Chapter Six

 

 

‘I hate you.’

‘What have I done now?’ Tom Dougall said, moving a plastic chair next to the bed.

‘It’s what you haven’t done. You haven’t been to visit me. You haven’t called. You say you want me, yet I never see you. In fact, I feel like a single woman again.’

He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. ‘Yeah, I could do with feeling one of those myself.’

‘See, that’s exactly why I hate you.’

‘If you recall – I’ve been busy picking up the pieces after your cowboy partner shot up Point Clear.’

‘Twenty-four hours a day?’

‘More or less.’

‘You’re a liar. Did you have time to eat?’

‘Barely.’

‘Have you been in the pub with the guys?’

He hesitated slightly. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Liar.’

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

‘And I should be grateful?’

‘Also, if you recall, your phone lies unloved and unanswered in a safe.’

‘As if I could forget.’

He grinned like a schoolboy up to mischief. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’

‘Not more grapes. I hate grapes.’

‘Not grapes.’

‘I’m too ill to drink wine.’

‘Not wine. One more guess and then it goes back to those robbing bastards at the phone shop.’

Her eyes opened wide and she smiled as if she’d forgotten how. ‘A phone?’

He slid a box from the inside of his jacket to under the bedclothes in one fluid movement.’

‘All right, I don’t think you need to leave your hand in there, Tom Dougall.’

‘Sorry,’ he said pulling it out. ‘Force of habit.’

She lifted the bedclothes slightly. ‘You raided your piggy bank then?’

‘That’s the best phone on the market.’

‘It had better be. I deserve the best.’

‘That’s why you’ve got me.’

‘Self-praise is no recommendation.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She touched his hand. ‘Thanks.’ Her eyes creased to slits. ‘You did put credit on it?’

‘Of course – ten pounds.’

‘Ten pounds – I feel like a whore.’

He grinned. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘You wish.’

‘I’ve put my number in it.’

‘I’m hardly going to waste my overly generous allocation of credit phoning you, am I?’

‘For emergencies.’

‘I see, so you’ll rush here when I need a bedpan?’

‘It’s not something I’ve tried before, but if it turns you on I’m willing to give it a go.’

‘Excuse me,’ Staff Nurse James said coming into the room. ‘We have strict visiting times, and this is not even close to either of them.’

‘I’m a police officer,’ Tom Dougall said. ‘I needed to ask Ms Blake some questions.’

‘Would you believe you?’

‘I don’t believe anybody.’

‘Nor do I. Close the door on your way out, DI Dougall.’

He leaned over and kissed Xena again. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘You’d better.’

‘You’re determined to break all the rules, aren’t you?’ James said after Tom had gone.

‘You can’t blame me because some stranger decides to wander in off the street. I think you’ve forgotten that I’m barely hanging onto life here – the slightest upset could tip me over the edge.’

Staff Nurse James laughed. ‘You’re as strong as an ox now, and twice as ugly.’

‘I’m sure that’s not the way you’re meant to talk to patients. Maybe I should put in a complaint.’

‘Maybe you should. Right, today’s the day.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Time to get out of that bed.’

‘No, I don’t think so. You’re confused. You’ve misread the doctor’s instructions. I’m not ready. My stitches will burst open. There’ll be more of my insides on the floor than in my body. Oh shit! Are you sure it’s today? Maybe it’s tomorrow, or Monday next week.’

Staff Nurse James pulled the bedclothes off Xena like a magician revealing the guts of her trick. ‘Don’t worry . . . Hello! What have we here?’ she said picking up the box with the phone inside.

Xena grabbed at it, but James held it just out of reach.

‘If I’m not mistaken, this is contraband. I should have realised that Mr Dougall was up to no good.’

‘Please don’t take it away.’

‘That’s not a word I associate with you.’

‘Please.’

‘Twice in one day. I feel faint. I might have to crawl into that bed to recuperate after you get out of it. Here’s what’s going to happen. You do everything I say, and I’ll let you keep the phone.’ James stared at her waiting for an answer.

‘You’re a bitch.’

‘Mmmm – the latest model as well. Mr Dougall must really like you although I’m at a loss to explain why.’

‘All right then, but . . .’

‘No buts – unconditional.’

‘Crap!’

James waved the box in front of her like a carrot on a stick. ‘I want you to repeat after me: My soul belongs to Staff Nurse James.’

‘You can . . .’

‘I don’t think that would be appropriate.’ She slipped the box into Xena’s bedside cabinet. ‘Are you ready?’

‘What for?’

‘I’m going to help you into the bathroom. We’ll take your string vest and support stockings off, and then you’ll climb into the shower.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘God! I’ve forgotten what a shower feels like.’

James wrinkled her nose. ‘I can imagine. The next time your boyfriend comes in, you’ll smell half-human instead of half-rotting corpse.’

‘Your bedside manner sucks.’

‘That’s a compliment coming from you.’

 

 

***

 

 

After they’d left Shirley Bridges’ cottage they called in at The Fox & Hounds in Steeple Bumpstead for lunch.

While they’d been in the pub, Koll had rung Dawn Mines in forensics to see if she’d been able to work out anything in relation to the collection of the alphanumeric characters they’d previously discovered in Pitt’s house:

 

 

FOGRANBAG0M9AAT7

 

 

There were very few people in the pub, so Koll put the call on speakerphone.

‘Fata Morgana GB 970,’ Mines said. ‘GB is fairly obvious, but I have no idea on the order of the numbers.’

‘And what does “Fata Morgana” mean?’ Stick asked.

‘I expect it’s a code word or something like that. The actual term means an unusual and complex form of superior mirage that is seen in a narrow band right above the horizon.’

‘I see.’ But he didn’t really.

‘Where does the name come from?’ Koll asked.

‘It’s an Italian phrase derived from the vulgar Latin for “fairy” and the Arthurian sorceress Morgan le Fay. The mirages are often seen in the Strait of Messina, which is a narrow passage between the eastern tip of Sicily and the southern tip of Calabria in the south of Italy. It connects the Tyrrhenian and the Ionian seas.’

‘Thanks, Dawn,’ Koll said.

‘You’re welcome.’

The call ended.

‘We don’t really know what we’re doing, do we?’ Koll said.

‘No,’ he agreed.

‘Maybe we should ask Shirley Bridges to come to Pitt’s house with us.’

‘I was thinking the same thing.’

After lunch they went back to the thatched cottage. Shirley Bridges was reluctant to accompany them at first, but agreed when Stick suggested that her help in solving the puzzle might go some way towards ameliorating the damage perpetrated by her brother.

‘I am not now, nor have I ever been, my brother’s keeper.’

‘As you said yourself, you had the opportunity to stop him, but you chose not to.’

‘That’s below the belt, Sergeant.’

‘I’m sorry, but we need your help, Mrs Bridges.’

‘During the journey they told her about the code name and the discussion they’d had with Dawn Mines.

‘There’ll be reverse clues buried in there somewhere, but they won’t be anything to do with fairies, Morgan le Fay, mirages, Sicily or the Strait of Messina – they’re all too obvious. Mathew may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid.’

Once they were back at 12 Old Ferry Road – Mathew Pitt’s townhouse in Wivenhoe, Colchester – Koll said, ‘Do we even know what we’re looking for?’

‘I’ve been thinking about what we should do during the journey,’ Bridges said. ‘I think we should clear a space here in the kitchen/dining room and bring everything down here.’

Koll’s face creased up. ‘Everything?’

‘Pictures, ornaments, books . . . everything that’s movable.’

‘Not bedding?’

‘No.’

‘Furniture, towels, curtains, light fittings?’

‘No. I think you should use your common sense. I’ll walk round afterwards and check that you haven’t missed anything important.’

So that’s what they did.

Koll took the third floor, Stick the second. While they were carrying everything down, Shirley Bridges climbed into the cellar and looked at the hidden room. She was still in there when they’d finished.

‘We’re ready,’ Stick called down to her.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said when she climbed back up.

They could see she’d been crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ Stick said. He didn’t know what else to say.

Spread out over the floor and on the breakfast bar were about thirty items that had belonged to Mathew Pitt.

Shirley said, ‘At least no one’s going to give me Chinese burns if I get it wrong . . . Well, at least I hope they’re not.’ She looked at each item and separated them into relevant and irrelevant until she had seven pieces left:

 

 

A battered old brown teddy bear with one eye missing.

A library card for the British Library of Political & Economic Science in Holborn, London.

An eleven inch tall brown stoneware whiskey jug made in Ohio, America in 1923.

A gelatine silver print entitled “Luminogramm” by Otto Steinert dated 1952.

An antique Mawrika gold pocket watch dated 1875 with the initials PJW on the back and the hands stopped at twenty-five to two.

A six-inch coloured ceramic plate with IONIAN engraved on the back and signed by the artist Janice Wicks, 1970.

An old book about Gustave Eiffel and the building of the Eiffel Tower dated 1889.

 

 

Thus far, they had been in the house for an hour and a half.

Stick began pacing.

‘I know you’re impatient, Sergeant, but I can’t think if you’re going to pace round the room like a caged wolf.’

He sat on a chair. He liked the idea of being a wolf – loping around the countryside, howling at the moon, pouncing on unsuspecting prey – Stick the wolf.

Shirley spent another hour examining the last seven items and was finally left with three pieces in front of her.

 

 

A library card for the British Library of Political & Economic Science in Holborn, London.

A gelatine silver print entitled “Luminogramm” by Otto Steinert dated 1952.

A six-inch coloured ceramic plate with IONIAN engraved on the back and signed by the artist Janice Wicks, 1970.

 

 

‘Why have you chosen these three items?’ Koll asked.

‘Why?’ Bridges repeated. ‘You didn’t say I had to justify my choices. I can’t tell you why. All I can say is that I was a little girl again choosing those three things. I don’t know whether they’re the right ones. I chose them because – for better or worse – I was Mathew Pitt’s sister, and this is the game he made me play. Those three pieces are connected in some way.’ She looked at them and shrugged. ‘How they’re connected is for you to find out. My suggestion is that you start with the library card. Why did he have a British Library card when he worked at a university? He must have visited there to acquire the card. Find out why and I think you’ll be part way to solving the riddle.’

‘Thank you, Shirley,’ he said.

Stick put the library card in his wallet. They wrapped up the Steinert print and the ceramic plate in two of Pitt’s towels, and placed them in the boot of the car. Then they set off back to the station via Steeple Bumpstead.

 

 

***

 

 

He booked himself into the first hotel he came to, which happened to be the Mill Hotel and Spa overlooking the River Dee. It wasn’t the cheapest hotel he could have found, and he didn’t plan to use the spa, but it provided what he needed – a bed and food for one night.

The room was on the second floor. A barge went past packed with people as he looked out of the window, and it was a good job he hadn’t stripped off his clothes because he saw a group of Japanese tourists loaded down with cameras taking photographs.

He phoned home.

Matilda had the house running like a well-oiled matriarchy, and no doubt Bert was keeping out of the way in the garden shed.

After Matilda had reassured him everything was fine, he spoke to his eldest – eleven year-old Gabe.

‘You’re the man of the house while I’m away.’

‘What about grandpa?’

‘Grandpa’s in charge of the garden and the shed. You’re in charge of the house.’

‘I don’t think grandma will like that.’

‘Whose house is it?’

‘Grandma’s?’

He let out a laugh. ‘She’d like to think so. No! The house belongs to your mother and me.’

‘Does grandma know that?’

‘Yes, she knows that.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Whose house will it be if your mother and I aren’t around anymore?’

‘You’re not going to die, are you?’

‘No, it’s just a question.’

‘Grandma’s?’

‘No, it’ll be your house. You’re my eldest, so everything I have would belong to you.’

‘What about the girls – don’t they get anything?’

‘Yes, all four of you will get an equal share, but you have to make sure there’s a house to have an equal share of.’

‘Have you told grandma about this?’

He decided he was fighting a losing battle. ‘How’s school going?’

‘Yer know?’

‘No, I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Great. Are the girls fine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you got anything to tell me?’

‘Why? Have you heard something?’

‘No, I haven’t heard anything.’

‘Then I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe . . .’

‘Okay, dad. See you then.’

The phone went dead.

He wondered if he’d been as uncommunicative as an eleven years old.

His phone vibrated.

‘Kowalski.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘Maureen Threadneedle! I was just thinking about you.’

‘Don’t even go there, Kowalski. Do you realise that the station has ground to a halt because of the amount of phone calls we’ve had in relation to those pictures in the newspapers and on the television. My staff think they’re working in a call centre and have been asking for more money.’

‘There’s been a lot of calls, have there?’

‘A lot is what you get in a large bag of crisps. The amount of calls we’ve had is like everybody in China, America, England, France, Spain and Italy ringing here one and three-quarter times.’

‘That’s an enormous amount of calls, Maureen. Did you have somebody counting them?’

‘You’re not suggesting that I’m exaggerating, are you?’

‘That’s hardly the action of a sane man now, is it? So, from the sea of calls you’ve received were there any that might be considered useful in locating Jerry?’

‘No serious sightings of your wife or Julie Wilkinson, but three names have surfaced.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The callers swore that the unknown woman was either Bambi Bradford, Tiffany Mara or Viki Cole. When I carried out a background check on those three people, I found that they’d all been reported missing. Also, being the superb police officer that I am, I stuck pins in a map – guess where the trail leads?’

‘London?’

‘A girl can’t have any fun with you, Kowalski.’

‘You’ve been listening to the wrong people, Maureen.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘So, it would seem that she’s stealing people’s identities and living their lives.’

‘I would say so. And in view of the fact that four women have now gone missing – excluding your wife – I would say you have a serial killer on the loose.’

‘I think – in my worst nightmare – I already knew that.’

‘I have the names and addresses of the people who reported those women missing – do you want them?’

‘Does a thirsty man want water?’

‘I guess the answer to that is yes.’ She read off the three names and addresses.

He wrote them in his notebook. It would be a long drive home tomorrow, he thought. ‘Thanks for all your help, Maureen. And thank your call centre staff for me. Tell them I’ll take them all down to the King Alf’s Head when I’ve found Jerry safe and sound.’

‘I’ll tell them. Good luck, Ray.’

The phone went dead.

Maureen Threadneedle calling him “Ray”! She was getting soft in her old age.

He was just about to go down to his car and get the road atlas when his phone jangled again.

‘Kowalski.’

‘Yeah hi. It’s Harry Hawkesby.’

‘Oh yes. What can I do for you, Mr Hawkesby?’

‘I spoke to Charlie . . . my boss. He said I can have the morning off.’

‘Okay. Are you coming with me, or have you got your own car?’

‘Do you want to drive me back here?’

‘Not really, I’ve got a long tortuous drive ahead of me tomorrow, and I don’t really want to double back on myself.’

‘I could follow you to Social Services in the garage’s courtesy car.’

‘I’ll meet you at the garage at eight-thirty then.’

‘Thanks.’

He ended the call.

Before someone else rang, he left the hotel room and headed down to the car park to get the atlas. On his way back through reception someone else did call.

‘Kowalski.’

‘It’s me.’

He stepped into the lift. ‘That’s a strange name, Cookie.’

‘At least I’m not the bastard son of a Polish immigrant, Kowalski.’

‘Are you this nice to all police officers, or is it just me?’

‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’m being extra-special nice to you.’

‘I feel blessed.’

‘Do you want to know what I’ve found out?’

‘Is a starving man hungry?’

‘I hear you can get therapy for free in the police. If I were you I’d take advantage of it.’

‘Well?’

‘As expected – nothing on the credit cards or the phones. God I’m good. You should worship me from afar.’

‘Oh, I do.’

‘Make sure you keep it up, Kowalski. I found a stray satellite that was doing nothing. I made friends with it, and it showed me what it had been looking at. To cut a long story short – I found Jerry’s car in the car park.’

‘I’ve already found that . . .’

‘Yeah, but you can’t travel back in time. I found the woman parking it up.’

‘Was Jerry . . . ?’

‘No, Jerry wasn’t with her.’

‘Oh!’

‘I tracked the woman by piggy-backing on a combination of satellite and CCTV images . . . Did you know they have CCTV on tube trains?’

‘Yes.’

‘I never knew that. It’s getting like a fucking police state. Anyway, this woman jumped off the tube at Theydon Bois and got into a car in the station car park with the registration plate TB12 EKE. I lost her when she turned right out of the car park.’

‘Why aren’t you working for the police?’

‘This will probably come as a bit of a shock to you, Kowalski, but . . . I HATE THE FUCKING POLICE.’

The line went dead.

He phoned Maureen again.

‘You must really love me, Kowalski.’

‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’

‘I’ve noticed. Well?’

‘Can you tell me who owns the car with the registration TB12 EKE?’

He heard click-clacking as she typed in the alphanumeric characters.

‘Got a pen?’

‘Go.’

‘It’s a VW Polo, which belongs to Erica Bull, 27 Blackacre Road, Theydon Bois.’

‘Have you . . . ?’

‘Wait . . . she was reported missing three days ago.’

‘Can you . . . ?’

‘Wait . . . I’ve put out an alert for the vehicle and despatched a squad car to the address.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t made Chief Constable yet, Maureen.’

‘You and me both, Kowalski. I’ll be in touch.’

The line went dead.

Could it be the break he needed? God, he hoped so. Was the woman Harry Hawkesby’s sister? Why didn’t Harry know he had a sister? Had it been her who had saved him from the fire all those years ago? How had the fire started? Why had she disappeared? Why hadn’t Social Services known about his sister? Why had she begun killing and living other people’s lives? A picture-book story was beginning to form in his mind, but was it the truth or another lie?