In the Twinkling of an Eye (9781311593672) Read online

  In the Twinkling of an Eye

  (Parish & Richards 13)

  Tim Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2014 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.

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  To Pam, with love as always

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  A big thank you to proofreader James Godber

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  In a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.

  1 Corinthians (15:52)

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  Chapter One

  Sunday, July 14

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re the detective, you tell me,’ Richards said, and looked away as if something interesting had caught her eye on a stall.

  They were strolling around Sadler’s Farm Car Boot Sale at the A13/A130 junction in South Benfleet. There was no sea breeze, just the sun cooking the back of his neck and his forearms. Jack was strapped on his back in the papoose, Angie had linked him on his left arm and Digby’s lead was hooked around his right wrist.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s slipped your mind, but you’re a detective now as well.’

  Her face broke into a wide grin. ‘So I am.’

  There’d been a ceremony at Force HQ in Chelmsford for the six new Essex detectives two weeks ago. The Chief Constable – William Orde (QPM) – had made the presentations. The Chief had been there with Jerry – her first public outing since leaving the hospital. DI Xena Blake – still looking wraith-like, but on the mend after her latest life-saving surgery – had attended with DI Tom Dougall from Barking and Dagenham. DS Rowley Gilbert – fresh out of prison had also been there with his girlfriend PC Jenifer D’Arcy from Southend. The usual suspects had also accepted the invitation – Paul Toadstone, Di Heffernan, Doc Riley . . . In fact, the room had been packed out.

  ‘Well, I can see it’s a box,’ he said. ‘What’s inside the box?’

  ‘Ha! I recall asking Chief Kowalski exactly that question about a certain box he was carrying into the station not too long ago. And do you know what? He wouldn’t tell me what was inside that box, and then you conspired with him to prevent me from finding out what was inside that box. So, don’t think you’re ever going to find out what’s inside my box.’

  ‘You can tell me, Mary,’ Angie said.

  ‘Oh no I can’t, mum. You’re on his side.’

  Parish’s eyes narrowed. ‘There are no sides in this family, Richards. There are only those who know what’s inside the box . . .’

  ‘Which would be me.’

  ‘. . . And those who temporarily don’t know what’s inside the box.’

  ‘Which would be you and everybody else who’s on your side. And for your information, forever is not a temporary situation.’

  ‘Do you want to put the box in the car, so that you’re not carrying it round forever?’

  ‘You know, I think I will. Give me your keys, please.’

  Angie rummaged for the car keys in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Do you have to do that here?’ Richards said, pulling a face.

  Angie passed her the car keys. ‘You have a dirty mind, Mary Richards.’

  ‘I blame the parents,’ she said, wandering off towards the car park.

  ‘Do you know what’s in the box?’ he said to Angie.

  ‘No, but I’ll find out.’

  He grunted. ‘It’ll be something to do with crime or serial killers – that’s all she’s interested in.’

  ‘Maybe she’s right, maybe I am to blame. Maybe . . .’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it. There’s a mountain of evidence that serial killers are a product of their environment – nurture, not nature . . .’

  ‘Mary’s not a serial killer.’

  ‘No, but she has an unhealthy fascination with serial killers, and that behaviour must have been nurtured from a very early age.’

  She hit him on the shoulder. ‘You know very well that’s not true, Jed Parish.’

  ‘Hit him some more, mum,’ Richards said on her return.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Richards shifted the book she was carrying from one hand to the other. ‘Don’t you have things of your own to worry about, instead of sticking your nose into what I’m doing?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to concern yourself with what I’ve got here.’

  ‘So, there were books in the box?’

  ‘That also is none of your concern.’

  ‘I see. That doesn’t look like a normal book.’

  She tried to hide it. ‘Books are books.’

  ‘It looks like an old book.’

  ‘It’s a diary, if you must know.’

  ‘A diary? Whose diary?’

  She smiled, and her face lit up. ‘I can’t keep it to myself any longer. The diary is for 1966 . . . Isn’t that the last time England won something?’

  ‘Yes. We won the Football World Cup.’

  ‘Yuk! I hate football.’

  They found a table with the seats attached outside a food trailer, and sat down. On the side of the trailer was written: “Bavarian Bistro – Authentic German food”, and a cartoon of a man with a moustache wearing lederhosen and a hat sprouting a feather.

  ‘You were saying?’ Parish said.

  ‘Oh yes! The diary belonged to a fifteen year-old girl called Loveday. Do you believe that name – Loveday? Who would call their child Loveday? Listen to what she’s written on today’s date in 1966:

  Dear Angel,

  Will he visit today? I like it when he comes here. He brings me things like this diary, an old teddy bear, a book of nursery rhymes and sometimes – clothes. Although the last time he brought me a dress it was far too small. He hasn’t visited for a while. Of course, I don’t like it when he’s here and I have to do things . . .’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Angie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think you should be reading that out loud in a public place, Mary Richards.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘See,’ Parish said. ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Your daughter . . .’

  ‘My daughter? If I recall, she’s now your daughter . . .’

  ‘I am sitting right here, you know.’

  Parish stroked Digby’s head. ‘Where did you get the diary from?’

  ‘A stall over that way.’ She pointed back the way they’d come.

  ‘Was it in the box?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else was in the box?’

  ‘Books and magazines on murder, and some other knickknacks.’

  Angie pulled a face. ‘What possessed you to buy a box of someone’s else’s old rubbish?’

  ‘Books on murder.�
� He shook his head like a disappointed parent. ‘She’s like a moth that flies towards the light. You mention a murder and she becomes hypnotised, obsessed, psychotic . . .’

  ‘She needs help, doesn’t she, Jed?’

  ‘Most definitely. I think that they might use her condition in any future literature on psychiatric disorders as an extreme example of . . .’

  Richards stood up. ‘I’m not listening to you. I’m going back to the stall to see what I can find out about this diary.’

  ‘Do you want some food?’

  ‘What are those German sausages like?’

  ‘I can personally recommend the currywurst,’ Parish said. ‘Do you know they’re made from horsemeat?’

  ‘You’re disgusting. Don’t bother getting me one of those.’

  After she’d gone Angie said, ‘Are they really made from horsemeat?’

  He laughed. ‘No. It’s illegal to sell horsemeat in this country. They’re pork sausages with curry ketchup on.’

  ‘She believes everything you say, you know.’

  ‘I know. That’s why it’s so much fun winding her up.’

  ‘You’re really cruel.’

  He stood up. ‘Currywurst?’

  ‘It’s hardly healthy food, is it?’

  ‘We’re out enjoying ourselves.’

  ‘All right, but I’ll probably end up giving most of it to Digby.’

  Digby’s tail began to wag.

  ‘You will not. I’ll eat it.’

  The dog’s tail dropped. He put his jaw on the wooden seat and stared up at Parish.

  ‘All right, we can share.’

  Digby barked, and his tail started wagging again.

  Once he’d queued and bought the food, they sat and ate it. Digby was given just enough to make him feel as though he’d won the argument.

  ‘Mary’s been gone a long time.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  Richards appeared out of the crowd. ‘She’d packed up and left.’

  ‘Already?’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s only quarter to one.’

  ‘To be honest, she didn’t have much to sell on the table. There were a few ornaments and things, and the box of books, which I bought.’

  ‘Have you written down a description of the woman? What type of car was she driving? What colour was it? Did you get the number plate? Did she speak to any of the other sellers? Have you checked the box? What about . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? To all of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was led to believe that I had a detective as a partner. Clearly, I’ve been hoodwinked, duped, hornswoggled . . .’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know, did I?’

  ‘Didn’t know what?’

  She looked at the ground and shuffled her feet. ‘Nothing.’

  He laughed. ‘You must think I fell out of a coconut tree. That’s the diary of an abused girl. Was the man ever brought to justice? Who was the man? Who was Loveday? Where did all this take place? What did he do to her? Is the man still alive? Is Loveday still alive? Why is an abused victim’s diary being sold at a car boot sale? Where did it come from? Was it ever used as evidence in a . . . ?’

  ‘I knew I never should have told you what was in my box.’

  ‘But you did, Pandora. Now, you have to put all the evils of humanity back inside that box by finding out the secret of the diary and what happened to poor Loveday.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re her only hope.’

  ‘But . . . are those sausages really horsemeat?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Shergar?’

  ‘The horse that was stolen and never found?’

  ‘This is where he ended up.’ He stood up. ‘Right, should we carry on browsing?’

  ‘I’ll have to go back and talk to those other sellers, won’t I?’ Richards said.

  ‘If you don’t do it now you’ll never get another opportunity.’

  ‘Oh God! What if . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t say it, Richards.’

  ‘All right, I’ll keep my mouth shut,’ she said, and wandered off to where the stall had been.

  ‘That’ll be a first,’ he called after her.

  ‘What if what?’ Angie asked.

  ‘What if . . . it’s a serial killer.’

  ‘She always thinks that.’

  ‘Yes, and she’s usually right.’

  ***

  Monday, July15

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he said to her.

  They were in the bedroom. Jerry had just finished getting ready, and Hermes Perfume 24, Faubourg hung in the air like a very expensive air freshener.

  She touched his face. ‘You know I have to, Ray. How long have I been out of circulation now? That woman is not going to destroy my life – our lives. I’m still fragile, but I’m functioning fragile. I have to get back to work and back to the degree course. Charlie Baxter has been living from hand to mouth since . . . he’s useless, he needs me.’

  ‘I need you. The children need you. Matilda and Bert need you.’

  ‘And you all have pieces of me – just not as much as before. The sooner I get back out into the world, the sooner I’ll be Jerry Kowalski again.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you how much I love you?’

  ‘I don’t recall you ever saying anything like that.’

  ‘I’m sure I have.’

  ‘It won’t hurt to say it again.’

  Taking care not to squeeze too hard, he wrapped his arms around her. ‘You’re the light of my life, Mrs Kowalski.’

  They kissed.

  ‘And you mine, Ray. But now I have to go. Charlie Baxter needs new offices. God knows what he’s been doing with his time while I’ve been away.’

  ‘Getting comfortable in DI Blake’s flat from what I hear.’

  ‘Yes well, that’ll have to stop. I’m sure there are laws about solicitors living with police officers. How can he possibly remain impartial if he’s living with the police officer who arrests his clients?’

  ‘’She hasn’t done much arresting lately. What with her in hospital and Gilbert in prison, I felt as though I was the captain of a ghost ship. If it hadn’t been for Parish and Richards bringing in the punters . . .’

  ‘Punters?’

  ‘Our customers – connoisseurs of fine murders.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. Right, wish me luck.’

  He grunted. ‘Never mind luck. Just make sure you come back home tonight.’

  She kissed him. ‘I’ll be home.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘Goodbye, darling.’

  She made her way out to her car, climbed in and started the engine. He’d get used to it, as she would. Stepping out into the world again after what she’d been through was the bravest thing she’d ever had to do. Giving birth to four children was nothing compared to this.

  Her heart was racing, her stomach was churning and there were a million excuses inside her head not to go. She wanted desperately to stay inside the house forever, to lock herself away from the world. No one would blame her, but that was not who she was. What had happened had happened – that’s all there was to it. She couldn’t change the past. It was the future that mattered now, and she had control of her own future.

  As she reversed onto the road Ray waved at her from the front door. She smiled, waved back and drove off. He would be going to work himself soon.

  She and Charlie were meeting the Insurance Investigator – a Mr Peter Krueger-Billett – at Charlie’s old burnt out offices in Woodford Green at eight forty-five, and she was going to tear a strip off him. As if Charlie would want his own offices fire-bombed – especially when he was living upstairs. They were just looking for an excuse not to pay out on the claim. Well, she wasn’t having it – not at all. She certainly wasn’t having a foreigner – because that’s what Krueger-Billett sounded like – accusing Charlie of a crime he didn’t commit.

  They were both there waiting for her.<
br />
  ‘Good morning . . .’

  ‘Never mind the pleasantries, Charlie Baxter.’ She turned to the other man – small and squat like a warthog, with sweat patches under his arms and a mop of wavy brown hair. ‘You must be . . .’

  He extended his hand. ‘Peter Krueger-Billett from Opal Investigations – the UK’s leading . . .’

  She ignored the hand. ‘Leading what? The leading company that never pays out? Have you read the fire investigator’s report?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘And the police report in which it was concluded that a certain Mr Tug Muleford fire-bombed Charlie’s offices because we were applying for a restraining order on behalf of Redbridge Social Services?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, please explain to me what the problem is?’

  ‘Well, the only witness was Mr Baxter, and . . .’

  She held up a hand to interrupt. ‘Before you say something you might regret, let me explain something to you, Mr Krueger-Billett. My understanding is that you’re not paying out on Charlie’s claim because you think there’s something suspicious about the events of Thursday, April 18?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Well, here’s what I think. I think there’s something suspicious about your company not paying out on this claim, which could be interpreted as fraud. If you don’t change your decision I’m going to ask my husband – who’s a Detective Chief Inspector at Hoddesdon Police Station – to send in the fraud squad to investigate your company. Do you know how long forensic accountants take to investigate a large company?’

  Krueger-Billett shook his head.