After waiting an hour and fifteen minutes for the gas leak to be repaired, they eventually got back to the station at ten to four. While Stick returned to the Ink Depository on Legra Avenue to see if the owner had any information on the tattoo, Xena told Judy Moody to produce fifty copies of the photofit, and then went up to see Jenny Weber in the press office to organise a press briefing for five o’clock.
‘It’s a bit short notice, Sergeant Blake.’
‘Are you saying you can’t do it?’
‘I’m not saying that at all.’
‘Then what are you saying? Can you do it, or can’t you? It’s a very simple request, after all.’
‘I can do it.’
‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘Always a pleasure dealing with you, Sergeant Blake.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I hate coming up here. The sooner they get someone who can do the job properly, the better.’
She opened the door to leave.
‘Have a nice day,’ Jenny shouted after her.
She was having a shitty day. The pain in her stomach was getting worse. She had a headache the size of the Chief’s monthly pay packet, and she’d run out of painkillers. There was a stash hidden under the floorboards in her flat, but she’d gobbled up the ones she’d brought with her today already. She made a detour into the toilet. After swilling her face, she went into the far cubicle of the three available and sat down on the toilet lid.
A couple of minutes peace and quiet ought to do the trick. She swivelled sideways so that the cistern wasn’t pressing into her back and closed her eyes.
Behind her eyelids she watched as the blackness enveloped her, and the harder she stared into the murky haze the easier it was to make out the horses and their riders. She’d seen them before – many times – in her nightmares. They were the four horsemen of the apocalypse – harbingers of her death. They were galloping towards her, but this time she couldn’t get out of their way.
***
‘I’ve just remembered, you didn’t tell me what was on the paper the social worker gave you at Redbridge social services.’
Richards was driving. They were on the way along Buckhurst Way into Hillside Avenue and Winton’s food processing factory on the Woodford Green industrial estate.
‘The father wasn’t recorded in the files, but we have an address in Billericay for the couple who adopted Fannie Binetti’s son.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘No, I think we’ll go after we’ve been to Winton’s.’
‘We’ll be late home.’
‘Being a detective isn’t a nine to five job, you know.’
‘I know. We’d better let mum know we’ll be late.’
‘There’s no hurry. I might change my mind after we’ve been to Winton’s.’
‘Do you think the killer works at Winton’s?’
‘Lorna Boyce would have recognised him.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘I think he’s set himself up as a paid assassin. Someone at Winton’s paid him to kill Lorna Boyce.’
‘He’s not very good, if that’s really what he is.’
‘He got the job done, didn’t he?’
‘But he’s going to get caught.’
Parish shrugged. ‘Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. He could travel to Vladivostok for cosmetic surgery, Marseille for a new passport and become a totally different person. We might never catch him.’
‘You inhabit a fantasy world. I bet he lives in a filthy one-bedroom flat in Barkingside, eats microwave meals and watches Eastenders. The police will knock on his door, he’ll give himself up and confess everything without talking to a lawyer.’
‘Who’s fantasising now?’
They pulled into the industrial estate and parked up outside Winton’s.
‘Ring Jerry,’ he said to her.
‘Why?’
‘We want to know everything she and this Cookie know before we get to Winton’s. There’s the four workers getting extra pay – what exactly does that mean? Who are the four workers? How much extra pay are they getting? Is it going through the books? Are they paying tax on it? What are they getting the money for? Then there’s the three directors with skeletons in their cupboards. We want to know what those skeletons are.’
Richards made the call and put it on loudspeaker.
‘Hi, Jerry. It’s Mary Richards.’
‘Just a minute. I’m on the tube on my way home. Okay. What is it?’
‘Can you tell us everything you know about the four workers who are getting extra money and the directors’ skeletons at Winton’s?’
‘That’s all I know.’
‘You don’t know which four workers?’
‘I know nothing else.’
‘Hi Jerry, it’s Jed.’
‘Hi, Jed.’
‘What about this hacker called Cookie?’
‘I think she knows more, but she’s not been answering her phone all day. I’m a bit worried about her.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Oh well, we’ll just have to run with what we’ve got. Have you spoken to Ray recently?’
‘Not since lunchtime.’
‘We’ve got a picture of the killer, and I expect he’ll soon be in custody.’
‘That’s great. Do you know why she was killed yet?’
‘No, not yet. We’re at Winton’s now. Hopefully, we’ll get some answers.’
‘Will you let me know what happens?’
He hesitated. ‘How about I ring Ray and let him know what we find and he then tells you?’
‘I understand. Thanks for your help, Jed.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, Jerry.’
‘Like me, you did everything you could. She chose to ignore our advice, We couldn’t do anything about that.’
The call ended.
‘Let’s go,’ Parish said climbing out of the car.
They made their way through the main gate, past the toilets and dressing rooms to the main office.
‘Yes?’ a woman asked. She had lank blonde hair, heavy bags under her eyes and a low-cut sleeveless dress revealing an inappropriate amount of cleavage.
Parish showed his warrant card. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Is it about Lorna?’
‘I asked first,’ he parried.
‘Sorry. Well, Lorna’s not here, so I suppose you want the manager – Mr Mabry. He’s somewhere in the factory. I’ll put a call out.’
‘Thanks.’
She went to a microphone, pressed a button and said, ‘Mr Mabry to the office, please,’ twice. She came back to them. ‘He shouldn’t be too long. Can I get you a drink of coffee or tea?’
‘No, we’re fine thank you,’ Parish said. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Vicki Norfolk. I’m a clerical assistant. There are two of us.’ She pointed to another older woman with curly greying hair, oval glasses and a double chin. ‘That’s Joanna Penn.’
Joanna smiled and waved at them.
‘The other woman . . .’ she pointed across the office to a mixed heritage woman with long black crinkly hair, a nice smile and a brightly-coloured top. ‘That’s Suzanne Thompson – the accounts clerk.’
Suzanne smiled.
‘We have a part-time financial assistant called Elaine Allen, but she’s not here this afternoon.’
‘And the manager?’ Richards asked writing everything down in her notebook.
‘Mr Terry Mabry. We also have an office manager – Lorna Boyce, but I don’t know where she is. Is that why you’re here?’
‘Yes,’ Parish said. He didn’t want to reveal Lorna Boyce’s demise until after he’d spoken to the manager. ‘Any other managerial staff like directors?’
‘Well, there’s Mr Ismay – the Executive Director. He has a big office upstairs, but he’s not in today.’
‘You sound surprised he’s not in,’ Parish said.
‘I am. He’s always in. Mr Mabry rang Mr Ismay’s home number, but there was no answer.’ She gave half a smile. ‘We’ve lost two people now.’
A seriously obese man with a bald head and a beard – looking deathly white and struggling to breathe – came in through the office door.
‘Mr Mabry . . . ?’ Parish began.
Mabry held his hand up, snaked his way past them through the desks and cabinets to a small office on the right with large glass panels.
‘Give him a few minutes,’ Vicki said. ‘He needs his oxygen. Mr Mabry is classified as disabled. He doesn’t often go out of his office, but when he does he has to use his oxygen mask afterwards.’
They waited until Mr Mabry called for them to go in.
‘Sorry about that,’ Mabry said, dabbing beads of sweat off his face with a handkerchief. ‘What can I do for you?’
Parish showed his warrant card again. ‘We’re here about Lorna Boyce.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘I’m sorry to say, she’s dead.’
‘My God. How . . . ?’
‘She was murdered, Mr Mabry.’
Mabry went a notch whiter, and shook his head. ‘The world today is not a nice place.’
‘I’m sorry to have to say this, but we think that someone here paid to have her killed.’
Mabry’s mouth dropped open like a malfunctioning castle drawbridge. He grasped at his oxygen mask, which was attached to a large black and white bottle via a regulator containing dials and knobs, and turned one of the knobs fully on.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine that anyone here would want to kill Lorna. What possible reason could they have?’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out, Mr Mabry. Do you feel able to answer a few questions?’
‘Ask away. I know I look as though I’m knocking on death’s door, and I probably am, but this is my normal condition.’
‘Do you know about the four workers who are getting extra money on top of their wages?’
He stared at them. ‘I’m sorry. Who? How much? Have you got their names?’
‘No. All we know is that four workers are being paid extra.’
He pressed a button on his desk. ‘Ask Suzanne to come in will you, Vicki.’
Suzanne appeared at the door. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘What can you tell me about four workers getting extra money on top of their wages, Suzanne?’
She looked at the floor and shuffled her feet. ‘I was told not to say anything.’
‘By whom?’
‘Mr Ismay.’
‘He authorised extra pay without running it past me?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’m astounded. We have a wage structure . . .’ He pressed the button again. ‘Vicki, try Mr Ismay’s home number again.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Vicki’s disembodied voice came through the speaker system.
‘Go and get me the details, Suzanne. I want to know everything.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Suzanne left to follow Mabry’s instructions.
‘I’m astounded,’ he said again. ‘I can’t understand why Mr Ismay would authorise something like that without discussing it with me first. I’m the manager for God’s sake.’
‘You have three directors, I believe?’ Parish said.
‘Yes, that’s right. Mr William Ismay is the Executive Director and has an office upstairs. Mr Hastings Shipton and Mrs Grace Dingle are non-Executive Directors. They don’t have offices, but attend board meetings every so often.
Vicki buzzed through. ‘Still no answer, Mr Mabry.’
‘Thanks Vicki,’ he said. ‘I have no idea where Mr Ismay is.’
Suzanne came back with a double-entry accounts books and placed it on the desk. She had obviously been crying. ‘Am I going to lose my job now, Mr Mabry?’
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen at the moment, Suzanne. There will obviously have to be an investigation.’
Suzanne left in tears.
Mabry opened up the book and scanned the information. ‘Yes, you’re right. Four of the workers are getting an extra one thousand pounds each a month on top of their wages. It’s been going on for about four months.’
‘Any ideas what the extra money is for?’ Parish asked.
‘None at all.’ He pressed the intercom button again. ‘Vicki, I want to see Brent Laing, Craig Wilson, Simon Poulson and Jackie Lockhart, and I want to see them now.’
‘Yes, Mr Mabry.’
They heard Vicki hurry out of the office.
‘I can only think they’re doing something illegal,’ Mabry said. ‘Why would Mr Ismay ask four of his workers to do something illegal? A thousand pounds is a lot of money on top of their normal wage. It would be hard to resist. You don’t think Mr Ismay hasn’t come in today because he knew you were coming, do you?’
Parish pulled a face. ‘That’s a good point, Mr Mabry.’ He said to Richards, ‘While we’re waiting, ring Inspector Threadneedle. Ask her to send a squad car round to Ismay’s home address and pick him up for questioning if he’s there.’
Richards nodded and went out into the main office. To get the address and make the call.
‘What’s Mr Ismay like?’ Parish asked.
‘He’s sixty-seven and lives alone. He had a wife, but she left him – I don’t know why – none of my business. He has three adult children – two boys and a girl. I have no idea where they are. He’s been the Executive Director here for over ten years since old man Winton retired, and he gets paid a director’s salary as well as the dividends at the end of the financial year.’
‘Do you have a good relationship with him?’
‘I thought I did, but he seems to have been doing something behind my back . . . Or should that be – under my nose?’
A din came from the outer office.
Parish stood up and went out to see what was happening.
‘Brent Laing and Simon Poulson have gone, Sir,’ Vicki said.
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘Gone. When I said that there were police here to speak to them, they ran for it. Well, they got in their cars and drove off.’
He looked at the other two. ‘You two must be Craig Wilson and Jackie Lockhart?’
They nodded.
‘What’s it all about then?’
The woman spoke up first. ‘Horse meat. Mr Ismay said we’d get a thousand pounds extra in our pay packets each month if we did as he asked.’
‘Which was?’
‘Someone would ring us between ten at night and two in the morning. We’d then come to the factory to open up and take the delivery of horse meat, which we minced and mixed in with the beef that had already been processed.’
Wilson spoke up. ‘We didn’t see no harm in it. I mean, they eat horse meat in countries all over the world. I’ve had it myself and I didn’t turn into a fucking zombie.’
‘Take a seat,’ he said to them.
They sat down in some hard back chairs by the door.
‘Call Inspector Threadneedle again. Ask her to send a couple of cars here, and to track down Laing and Poulson. Someone should also call environmental health as well.’
‘Do you think Lorna Boyce was murdered because of horse meat, Sir?’
‘Looks like it, Richards. Although ultimately, I’m sure, it will be about money.’
***
It was five to five when Stick walked into the squad room. Xena wasn’t there. He guessed she must have gone down to the press briefing, but if she had why were the copies of the photofit on her desk? Maybe she hadn’t been able to arrange the press briefing for five o’clock. He rang Jenny Weber.
‘Jenny, it’s Rowley.’
‘Hello, Rowley. You should come up and see me instead of that horrible bitch you call your partner.’
‘She’s been up to see you then?’
‘Yes, about an hour ago. Asked me to arrange a press briefing for five.’
‘And you did?’
‘Yes. She’ll be there now. I’m just on my way down.’
‘I’ll come with you. It looks like she forgot the pictures. See you on the stairs.’
The call ended.
It wasn’t like the Sarge to forget things. He picked up the stack of photofits and headed towards the stairs.
Jenny was just coming down the stairs.
‘Hey, I heard Calvin Klein had snapped you up as a model for his latest line.’
She laughed. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
He grinned like a weird papier-mâché marionette. ‘I do, but I especially mean it when I say it to you.’
She blushed. ‘You do know I’m married with a young baby and you shouldn’t be flirting with me, don’t you?’
‘I know, but I also know that women like to feel special, especially after they’ve just had a baby. I guess your husband doesn’t make you feel special, does he?’
‘He’s a pig, like most men. What about you? Do you have someone special, Rowley?’
‘You won’t tell Sergeant Blake, will you?’
‘I wouldn’t give her the scum off the top of my fish pond.’
‘She’s not that bad.’
‘I know, she’s worse.’
‘I have a girlfriend.’
‘Good for you, Rowley. What’s her name?’
‘Jennifer. She’s a police officer as well – at Southend.’
‘That’s a fair way to go.’
‘Well, she more or less lives with me now.’
‘Does she commute back and forwards to Southend every day?’
‘Yeah . . . I know, it’s a bit of a hike.’
‘I’ll say. Maybe one of you should get a transfer.’
‘We’ve talked about it, but . . .’
‘Let me guess. Sergeant Blake?’
‘Mmmm.’
Stick held the door open for Jenny to walk into the press briefing room first and then he followed her.
‘Speaking of the Devil’s whore,’ Jenny said. ‘Where is Sergeant Blake?’
‘I thought she’d be here. Maybe she just popped to the toilet. I know . . . Yeah well, I think it’s that time of the month for her.’
‘Oh.’
Stick checked his watch. It was five past five. She was never late. Where was she?
The press were getting restless.
‘Anybody got a clue what’s happening?’
‘Don’t be silly, this is a police station.’
A ripple of laughter.
‘Sergeant Blake’s trying to make herself look beautiful for the cameras.’
‘We’re going to have a long wait then.’
More laughter.
Stick cast his eyes over them. ‘Hey, there’s no need to get personal. Some of you lot look as though you should have made an effort this morning.’
‘You’ll have to do the briefing,’ Jenny said to him.
‘Me? I’ve never done one before.’
‘I don’t see anybody else here. You must know what she was going to say.’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘Time to come out of the shadows, Rowley.’
He climbed up onto the raised platform, sat behind the table where Sergeant Blake normally sat and poured himself a drink of water. His mouth had turned into the Gobi desert. He could imagine camels and lizards roaming around in there, searching high and low for moisture.
He cleared his throat unnecessarily.
Quiet descended on the room.
‘I’m DC Gilbert. Sergeant Blake has been delayed. Last Friday . . .’ He pulled his notebook out to check the date. ‘April 5 at approximately four-thirty, a woman’s severed hand was deposited in a waste bin outside the ‘A Salt N Battered’ fish and chip shop on Hoddesdon High Street. As yet, despite exhaustive enquiries, we have no identity as to the owner of the hand.’ He nodded at Jenny, who began distributing the pictures. ‘We have managed to construct a photofit likeness of the woman we would like to question, which Mrs Weber is passing round now, and I’d be very grateful if you could publish/display it with the message that if anyone knows this woman to please be so kind as to contact us on the usual confidential number.’
The questions began.
‘Tammy Matson from the Redbridge Times. You don’t think the woman is dead then?’
‘We’re really not sure, Tammy. The pathologist seems to think she might be, but we can’t be one hundred percent sure.’
‘Joel Metcalfe from the Epping Guardian. Have you any idea who disposed of the severed hand, detective?’
‘No. There is the possibility that the person might be Jewish.’
‘What about the woman, could she be Jewish as well?’
‘Yes, she could be. She was wearing a ring on her index finger with Hebrew writing, which translated means: I have found the one my soul loves.’
‘Pansy Lupin from the Epping and Redbridge Independent. You’ve found a hand, but where’s the rest of her?’
He shrugged. ‘We only have a hand at the moment.’
‘But you’re treating it as murder, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He looked around. There didn’t seem to be any more questions. He stood up. ‘Thank you all for coming. I’m sure Sergeant Blake will be at the next briefing.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a uniformed officer enter and whisper something to Jenny.
She signalled him.
He climbed down from the platform. ‘What is it?’
‘Sergeant Blake. Somebody found her in a toilet cubicle unconscious.’
He rushed out of the door and ran up the stairs. People were crowded around the ladies toilet door.
‘Let me through,’ he called, shoving people out of the way. He surprised himself by raising his voice. ‘Will you let me through?’ He never raised his voice.
The paramedics were there.
Sergeant Blake was lying on the tiled floor with an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and an intravenous canula in the back of her hand attached to a clear bag of liquid. She looked deathly white.
‘Ready . . . ?’ one of the paramedics said. ‘Lift.’
They lifted her into a basket stretcher and buckled her in.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Stick asked.
‘That’s up to the doctors,’ the taller and older of the two paramedics said.
They began carrying her out.
Stick followed them. ‘Will she be all right?’
‘The sooner we get her to hospital the better.’
‘I’m her partner. Can I come with her?’
‘I don’t see why not, mate.’
He followed them out. He’d never forgive himself if she died. He was meant to be her partner, to protect her back. Where was he when she needed him?