Richards keyed the Bumble’s Green landfill postcode into the built-in satnav.
‘You like him a lot, don’t you?’
‘I love him. Not in that way, but as a dad. He’s the best.’
‘I wish I’d met him first.’
‘If you had, then I probably wouldn’t have, so I’m glad you didn’t.’
‘It’s all right- I won’t chase him anymore, but if he falls out with your mum, I’ll be waiting.’
‘You’ll have a long wait. If I was you, I’d find someone else and settle down.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Chalk him up as the one who got away.'
‘You know they’re coming with us to Ragdale Hall?’
‘Yes, he told me earlier.’
‘You’re not bothered?’
‘Why should I be? Your mum’s pregnant and piling on the weight; I’ll be nearly naked most of the time while we’re there. He’ll be able to see what he’s turned down.’
‘I thought you weren’t chasing him anymore?’
‘I’m not, but I can’t help it if he’s a man with needs and I’m a woman with a body to die for.’
‘My mum was right- you’re a scheming cow.’
They both laughed.
‘I’m looking forward to two days in a health spa,’ Catherine said.
‘It’ll be fun. We might even be able to find some decent men. I have no love life at all.’
‘Me neither. We’re both fantastic looking women and we have no men – there’s something wrong with the world, that’s what I think.’
Richards told Catherine about Rick Murcer.
‘And Jed and Kowalski went round there and beat the crap out of him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I love him even more, and Kowalski’s not bad as well, but a bit old for me.’
They arrived at the landfill site at ten twenty, and sweet-talked the manager into letting them use his office to interview the ten workers. It was a wasted journey. None of the men knew anything, and seven of the workers were immigrants and didn’t speak a word of English.
Richards input Martin Collindale’s Waltham Abbey postcode, and as she navigated her way around the mud-filled potholes and out of the landfill site, Catherine said, ‘I’m glad to be out of there. No wonder that boss of yours found something else to do and sent us here on our own. I’ve gone deaf, and I smell like a compost heap.’
‘What?’
‘I said...’
Richards turned her head and smiled.
They both laughed.
‘Do you like being a detective?’
‘I’m not a detective yet, but nearly. I think it’s the best job in the whole world.’
‘A bit scary sometimes though. Especially having to deal with all those murderers – they’re really sick.’
She grinned. ‘I know. Do you like being a reporter?’
‘Most of the time. I like reporting crime, but being with you two these last couple of days, I don’t think I like being this close to murder.’
‘Well, we’re not going to be close to it today.’
‘Thank God. Being chased by the killer in the cellars of the hospital nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘I’ve thought about it and, if you were to ask me, I don’t think he wanted to catch you. I think he just wanted to scare you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I have the feeling that if he’d wanted to catch you, he would have done. Mind you, you’ve only got yourself to blame. If you hadn’t run off in front of us, then no one would have chased you.’
‘So you think it’s my own fault I nearly got chopped up and put in a trunk?’
‘I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is don’t run off again.’
‘Yeah, I should have stayed with both of you. Don’t worry. I won’t be going down into that basement anytime soon.’
***
‘You remembered where we were then?’ Michelle Myers said as he walked into the room where she had her desk.
‘Only just. I had to ask for directions, and somebody else drew me a map.’
‘We’ll make real copper out of you yet.’
He went to sit down.
‘No, don’t sit there. We’ll find an interview room. Don’t want everyone knowing your business. Coffee?’
‘Love one – four sugars and milk.’
‘Patterson?’
A thin baby-faced Constable shot to attention near the back of the room. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘Get the Inspector a coffee with two sugars. You know what I have.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he said, moving towards the corridor.
‘Patterson?’
He stopped in his tracks and turned round. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘When you come back carrying two steaming mugs and we’re not here, where are you going to bring the drinks?’
‘Interview Room 3, Sergeant?’
‘Have you been rifling through my files, Patterson?’
‘I wouldn’t dare, Sergeant.’
‘Well, why are you standing there?’ To Parish, she said, ‘That is one scary kid.’
‘Maybe he heard you say which room you were using,’ Parish suggested.
‘I didn’t even know myself until a split second before I asked him to make drinks.’
‘Maybe you regularly use IR3, and he took an educated guess?’
She picked up a thick file and began walking towards IR3. ‘Yeah, you detectives throw maybes about like confetti. Well, we’re not dealing in maybes this morning- we’re dealing in hard cold facts, and the hard cold fact is that your career is on the line.’
They sat down in two of the four chairs on opposite sides of the wood-effect Formica table in the otherwise bare mahogany-coloured room of IR3.
Sergeant Myers was a head shorter than his six feet one, and obviously spent time in the gym. She had short brown hair with blonde streaks, brown staring eyes and thin lips- that always seemed to be parted- over good teeth.
‘You’ve made sure the audio and CCTV are off, and no one’s selling tickets for the show behind the two-way mirror?’
She stared at him. ‘The counselling isn’t helping with your paranoia then?’
He smiled. ‘I suppose not.’
Patterson brought in the drinks and left.
For the next forty-five minutes Michelle briefed him on the disciplinary process, and the strategy she planned to adopt at the hearing.
‘You okay with that?’
‘You’re the expert.’
‘Yes I am, and don’t say anything.’
‘If they ask me a question?’
‘You leave me to answer, or we put our heads together to discuss it, and then I give the answer.’
‘You’re afraid I’ll put my foot in it?’
‘No, you’ve already done that, Sir.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go. It’s being held in a conference room on the fourth floor.’
Patterson was standing outside the door.
‘What are you doing, Patterson?’
‘Waiting to clear the dirty cups away, Sergeant.’
‘Are you stalking me, Patterson?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
Parish followed her up the stairs, but half way up wished he’d caught the lift.
‘You’re trying to kill me before we get in there, aren’t you?’ he said, breathing heavily as he sat down next to her outside the conference room. He looked along the line of chairs in the corridor and saw the man who occupied Debbie Shinwell’s chair outside the DCI’s office. Today he wore a loud check-patterned jacket with a matching dickey bow, and licked his lips when he saw Parish eyeing him.
Parish gave him a look of disgust.
‘You should get down the gym more often. I could count on no fingers the number of times I’ve seen you down there, and I’m always down there working off my frustrations.’
‘Yeah, I bet you have a lot of frustrations?’
‘What have you heard?’
The door opened. ‘Detective Inspector Parish,’ the female clerk said. ‘The panel are ready for you now.’
The conference room had been set up like a courtroom. Facing him were four tables pushed together and behind them, from left to right, were Superintendent Alan Driscoll, Chief Superintendent Maureen Haverstock - the chairperson - and Mrs Tania Writtle who was Head of Human Resources. On the far right table sat the clerk taking a verbatim record of the proceedings. To his left were DCI Marshall and her representative – a female Inspector he didn’t know. What he did know was that Driscoll and Haverstock had both been supporters of Trevor Naylor, so he wasn’t expecting any favours from the panel.
He and Sergeant Myers sat in the two empty chairs on the right facing the panel members. To his mind, the only things missing were the lynch mob, the gibbet and the rope.
Chief Superintendent Haverstock commenced the disciplinary hearing. ‘Under Section 87 of the Police (Conduct) Regulations 2008 you are accused of Gross Misconduct, and under normal circumstances the process would involve three meetings, with the right of appeal after each stage. However, due to the serious nature of the alleged offence, and in the interests of efficiency, the panel has decided to move directly to the third stage...’
‘Excuse me?’ Parish said.
Michelle nudged him with her elbow.
‘I’m sure your representative has advised you not to speak until you are spoken to directly, Detective Inspector?’
Michelle spoke for him. ‘He has been so advised, Ma’am. He won’t do it again.’
‘I certainly hope not; we don’t want to add contempt to the charges. As I was saying, upon conclusion of the hearing a written finding will be produced, which could result in a range of penalties, including dismissal.’
‘But...’
‘Any further interruptions from your client, Sergeant, will result in Detective Inspector Parish being excluded from the hearing.’
‘Sorry, Ma’am.’ She turned to Parish and hissed behind her hand, ‘Are you stupid, or what? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way, which does not require an answer, because we already know the answer - keep your mouth shut, stupid.’
He didn’t know whether he liked being called stupid by a sergeant. It wasn’t too long ago he’d been a sergeant, and he would never have spoken to a senior officer like that... Except for Kowalski, and Trevor Naylor, and Pete Ranger, and... Well, he didn’t like it anyway.
First up was fatty Marshall who described the incident which had led to the charge of Gross Misconduct, and her statement was supported by Rupert Fothergill – the weird guy who was Marshall’s secretary.
Then Michelle gave an Oscar-winning performance describing how DI Parish had been psychologically damaged by the loss of two dear friends, and was undergoing counselling in an effort to combat the destructive feelings he now felt. If he’d have been on the panel he would not only have cleared himself of all charges, but promoted himself to Chief Constable as well.
‘Please wait outside while we reach a decision,’ Haverstock said.
That was it, short and to the point. The protagonists shuffled out and sat in the corridor far enough apart so that eye contact was difficult.
‘Good job, Mi... Michelle. I don’t see how they can do anything but clear me of all charges.’
‘We’ll see. I’ve got a strange feeling about this one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve done hundreds of these, but I got the feeling in there that they’d already made up their minds.’
‘Well, let’s hope their minds were made up in my favour.’
‘That’s what worries me; I don’t think they were.’
He was nervous. He hadn’t been this nervous since meeting Angie that first time at the Gooseberry Restaurant in Chigwell. That was good-nervousness, this was bad-nervousness. And anyway, wasn’t it all a waste of time? The Chief Constable would come back on Monday to right all the wrongs, wipe the slate clean – wouldn’t he?
The door opened like the gate to hell.
‘Detective Inspector Parish?’
It had only been five minutes. They didn’t take long to deliberate. Maybe Michelle was right; maybe it was all cut and dried, done and dusted, case closed.
They sat down in the same two chairs.
‘The panel does not accept your defence. We think you knew exactly what you were doing and we find the charge of Gross Misconduct proven. We have deliberated at some length...’
All five minutes worth.
‘... and have decided to reduce you to the rank of Constable and transfer you to the tiny village of Beck Hole in Yorkshire where there happens to be a vacancy.’
Michelle stood up. ‘May we have leave to appeal, Sir?’
‘On what grounds? Procedures have not been breached and the penalties are within the range available. Permission to appeal is not granted.’
The panel members stood up and filed out. DCI Marshall smirked at him and left.
‘What just happened?’
‘We just got mugged.’
‘We?’
‘This is the first case I’ve lost.’
‘Is that it then? I pack my bags and drive to Black Hole in Yorkshire?’
‘I’m sorry, and it’s Beck Hole.’
‘What if I refuse to go?’
‘Well, that’s a whole new disciplinary hearing.’ She gave him her card and stood up. ‘You’ll need a union representative. Give me a call if you decide to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. Possibly delayed shock, clinical depression- we’ll see what we can do. I don’t handshakes, but good luck with what you decide anyway.’
When Michelle closed the door behind her he felt as though he’d just pulled into the terminus. The track he had been following for thirty-one years had come to a premature end, and he’d just been shunted onto another line. He was travelling somewhere else now, but where?
He stood up and left the building. The first place he was going was King George Hospital car park to meet Richards and Catherine and get some lunch – he was bloody starving.
***
The B194 took them past Galleyhill Wood and straight to Waltham Abbey. They arrived at The Manor House at eleven twenty-five and Martin Collindale – an athletic-looking man with silver hair, cold blue eyes and a smile that was a stranger to his face – stood in the large doorway waiting for them.
The Manor House, according to Lieutenant General Martin Collindale (Retired) who insisted on giving them the guided tour, dated from the early 18th Century. It consisted of six bedrooms, four attic rooms, a drawing room, sitting room, dining room, kitchen/breakfast room, laundry room, spa suite, conservatory, games room with fully-stocked bar and an extensive wine cellar. There were six acres of land, which included a swimming pool, tennis court and stables. Also, various outbuildings housed six classic cars, two boats, and a caravan. There were three barns, one of which had planning permission for conversion into a four-bedroom dwelling.
‘Can I come and live in your laundry room?’ Catherine said. ‘It’s twice as large as the flat I’m renting now.’
‘As long as you’re willing to do the laundry while you’re in there.’
‘I’m sure that wouldn’t take me long.’
‘There are seven people in this house, including laundry from the swimming pool, the stables, the spa...’
‘What about the wine cellar?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, my middle daughter would like to live down there as well. So, what can I do for you two beautiful young ladies?’
‘I said you were the person to talk to if the police wanted to find someone who lived in the Essex area during the 1950s.’
‘Really? Well, we had better go out to the clubhouse. I’ve done a little conversion of the second barn to house the Society. Nothing spectacular, but it serves our purpose for now.’
They followed the General into panelled rooms and along a bright hallway. The midday sun ricocheted through stained glass windows, and Catherine said, ‘They’re unusual.’
Indicating the window high up on the right, he said, ‘The house used to belong to a self-styled warlock who practised black magic and established a group called the Order of the Nine Angels. That was their symbol – the Vilnius Thornian.’ He turned and pointed at the left-hand window. ‘That symbol is the Sigil of Baphomet and depicts the goat inside a pentagram surrounded by Hebrew letters, which translated means Leviathan – a monstrous sea creature mentioned in the Bible. My wife hates them, but I think they add character and some history.’
A worktop, accommodating twenty networked computers around the walls of the second barn, was available for the members of the Essex Genealogical Society, and there were three members sitting at computers doing its work. Tile-patterned terracotta linoleum had been laid on the floor; central heating and spotlight arrays had been installed. In the centre of the oblong room were forty four-drawer filing cabinets back-to-back.
‘Welcome to our little clubhouse.’
‘Hardly little,’ Catherine said. ‘This is three times the size of the Chigwell Herald.’
‘Of course, we hadn’t finished this the last time we met. So, what is it I can do for you?’
Richards was conscious of the time. They had wasted half an hour on the guided tour, and would now probably be late meeting the Inspector. If he was in a disciplinary hearing he would have switched his phone off, so there was no point in ringing him now. She would ring him after they’d finished here.
‘We’d like to find a W.E. St. John who lived in the Essex area in the 1950s,’ she said.
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult.’ He sat down at one of the computers, logged on and typed in St John. ‘Okay, there were seventy-three St Johns in the Essex area.’ He drilled down by keying in W.E. ‘Seven W.E. St Johns living in the Essex area between 1950 and 1960. I’ll send all seven to the printer, and then we can look at their details and decide which one – if any of them – is the one you’re interested in.’
He stood, walked over to a bank of printers and returned with a handful of A4 sheets, which he began separating and stapling together. ‘There you are,’ he said when he’d finished, and passed the seven files to Richards. ‘While Mary is looking through those, Catherine, let me show you our cheese making workshop.’ He put the palm of his hand in the small of her back and propelled her towards the door.
Catherine turned and pulled a face at Richards, who stifled a laugh.
Once they’d gone, she sat down and began reading the seven W.E. St. John profiles. What she noticed, before she found what she thought she was looking for, was that there were a lot of child deaths, and that Mary was a popular name in the 1950s.
William Eric St. John was a plumber and lived at 55, Hoe Lane in Lower Nazeing. He married Susan Gough, a seamstress from Roydon, in 1958 and they had a son called Joseph in January 1962. But in August of that year he killed his wife by strangling her with one of her own stockings. He went on the run, but was caught within three months. After a short trial, during which he pleaded guilty, he was sentenced to death. He was the last man to be hanged at Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentonville, on 6th July 1963. Baby Joseph was taken into care by Essex Social Services and the records sealed.
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ the General asked upon his return. Catherine was loaded down with two heavy bags full of ‘Manor House Cheese’.
‘Yes, thank you, I think I did. It says here that a child was “taken into care by Essex Social Services and the records sealed”. I don’t suppose...’
‘No, only the child would be able to gain access to sealed records once they reached eighteen years of age. I assume, of course, that the child was adopted, and that he or she knew they had been adopted, because some children are never told. The records are kept for a hundred years and then unsealed.’
‘What about the police?’
‘I’m guessing, but I would assume you would need a court order.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Immediately she saw the problem of that. The whole investigation was illegal, and there was no way they would be able to obtain a court order. It wouldn’t even be worth going to Essex Social Services in Chelmsford – no one would tell them anything. She looked at her watch and jumped up. ‘Oh God, it’s twenty past twelve.’
‘I take it you have to leave?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. We have to meet the Inspector at one o’clock, and he hates people being late.’
‘A man after my own heart. Lateness is not something I’m familiar with. In the army lateness is not tolerated.’
‘You’ve been very kind, General,’ Richards said.
Catherine hefted the two bags up. ‘And thank you for the cheese; we’ll have a feast.’
‘It’s been a pleasure being in the company of two such beautiful and charming young ladies,’ he said, and escorted them to the car.
After waving goodbye, Richards headed down the A10 towards King George Hospital.