Chapter Six
Vista Climbing was located on the Milford Industrial Estate, not far from Cineworld on the A118 in Ilford. It was a large store with three “Pay Here” points, and a roof that had been modified to accommodate an indoor climbing wall at the rear of the store that rose up out of the floor like a thirty-foot megalith.
‘Hey, look at that,’ Richards said, inching towards the wall.
It had been constructed like a rock face, with jutting protrusions and obstacles on the way up. There were handholds and footholds all the way up, but it didn’t look easy to climb at all. At one point – if a climber opted for a specific route to the top – they would need to hang horizontal before moving vertical again.
They stood watching three children of about ten years old climbing up a flat part of the wall like monkeys. Each of them wore harnesses, helmets and were attached to safety ropes. There was an instructor at the bottom and at the top guiding them upwards.
‘You should give it a go,’ Parish said.
‘I don’t think so, but don’t let me stop you.’
‘I’ve done it before.’
‘When?’
‘When you didn’t know me. I had a life before you, you know.’
‘Not much of one from what I remember.’
‘Part of that life was a stint doing rock climbing and abseiling.’
‘So you’re an expert.’
‘Hardly. I liked abseiling down, but climbing up was too much like hard work for my liking. It shredded the ends of my fingers, and I couldn’t see the point of going up just to come back down again.’
‘So you gave it up.’
‘There wasn’t anything to give up. I did it twice, and then decided it wasn’t for me. But you should have a go. We can spare thirty minutes, so that you can decide whether you want to climb up walls for a hobby.’
‘I don’t . . .’
‘I agree,’ a tall dark-haired man said from behind them. He had a four-o’clock shadow, even white teeth, and muscles on his neck and arms that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. ‘Someone with your fabulous body could slither up that rock face like a mountain goat.’
Richards’ face turned a rosy shade of red. ‘So, you think I look like a mountain goat?’
‘I think you look like the Venus de Milo, but with clothes on sadly, and arms.’
‘And I have no idea what you just said.’
‘My name is Ricky . . . Ricky Walters. Let me take you away from all this.’
‘Up the wall, you mean?’
‘Up the wall and far, far away.’
Parish chipped in. ‘Go on, give it a try.’
‘You just want to see me fall on my backside.’
‘Nobody falls off the wall,’ Ricky said, and grinned. ‘You won’t regret it.’
‘I haven’t got time . . .’
‘We’ve got time, Richards.’
She looked around for an escape route, but couldn’t find one.
‘I’ll make this first lesson free,’ Ricky said.
‘You know you want to,’ Parish egged her on.
Her shoulders sagged. ‘Just this once then, but if I fall . . .’
Ricky put his arm around her waist and led her away. ‘I’ll keep you safe . . . ?’
‘Mary Richards.’
‘What a beautiful name.’
Parish wandered off to find the manager.
‘John Baguley,’ a bald-headed squat man wearing calf-length cargo shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt said. The blanket-covering of hair on his arms, shoulders and legs was in stark contrast to the lack of hair on his head. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Detective Inspector Parish,’ he said, flashing his warrant card. ‘I’m interested in a size 6 Rosa Amento climbing shoe,’ he said.
‘A good choice, Sir. If you were female, and . . .’ He looked down at Parish’s feet. ‘. . . a size 6. It’s certainly one of our bestsellers.’
‘I’m investigating a murder, and we have evidence that the killer was wearing a pair of those climbing shoes.’
‘I see.’
‘What I need from you is the name and address of anyone who has bought a pair of those particular climbing shoes in the past three months.’ He knew that the killer’s name might not be among those on a list of clients. For instance, they could have bought the shoes longer than three months ago. Also, a purchase could have been made as a gift for the killer. It was the best lead he had though, and he would just have to see where it led him.
‘The Rosa Amento was introduced into our range of climbing shoes two months ago, so it is fairly new, Sir. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see what we have on our database.’
He followed Mr Baguley through the shop, and spotted Richards looking like a deformed tarantula about six feet up the climbing wall.
So, there was only two months’ worth of purchases to look at, and at £300 a pair he couldn’t imagine that there would be many names on the list. Also, quite a few of those people would live beyond the Essex area, and could hardly be considered as suspects.
They reached the manager’s office.
Parish sat down while Baguley accessed his computer.
‘Okay, let’s see what there is. Vista Climbing have three outlets in the UK with exclusive rights to sell Scalata climbing equipment. One in Newcastle, one in Manchester and the last one here in Ilford. All purchases are held on a central database. Do you want me to print off purchases for all three outlets, or just this one, Inspector?’
‘All of them, and then I’ll decide who might be relevant and who won’t be.’
‘Can I interest you in any of our arctic jackets for the winter? The long-range forecast isn’t looking good.’
‘You’re not trying to bribe a police officer, are you?’
Baguley laughed. ‘To what ends?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me?’
The printing finished. Baguley turned round, collected up the papers and stapled them together. ‘There we are, Inspector,’ he said, passing the list across the table.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Baguley. I’ll overlook the attempted bribery this time.’
‘Very kind of you, I’m sure.’
He meandered back into the shop and headed for the climbing wall. Richards was three quarters of the way up with a pained expression on her face.
‘You look as though you’re having a good time, Richards,’ he called to her.
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘I think I’ve got altitude sickness.’
‘You’re twenty feet from the ground.’
‘That’s high enough, isn’t it?’
‘I hear they’re looking for volunteers for the next attempt on Everest?’
‘Everywhere hurts.’
‘You do too much sitting around on that fat arse of yours, that’s your trouble, Richards.’
‘I’m never going to speak to you again.’
‘It’s not my birthday, is it?’
‘You’re a pig.’
Ricky Walters was perched on a ledge at the top. ‘Come on, Mary. Not far to go now.’
‘It’s miles up to there.’
‘A few feet.’
‘Well, it seems like miles.’
She reached up with her left hand and grabbed a handhold. Moved her left foot onto a foothold, closed her eyes and sighed.
‘Will you get a move on, Richards. If I’d known it was going to take this long I never would have agreed to you having a lesson.’
She said nothing.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘If I speak I might swear.’
‘Best say nothing then,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Swearing at a senior officer can get you into all sorts of trouble.’
He found a chair, sat down and waded through the list of people who had purchased a pair of Rosa Amento climbing shoes. There were thirty-nine people dotted around the country. After he’d finished crossing names out, he had a list of five that were within spitting distance of Hoddesdon as the crow flies.
***
Minster Electronics was located on Broadmeads in Ware, not far from the train station, and employed fifty-five people. The company was responsible for designing and drawing up electrical wiring, power and lighting diagrams and schematics for commercial buildings, hospitals, industrial plants, mills, public halls, cinemas and educational institutions, together with overseeing installation where necessary.
The building was of a two-storey corrugated-metal warehouse-type construction. Inside the main doors, a sign directed them up metal stairs to the general office.
After navigating past the reception area, they weaved their way through a large office containing a lot of people – males and females – sitting at desks and working on computers, to reach the glass-fronted General Manager’s office.
Scott Decker was a tall lithe man with a swathe of baldness from front to back, a checked shirt, a button-up cardigan with pockets and an American accent.
Xena showed her warrant card. ‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert. We’re here . . .’
‘. . . About Peter Lloyd?’
‘That’s right.’
‘We’re devastated. The flag’s at half mast . . .’
Stick wandered to the window on the right of the office and peered out. ‘I didn’t see a flag when we came in,’ he said.
‘Metaphorical – as you Brits say.’
‘What’s an American doing . . .’
‘You’re trying to rile me, aren’t you? I’m Canadian not American. Canadians are a different species altogether – much nicer and less bombastic.’
‘My apologies. What’s a Canadian doing over here? Is this a Canadian company?’
‘My mother’s to blame – she’s a Brit. Or, we could blame my father – he’s a Canadian – for marrying a Brit. Either way, the blame lies firmly at their feet. I was born in Canada, but we all packed up and moved over here when I was sixteen or so . . .’
‘And you haven’t learnt to speak English during the intervening years?’
He smiled. ‘That’s one thing I like about the Brits – their sense of humour – dry as dust. So, have you found out who killed Peter yet?’
‘No, not yet. That’s why we’re here.’
‘You think someone here killed him?’
‘We’re following a line of enquiry, that’s all.’
‘Everyone liked Peter. A nicer guy you couldn’t wish to meet. I’m sure nobody here will have a bad word to say about him.’
‘What about you, Mr Decker?’
‘I got on with Peter just fine. We didn’t socialise together, but at work we were best buddies.’
‘Why didn’t you socialise together?’
‘Different lifestyles. Peter liked his home life, his wife and kids. Whereas, I have no wife and kids. Every chance I get I’m out and about – an adrenaline junkie, I’m afraid. Mountain biking, motocross, base jumping, parkour, bungee jumping, skydiving . . . I’ve tried all the extreme sports. Every chance I get I’m out there . . .’
‘. . . Trying to kill yourself?’
‘Who wants to live to a ripe old age anyway?’
‘And Peter wasn’t into any of that?’
‘No. He preferred to sit at home and study.’
‘You knew about his Masters degree?’
‘Yes. We both had personal challenges – just that his were different from mine. One weekend a month he used to spend in Surrey.’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘It wasn’t a distance-learning degree?’
‘No. I think it was called a modular degree. Every six months or so he’d do another module, which included a weekend taught element at Surrey . . . Anyway, I don’t think he had long left until he’d finished.’
‘And you don’t know of anybody who would have wanted to kill him?’
‘I don’t know of anyone who had a bad word to say about him.’
Xena turned on the chair she was sitting on and looked out through the window into the large outer office. ‘There are a number of females who work here – what about an office romance?’
He laughed. ‘Peter?’
‘Yes. We’re pursuing the idea that a woman killed Peter.’
‘A woman? I know all our female employees personally . . . In a work capacity only, of course, and I don’t think any of them are capable of murder – never mind killing Peter. He treated them all with courtesy and respect.’
‘We’ll need to interview each of them.’
‘By all means. Would you care to do that now?’
‘We’re here.’ She looked at Stick who shrugged. ‘If that’s all right with you?’
‘I’ll ask the Office Manager to organise a room. Tea and coffee?’
‘Just a pot of coffee, please.’
‘Some biscuits would be nice,’ Stick said.
Xena glanced at him. ‘Forget about the biscuits, Mr Decker. DS Gilbert can buy his own biscuits.’
Decker picked up the phone on his desk.
Shortly after, a portly woman with glasses and shoulder-length dark hair entered.
‘This is our office manager – Bea Shell,’ Decker said. ‘She’ll sort you out with a couple of rooms and a pot of coffee each to keep you both going.’
Xena stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Decker.’
Bea opened the door and let Xena go through into the outer office first.
Stick followed and whispered to Bea as he passed.
‘What’s that?’ Xena asked.
‘What’s what?’ Stick responded.
‘Are you asking that woman for biscuits?’
‘Absolutely not.’
She glared at Bea.
Bea pulled a non-committal face.
‘If I find you’ve had biscuits there’ll be consequences.’
‘And quite rightly so as well.’
‘Two rooms and coffee?’ Bea confirmed.
‘And no biscuits,’ Xena said.
Stick shook his head at Bea. ‘Definitely no biscuits.’
‘We’d also like a staff list each for cross-referencing purposes, and if you could send in all the staff who are here, one at a time, that would be excellent?’
‘Of course.’ After showing them to two side rooms – Xena was in the conference room, and Stick was in the training room – she left to organise the coffee.
‘You know what questions to ask, don’t you?’ Xena said.
‘Where were they last night? Can anyone verify their alibi? Did they have a relationship with Peter Lloyd? . . .’
‘The women only.’
‘Of course.’
‘Okay. Limit your questioning to no longer than five minutes. If you’re unsure about any of them, make a note against their name and we’ll both interview them again afterwards.’
‘Will do.’
‘And no biscuits.’
‘I’m not even hungry.’
‘I’ve got my eyes on you, Stickyfingers.’
Another woman appeared with the coffees, and then the first employees turned up for interviewing, so they went into their respective rooms.
The interviews took just over an hour.
Xena was the first to finish and slipped into Stick’s room just as he was finishing off interviewing a ginger-haired man with a tic in his left eyelid.
After the man left Xena said, ‘What’s that on the table?’
‘Polish?’
‘Crumbs?’
Stick pulled a face, turned his head at an angle and examined the table. ‘What crumbs? I can’t see any crumbs.’
Xena brushed her left hand across the table, scooping what was there into her other hand. ‘I thought so – biscuit crumbs.’
‘I’d like a second opinion.’
‘You ate their biscuits after I said you should buy your own.’
‘Prove it.’
‘I’ve a good mind to bring you up on disciplinary charges.’
‘Will it be okay if I call you as a character witness?’
‘Sometimes, I despair of you, numpty.’
***
‘I’ll never be able to walk normally again,’ Richards said after she’d abseiled down to the foot of the wall.
‘Stop being a drama queen. You’ve just been using muscles you didn’t know you had.’
Ricky Walters followed her down. ‘So, when should I book you in for your second lesson, Mary?’
‘How about never?’ She wriggled out of the harness, dropped it on the floor and thrust the safety hat at him.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I’ve never meant anything more seriously in my whole life.’ She began hobbling towards the door. ‘I take it we’ve finished in here?’ she directed at Parish.
‘Yes, I’ve done all the hard work while you’ve been up a wall enjoying yourself.’
‘I should report you to the RSPCD.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Daughters.’
He laughed. ‘Is that your new charity?’
‘I’m compiling a report.’
‘Of course you are.’
They made their way back to the car.
‘I’m aching all over,’ she said as she slid into the driving seat. ‘And have you seen my nails? . . . Or should I say: broken nails.’
‘At least now you know that rock climbing isn’t for you.’
‘I knew that before you bullied me into climbing that wall.’
‘Bullied?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Do you want to know what I found out?’
‘Don’t try to bribe me.’
‘Five names in and around Hoddesdon.’
‘Five! Is that all?’
Parish took the folded list of names out of his pocket. ‘I started off with thirty-nine, but they were all over the country.’
‘And you’ve narrowed them down to five?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m too physically and psychologically damaged to care.’
‘Oh well, when we get to the first address, which is on the way back to the station, I’ll interview her on my own.’
‘That suits me just fine. I said I was never going to speak to you again anyway.’
‘Did you forget?’
She didn’t say anything.
He keyed the address into the satnav himself and said, ‘Drive.’
They followed the A406 from Ilford to White Hart Lane, and then took the A10 North to Cheshunt. Kerry Oliver lived in an apartment block at 43 King Arthur Close.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in with me?’
‘Have you got a walking frame in the boot I could use?’
‘No, but I’m willing to give you a piggy-back.’
‘You’re determined to make a fool of me at every opportunity, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t think you need any help in that department.’
‘Sometimes . . .’
‘. . . You think I’m the best boss in the world?’
‘Not even close.’
Parish pressed the bell on the intercom system.
‘Hello?’ said a female voice.
‘Police to see Miss Kerry Oliver.’
‘Have you got some form of identification?’
He held up his warrant card towards the domed CCTV camera secured to the ceiling of the entrance porch.
A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open.
‘Apartment C on the third floor,’ the voice said.
‘Should we walk up the stairs?’ Parish suggested.
Richards half-laughed. ‘Very funny.’
They caught the lift.
Kerry Oliver was waiting for them in the doorway of her apartment. She was all skin and bone with dirty blonde hair and strange grey eyes like a cat’s.
‘What do the police want with a law-abiding citizen?’
She didn’t invite them in.
‘You’re a climber?’
‘Yes, but how . . . ?’
‘You purchased a pair of Rosa Amento climbing shoes from Vista Climbing?’
‘That’s right. About six weeks ago. They’re very good. Is this a personal visit to find out what I think of them?’
‘Hardly. Where were you last night?’
‘When last night?’
‘All night. Between eight and six this morning?’
‘After work I went to the Laura Trott Leisure Centre – just off Windmill Lane – to do some climbing until nine o’clock . . .’
‘Can anyone verify that?’
‘About twenty people.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Christine Wells – my climbing buddy – and I went to the King James pub at around nine until ten-thirty, and then I came home and went to bed.’
‘Alone?’
‘That’s rather personal.’
‘I’m looking for a murderer, Miss Oliver. Personal doesn’t come into it.’
‘Well, if you must know, Billy Prentice came back with me and stayed until seven this morning.’
‘Do you own a vehicle?’
‘A Fiat 500.’
He looked at Richards. ‘Anything you want to ask?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Thanks for your time, Miss Oliver. Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Okay.’
She closed the door.
They made their way downstairs.
‘What do you think?’ he said to Richards.
‘Cross her off the list.’
‘My thoughts exactly. How are you feeling?’
‘As if you care.’
It was quarter to five when they reached the station.
‘Are we going home now?’ Richards asked. ‘I need to soak in a hot bath.’
‘In this weather? You’d be better in a bath filled with goat’s milk and ice cubes.’
‘Oh, so now you’re a muscle doctor?’
‘No, we’re not going home. If memory serves, you have a SCAS Questionnaire to fill in, and we also need to put what we’ve got so far on the incident board to get a head start on tomorrow.’
‘I can see I’ll have to re-file my complaint with the Court of Human Rights.’
‘While you’re thinking about the correct wording for that – make me a coffee, and don’t spit in it.’
‘You have some strange ideas.’
While he waited for Richards to arrive with his coffee, he went into the incident room and began making notes on the whiteboard:
Victim: Male, 35 – 45 years old. Time of Death: between 2 and 3 in the morning. Found naked, hanging upside down from metal beam to resemble The Hanged Man from pack of Tarot cards. No clothes or identity documents. Drugged and exsanguinated using medical equipment. Drag marks on back. Puncture wound in chest directed towards the heart (reason unknown).
Killer: Possibly a woman; size 6 feet; wore a pair of Scalata Rosa Amento climbing shoes, and climbing gloves; experienced climber; used pulley, Mammut 10 mm climbing rope and tied professional knots (Clove-Hitch and Bowline) to suspend victim from metal beam. Experienced in picking locks.
Suspects (Kerry Oliver from Cheshunt discounted):
Jean Tallent – Waltham Abbey
Petra Winter – Harlow
Norma Hyde – Ware
Judy Martin Goff’s Oak
Crime Scene: Wormley Village Hall. Access gained by use of lock pick gun.
Post mortem: Toxicology? Reason for puncture wound in chest? Identity? DNA match? Fingerprint match?
Forensics: Analysis of rope and knots? Analysis of hair and fibres? Missing person report?
Other: House-to-house? Local CCTV footage? Traffic CCTV footage? SCAS Questionnaire?
Richards arrived with his coffee.
‘I thought you might have travelled to Brazil for the beans,’ he said.
‘As if. You’ve been busy without me.’
‘Unlike you. This is what hard work looks like – something that seems to be alien to you. So, while you’re filling out the SCAS Questionnaire . . .’
‘We haven’t got all the information yet.’
‘No, but filling in what you can tonight, will save us time tomorrow. We have to brief the Chief, give a press briefing, visit suspects, have lunch with Doc Riley, visit more suspects . . .’
‘And what are you going to do while I’m doing all the work?’
‘I’m going to do what you should have been doing earlier. But instead of focusing on the murder investigation that you’re being paid good money to investigate, you were half-way up a wall enjoying yourself.’
‘But you said . . .’
‘I say a lot of things, but you have free will . . .’
‘But you said . . .’
‘Are you a robot, Richards? A puppet with strings through your hands and feet? No, you’re a living, talking, walking human being, and human beings have choices to make. You chose to climb up a wall and neglect your work. Now I have to pick up the slack. You fill out what you can of the SCAS Questionnaire and send it off with a note saying you’ll despatch additional information as and when it becomes available, and I’ll do all the hard work, otherwise we’ll never get home.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘A pig who still has his snout in the trough.’ He left the incident room, walked up the corridor and went into the squad room.
He called Traffic first.
‘Sergeant Yeomans. How can the Road Traffic Policing Unit help you today?’
‘It’s DI Parish about . . .’
‘I was just about to call you, Sir . . . Well, DC Richards anyway.’
‘You’ve got something for us?’
‘We have cameras on Macer’s Lane and High Road in Wormley. You might want to come down and take a look at what we’ve found.’
‘On my way Sergeant.’
He replaced the phone in its cradle and made his way down to Traffic on the ground floor.
‘’I hope this is good news, Yeomans,’ he said, taking a seat next to the Sergeant.
‘So do I, Sir.’
He was watching an empty road at night on a computer screen. It was one forty-three in the morning on December 8 – today.
A black van came along High Road, past Broxbourne Filling Station and turned right down Fairfield Drive towards Wormley Village Hall.
‘The same van makes the return journey at two fifty-seven,’ Sergeant Yeomans said. ‘We’ve checked the number plate. It was reported stolen two days ago from outside a house in Brookman’s Park, but that’s not what I wanted you to see – take a look at this.’ He rewound the recording to the point at which the van appeared on the screen, slowed it down to half-speed and then stopped it as the driver’s face came clearly into view – it was a man.
‘How do you know that this is the same van that went to the Village Hall?’
‘One of the officers on the house-to-house found this . . .’ He minimised one screen and maximised another.
Parish moved his head left and right so that his brain could register what his eyes were seeing. ‘It that a number plate?’
‘It’s the tail-end of the van. The camera is on the side of a house at the back of the Village Hall, which takes in part of the fire door. It’s the same number plate as the one we’ve just seen on High Road.’
‘Can you see anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Why is the date-time stamp September 12, thirteen thirty-six?’
‘Yeah. A decent lawyer will use that if it ever gets to court. The owner of the house said they’ve been plagued with power-cuts, and he never bothered correcting the date and time after a while.’
‘Let’s go back to the other screen.’
Yeomans switched screens.
Parish stared at the bearded man with long straggly hair in the driving seat. ‘It’s meant to be a woman,’’ he said.
‘Maybe he’s the accomplice, and the woman is in the back of the van.’
‘Maybe. Can I take copies of . . . ?’
Yeomans passed him a DVD.
‘Thanks. And a print . . . ?’
A photograph slid across the table.
‘I see you’ve thought of everything.’
‘I like to be efficient.’
‘Thanks for your help, Sergeant.’
‘No problem, Sir.’
He walked back up to the incident room.
Richards was just finishing off what she could of the SCAS Questionnaire.
He placed the photograph in front of her, slipped the DVD into the recorder and showed her what Sergeant Yeomans had shown him.
Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘That can’t be right.’
‘You have the evidence in front of you.’
‘Maybe he’s just the driver.’
‘Maybe he is, but we found no evidence at the Village Hall that two people were involved.’
‘Maybe the driver just stayed in the van.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should stop speculating and work with what we’ve got. You add the new information to the SCAS Questionnaire, take a copy and send it off, and I’ll go up to see Jenny Weber in the Press Office and ask her to print off copies of the man’s photograph ready for the press briefing tomorrow morning.’
‘Can we go home then?’
‘Anybody would think you had a hot date.’
‘I do.’