of broken bricks. Desperately raking through her childhood memories, as she sprinted towards the garage, she tried to recall whether her uncle’s Oldsmobile possessed a motion alarm. Grabbing the spade and smashing it through the garage windowpane, she hurled one of the bricks at the car’s side window. Lacking sufficient momentum, she saw the window crack, followed by silence. She put all of her weight into the second throw and was rewarded with a klaxon of ear numbing intensity. Turning on her heels, spade in hand, she ran back to the house and hunkered down behind a small partition wall to the left of the kitchen exit. She would give it thirty seconds only before having to make the riskier, more overt breach. The countdown tapered in her head, as she tried to gauge the most productive entry point to the house. There were two shuttered windows directly to the right of the kitchen, and smashing her way through using the spade would gain her access but would alert Toby and give him the opportunity to greet her on the other side. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight… She stood up and grabbed the spade, just as the kitchen door began to swing open. Dropping to her haunches and calming her breathing she waited, unable to see anything. Giving him several moments to move towards the garage, she peered carefully around the wall. Toby Adams, a butcher’s knife held tightly in his right hand, was moving purposefully towards the garage. She hesitated, it was at least a twenty-metre dash to the kitchen door and he would be able to cover the distance quickly. So far, he was unaware of her presence, which gave her the advantage. If she locked the door behind her he’d know for certain she was in the house, and he may have another access she didn’t know about. She glanced at Toby’s hulking figure; the knife held at shoulder height gave little doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. Running as fast as she could to the kitchen door, she glanced at Toby at the precise moment that he turned to see her. She put her weight behind the door, slammed it closed and threw the locking mechanism.
