Chapter Eleven
Doc Riley was sitting at a table dressed in a clean pair of blue scrubs underneath a white coat waiting for them.
‘I thought you’d forgotten.’
‘We’ve been busy,’ Parish said. He checked his watch. ‘Anyway, we’re only five minutes late, and that was down to Richards’ poor driving.’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s all right. I forgive you this time, but if there’s any more of it we might have to send you on an advanced driving course.’
She ignored him. ‘Don’t listen to him, Doc. It’s been so long since he drove he’s forgotten how, and he wouldn’t know what bad driving looked like if it bit him on the bum.’
‘So, are we eating?’ Parish said, licking his lips and heading towards the end of the queue.
The other two followed him.
‘You two had better go ahead of me seeing as you’ve conspired together to make sure I’m the one paying again.’
Richards – as usual – had the chef’s salad; Doc Riley pointed to the sweet potato, chickpea and spinach curry; and Parish ordered the Lincolnshire sausages, mash and peas.
Once they were settled at the table and lunch was well underway, Doc Riley slid a 2 x 2 inch evidence bag across the table towards him. Inside the sealed bag was a tiny heavily-stained scrap of paper. The creases suggested it had been folded over into four, but it was now opened up to reveal two numbers printed on it in a heavy black ink:
31
‘If you recall, there was a puncture wound in the lower chest that had been made post mortem and directed towards the heart. At the time, I couldn’t determine whether the wound had pierced the heart or not. I can now tell you that it did. This piece of paper was inserted into the right ventricle.’
‘By accident or design?’ Parish asked.
Doc Riley shrugged. ‘I’d say by design if I was forced to give you an answer.’
‘That must have taken some doing.’
‘Exactly.’
‘How did they get the paper in there?’
‘I’m thinking a long-handled pair of tweezers or alligator forceps. They’re readily available from medical suppliers and other places.’
‘Other places?’
‘A hobby shop, for instance. They’re used by tropical fish enthusiasts, and to build ships in bottles.’
‘I always wondered how they did that,’ Richards said.
‘Well, now you know.’
Richards craned her neck to look at the piece of paper. ‘What does it mean?’
Parish pulled a face. ‘I think it means 31.’
‘Very funny! 31 what?’
‘Maybe this is the thirty-first victim?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Maybe 31 is the first part of the killer’s address.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Feel free to offer your own suggestions, Little Miss Naysayer.’
‘I haven’t got any.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘It could be related to the Tarot cards.’
Richards’ brow creased up. ‘The Hanged Man card was number twelve in the pack. Which card is number thirty-one?’
Parish thought for a moment. It had been a while since he’d read up on the Tarot cards. ‘There is no thirty-one.’
‘I thought you said there were seventy-four cards in the pack.’
‘There are, but if you recall, I also said there were twenty-two trump cards called the Major Arcana, and four suits of playing cards with fourteen in each suit called the Minor Arcana. Neither the trump cards nor the playing cards in the suits go up to thirty-one.’
‘So, the number isn’t related to the Tarot cards.’
He shook his head. ‘I guess not.’
‘Have you any idea, Doc?’ Richards asked her.
‘None at all. Now, if it was a medical mystery, then I’m the person you’d come to . . .’
‘And wax fobs,’ Parish suggested.
Doc Riley smiled, stopped eating her curry and pulled a gold necklace that had been hidden beneath her blue medical top to reveal a Victorian wax-seal fob dangling from it. ‘This particular fob has my initials – MR – engraved into the bloodstone. It cost me two hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘Really?’ Richards said. ‘There’s not much cause for using wax seals now though, is there?’
‘I use it for fun sometimes, but that’s not why I bought it. I have over a hundred in my collection now, and I wear some of them as necklaces.’
Richards fingered it. ‘It’s unusual.’
‘Yes it is. Seals date back to the Old Testament, and an unbroken seal conferred authenticity on . . .’
He wished he’d never mentioned her fob obsession now. ‘Can we get back to Patrick Carroll’s body, please? So, is there anything else you can tell us, Doc?’
She slid the post mortem report towards Richards. ‘No, nothing else, I’m afraid.’
‘We found a CCTV recording of the killer,’ Richards said.
Doc Riley raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
Parish stopped eating. ‘You can’t say that, Richards.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we don’t know that the woman in the recording was the last person to see Patrick Carroll alive. We have no idea when he was abducted; where he was abducted from; or where he was kept following his abduction. We can’t place the woman at the crime scene. He could have travelled to France, filled up a van with booze and cigarettes, and returned to the UK during the time we can’t account for his movements or whereabouts.’
‘Huh!’ She turned to Doc Riley. ‘But apart from all that, we think she’s the killer.’
‘And then there’s the male driver of the van who we can place at the crime scene – what about him, Richards?’
‘He must be an accomplice.’
‘Pure speculation. If anything, he’s more likely to be our killer.’
‘But how do you explain the prints from the female climbing shoes that were found on the Village Hall floor?’
‘I can’t, and I’m not going to make wild stabs in the dark in an effort to try and make the crime fit the evidence.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Doc. We both know who the killer is, we just have to prove it now.’
‘And then, of course, we have no idea who she is, who the male driver is, what the motive for the murder is . . . You’d be a fool to listen to Richards, Doc. She has this habit of pinning the tail on the donkey regardless of the evidence or where the donkey actually is.’
‘I have this habit of being right, you mean.’
‘Talking of suspects, I’m sure I saw a chocolate muffin in the serverie that deserves closer scrutiny. What about you two?’
Richards shook her head.
‘Apple pie and custard for me,’ Doc Riley said.
‘Mmmm! That sounds homely.’
‘I can recommend it.’
‘Not lumpy custard?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe I’ll release the chocolate muffin on police bail and take the apple pie into custardy instead.’ He smiled at his little joke.
Richards rolled her eyes.
He went back up to the counter and came back with two apple pies smothered in custard.
***
Jerry and Joe caught the tube from Hounslow East to Holloway Road. It was a straightforward journey on the Piccadilly Line and took them just under an hour to reach their destination.
Throughout the journey, Joe kept looking at the faces of the other passengers, convinced that each and every one of them was following them.
‘What about her over there?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know, Mrs K?’
‘I know.’
‘What do MI5 agents look like? Is there something that gives them away? How can you separate them out from normal passengers?’
‘You can’t.’
‘So everyone of these people could be following us and we wouldn’t know, would we?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But they’re not, are they?’
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you worried, Mrs K?’
‘About what?’
‘About being followed?’
‘No. If someone from MI5 was following us, then they’d know everything about us already. We’re going to an empty house in Holloway, which is hardly something worth killing us for. If I were you Joe, I’d just sit back and relax.’
He half-smiled. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’
But he didn’t. She saw his head jerk round every time someone new came into the carriage, and noticed his hands clenching and unclenching when people moved. He was like a nervous wreck who had been let out on licence for the day.
They could have walked had they known where they were going. Instead, they jumped into a taxi outside the tube station. It cost her five pounds and took them less than five minutes to reach 17 Walters Road, which was adjacent to City and Islington College on the corner of Camden Road and Caledonian Road.
Joe stared out of the rear window during the journey.
‘There’s no one following us,’ he said, after she’d paid the taxi driver and they were standing outside the address.
‘That’s good to hear. Can you relax now, Joe?’
‘I’m relaxed, Mrs K.’
‘Good.’
Number 17 wasn’t empty at all, but then why would it be after forty-four years?
She had no idea what to do next. Why were they here? Forty-four years was a long time ago. She hadn’t even been born then, and Joe wasn’t even a twinkle in his father’s eye.
‘What now, Mrs K?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We should probably knock on the door.’
‘And then what?’
‘Ask them about the history of the place.’
It couldn’t do any harm she supposed. ‘Okay, let’s do that.’
They walked past a privet hedge that needed trimming, along a flagstone path with weeds sprouting between the gaps and up a set of cracked and mouldy concrete steps to a blue-painted door. Joe went first and banged the door knocker above the letter box.
The house had three floors – a cellar, the ground floor and an upper floor. The ground floor windows were plain and arched, but the upper floor had oblong Georgian sash windows – architecturally, it was a mishmash.
A woman in dungarees with a snot-nosed toddler perched on her hip opened the door. ‘Yeah?’
Joe smiled like a door-to-door salesman hawking copies of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. ‘We’re interested in the history of this address.’
The woman stared at him to see if he was for real and then said, ‘Fuck off.’
Before she could close the door fully, Jerry moved up to the top step. ‘Excuse me.’
‘What?’
‘He’s telling the truth.’
‘I don’t give a shit.’
‘Do you know anything about the history of the house?’
‘No. You might want to try the pervert who lives upstairs, or the sad loser who lives downstairs. All I know, is that I know fuck-all about the history of this house.’
‘What about the Letting Agents who manage the house?’
‘What about them?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Halsey Estate Agents.’ She pointed to her right. ‘Down to the end, turn left up Parkhurst Road, and they’re about half a mile along.’
The toddler began crying.
‘Is that it? As you can see, neither of us are in a good mood.’
‘Thank you for your time . . .’ Jerry started to say.
The door slammed shut.
‘Very pleasant?’ Joe said.
They walked back down the steps and turned right along Walters Road.
‘Have you ever had a baby, Joe?’
‘I take your point, Mrs K. You’ve had four of them, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you ever like that?’
‘Foul-mouthed and grumpy?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘On many occasions, and still am sometimes.’
‘Makes me glad I’m not a female of the species.’
Before they reached the end of Walters Road Jerry stopped.
‘Something wrong, Mrs K?’
‘The Estate Agents won’t tell us anything.’
‘Why not?’
‘Client confidentiality.’
‘I don’t think Estate Agents can cite client confidentiality in a court of law.’
‘We’re not taking them to court, Joe.’
‘That’s true.’
She took out her phone and called Bronwyn.
‘You again?’
‘I’m at the address you gave me.’
‘I’m very pleased for you.’
‘There are three people renting the three floors – they know nothing.’
‘Oh well.’
‘But I have the name of the Estate Agents that are managing the lettings.’
‘And you’re thinking that they might have information relating to the owners of the building on their computer system?’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Halsey Estate Agents on Parkhurst Road.’
‘I’m busy at the moment, but I’ll call you back when I’ve taken a look.’
‘Ok . . .’
The line went dead.
‘Back to uni’?’ Joe asked.
‘Yes, I think so. We’ve got the last lesson with Professor Pemberton on “Points of Law”, which we shouldn’t miss.’
‘So, who’s this person you keep calling?’
‘If I tell you, are you prepared for the consequences?’
‘Such as?’
‘I’d have to kill you, burn your body and sprinkle the fragments that remain on unconsecrated ground.’
He gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yeah, right. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.’
‘Good. What’s that?’
Joe stopped to look at a sign screwed to a building wall on the opposite side of the road that directed customers down a set of steps:
NATHANIEL I JACOBSON
Ladies & Gents
Made to Measure Tailor
for over 50 years
Tel: 081 7296751
‘For over fifty years – he might know something.’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’
They crossed the road, walked down the steps and entered the basement tailor’s shop of Mr NI Jacobson.
A bell jangled on the door.
They could hear the sound of sewing machines humming in another room, and there was the strong smell of clothes – if such a smell existed.
A good-looking young man with black curly hair and a five o’clock shadow came through from the back. ‘Good afternoon. How can I help?’
‘Mr Jacobson?’ Jerry asked.
‘Yes.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look a bit young to have been here for fifty years.’
For a moment he looked confused. ‘Oh no! You want my father. I’m Ruben Jacobson.’
‘Is it possible to speak to your father?’
‘He doesn’t work anymore, but I’d be happy to help.’
‘We wanted to talk to him about Number 44 across the road.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who lived there in 1971?’
‘Ah, then you need to speak to my father.’
‘Who doesn’t work here anymore.’
‘No, but he lives upstairs. Can I ask who you are?’
Jerry produced a business card and passed it to him. ‘My friend and I are doing a law degree, and we’re conducting research on a robbery that occurred in 1971. It’s our understanding that 44 Walters Road was connected to that robbery, and we’d just like to ask your father if he remembers anything from that period.’
‘He’s got a formidable memory, and I’m sure he’d welcome the opportunity to have a conversation with someone other than me about the old days.’ He called through into the back. ‘Caleb, I’m just going upstairs. I won’t be long.’
‘Okay,’ a voice filtered though from the other room.
‘Please, follow me.’
***
Bronwyn caught the tube from Highgate to Embankment on the Northern Line. At Embankment, she switched to the District Line and travelled the two stops to St James’s Park.
The first place she visited was the cafe next to the tube station, which had free Wifi. She ordered a large Americano coffee and an apple cinnamon sticky bun.
She found a seat facing the door, and munched through the bun while she assessed the clientele who were already in the cafe and those who came in after her.
After a swallow of coffee, she took out her laptop and logged onto the router as “Guest”. There was a long list of Wireless Network Connections, and it didn’t take her long to find the conveniently-named “EW Network”. She ran her “WirelessKey” software program and the passwords for all the networks listed appeared within seconds. She typed in the EW network password and was logged on as “User”.
The first thing she checked, after upgrading her security access, was the evidence relating to the Baker Street Robbery. It was no good breaking into the place if what she wanted wasn’t there – it was. The evidence boxes were located in the basement on Row G.
She examined the security drive. Everything was there as she knew it would be – CCTV control software, electronic gates, internal and external lighting, movement detectors, water sprinkler system, door access, security visits . . . She went into the folder and discovered that the mobile security guards from GS Security visited twice a night. The timings varied, but there was always two hours between visits. They entered the premises through the electronic gates, which registered on the network. They checked the building externally, and swiped a card at five checkpoints, and then they left. To her mind, that was hardly security.
The Evidence Warehouse was meant to be a modern state-of-the-art building, but modern didn’t necessarily mean secure. She created a backdoor into the network and connected it to a shortcut button depicting a police helmet on her desktop.
And that was it. Tomorrow night, Yoda and Sushi would stroll into the evidence warehouse without a care in the world, help themselves to the details relating to Box 253 from the Baker Street Robbery and stroll out again. No one would be any the wiser. For all intents and purposes it would look like a power cut.
She’d done everything she’d intended to do and closed her laptop, stuffed it back into her rucksack, and went back up to the counter.
‘Two cheese sandwiches and two bottles of orange juice with the bits still in, please,’ she said to the woman behind the counter. She had no idea how long she was going to be there, but she didn’t want to die of starvation and/or dehydration.
‘Ten pounds seventy-five, please.’
She gave the woman fifteen pounds, put the sandwiches and bottles of orange into her rucksack and took her change. ‘Thanks.’
After leaving the cafe, she made her way to the four-star St Ermin’s Hotel, which she thought was nice enough, but a bit over the top for her liking with its white marble staircases and balustrades. She caught the lift up to the sixth floor, climbed the stairs to the roof and found a secluded spot that overlooked the one-storey Evidence Warehouse where she could watch and get a feel for the comings and goings.