Shadow of Death (9781476057248) Read online

  But they weren’t Mr and Mrs Average. Behind the facade they were British agents employed by MI6 – his name was Brian Thurlwell, hers was Alice Hatch. They weren’t married, but they were sleeping together. He had been recruited from Cambridge, she from Oxford. They had been agents for a little over ten years, and were often sent on missions together. They were a good team.

  They climbed aboard the red and white train at the bahnhof and failed to notice the short pale-looking middle-aged man follow them into the carriage and sit two seats behind them. Only the MI6 hierarchy knew they were here. A senior policeman was getting in the way of government policy again. Yes, he had to go.

  ‘Not the children,’ Alice whispered.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Not the children,’ Brian agreed.

  Two days ago, she’d discovered she was pregnant and she didn’t know what to do about it. She’d come on the mission because they’d told her it was a simple accident- no danger whatsoever- but her head wasn’t in the right place. One day she’d fancied that she might have a family, but not with Brian. He was good in bed, and sometimes he made her laugh, but there was something odd that she’d noticed in his eyes. Each time they killed someone he couldn’t wait to have sex with her. Always from behind, quick and frenzied, but wonderful – the best she’d ever had. He enjoyed killing people, and although it disgusted her to admit it, she thought that she did too. What type of person was she? Unwilling to confront the dark side of her nature, she pushed it to the back of her mind.

  At Küblis, they hopped on the cable car and stared out of the windows as it slowly chugged up the mountain. There were no seats, and they were packed in with their skis and other baggage like sardines – twenty to a car.

  ***

  ‘Do you normally keep your partner waiting?’ Catherine said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

  He had pulled up outside the fifteen storey block of flats called Pheonix Tower on Cairns Way in Woodford Bridge, and he was only ten minutes late. It would take him more than twenty minutes to reach Ware for his appointment with Vincent Chandler at ten o’clock.

  ‘I’m a Detective Inspector- I call the shots. If I say wait, you wait. If I say jump...’

  ‘I ask how high?’

  ‘There you are. You’re already getting the hang of being my partner.’

  She yanked out the Chigwell Herald that he’d bought at a newsagent’s on the way and wedged down the side of his seat. ‘You’ve seen the article?’

  ‘Very good: short, vague, and on page five as I suggested.’

  ‘Let’s hope St John likes it,’ she mumbled.

  He set off through South Woodford and joined the A406. At the North Circular roundabout he took the third exit onto the A10, and pushed the accelerator down until the needle touched ninety miles per hour. At five to ten they reached the outskirts of Ware. ‘Postcode?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Tell me you’ve got the postcode for the Tollhurst & Chandler offices?’

  ‘Why would I have? Was I meant to?’

  ‘You’ve got a lot to learn.’ Richards would have done it as a matter of course. ‘Got a Blackberry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now would be a good time to get it out and find the postcode then.’

  ‘You don’t have to be sarcastic.’

  ‘I’m always sarcastic. You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to get used to it.’

  ‘Let’s not forget who wants the story of a lifetime.’

  ‘Let’s not forget who’s running an illegal investigation.’

  ‘Let’s not forget who’s now an accessory to that illegal investigation. Have you got it yet?’

  ‘I’m not your slave, you know.’

  ‘We’ll be in Cambridge soon if you don’t hurry up.’

  ‘You’re a pig, and to think I used to fancy you.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘SG12 8BY.’

  He keyed the alphanumeric code into his sat-nav, and it oriented itself. They arrived at Number 4, Gilpin Road in the centre of Ware at ten twenty.

  ‘Leave the questioning to me,’ he said as they climbed out of the car. ‘You write down anything you consider relevant.’

  ‘Do you bully Constable Richards like this?’

  ‘I don’t bully anybody. I’m simply giving you instructions so that you understand your role when we get in there. Your trouble is that you’re too used to doing what you like. Reporters have no boundaries. Well, for the next few days you’re my very subordinate partner and you take orders from me. If you can’t do that, then maybe we need to rethink your role in all this.’

  ‘Pig. Why are we here?’

  ‘Valerie Nichols – the first victim – was a solicitor and worked here.’

  ‘And how is that relevant to her murder?’

  He stopped before entering the old Victorian building. ‘Unlike reporters, who seem to print whatever they like purely on speculation, and appear to have no real need for objective evidence, the police operate in a slightly different way. Before we can arrest someone for a crime, we have to have some evidence that links them to that crime. Oh, I know it doesn’t really matter to the fine upstanding citizens of the press- like yourself- you’ll tar and feather them on a whim, but the police must follow the law.’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said, opening the door into Tollhurst & Chandler – Solicitors, and walking through it into the reception.

  ‘You...’ she said behind him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said to the receptionist. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Catherine Cox to see Vincent Chandler. I’m slightly late unfortunately; had to resolve a personnel issue.’

  ‘Please take a seat. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.’

  They sat down in the hard-backed chairs lining the reception area. Old black and white photographs of the centre of Ware from the turn of the 19th Century hung on the walls. He stood up and peered at a picture of a horse and cart unloading barrels of beer outside a pub.

  ‘Journalists know exactly what objective evidence is. I did go to university, you know.’

  ‘You’re not still harping on about that are you?’ He smiled. ‘It’s old news.’

  ‘If you weren’t such a pig, you might be funny.’

  It wasn’t long before they were being led up the stairs to an office on the second floor. Vincent Chandler wore a dark blue pinstriped suit, light blue shirt and red tie, like a uniform. His dirty blond hair was slightly too long and there was a strong smell of men’s cologne in the room.

  ‘Detective Inspector- welcome.’

  Parish shook Chandler’s proffered hand and introduced Catherine as his partner, but said nothing about her being a reporter. They eased themselves into two dark brown leather upholstered chairs in front of Chandler’s Queen Anne desk. A sash window facing them had been opened, and the bright morning sunlight poured through the flapping net curtains like a rainbow piercing a canopy of trees. There were books everywhere: on top of the mantelpiece; beneath a picture of Whistler’s Mother, which he assumed was a print; stuffed in bookcases either side of the fireplace and in stacks on the desk. It reminded him immediately of Terri Royston’s house, and he could have sworn he smelled the aroma of a Cuban cigar.

  ‘Unfortunately, because you’re late, we’re reduced to five minutes, I’m afraid. In an hour I’m in court, and I have to travel there yet.’

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point then,’ Parish said. ‘I’m here about Valerie Nichols...’

  ‘I was already questioned by...’

  ‘Yes, I know. We’ve hit a wall, and we’re re-questioning everyone connected with the case. Now, Miss Nichols worked here as a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it possible to have a list of the cases she was working on with a brief summary of each?’

  ‘We gave...’

  Parish held up his hand. ‘It would be quicker if you pretended we’d never
been here before. Also, could I have a staff list?’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ He pressed an intercom on his desk. ‘Muriel, can you print off a staff list and the summary of Valerie’s cases again, and bring them in.’

  ‘Do you know if she was having problems with any of her clients?’

  ‘No, she certainly never said anything in the partner meetings that we held each morning.’

  ‘What was her area of expertise?’

  ‘Divorce law.’

  ‘Exclusively?’

  ‘Yes, very lucrative; the one thing that increases in a recession... Well, in fact, it has increased steadily since 1961.’

  ‘What about members of staff?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Were there any who took an unhealthy interest in Miss Nichols?’

  ‘Absolutely not, and I object to the implication.’

  ‘You may object Mr Chandler, but work colleagues come a very close second after family when we’re talking about murder. Sadly, people are usually killed by someone they know.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Did she mention anyone following or watching her?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but then she didn’t confide in me. The person you want to talk to about her personal life is Lydia... Lydia Plews. She’s another of our solicitors who deals with International Human Rights law. They were friends, and I know she’s pretty cut up about Val’s murder.’

  ‘Can we...?’

  The door opened and a short grey-haired woman with large hips entered.

  ‘Ah Muriel...’

  She proffered some sheets of paper towards Chandler, but he pointed at Parish.

  ‘The lists?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Chandler.’

  ‘Hand them to the Inspector, please.’

  Parish took the two stapled lists and said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I must go now, Inspector, but Muriel will ask Lydia to come and speak to you.’

  Parish went to stand, but Chandler said, ‘Please stay, you can use my office.’

  Chandler collected his overcoat and briefcase, offered his hand again and said, ‘Nice meeting you, Inspector,’ and was gone.

  ‘I’ll get Lydia,’ Muriel said, in a voice a mouse would have been ashamed of. ‘She won’t be long.’

  ‘Thank you, Muriel,’ Parish said as the door closed.

  ‘It’s a bit spooky in here,’ Catherine said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘All the books, the wooden floor, the fact that everything’s brown, and have you seen that?’ She pointed to a trapdoor in the ceiling.

  ‘Probably leads to the attic,’ Parish suggested.

  ‘There’re three floors, and we’re on the second.’

  Parish pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Maybe he keeps the skeletons up there.’ He looked around. ‘There are no cupboards.’

  ‘Did you ever think of the stage?’

  ‘No, I always wanted to be a detective.’

  The door opened and a woman with long brown hair wearing a white blouse and a black skirt over a good figure came in. ‘Lydia Plews- how can I help?’

  ‘You were friends with Valerie Nichols. Is there anything you can tell us about her personal life? Was anyone following her? Was she getting any strange phone calls? Did she have a jealous ex-boyfriend? Was she afraid of anything or anyone?’

  ‘When we could, we used to have lunch together at the Subway on the High Street. As far as I knew she was happy. Still looking for Mr Pain-in-the-Neck, but happy.’

  Parish stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Plews.’

  ‘It’s Mrs actually; I found Mr Pain-in-the-Neck, and I was talking to Val about getting rid of him.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  They made their way out of the building.

  ‘You’re Mr Pain-in-the-Neck,’ Catherine said. ‘What now, Master? We’re not seeing Carole Dobbins until two o’clock, and it’s only five to eleven.’

  He ignored the jibe. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘The same place as Valerie Nichols used to live.’

  ‘I can see you’ve been paying attention; let’s hope you wrote down the address.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t got it?’

  ‘I rely on my partner to keep a record of all these details.’

  ‘I’ve probably said this before, but you’re a pig, Jed Parish.’ She rummaged in her bag as her mobile activated, and moved away.

  He sighed, took out his own mobile, and rang Richards.

  ‘Hello, Sir. Can’t live without me, hey?’

  ‘Come back, all is forgiven.’

  ‘New partner not meeting your expectations?’

  ‘I’d be better off working on my own.’

  ‘Well, I’m in the car park at the Customs and Excise site in Shoeburyness. To use one of your phrases, it’s the arsehole of the world, but we did drive along the seafront and I saw the sea.’

  ‘Have you never seen the sea before?’

  ‘Of course, but not at Southend, and not for ages.’

  ‘Where’s Marshall?’

  ‘In the building talking to the customs people.’

  ‘Why aren’t you with her?’

  ‘She told me to stay in the car and wait for her. She doesn’t really want me with her, you know. She’s not training me, and she doesn’t like me.’

  ‘How could anybody not like you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. So, what did you ring me for?’

  ‘Have you got Carole Dobbin’s address?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you going to give it to me?’

  ‘You’ll owe me?’

  ‘I know.’

  ’12, Meridian Way, Stanstead St Margarets, SG12 8BQ.’

  He wedged the phone against his ear by hunching his shoulder and tilting his head, and wrote the address down in his notebook. ‘And the postcode for the Statics Club?’

  ‘That’s two you’ll owe me.’

  ‘Are you keeping a record in your notebook? One for me, one for him, one for me...’

  There was a long pause. ‘No.’

  He laughed. ‘So, what’s the postcode?’

  ‘SG13 3VH.’

  ‘So kind- have a nice day.’

  ‘And you.’

  He ended the call. Catherine was staring at him, fear in her eyes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was Gary, my editor.’

  ‘And...? Don’t make me wring it out of you.’

  ‘He’s had a visit from the Hertford Police. They said they want to question me about my sources.’

  ‘Mmmm, I should have anticipated that. Is that it?’

  ‘The killer rang. He told Gary to tell me that I’m on his list.’

  ‘He didn’t like your little story then?’

  ‘It’s not funny.’ She burst into tears. ‘Everything’s a joke to you.’

  He held her in his arms. ‘That’s what keeps me sane. Listen, don’t cry. We’ll sort it out.’

  ‘How? The police will be waiting for me when I get home, and after they’ve gone the killer will come in and get me.’

  It was his fault. In an effort to do the right thing he had done the wrong thing. A butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil jumped into his mind. Everything had a ripple effect.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ushering her to the passenger side of the car and opening the door. ‘We’ll go and have some lunch and think this thing through.’

  ‘Lunch! How can you think of eating at a time like this?’

  ‘That sounds like a quote from a film, but I can’t put my finger on it. Now, if Toadstone was here he’d probably tell you the film and which scene it was from.’

  He climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Oh, God, Jed. What am I going to do?’

  ‘You’re going to stop worrying, that’s what you’re going to do. The Hertford Police have no idea where you are, and when they do find out... Well, you’ve been helping the police with their enquiri
es, so don’t worry about them.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘As for St John... He’s not going to get to you while you’re with me, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Good, lunch then.’

  He drove the short distance into the centre of Ware, parked in a pay and display car park, and bought a ticket for two hours. They walked along the High Street and found a little French restaurant called Le Rendez-vous, but he had the feeling as they went inside that he wouldn’t find any French men wearing berets with onions strung round their necks.

  What the hell was he going to do now? Today she would be fine, but he couldn’t take her back to her home, and presumably her car was parked up outside the block of flats where she lived. After the meeting tonight, what would she do? Catch a taxi into the welcoming arms of Hertford Police, or worse – St John? If the police got hold of her, she’d tell them everything, and then they’d be knocking on his door. And he certainly couldn’t let the killer get hold of her. Where could she go? Did she have any friends or family that could hide her for... how long? Christ, what a mess! What if he didn’t catch the killer? The last one hadn’t been caught, and wasn’t this one a copycat? At the moment he had no suspects. Admittedly, it was early days, and they were accumulating evidence, but it was slow going. In the meantime, women were being taken, raped, dismembered, and stuffed into trunks. No, he couldn’t let that happen to Catherine if he had the power to stop it.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Yes, Mrs Parsons? What can I get for you on this fine May morning?’

  ‘Morning, Mr Shanks. I’ll have four lamb chops, half a pound of pork sausages, and a quarter of liver and kidney.’

  ‘You do know it’s against the law for me to sell you anything in imperial weights, don’t you? It’s kilograms now, Mrs Parsons- according to the Europeans anyway.’ He leaned towards her over the counter. ‘But for you I’m willing to risk imprisonment at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

  ‘Why they had to go and change it I’ll never know. It was all right for Bert and me – God rest his soul. I blame that Tony Blair...’

  ‘Happened long before him, it did, Mrs Parsons.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he must have been part of it, with his shifty eyes and forked tongue.’