Chapter Fifteen

 

 

The man sat down at his desk and indicated a seat on the other side for Stick.

‘Coffee?’

‘No thanks,’ Stick said. He wished his desk was as clean and tidy as the one in front of him. Everything was squared off and tickety-boo.

‘Can I see some form of identification?’ the man asked.

Stick showed his warrant card. ‘And you are?’

The man gave him a business card. ‘Lucien van der Sloot at your service. I’m an art historian.’

He put the card in the top pocket of his jacket. ‘What can you tell me about Otto Steinert’s Luminogramm then, Lucien?’

‘Otto Steinert was born on July 12, 1915 in Saarbrücken, Germany. He was a medical doctor by profession, but much preferred photography. He was a self-taught photographer and experimented by integrating innovations from the 1920’s avant garde art movements into the photographic medium. He is known as the initiator and leading figure of subjective photography. After a successful career, he died on March 3, 1978.’ Lucien brushed a non-existent speck from his desk. ‘Many of Otto Steinert’s assets are now held in the Museum Folkwang in Essen. The photograph you are interested in – the Luminogramm – was taken in Paris in 1952 and measures 41.5 by 60 centimetres. What do you want to know about it?’

‘I’m wondering if it’s connected to the Ionian Bank in some way.’

‘They bought the photograph in 1967.’

‘I see.’

‘But you probably know that the Ionian Bank ceased trading in 1978, the same year – interestingly – that Otto Steinert died.’

‘Yes. What happened to the picture then?’

‘The assets of the Ionian Bank were bought by the Alpha Bank, and they are still trading today. However, they sold the Luminogramm for £1.3 million to a private collector in 1982. Since that time, it has been sold a further five times. The last sale was in 2011 to a private collector for £7.5 million pounds.’

‘Do you know the name of this private collector?’

‘No. You showed me the picture on your phone, do you have it in your possession?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must know who the buyer was.’

‘I have the name of the man whose possession we found it in, but he didn’t have anything like the kind of money you’re talking about.’

‘Mmmm! Maybe he was acting on behalf of a syndicate.’

‘Where did this sale take place?’

‘Just one moment,’ Lucien said, taking out a tablet from a drawer in his desk. He turned it on and began moving things about on the screen with his index finger. ‘Here it is. Yes, I thought so – Old Red Barn Auctioneers in New York.’

‘New York?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose he could have bought it online or over the telephone.’

Lucien nodded. ‘Or he could simply have flown over there and bought it.’

‘Wouldn’t he have had to pay import tax or something when he brought it back through customs?’

‘Yes, but there are no records of that here.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ He sat back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. Where did Mathew Pitt get the money to buy a photograph of squiggly lines for £7.5 million? If it was one of the three clues – it was certainly an expensive clue. He’d taken Shirley Bridges at her word, but maybe he shouldn’t have done. All Lucien van der Sloot had told him was what he already knew – the Ionian Bank wasn’t in business anymore. Were the other purchasers between the Alpha Bank and Pitt relevant? Was the Alpha Bank relevant? Maybe that’s where everything was leading. After all, he still had a password: Fata Morgana. That was probably his next move – to find out where the nearest Alpha Bank was to Pitt’s work and home.

He stood up. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr van der Sloot.’

‘You’re welcome, Sergeant. Can I ask . . . what will happen to the Luminogramm?’

He thought for a moment. ‘At the moment it’s a clue in a police investigation, but it belongs to a murdered man’s next-of-kin. It could, however, be something else. What? – I don’t know yet.’

‘Oh! Well, the gallery might be interested in purchasing the picture.’

‘I’ve got your card. As soon as I know what might happen to the photograph I’ll give you a call.’

‘That’s very kind.’

Lucien guided him back out into the cavernous atrium, they shook hands and Stick made his way outside. Without the Mayor of London’s bicycle he had to walk back to the tube station. While he was walking he phoned Xena.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ Xena said in greeting.

‘Oh?’

‘Giving ultimatums to a person teetering on the edge of . . .’

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

‘If I must.’

‘The Luminogramm was bought in New York by Pitt for £7.5 million pounds.’

‘You never said that he was a millionaire as well as a senior administrator in a university.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘Where did he get the money to buy it then?’

‘It’s got to have something to do with those children. He must have bought the photograph for somebody else.’

‘Then why was it on display in his house?’

Even though Xena couldn’t see him, he screwed up his face. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s not really why you went in there though, is it?’

‘Oh no! I told you that the Ionian Bank ceased trading . . . ?’

‘. . . In 1978. Yes.’

‘Well, their assets – including the Luminogramm – were bought by the Alpha Bank, which is still in operation . . .’

‘. . . And you’re thinking that this Alpha Bank is where the clue is leading us, and where the money might be?’

‘Possibly, but . . .’

‘Go on, numpty?’

‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

‘What have I told you about thinking? You’re going to the Alpha Bank with the password, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘What now?’

‘I’ll need a court order to . . .’

‘It’s no good getting a court order if Pitt hasn’t got an account there.’

‘What came first – the chicken or the egg?’

‘I despair of you sometimes, Sticky wicket.’

‘No, what I mean is: they won’t tell me if Pitt has an account with them unless I have a court order. So, I thought I’d organise the court order this afternoon before going to visit Pitt’s neighbours, and then I’ll come to the hospital to check up on you.’

‘You needn’t bother coming here.’

‘I know, but you’re forgetting that one of my responsibilities as your partner is to ensure that no whiteboards have slipped through the security cordon and into your room.’

‘Knock yourself out, numpty.’

‘Did you ring Traffic about the car?’

‘What with all the shifting of whiteboards, being rushed to theatre close to hell’s door again due to all the pressure and stress from my partner, and the pain and agony I’ve had to suffer – You know what? I clean forgot – sue me.’

He waited.

‘They identified the car.’

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘That’s correct. I knew very well that you’d want to drop everything and rush to the address they’d given me, so I informed Tom Dougall instead. He’s looking into it, and I’m waiting to hear back from him.’

‘I thought we were partners?’

‘Stop being a cry baby, numpty. Was there anything else?’

‘You’ll ring me when . . . ?’

‘If I had a whiteboard . . .’

The call ended.

He knew she’d ring him. Yes, she’d ring him. As soon as Tom Dougall rang her, she’d ring him. He had no doubt she’d ring him. She wouldn’t let him worry unnecessarily – she’d ring him. He pressed her number again.

‘Did you forget something?’

‘You will ring me, won’t you?’

‘This is a hospital, you know. There are sick people in here without whiteboards trying to get some sleep.’

The call ended.

She’d ring him.

He called Judy Moody and asked her to organise a court order to access Mathew Pitt’s account at the Alpha bank, and then he strolled into Southwark tube station.

 

 

***

 

 

The derelict farm building located at the edge of Icehouse Grove next to the A10 had been built using blocks of stone – with slate tiles added sometime later. On the left was a lean-to with a sloped tiled roof, and with each passing day Mother Nature was gradually reclaiming what was rightfully hers.

Inside, it was dark and damp. Three forensic officers were crawling across the stone floor in their white paper suits looking for scraps of evidence.

An overweight and black-mottled Henry Rattinger was suspended by two lengths of rope, which had been thrown over one of the wooden roof beams and looped around his wrists and ankles. He had then been hoisted up so that he was at a thirty degree angle to the floor. His shoulder joints had rotated backwards and upwards, and then dislocated to accommodate the weight of his body. His tongue had been cut out and there was three words carved on his forehead.

‘They used to dislocate people’s shoulders like that as a method of torture during the Spanish Inquisition,’ he said to Richards.

‘A minor inconvenience when compared to some of the methods employed,’ Toadstone said, coming out of the shadows like the Inquisitor General. ‘Did you know, they used to put red hot irons up vaginas and rectums, and tear eyes from sockets?’

‘That’s disgusting, Paul,’ Richards said.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’

Parish grunted. ‘Has the pathologist been, Toadstone?’

‘And gone. He told me to tell you that the victim mostly bled to death and the slit throat was merely the coup de grace. Time of death was approximately twenty-four hours ago, but he’d be able to fix it within a two-hour window once the post mortem had been carried out.’

Parish examined the message: SPEAK NO EVIL carved into the corpse’s forehead. ‘A dissatisfied customer by the looks of things.’

Toadstone nodded. ‘It certainly suggests that he had his tongue cut out for saying something in court that the killer didn’t particularly like.’

‘I suppose we should expect another two dead people,’ Richards said. ‘SEE NO EVIL and HEAR NO EVIL.’

‘Do you want to tell her, or should I, Toadstone?’

‘There’s a fourth wise monkey as well, Mary: DO NO EVIL.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘It was worth getting up this morning then,’ Parish said. ‘Anyway, the idea is that we try to catch the killer before he kills another three people.’

Richards smiled. ‘I knew that.’

‘I should hope so. We need to find out who Henry Rattinger’s disgruntled clients were.’

‘Aren’t barristers’ clients covered by confidentiality, or something?’

‘Or something. Legal professional privilege is an absolute right recognised by English common law. Do you know who else recognises it?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘No, they don’t even know it exists.’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘We can hear the cogs turning, can’t we, Toadstone?’

‘I know,’ Toadstone said.

‘Yes, but you’re not in training, are you?’

‘The European Court of Human Rights?’ Richards said.

‘A lucky guess. Which article of the convention?’

‘Has somebody written an article about it?’

‘Yes, of course they have.’

‘Eight?’

He turned round to see Toadstone’s hands disappear behind his back. ‘Cheating again, Richards. And you should know better, Toadstone.’

‘Paul was just jogging my memory.’

‘I’m disappointed in you, Richards. I feel betrayed, double-crossed, stabbed-in-the-back. I might have to reconsider my whole future in the police force now. Maybe it’s time to hand in my warrant card, let the young galácticos take up the mantle of justice for all, rest my weary head, turn my hand to origami . . .’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘So, anything to tell us, Toadstone?’

‘I always dread you asking me that question.’

‘If you were more forthcoming with the evidence, instead of hiding it from me all the time, you’d find the question a lot easier to answer.’

‘We’ll certainly analyse what we’ve found, but as far as I can ascertain there’s nothing that might be considered relevant.’

‘Another wasted journey, Richards. One of these days, when they tell me there’s been a murder, I simply won’t bother to go and look at the crime scene. I’ll just wait for the DVD to come out.’

She screwed up her face. ‘I’m wondering who SEE, HEAR and DO are?’

‘There must be a logical explanation why I brought you with me today.’

‘No, listen. If SPEAK is a barrister, I think HEAR might be the judge, SEE could be . . . who?’

‘A police officer?’ Toadstone offered.

Richards glanced at Parish. ‘He might be right, Sir.’

‘Hang on! As far as I know, Hornby’s don’t deal with criminal cases. I’ve never come across Rattinger before.’

‘But why did the killer send Rattinger’s tongue to you personally?’

‘Maybe he found me in the Yellow Pages.’

‘And who is the DO?’

He sighed. ‘Why do you have to make everything so complicated, Richards. I suppose we’d better go and speak to somebody at Hornby’s before a judge goes missing.’

‘Or you do,’ Richards said.

 

 

***

 

 

The hour soon disappeared. Louise Cole lived in a little village on the way out of Banbury called Bodicote at 13 Weeping Cross, which wasn’t far from the M40.

As he switched the ignition off, a great tiredness swept over him. He felt as though he could sleep for a week. What the hell was he doing? Was this the way he was going to find Jerry? He was beginning to doubt his own strategy. Yes, he’d found out who he was dealing with, but it hadn’t got him any closer to finding where she’d taken Jerry. She could be anywhere. Was Jerry still alive?

He knocked and waited.

An old woman – who might have passed for middle-age if she’d bothered to pamper herself – opened the door.

His warrant card told her who he was.

‘I’m here about Viki,’ he said.

‘You have news?’

‘No, but I have some information that might help you.’

She opened the door fully and led him into a living room that reeked of human habitation. In his own home, the rooms smelled of lavender, cherry blossom, furniture polish, fabric conditioner or some other fragrance. There were no fragrances in this house. It stank of body odour, cooked and rotting food, and a whole host of other unpleasant smells. As a detective, he’d been in many houses. This wasn’t the worst by a long shot, but it certainly wasn’t the best either. He perched on the edge of the two-seater sofa and hoped he wouldn’t have to stay very long.

‘Can I get you some coffee or tea?’

‘No thanks – I’m fine.’ He would have liked a coffee, but he’d stop somewhere a bit cleaner.

‘Biscuits?’

‘Not long had lunch, thanks.’

She sat down in a chair that had moulded itself to her short dumpy body. All around the room was evidence of a woman who had hobbies to fill her time – cross-stitch, knitting, drawing, quilt-making, painting. There was even a potter’s wheel gathering dust in a corner. He realised that the room looked more like a hobbyist’s workshop than a living room. ‘What information do you have for me?’

He recounted Rose Needle’s journey to Bodicote.

‘And how come someone from Essex is interested in my Viki?’

He showed her the newspaper article and pointed out Rose Needle and his wife Jerry.

‘Are you sure you aren’t making this up?’

‘I wish I were, but that picture is of Rose Needle – or whoever she is now – driving my wife’s car.’

‘Maybe your wife loaned it to her.’

‘No. This was after my wife had gone missing.’

‘Let’s say I believe what you’re saying – what’s happened to my daughter Viki?’

‘There’s a possibility that she could be dead.’

Tears jumped into her eyes. She pulled out a grey handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed at them. ‘I’d have to be stupid not to know she was dead after all this time, but no one had ever said it out loud before. When I reported Viki missing, the police said they couldn’t do anything. Why should I help you now?’

‘Because we both want to find out the truth.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘I’d been to visit my sister in Somerset for two weeks. When I returned Viki was gone. I tried her phone, but there was no service. She’d taken all her clothes, her passport, all of her documents such as her birth certificate, her degree certificate from Bristol University – everything. It was as if she’d moved out without telling me. I called the police, and they came round to look at her room, but the policeman who came said they wouldn’t do anything, that they had higher priorities. As far as they were concerned she’d left home while I was away – she’d escaped. I told them, there was nothing to escape from. Her dad left years ago – there was just me and her . . .’ She started crying. ‘Now there’s just me. What’s it all been for? You tell me that. What has any of it been for?’

He thought he should comfort her, but he wasn’t very good at that. ‘Have you got a photograph of Viki?’

She nodded, dabbed at her eyes again and shuffled off the chair over to the windowsill to retrieve a framed photograph of a dark-haired young woman wearing an academic gown lined with red silk. She passed it to him and said, ‘Viki told me that Bristol graduates don’t wear mortarboards because in the past the male graduates threw their headgear at the female graduates – or off the Clifton Suspension bridge – in protest at coeducation. Viki was the first in our family to go to university . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It was all for nothing, wasn’t it?’

He took out the photographs of Rose Needle and Tiffany Mara and laid them down next to Viki Cole’s photograph – there were similarities.

Rose was living her life by inhabiting other people’s lives – a nobody who became somebody for a short time. When she got tired of one identity, she simply stole somebody else’s.

He stood up. ‘Do you mind if I keep this picture?’

‘No, I don’t mind. I have others.’

‘Thank you for your help.’

‘Have I been any help?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Will you let me know . . . ?’

‘Of course I will. I want to find my wife, but I also need to know what happened to your daughter and the other women who have disappeared – I’m still a detective.’

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ she said as she showed him out.

He was glad to get outside and breathe in some fresh air.

The next stop was Lizzie Bradford in Henley-on-Thames and then the Wilkinson’s address in Esher, Surrey. As far as he knew, Julie Wilkinson hadn’t been reported missing – there was no one to miss her. He’d decided to leave Erica Bull’s parents in Theydon Bois until tomorrow. Tonight, he’d sleep in his own bed. It would be late when he got home, but at least he’d be home.

Although he was learning a lot about Rose Needle, it wasn’t helping him to discover where she might be now, or where she was keeping Jerry – if, of course, Jerry was still alive. He was making the assumption that Jerry was still alive – what else could he do? One of the dangers of printing the pictures in the newspapers was that Rose could have got rid of Jerry.

He rang Cookie.

‘I’m beginning to feel like a police informer.’

‘I usually slap my snitch’s about a bit – just to show them who’s boss.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I need your help.’

‘I didn’t think you’d called to listen to my scintillating repartee.’

‘No.’

‘Well?’

He gave her a brief synopsis of what he’d been doing for the past two days.

‘There’s some crazy people about.’

‘I’ve run out of ideas. I need you to find out everything you can about the five women that Rose Needle has more than likely killed. It might be that I’m barking up the wrong tree, but she must have taken Jerry somewhere, and it can’t be far from Theydon Bois.’

‘I must be one of those crazy people helping a copper.’

The phone went dead.

He climbed in the car and set off towards Henley-on-Thames.