Moorcroft Debt Management call centre was located on Plough Hill in Cuffley on the second floor of a furniture showroom. They entered via a side door and walked up the steps to a large open-plan space containing around thirty individual cubicles. In each of the cubicles was a worker answering calls.
‘We were all devastated when we heard,’ the manager Mark Whitebrook said. ‘Do you know when the funeral is going to be?’
Richards shook her head. ‘No, sorry. The body hasn’t been released yet. You’ll have to talk to her sister about the funeral arrangements.’
He nodded.
They were sitting in Mr Whitebrook’s office at the far end of the call centre.
‘So, what do you do here?’ Parish asked out of curiosity. He had a general idea of what call centres did, but he didn’t really know for certain.
‘Manage people’s debt.’
‘I owe a hundred thousand pounds. I ring you up. What do you say?’
‘One of our customer advisers will take all your details. We’ll want to know what you want from us. For example, reduced monthly payments, stopping demand letters, negotiating a freeze on interest rates and charges, and so on.’
‘And how do you make your money?’
‘We’ll charge you a percentage . . .’
‘I see, so now I owe a hundred and ten thousand pounds?’
‘Yes, but we will have saved you money as well.’
‘How much?’
‘That’s difficult to determine.’
‘Because it’s such a small amount?’
‘Because it’s complicated.’
‘And you get debts passed to you by loan companies?’
‘Yes.’
‘You send round the heavies?’
Whitebrook laughed. ‘You’ve been watching far too much television, Inspector. We don’t do that anymore.’
‘You used to do it though?’
‘Not personally, but I know some people . . .’
‘Yes, I bet . . .’
‘So, Mr Whitebrook,’ Richards interrupted. ‘Can you tell us whether Fannie had any enemies here?’
‘Enemies?’
‘People she didn’t get on with then, anyone who had a grudge against her, that type of thing.’
‘You think someone here killed her?’
‘We don’t think anything. We’re simply making enquiries. Why? Do you think someone here killed her?’
‘Absolutely not. I run a tight ship. Everybody liked Fannie – she was a fun person.’
Richards raised an eyebrow. ‘Was she?’
‘So the others say.’
‘Did she have relationships with any other members of staff?’
‘By relationships, I take it you mean . . .?’
‘Yes.’
‘Relationships between members of staff are discouraged, but . . .’ He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘As far as I’m aware she didn’t have any.’
‘What about Gareth Hayes?’
‘You know about him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he left about three months ago. We haven’t seen him since.’
‘Can you tell us where he went?’
‘I could, but I heard he didn’t last long there.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘No idea. I can give you his home address though.’
‘Yes, please.’
Whitebrook went to a filing cabinet and withdrew a file from the second drawer down. ‘Here we are – 97 Cotton Road, Potters Bar.’
Richards stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Whitebrook.’ She passed him a business card. ‘If there’s anything else that you think might be useful, please ring.’
‘I will.’
‘So when people can’t pay,’ Parish said. ‘What do you then?’
‘Sir,’ Richards said.
‘We still don’t break their legs or set fire to their houses, Inspector. We’re regulated now, everything’s changed.’
Outside Richards said, ‘What was that all about?’
‘Did you notice his face drop when he said, “Everything’s changed”? It’s as if he was disappointed.’
‘Do you want to go and see Gareth Hayes, or meet with Doc Riley at the hospital?’
Parish checked his watch. It was five to twelve. ‘Look at the time. We’ve got to be in the hospital cafeteria by twelve-thirty. Come on, put your foot down. Switch the siren and flashing lights on, buckle up, don’t spare the horses.’
‘I don’t think so.’
They climbed in the car and set off.
‘If we’re late, I’ll blame you.’
‘You’re the worst boss in the world.’
‘Yesterday you were saying I was the best boss in the world.’
‘Things change.’
‘Clearly.’
During the journey Parish phoned Angie and arranged for her to have lunch with them as well.
‘Ah, that’s nice,’ Richards said.
‘Well, I was thinking it would save us time. We’ll be killing two birds with one stone.’
‘You’re such a romantic.’
‘I have my moments.’
***
She backtracked to the last crossroads and turned right. Even though she’d had a plan about walking in a straight line and turning left and right at crossroads, she was totally lost. If she needed to get back to the railway track from memory she wouldn’t have been able to. All she could do now was follow her instincts. Were her instincts still intact?
Her only clue about where she might be in relation to the world above ground was what that bastard had said about her lying on the District Line between Upminster and Ealing Broadway. She was sure that the District Line was green on the tube map, and that Fenchurch Street – as part of Tower Hill – was on the District Line.
The tunnel at French Ordinary Court went under the platforms of Fenchurch Street Station on its way to Crutched Friars. How did that help her? Well, she probably wasn’t too far away from the car park and the entrance to Bunker 7. Or, more accurately, she hadn’t been too far away when she’d started this labyrinthine journey. Now, God only knew where she was – if there’d been a God. As no such being existed, she was up a gum tree without a paddle.
In the other tunnel she’d been travelling upwards. Now, she was travelling down. She couldn’t see a damned thing, and there wasn’t a one-in-five gradient that she needed a rail to stop herself plummeting to the bottom, it was simply a feeling that she was going down.
Her mind kept pandering to her stomach. She had the idea that there must be a direct connection between the two. The belly rumbles and the brain thinks of Turkish delight, Mars bars, cheeseburgers, curried chips, chilli beef enchiladas and a million other things she could have eaten to stop the hunger gnawing at her insides like a parasite. The more she thought about food the more she wanted some, and she began to make a list in her mind just in case she met a waiter coming the other way. Then, of course, she had a raging thirst for cloudy lemonade. As far as she knew she’d never drunk cloudy lemonade, so where that had come from she had no idea.
A kind of squelching sound emanated from her feet when she walked. Romeo’s basketball trainers were cheap rubbish. Without socks on her feet they were sweating, and because the trainers were too big as well the inner soles had lifted. If somebody else had been there with her she would have been embarrassed at the noises.
Yes, she was definitely moving down, but down where? Where the hell was she? Was she anywhere near Bunker 7? Was there another way into the facility? What did they do there? Was killing intruders really sanctioned by the government? Who were those men?
She heard something – metal on metal. She stopped and listened. After a handful of minutes she heard it again. Was it another locked grill? She tried not to build up her hopes, but she failed miserably. Her pace quickened – all thought of food and drink gone.
The sound became louder. She had to make a left turn, but as she was completely lost anyway it didn’t matter. When she heard what she thought was voices she stopped. Her heart began racing again. Had she found a way out? Had she found the men she was going to kill?
Holding her breath, she crept forward. The voices she could hear were filtering through a metal ventilation duct that she could feel with her hands in the tunnel above her. She followed the ducting by touch. It was a large square vent, and as she shuffled forward she could feel the seams, the angles and brackets holding it up and then. . .
The voices were clear. Two men were speaking. They seemed to be talking about football, a club – Chelsea, a striker who couldn’t score. She hated football, and that’s all that ever seemed to be on the TV these days.
She became sad as she thought of Romeo tapping into next door’s satellite feed, so that they could watch the movie and sport channels that they couldn’t get on freeview. After Romeo had finished, it was all freeview.
Her hand felt a grill in the metal. She could stick her fingers through the gaps, and the voices were loud and clear. Now what? She could follow the ventilation duct to wherever it led, but there was no guarantee that it would lead to a way out. Or, she could try and get the grill off, climb in the duct and find out where the voices were coming from.
***
‘You rang the number?’ Stick asked.
‘That’s what detectives do.’
They were driving towards 32 Groom Road in Turnford to see Amy Foster. Xena was driving.
‘I was thinking of ringing the number, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I was going to suggest it earlier, but I didn’t. So, you’re saying this Amy Foster answered the phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘The dead woman obviously isn’t Amy Foster.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you?’
‘And you think the dead woman might be the missing Katy Ratcliffe?’
‘I’m working along those lines.’
‘Do we know anything about Katy Ratcliffe?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And the function at the town hall was a Chamber of Commerce dinner?’
‘Yes. Why are you going over everything I’ve told you already?’
‘I like to get it clear in my head.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult – it’s empty.’
‘And no seating plan?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t ask for a seating plan?’
‘You’re not suggesting that it might be my fault we have no seating plan, are you?’
‘I don’t think that would be in my best interests.’
‘Even amoebae have a survival instinct, you know.’
‘Do they? How interesting. Judy Moody did a good job then.’
‘No she didn’t. She’s the worst clerical assistant it’s ever been my displeasure to have working for me.’
‘You just don’t like her.’
‘There’s lots of people I don’t like.’
‘I’ve noticed that. I’m glad I’m not one of them.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Get the Chamber of Commerce booklet out. There’s a telephone number on the back.’
Stick opened the file and found the booklet. ‘It says here that it was a President’s Award Dinner. This booklet is a Programme of Events.’ He skimmed through the four A5 pages. ‘Yes, it gives times, a list of names, the awards they were getting, and the Mayoress – Mrs Victoria Crawford and her husband Andrew – were the guests of honour.’
‘Ring the number.’
‘Oh yes.’
He rang the number and put it on speaker phone.
‘Hello?’
Stick looked at Xena.
She signalled for him to answer.
‘Mr Roberts?’ Stick said at last.
‘Yes, I’m Robert Roberts. I was beginning to think it was a dirty phone call.’
‘I’m Detective Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘And you want me to confess?’
‘Only if you’re guilty, Mr Roberts.’
‘Of what?’
‘Well, if you really did do it, then you must know what you did.’
Xena nudged him.
‘I’m ringing about the dinner you had at the Town Hall. You’re the secretary . . .’
‘It’s not about what happened in the ladies toilets, is it?’
‘Which was what?’
‘You first, Detective Gilbert.’
‘I’d like a seating plan for Saturday night, if that’s at all possible?’
‘Why?’
‘So you won’t have to confess, or explain what went on in the ladies toilet.’
‘That’s probably a good idea.’
‘Were there any changes to the top table seating plan between Thursday and Saturday night?’
‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘I’m a detective, Mr Roberts.’
‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Mathew Heller withdrew. He phoned me on Friday morning and said that his wife – Prunella – was ill.’
‘Are you at home, Mr Roberts?’
‘Yes, I’ve been retired for some time now.’
‘Your address?’
‘Saffron Close in Wollensbrook, number three.’
Stick wrote the name and address down in his notebook and added the telephone number as well.
‘Will you be in this afternoon?’
‘As I said, I’m retired. Retired people are usually at home.’
‘If it’s all right with you, we’ll call round later to pick up the seating plan and have a chat?’
‘That would be fine.’
Stick ended the call.
‘I’m a detective, Mr Roberts,’ Xena mimicked. ‘You sound like James Bond – “I’ve got a license to kill, Miss Moneypenny,”.’
‘I could be James Bond.’ He half-closed his eyes and turned the corner of his mouth up. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’m going to puke.’
They parked outside Amy Foster’s house, which was a newly built town house with three floors.
Stick carried the file.
A dark-haired woman in her early thirties answered the door. She wore a black backless dress, and tattoos covered her back, arms and ankles.
‘Amy Foster?’ Xena asked showing her warrant card.
‘Yes, please come in.’
They followed her upstairs to a living room on the middle floor, which was deceptively large with a bay window, wooden flooring, beige decor and a beige suite.
‘Very tasteful,’ Stick said.
Xena gave him a look.
‘Please, sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?’
Stick opened his mouth.
‘No, we’re fine,’ Xena answered for both of them. ‘We have a number of questions for you, but first let me show you this artist’s impression of the woman we’re looking for.’ She took the picture from Stick and passed it to Amy Foster. ‘Do you recognise her?’
Amy Foster shook her head. ‘No, that’s not Katy Ratcliffe.’
‘Oh!’ Xena was shocked for a moment. She’d convinced herself that the woman in the picture would be Katy Ratcliffe. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. For one thing, Katy has blonde hair.’
‘Natural?’
‘Yes.’
Xena’s brow furrowed. ‘Okay, so the woman isn’t Katy Ratcliffe, but is it anyone else you might know?’
Amy examined the picture again. ‘No, sorry.’
‘But she had your telephone number,’ Stick said.
‘Hold on,’ Xena said, holding up her hand. ‘Let’s go back to the start, shall we? We have a severed hand . . .’ She held her hand out for Stick to pass her the photograph.
‘How disgusting,’ Amy Foster said closing her eyes. ‘You don’t want me to look, do you?’
‘Yes, but don’t worry, you can’t see anything nasty.’
The woman slowly opened her eyes and looked at the photograph. ‘No, I don’t recognise it.’
‘What about the ring? The writing is Jewish and means: I have found the one my soul loves.’
‘That’s beautiful.’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry, never seen it before.’
‘She also had a tattoo on her wrist, but we don’t know what it depicted.’
Amy shrugged.
‘We know that she had her nails painted at In the Buff in Hoddesdon on Thursday afternoon. When she booked the appointment she gave them your mobile number. While she was having her nails painted, she told the technician that she was attending a function at the town hall on Saturday night and sitting at the top table. Does any of that ring a bell?’
‘I don’t understand. Why would the woman give them my phone number?’
‘I was hoping you could tell us that.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Do you know anyone in Hoddesdon’s Chamber of Commerce?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Separated for the past eighteen months.’
‘What does your husband do?’
‘Apart from shagging his secretary, you mean? The bastard is south-east regional development manager for a mobile phone company.’
‘You don’t know if he’s a member of the Hoddesdon Chamber of Commerce, do you?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
Stick cleared his throat. ‘I couldn’t have a drink of water, could I?’
‘Of course.’
Xena stood up. ‘Don’t bother, we’re going now. So, apart from the telephone number, you have no connection to the woman we’re looking for?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Foster.’
She showed them out.
‘Great tattoos by the way,’ Stick said.
Amy Foster smiled. ‘Thank you. Have you got any yourself?’
‘I’d like to, but they’re frowned upon in the police force.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘When you’re ready,’ Xena said walking to the car.
‘Very tasteful, great tattoos,!’ Xena mimicked him when they were sitting in the car. ‘I was nearly sick in your pocket.’
‘Just being pleasant. A smile and a kind word cost nothing. You could learn a lot from following that adage.’
‘Are you saying I’m not pleasant to people?’
‘I think you and I both know that your people skills leave a lot to be desired.’
‘You’re confused, Stick. I’m the Sergeant, you’re the numpty. I appraise your people skills annually, you don’t appraise mine. In future, keep your slanderous opinions to yourself.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘And while we’re on the subject of people skills, you can buy me lunch. I’ll give you marks out of ten on how much you spend on me.’
‘I could take you to the Ritz if you’d like.’
‘That’s an attractive proposition, but I’d be concerned about what was expected of me afterwards.’
‘I never would.’
‘Oh, I think you would, Stick. I think you’re just biding your time. One day, when I’ve got my back turned, I’ll discover your grubby hands rummaging around in my knickers drawer. Make a phone call.’
‘My mouth is so dry I don’t know if I’ll be able to.’
‘Stop whining.’
‘Who am I making the call to?’
‘Maggie Kemp.’
‘Oh?’
‘Ask her to read off the telephone number that she wrote down in the appointments book, so that you can check it.’
‘Ah! I was thinking we might have got the wrong number.’
‘Then why didn’t you say something?’
‘I was waiting until my throat had been lubricated.’
‘Make the phone call, numpty.’
He dialled the number.
‘In the Buff.’
‘Maggie Kemp, please.’
‘She’s with a client at the moment, Sir.’
Xena butted in. ‘Tell her that Sergeant Blake is going to come there and arrest her unless she speaks to us now.’
‘Just one moment, please.’
They waited significantly more moments than one.
‘Who is this?’ Maggie Kemp said.
‘You took your time. It’s your friendly neighbourhood detective.’
‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’
Stick interrupted. ‘Hi Maggie, it’s DC Gilbert. We’re checking whether we’ve got the right telephone number, because the one you gave us doesn’t seem to be connected to the case.’
She read the number out loud.
Stick checked it as she spoke. ‘Yes, that’s what we’ve got. Are you sure you wrote it down correctly?’
‘No, I didn’t write the number down. We have a receptionist. She would have taken the booking and written down the number.’
‘And would she have recorded it correctly?’ Xena shouted.
‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. One would hope so, but she is young and inexperienced.’
‘Bloody great! I’ve a good mind to come round there and throw you all in jail for sabotaging a police investigation.’
‘I look forward to receiving the compensation for wrongful arrest. What about a nail session on the house instead, Sergeant Blake?’
Xena cut her off. ‘I can understand how some people resort to murder.’
‘Maybe you should have taken her up on the free nail session.’
‘Maybe I should kill you and join the other side.’
‘You’d be joining a winning team.’
‘There is that.’