by Andy Maslen
Stella’s heart was racing.
‘Where is he? You have to tell me so we can stop him before he kills any more people. He needs help. He’s ill.’
‘I’m frightened. They…’ Her breath caught and Stella heard a cough, then what sounded like a sob. ‘They raped me.’
‘Who, Mim? Who raped you?’
‘Malachi. And this woman who works for him. They’ve been doing it to me for years. She’s got a knife. I’m so scared. You don’t know what he’s like!’ she finished, her voice growing louder and more strident. ‘He’ll kill me! He’ll kill you, too!’
‘No he won’t. Not if you let me help you. Where is he, Mim? Where’s Malachi?’
‘He left last night. He said he was going up to York. Apparently they’re going to ordain a new woman bishop at the minster there today.’
Oh, shit! Celia Thwaites!
‘OK, look, Mim. This is very important. What sort of car does Malachi drive?’
‘Er, it’s a van, really. A VW Transporter. It’s white.’
‘What’s the registration? Do you know?’
‘Yes. He makes me do all the paperwork for it. It’s one of those personal ones, you know? R for Roger, then a zero, then B for Bertie, E for Egg, Y for Yellow.’
Stella shook her head as she saw what she’d written.
R0BEY
‘Thanks. I need you to come to Paddington Green Police Station, Mim. We can protect you.’
‘I’m too scared. Can’t you come and get me in a police car or something?’
‘That’s what I meant. I’m going to go into the station and get a car myself. I’ll drive straight over and collect you. What’s your address?’
‘It’s not very glamorous, I’m afraid. It’s 55 Gasworks Lane, Beckton.’
‘OK, good. I’ll put it into my satnav and it’ll bring me right to your front door.’
‘Oh, God, thank you. Please hurry.’
Stella gulped her coffee, then closed her journal and returned it to the drawer in the kitchen dresser. Before leaving, she called Garry.
‘Morning, boss,’ he said, his voice thickened and blurry with sleep.
‘Garry, wake up. This is urgent. I just got off the phone with Karlsson’s secretary. You’re not going to believe this. Robey’s her husband. He’s driving up to York minster right now. They’re ordaining Celia Thwaites there this morning as a bishop.’
‘Shit! Karlsson’s wife.’
‘Yes. I think he’s going to take her or kill her there, right in front of the TV cameras. Call the local CID. No! Get Callie to go in at the top level. Plus, I’ve got his vehicle.’
‘Go on, I’m ready.’
‘It’s a white VW Transporter. Index number Romeo Zero Bravo Echo Yankee.’
‘All right. I’ll put it on the wire. We might strike lucky and get him on ANPR or with a traffic car. He’ll be taking the M1 probably. I’ll get the plate circulated. We’re going to get him, boss.’
‘I bloody well hope so. Listen, I’m driving over to Mim’s place to fetch her back to the station. Once you’ve put wheels in motion to get Robey, can you sort out an interview room?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks. I’ve got to go. See you later.’
Fifteen minutes later, she was pulling out of the car park beneath Paddington Green in the dark-grey 5 series she and Garry had taken down to Monksfield.
Halfway to Beckton, lights flashing and siren wailing, she briefly wondered whether she should have delayed long enough to round up one of the babies to come with her. For the experience as much as anything else. Callie would need soothing for the breach of protocol but Stella could handle her. And she reckoned she could handle damaged goods like Mim Robey as well.
At 7.15 a.m., Stella pulled into the kerb outside 55 Gasworks Lane, Beckton. Built of sand-yellow brick, the house sat a quarter of the way down a long, curving street, bounded at one end by the derelict gas works that had given the road its name and at the other by an industrial estate.
She climbed out and stretched. Despite the early hour, the temperature was still above-average for the time of year. She’d jumped straight into the Beemer from her bike and she was hot inside her jacket.
The front door opened directly onto the pavement. She stretched out a finger and pressed the doorbell.
The woman Peter Karlsson had introduced as Mim, and whom she now knew to be Malachi Robey’s raped wife, answered within a few seconds. A couple of inches taller than Stella, she was dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt. No makeup to disguise the redness around her eyes or the pink blotches on her cheeks.
‘Come in,’ she said quietly, then turned and hurried down a narrow hall.
Stella followed her into a spotless kitchen. Mim’s movements were jerky, as if every step were a conscious effort. Fear could do that to a person, Stella knew only too well.
‘Do you want some, tea, DCI Cole? I just made a pot.’
‘Yes, please, that would be lovely. And please call me Stella.’
Mim touched her throat just at the notch between her collar bones. She smiled nervously.
‘OK. Thank you. I’m sorry, I’m just, it’s never what I wanted, you know. He’s a very difficult person to disobey.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ve put out details of the van and called North Yorkshire Police. I’m sure they’ll catch him before he can do any more harm. Listen, do you have a recent photo of Malachi? It would really help us.’
Miriam shook her head.
‘I’m sorry. He doesn’t like having his picture taken. I’ve only got an old school photo.’
Stella smiled.
‘That’s OK. We have one of those already. How’s that tea doing?’
‘Oh yes, of course. Sorry.’
Mim poured two mugs of tea and, after she’d made the usual offer of sugar or sweeteners, placed them on the small table that took up most of the kitchen.
She sat opposite Stella.
‘Am I in trouble?’ she asked, her lower lip trembling.
‘No. You said Malachi has repeatedly raped you. He’s a violent psychopath. Men like Malachi are very controlling. You are as much a victim as the women he killed. Do you know the name of the woman with him? The one who helped him rape you?’
Mim looked down at her hands.
‘Lilith,’ she said, in a voice so quiet Stella had to lean forwards to catch it. ‘I know you say I’m a victim, Stella. But I should have seen him for what he was. I should have called you sooner. People will want to punish me, won’t they? But they don’t understand what he’s like.’
Stella took a sip of the tea and looked out of the kitchen window. Beyond the sagging fence panels at the end of the tiny back garden, she could see stacks of wrecked and flattened cars and the huge jointed arm of a yellow crane, from which a black electro-magnet hung on its umbilical cord of cables and chains.
‘It’s ours,’ Mim said.
‘Pardon?’
Mim lifted her chin towards the crane.
‘The scrapyard. Malachi was left it by the original owner. He worked for him after leaving Monksfield. Ten years he was there, and when he died, the owner, I mean, it turned out he’d left to Malachi. He said he was like a son to him.’
While Mim was spilling out the details of Malachi’s life, Stella was recalling her conversation with Cam about the car they’d seen on the CCTV footage from Sherborne Ropes. And their conclusion that scrapyards were an obvious angle.
‘Does Malachi have any other cars besides the Transporter?’ she asked now.
Mim nodded.
‘He takes cars from the yard sometimes. If they work, I mean.’
‘Can you remember any in particular?’
‘The last one I remember seeing him in was a blue Ford Focus. I think it’s there now. I can take you to it, if you want?’
‘Yes, please. Can we go now?’
‘Mm-hmm. We can get into the yard through the back gate.’
Keeping level with Mim, just
in case she decided to bolt, Stella took in the mountainous stacks of squashed cars and the huge pyramids of discarded domestic appliances.
The people who had once inhabited the house the Robeys shared would have marvelled that such luxuries were available to ordinary, working people like them. Then they would have blinked in shock as they saw how little needed to go wrong with one before they were thrown out and replaced.
In the centre of the yard, a Portakabin stood in a square of bare concrete, from which a narrow metalled road led away towards the derelict gas works.
Mim pointed.
‘That was the office. Malachi uses it now but I don’t know what for. I’m not allowed in there. Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘That’s the Focus.’
Stella walked over to the car and took a photo of the number plate: AG54 LKF.
Keeping her fingers interlaced behind her back, she peered in at the driver’s side window, careful not to let her nose touch the glass. The interior was tatty but clean. No lakes of dried blood or spattered upholstery. A few fast food wrappers and takeaway coffee cups in the passenger footwell. Her phone rang.
Still scrutinising the inside of the car, she pulled the phone from her jacket pocket. The Caller ID said NDNAD.
‘DCI Cole.’
‘Hi, it’s Prue Brundage here. Sorry for the early call but I thought you’d want to know. We found a match from that last DNA sample you sent in. The second sample of blood from Amy Burnside’s kitchen? There’s no direct match to anyone on the NDNAD but we have found a familial match to one Malachi Jeremiah Robey. The sex is female. He must have a sister.’
‘Thanks, Prue,’ Stella said, distractedly. Her eyes had just fallen on a shimmering twist of transparent plastic decorated with pink chevrons. What’s a tampon wrapper doing in there?
93
FRIDAY 14TH SEPTEMBER 7.30 A.M.
BECKTON, EAST LONDON
Stella heard the scrape of Mim’s boots on the bare concrete. She spun round, only to meet the incoming hypodermic needle, which Mim, face impassive, drove deep into the side of Stella’s neck.
Mim stepped back, smiling. Stella tried to kick out at her, leaning back slightly, but only succeeded in toppling herself to the ground as her balance went.
Mim came towards her and pulled her, firmly but not roughly to her feet.
‘Up we get,’ she said, as if speaking to a child. ‘I’m afraid you’ve discovered my little secret, Stella. And I’m sorry, but I lied to you about Malachi. He’s not in York. He’s here. And he’s not my husband. He’s my brother. Come on, I’ll take you to him. It’ll be a nice surprise for both of you.’
Stella tried to speak as Mim led her by the elbow towards a long, low hut built of breeze blocks and roofed in what looked like white-painted asbestos sheets. Her tongue felt huge in her mouth and all she could manage was a mumbled, ‘Nah’.
Her thoughts were sliding around in her head and she found it hard to organise them into a coherent pattern. All she knew was she was in mortal danger, and she cursed herself for coming alone.
Mim opened a steel door let into the side of the hut and pushed Stella inside. Stella stumbled over the lower edge of the door frame, which protruded up from the ground by a couple of inches.
‘Whoopsie!’ Mim said. ‘We don’t want to fall in, do we?’
She pointed to a low wall a few feet in front of them.
‘Come and have a look. Malachi’s in there.’
Stella kept her gaze fixed on the topmost course of bricks, struggling to stay focused despite the drugs flooding her system and rendering her as biddable as a well-trained dog.
She bumped into the wall and looked over the edge. About halfway down was a black mirror, from which her own pale face looked out at her.
‘Whassat?’ she slurred.
‘That,’ Mim said, ‘is the pit. It’s where we store all the old engine oil from the cars and trucks and whatever else people used to leave here for us to deal with. A few motorbikes but, as I say, mostly cars and trucks. Probably ten years’ worth or more. It’s lined with concrete. It’s twenty feet long by ten across. Mal told me it’s ten-feet deep as well. “Don’t fall in, Mim,” he said, “or you’ll never see daylight again.”
‘I once amused myself by calculating its volume. Would you like to know how much pitch-black, stinking engine oil a pit measuring twenty by ten by ten feet can hold? Yes? OK. The answer is: fanfare, maestro, please, twelve thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight gallons. So now, three-quarter’s full, it’s, oh, about nine thousand gallons. In case you’re wondering, when the pit was full up, and Jack – he was who Mal worked for – was in the right mood, he used to call some company who’d suck the oil out into tankers, pay him some piddling amount and then cart it all away to be recycled into tar or, I don’t know, industrial lubricants or plastic breast pumps or whatever. Not my specialist subject, I’m afraid. Did you find out about Mal’s prison sentence?’
Stella tried to make the muscles of her mouth and jaw work. Her tongue flopped uselessly from side to side.
‘Ye-yeah. Waypiss.’
‘That’s right! He was a rapist. Not a killer, though. That was my job. I used to deal with the women after he’d finished with them. So you were right. He did have a female accomplice. Me! They were tarts, mostly. Until this one day, he picked up a teenaged runaway. He got careless and left his DNA all over her. She escaped and, to cut a long story short, no pun intended, they arrested him. He did eight years in Belmarsh. He served his entire sentence ’cos he kept getting into fights inside. The other prisoners didn’t like him. I don’t really understand why. She was fifteen which is, technically, under the age of consent, but it’s not as if she was enjoying her life. Otherwise, why run away? And there wasn’t exactly a shortage of supply was there?
‘Anyway, at least it meant when he got out in November there was no tiresome probation officer trailing after him. He just came home and went back to work. But they wouldn’t leave him alone, would they?’
‘Who?’ Stella mumbled.
‘They called themselves Paedo Hunters. A mob, that’s all. Local men who took it upon themselves to find out who was on the sex offenders’ register and persecute them. They found out where we lived and on the last day of December, they came for him. They kicked him to death, just over there,’ she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards the concrete apron.
‘So after they left, I took poor Mal and dropped him down there. It’s where I’m going to put you, too, once I’ve finished with you. Now, come on. Let’s get you somewhere a little more comfortable. Oh, and let’s drop the “Mim”, shall we? I think you should call me Miriam.’
94
FRIDAY 14TH SEPTEMBER 9.00 A.M.
PADDINGTON GREEN
Garry’s phone rang. No caller ID.
He put his mug down and answered.
‘Hello?’
‘DS Haynes?’
‘Yes, who is this, please?’
‘It’s Sylvia Royal.’
‘Oh hello, Mrs Royal. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I feel awfully embarrassed about this. I tried to call DCI Cole but her phone went straight to voicemail, and you said to call you if I couldn’t reach her. You see, after you left on Saturday and I told the headmaster of my decision to leave, well, I had a funny turn. They had to fetch an ambulance and I’ve been at home ever since. In bed. Derek’s been keeping me comfortable but I’ve been taking sleeping pills and they’ve left me awfully muzzy and—’
‘Sylvia, please, slow down. It’s fine. What did you want to tell me?’
‘Sorry. It’s just, I don’t know why on earth I didn’t tell you this when you and DCI Cole came to Monksfield the other day, but I was so upset, what with poor Amy Burnside being murdered, and all that history I had to rummage through about that awful boy, and then I had my turn. The thing is, I completely forgot to tell you something that, I don’t know, might be important? She was so quiet, you see. I think that’s why I forgot about
her.’
‘Who was quiet, Sylvia?’ Garry asked, patiently waiting for Sylvia Royal to stumble through her apology, using the time to pull his notebook towards him and click a ballpoint ready.
‘His sister. They came here together, both in 1993. She was two years his senior, so ten when she arrived. She was a strange little thing. Wouldn’t look at you. She’d sit so quietly in a room you wouldn’t know she was there. She stayed on when he was expelled. Quiet as a mouse for the rest of her time here. I don’t recall her getting so much as a single set of chores.’
Garry wrote: Sister. Two years older. Quiet. Then scribbled, Name?
‘Sorry to interrupt. What was her name?’
‘Oh. Of course. Yes. Miriam Judith. More Biblical names, you see. The parents must have been obsessed.’
Garry wrote the names down, thanked Sylvia and ended the call.
Something tweaked at his thoughts. He called out to the incident room in general.
‘Hey! How do you make Miriam into a nickname?’
‘Mim!’ someone shouted back.
‘Oh, shit!’ he said. ‘Karlsson’s secretary.’
Garry walked over to the murder wall and looked at the dates when Robey had murdered his four victims.
Niamh Connolly: 13th August
Sarah Sharpe: 17th–18th August
Moira Lowney: 23rd August
Amy Burnside: 5th September
Then he called Peter Karlsson.
‘Hello?’
‘Professor Karlsson, it’s DS Haynes. I need to ask you about Mim’s working hours over the last couple of months.’
Karlsson sounded surprised.
‘Oh. OK, what do you need to know?’
