Chapter Eleven

 

 

‘There’s nothing half so pleasant as coming home again,’ Parish said when he saw Toadstone walking towards him with Richards on his arm.

‘Margaret Elizabeth Sangster – around the turn of the last century, I believe.’

Richards grinned. ‘He gets you every time.’

‘I phoned him up last night and told him the answer,’ Parish said.

‘As if.’

‘How come you’ve got a sun tan, Toadstone? I thought the sun brought you out in red blotches.’

‘Apparently not. That was what my mother used to tell me when I was a child.’

‘And correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you came out in a livid rash if you were forced to take your clothes off in front of other people.’

‘Another lie my mother told me.’

‘You obviously had a strange childhood, Toadstone. How’s Maddie?’

‘Maddie’s fine. She sends her love to you both, and she’s coming over for a visit next month.’

‘I thought you didn’t like people in your one-bedroom flat?’

‘I’ll obviously have to acquire something a bit bigger.’

‘Really? Have you heard this, Richards? Is it me, or is Toadstone becoming less boring?’

‘Don’t be horrible, Sir. Paul has never been boring.’

‘You little liar. Don’t listen to her, Toadstone. She’s always said that you were the most boring crustacean on the planet.’

Richards’ face reddened. ‘I never said anything of the sort. Take no notice, Paul.’

‘Don’t worry, Mary. I know he’s making it all up.’

‘Anyway, enough about your debauched holiday stories. What the hell are you going to do about this shrivelled tongue on my desk?’

Parish moved out of the way so that Toadstone could examine the bloody package.

‘It’s a human tongue,’ he said putting on a pair of plastic gloves. ‘Adult male, I would say. Removed while the person was still alive by the amount of blood.’

‘We’re not complete amateurs in the Murder Investigation Team, you know. What about the numbers on the inside of the lid?’

‘Longitude and lattitude.’

‘If I’d wanted someone to come down here and tell me things I already knew I would have asked Richards to bring me one of your lab rats.’

Toadstone looked at Richards. ‘Type into your search engine “findlatitudeandlongitude” – all one word.’

Richards sat at her desk and did as he said.

‘Click on the website and type the numbers in the boxes provided.’

They waited.

‘That was simple,’ she said. ‘The edge of Icehouse Grove, just off the A10.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Parish said. ‘Phone Inspector Threadneedle and get a squad car out there.’ He turned to Toadstone. ‘And why is this package still on my desk?’

Toadstone slipped everything into a plastic evidence bag and left without another word.

‘You can be really mean sometimes,’ Richards said.

‘Have you phoned Threadneedle yet?’

‘Nearly.’

‘Get on with it, and don’t you have other jobs to do as well?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m making sure my subordinates do their jobs.’

‘Huh!’

Lily Gold arrived looking like the main character in a zombie movie.

‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ Parish asked.

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Going to bed early obviously doesn’t work for you.’

‘It might have done had I stuck to the plan.’

‘Ah! Don’t tell me, you went to bed via the hotel bar?’

‘All right, I won’t tell you.’

Chief Bonnard appeared looking like he’d just finished a photo shoot. His hair was slicked back, his shave was the closest in town and he smelled like an aftershave advert.

‘I’m glad you two are here. I have bad news, I’m afraid. Another child was abducted in the early hours of this morning.’

‘The removal man?’ Lily asked.

‘Yes – he left his card.’ He peered at her. ‘Are you feeling all right, DI Gold? You don’t look so good.’

‘You’re not meant to say things like that to a lady, Sir.’

‘Sorry. You’re quite correct.’

‘And for your information, I didn’t sleep too well. The hotel bed was a bit cramped.’

‘I see. Well, let’s not get into the details concerning your sleeping arrangements. A seven year-old boy called Billy Crockett was taken from 29 Maltings Lane in Witham. I suggest someone gets over there. Forensics are already on the scene.’

‘Leave it with us, Chief,’ Parish said.

Chief Bonnard nodded and left them to it.

‘Should Richards and I take this one?’ he said to Lily.

‘Yes, please. I’ll phone round the parents of the other abductees and get going, but I doubt whether I’ll be back tonight.’

‘Okay. I’ll give you a call about three-thirty and get an update before the press briefing.’

‘We have a plan,’ she said, and wandered off to sit at Xena’s desk.

‘Well?’ Parish said to Richards.

‘A car is on its way to Icehouse Grove.’

‘And?’

‘Inspector Threadneedle will phone you if they find anything.’

‘We have to go now.’

‘I haven’t had chance to . . .’

‘That’s because you’ve been shilly-shallying.’

‘We’ve only just arrived.’

‘Three hours ago.’

‘Twenty minutes.’

‘And instead of doing the work you’re paid an enormous amount of shekels to do . . .’

‘You’re confusing me with a banker.’

‘. . . You’re giving lip to a superior officer.’

‘I’m not talking to you.’

‘Peace and quiet at last. Come on, we have to go.’

‘But . . .’

‘You can make the phone calls from the car. Everything else will have to wait until later.’

 

 

***

 

 

He stepped out into the fresh air at Holborn. He wasn’t a great fan of the underground. Yes, it was a really convenient transport system, but it was stuffy and hot, and he always had the feeling that he was going to be buried alive at any time.

His phone vibrated.

‘DS Gilbert.’

‘Have you been to the library yet?’

‘If you phone me one more time . . .’

‘You don’t know what it’s like lying in this bed hour after hour with no one to pick on . . .’

After ending the call he switched the phone to silent.

He walked along Kingsway, turned left along Remnant Street, right down Gate Street past Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the Royal College of Surgeons and the Peacock Theatre to 10 Portugal Street.

The heavy wood and glass doors were already open.

He shouldered himself in.

The interior was enormous. A spiral walkway disappeared up to the glass domed roof and a pair of lifts ran up the centre. It was certainly impressive, and already students from the London School of Economics were swarming over the place looking for nuggets of wisdom.

He approached the long wooden reception desk in the atrium.

A woman with grey wiry hair, a large mole on her top lip and “Ann French” on her name badge looked up and said, ‘Yes?’

He was struck by the lack of a welcome. In a shop or a cafe – people smiled when they asked what you wanted. In fact, in most places people offered a friendly smile, but in a library it was a whole different ball game. He expected it was because they were the custodians of peace and quiet. People were deemed to be raucous troublemakers until proven otherwise. A smile had to be earned by good behaviour and industriousness.

He offered a smile anyway and brandished his warrant card. ‘Good morning, I’m Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

‘How interesting.’

She didn’t look at all interested.

He showed her William Pitt’s library card. ‘This belonged to a murdered man called . . .’

‘. . . William Pitt – that’s the name on the card.’

She tried to prise it from between his thumb and forefinger, but he held on tight.

‘It’s also evidence in a murder inquiry,’ he said, which wasn’t strictly true – it was evidence in . . . what? Child abductions? Child trafficking? Well . . it was evidence anyway, and he wasn’t about to let the miserable Ann French have it.

She let go. ‘By rights, it belongs to the British Library. We don’t want anybody masquerading as William Pitt, do we?’

‘As I said – at this moment in time it belongs to me, and I’m not masquerading as anybody.’

‘Really! Well, if you’re not here to hand in the obsolete library card, why are you here?’

‘I’d like to know why Mr Pitt had the card.’

She pulled a face, which suggested that she thought he was something a student had brought in on the bottom of his shoe. ‘This is a library and that’s a library card. Are you not familiar with the concept of a lending library?’

He looked around to see if there was someone more friendly and amenable he could talk to, but everyone else looked busy helping instead of obstructing.

‘Could you take a look on your computer system and tell me what items Mr Pitt loaned in the past?’

‘I’m sorry, there are strict confidentiality rules.’

‘In a library?’

‘Yes – in a library. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

Xena’s words reverberated inside his head. ‘You’re too soft, numpty.’

He puffed out his pigeon chest. ‘Up to now, you haven’t helped me one little bit. All you’ve done is obstruct a police officer in the performance of his duties. I’d like to speak to your supervisor.’

‘Wait here.’

She wandered along the desk and spoke to a bald-headed man wearing a green and black checked shirt and a sleeveless cardigan.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, and smiled. ‘My name is Thomas Nicholson and I’m the ground floor manager. How can I be of assistance?’

He flashed his warrant card again. ‘It’s very simple. I’m a police officer in the middle of a murder investigation, I have the library card of a murdered man and I want to find out what he loaned from the library – how is that a problem?’

‘It isn’t a problem, Sir.’

‘You want to try telling that to Miss French.’

‘Just one moment, Sir.’

He turned to the librarian and said, ‘This is your last warning, Ann. You’re here as a guide not a gatekeeper. We want to welcome people in, not keep them out.’

‘I’m done,’ she said. ‘It’s like a supermarket instead of a library. I’m surprised we’re not all wearing party hats, fleeces and “Happy to Help” badges.’

She flounced off.

Mr Nicholson gave him a weak smile. ‘A minor staffing issue.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for her to lose her job.’

‘It’s hardly your fault, Sir. Please wait while I get another member of staff to help you.’

A young man with tight curly hair and long sideburns appeared in front of him. ‘My name is Algernon. How can I help, Sir?’

He showed Algernon the library card and told him what he wanted. Algernon typed in the serial number on Pitt’s card and then said, ‘Mr Pitt accessed only one area of the archives section – GB097. You need to go to the lower basement, Sir. There’ll be a librarian there – ask for GB097 and she will direct you accordingly.’ Algernon handed the library card back.

‘Thank you for your help, Algernon.’

‘That’s what we’re here for, Sir. Next, please.’

Why couldn’t Ann French have been as helpful as Algernon?

He made his way to the lifts, but they were both at the top, so he took the stairs. After only a few steps he stopped – GB097! He pulled out his notebook and turned to the page with the deciphered alphanumeric characters:

 

 

Fata Morgana GB 970

 

 

At least now he knew that GB 970 should be written: GB097. and was an archival coding reference. He immediately thought of letting Koll know, and then remembered that he was going to ring Nancy Green at the CPS to find out why Koll’s phone number had been discontinued.

There were signs on the walls telling him that the use of mobile phones was strictly forbidden. He was torn between going back outside to call the CPS and continuing down the steps into the lower basement. He carried on walking down the steps and made a mental note not to forget to ring Nancy Green.

The librarian in the lower basement directed him along an aisle full of box files to the end. He found the section marked as GB097. There were forty-seven shelves of boxes. He took a box at random off one of the shelves and sat down at a small table next to the concrete wall.

Inside the box were the central records of the Ionian Bank for 1945, which was founded in London in 1839 to finance the trade between the Ionian Islands (a British Protectorate) and Great Britain.

He looked up at the row upon row of shelving and decided that reading what was in the boxes wasn’t necessary – the clue was the Ionian Bank itself. He put the box back in its place, headed towards the far shelves and pulled out another box. Inside were the Minutes of a General Meeting dated November 27, 1978, and contained only one resolution – to cease trading with immediate effect.

The Ionian Bank didn’t exist anymore, but he recalled the six-inch coloured ceramic plate with IONIAN engraved on the back and signed by the artist Janice Wicks, 1970. Yes, he was one step closer to finding out what lay behind the clues.

Now, all he needed to do was find out about the 1952 picture by Otto Steinert, and he thought he might do that while he was in London.

He retraced his steps and made his way outside onto Portugal Street.

Phone Nancy Green jumped into his head. He sat down on the steps and watched the people moving along the street.

He ignored the thirteen messages from Xena and called Judy Moody at the station.

‘Could you give me the number of the CPS please, Judy?’

‘I’ve often wondered what telephone enquiry staff look like. Maybe I look like someone who works at a telephone enquiry establishment. Do you think I look like one of those people, DS Gilbert?’

‘Absolutely not. You’re a key member of Hoddesdon MIT, and anybody who says anything different is a fool.’

‘Yes, that will get you the number.’ She read it off. ‘Have a nice day, Sergeant.’

You just needed to know how to treat people. He rang the number she’d given him.

‘Crown Prosecution Service. Tracy speaking. How can I be of assistance?’

‘Could I speak to Nancy Green, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

‘Just one moment.’

He wondered how far the Tate Modern was from where he was sitting. Someone there would surely know about the Otto Steinert picture.

‘Hello, DS Gilbert.’ It was Tracy again.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry, but we have no one called Nancy Green working at this CPS.’

His heart was in his mouth, and he was having trouble breathing. ‘Surely there’s some mistake?’

‘No, no mistake. I have the list in front of me.’

‘But she had an official-looking CPS identity card. She said she was taking Detective Constable Koll into protective custody. She . . . Oh God!’

 

 

***

 

 

‘Ian Rome, please,’ Kowalski said, showing his warrant card to the middle-aged receptionist.

They were at the Children & Families building on Wrekin Road in Wellington, Telford, hoping that Ian Rome would give Harry access to the three files on his parents.

It didn’t look as though he was going to get home today. He’d have to phone Matilda later and let her know. It was too much to hope that everything would go according to plan – not that he had a plan.

‘Please take a seat, I’ll see if Mr Rome is available, Sir.’

A squat man with a combover and a paunch appeared. ‘DCI Kowalski, how can I help?’

‘This is Harry Hawkesby . . .’

Harry smiled and shook Rome’s hand.

‘. . . Harry is here to take a look at the files relating to his parents, and I need to look at them as well.’ He turned to Harry. ‘Show Mr Rome the letter he sent you.’

Harry thrust the letter at Rome.

Rome looked at the letter and said, ‘I must sign a dozen of these each day.’

‘Yeah well . . .’ Harry began.

‘You stated in the letter that Harry could see his adoption file, which he’s now done. However, you make no mention of the three files relating to his parents . . . He has the reference numbers there, and he’d like to see those files please.’

‘If you read the letter carefully, it states that you should ring up and indicate your desire to see the file or files. It then takes approximately six weeks to de-sanitize a file . . . three files could take anywhere up to three months . . .’

‘Three months!’ Kowalski exploded. ‘I haven’t got three bloody months.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rome said. ‘But what’s your interest in these files?’

Bypassing the prologue he got straight to the main story and pulled out the newspaper article from his jacket pocket. He opened it and held it up in front of Rome. ‘Did you see that in yesterday’s papers?’

‘Yes.’

‘The third woman is my wife. The second woman we think is Harry’s sister, but as far as he knows he hasn’t got a sister. That woman has kidnapped my wife. I want my wife back, and I’ll do anything to make that happen if you get my meaning, Mr Rome.’

‘I get your meaning, Chief Inspector. Okay, in the spirit of multi-agency co-operation let’s see what we can do. Follow me.’

They followed him into the lift. He pressed for the fifth floor. Once there he put them in a room and took the post-it note off Harry with the three reference numbers on it. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘That’d be great, Mr Rome,’ Kowalski said. The files and a coffee! Maybe his luck was changing.

A very pretty young woman brought the coffee and fluttered her eyelashes at Harry.

‘You seem to have a way with the ladies, Harry.’

‘Yeah! Lydia’s noticed that as well.’

‘That’s the receptionist at your garage?’

‘Yeah. I don’t know how it happened, but we seemed to be engaged.’

‘Well, if I recall from my days as a man of means by no means – you must have got down on one knee and proposed to her.’

‘She says I did, but I don’t remember doing it.’

‘Were you drunk?’

‘Yeah, I’d had a few.’

‘What about a ring?’

‘She says she’s happy to wait, so I’m saving like mad and doing all the overtime I can get my hands on.’

‘Sounds to me like you’ve been harpooned, Harry.’

‘You think so, Mr Kowalski?’

‘Definitely.’

‘What do you think I should do about it?’

‘Do you want to marry her?’

‘I don’t know. There’s a lot of nice girls out there.’

‘Here’s my take on it. If you don’t know whether you want to marry a woman or not, then you probably shouldn’t. When you do find the one you want to marry – you’ll know.’

‘Is that what happened to you?’

‘Exactly like that, Harry. As soon as I saw Jerry I knew she was the one, and she’s been the one all these years. That’s why I’m here – if Jerry’s not in my life, then I have no life.’

Ian Rome burst through the door carrying three thick files. ‘Remember, this is in the spirit of co-operation. If you find any glaring mistakes or blatant malpractice . . .’

‘We’re not here to cause trouble, Mr Rome. We’ll just take a look at the files and be on our way.’

‘I’ll leave you alone to read through them then.’ He shut the door.

Kowalski took notes as he pawed through each of the files. Missy and Larry Needle had two girls and a boy. The two girls were called Rose and Poppy. Rose was the eldest. Poppy was only a year older than Harry. The trouble was the Needles didn’t want daughters, they wanted a boy – third time lucky. They kept the two girls in the cellar and abused them in every way they could. In time, the small community forgot that Missy Needle had given birth to two daughters. As far as anyone could recall, they only had a son. Yes, Missy had been pregnant a couple of times, but hadn’t she lost those babies – poor thing.

On the night of May 7, 1995 – when Rose was seven years old – she escaped from the cellar, and she knew exactly what she had to do. She took Poppy and Harry to safety and then went back to the house and stabbed both her parents. Then, she set fire to the house.

The fire brigade found the three children outside. The police and Social Services were called. They interviewed Rose and eventually discovered what had happened during her seven years of life in the cellar of 17 Forester’s Close in Horsehay, and how she had murdered her parents on that fateful night.

Poppy and Harry were adopted by different families, but Rose needed help to come to terms with what had happened to her and was put in Talgarth Psychiatric Hospital in Powys, mid-Wales.

Two and a half hours had passed by the time they’d finished reading the files.

Harry sat back and stared into a place no one else could see.

‘Do you want my advice, Harry?’ Kowalski said.

‘Yes, I think so, Mr Kowalski.’

‘There are two parts to your story. Forget the bad part about your parents and what they did to Rose and Poppy. Your parents are dead and Rose is lost to you. Find Poppy, find the sister you never knew you had. Make her a part of your life, and be your own man.’

‘I think you’re probably right, Mr Kowalski. Thanks for helping me find out the truth. Are you going to Talgarth Psychiatric Hospital now?’

‘Yes. I want my wife back, and if necessary, I’m going to follow Rose all the way to hell to get her back.’