House of Mourning (9781301227112) Page 12

  ‘You always expect more of me, Sir.’

  ‘But I very rarely get it. Come on Richards, we have people to see and places to go.’

  As they walked back along the corridor Richards said, ‘You’re really mean to Paul.’

  ‘We’re running a murder investigation, Richards. Being nice doesn’t cut it. You’ve got to man up if you’re leading a team of people. Now, I’m going to make a pit stop, you go down and get the car ready.’

  ‘Huh!’

  Once she’d gone he returned to forensics.

  ‘See, I told you it would work, Toadstone.’

  ‘I feel really guilty misleading Mary like this.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war.’

  ‘Love and warre are all one . . .It is lawfull to use sleights and stratagems to . . . attaine the wished end. Don Qioxote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1620.’

  ‘You’ve got a foot in the door, Toadstone. If you mess it up this time I won’t be able to help you. And telling her what went on here would be classified as messing it up.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Make sure you do. I can survive the truth coming out . . . In fact, I’d be the good guy in all this, but you’d be history.’

  ***

  Mushrooms – that’s what she could smell. She was lying in the cool undergrowth looking up at the thick green canopy covering the forest. Maybe it was the aroma of half-buried truffles. Maybe she could hear pigs snuffling in search of them. Maybe . . .

  ‘Wake up.’

  Her face snapped sideways.

  She forced her eyes open. A man was standing over her.

  ‘Hey!’ she said.

  His hand slapped the other side of her face.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  ‘Wake up.’

  ‘I am awake. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? There are laws, you know.’

  His laugh echoed inside her head. ‘You should have thought about those laws when you decided to break into a secret government facility. Down here there are no laws.’

  She was in an old brick arched tunnel. There were bare lights strung together by electrical wire. Black mould clung to the ceiling and crept down the walls. She was tied to a railway track by her hands and feet. When she wriggled to free herself she realised she had a headache the size of Mount Everest. They’d stripped her naked, and she was bloody freezing.

  ‘I wouldn’t wriggle about too much if I were you,’ the man said. ‘You’re lying on a board. Underneath that board is a central fourth rail that carries a direct current of 240 volts.’

  She had a long list of questions she wanted to ask, but one question floated to the top of its own accord and exited her mouth. ‘What have you done to me?’

  The man laughed again.

  She could see his rotting teeth. He was unshaven, had piggy eyes, a broken nose and short cropped hair. ‘You don’t want me to answer that, do you?’

  No, she didn’t. She knew what he’d done to her.

  ‘You were very good though. You moaned a lot, which is just the way we like it.’ He turned his head. ‘Isn’t that right guys?’

  She heard mocking laughter from at least another two men somewhere off to her left, but she couldn’t see them. She wanted to cry. She should have listened to Annie and gone back to bed. It had happened to her before. Her father had raped and tortured her. She knew how to deal with it physically and psychologically, and how to deal with them. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ she said quietly.

  His laughter stabbed at her heart. ‘I look forward to seeing you try. If you hadn’t noticed, you’re tied to a railway track, which forms part of the District Line. The nine fifty-three from Upminster to Ealing Broadway is due in about . . .’ he checked his watch. ‘. . . seven minutes.’

  ‘Where’s Romeo?’

  ‘You mean the skinny guy who was with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pointed to his right. ‘Further up the track. He’ll get it first. Oh, and if you were expecting help, your friend Romeo – after a bit of encouragement – was only too pleased to tell us everything. The ugly bitch in the yellow car is up there as well, so don’t be surprised if no help arrives.’

  She was on her own – as usual, but this was the worst shit she’d ever been in.

  ‘We’ve got your laptop, and that’ll tell the powers that be everything they need to know about how much you knew. From what I can gather, that wasn’t much. Anyway, me and the lads are going now, but you haven’t got long to wait for the train to hell.’

  He moved away. ‘Come on lads, let’s go. We don’t really want to watch live humans being transformed into mincemeat, do we?’

  The laughter gradually died away.

  The lights went out.

  She was alone.

  ‘Romeo?’ she shouted. ‘Harley?’

  There was no answer.

  As well as the sound of water, she could hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet, shuffling and squeaking – rats. God, she hated rats.

  ‘Ow!’ One had bitten her on the hand. They couldn’t even wait until she was turned into mincemeat.

  The little bastards. She felt them crawling up her legs, on her stomach and breasts. They were trying to get to her eyes. She wriggled what she could to shake them off.

  How the hell was she going to get out of this mess? She estimated that she had about ten minutes until the train chopped her head, hands and feet off. That wasn’t really the way she planned to check out.

  ‘Ow!’ They had really sharp teeth.

  She held out her hand, and didn’t have long to wait. Tiny feet and fur scraped across her palm. Her hand closed around the rat and she squeezed.

  It squealed, but not for long.

  She manipulated her fingers up the rat’s body to find its teeth and used them to saw at the rope. Without being able to see, she didn’t know whether it was working or not.

  How long did she have left?

  She kept feeling for the rat’s teeth to make sure they were still there, and then one time they weren’t. But it wasn’t long before another rat came along to fill the vacancy. She continued gnawing at the rope until she felt the tightness around her wrist loosen and she could pull her hand free.

  But as she did so, everything began vibrating. A shallow rumbling ricocheted along the tunnel and was building into a crescendo.

  The nine fifty-three to Ealing Broadway was on its way, and – for a change – on time.

  The rumbling was getting louder and louder by the second.

  She pulled at the ropes around her other wrist, and then at her ankles, overjoyed that the knots weren’t up to much.

  Her teeth were chattering, but she had no idea whether it was from fear, the cold, or the crazily vibrating metal track.

  A dull glow lit up the tunnel to her left.

  God, the train was coming.

  The light became brighter.

  She ripped the last rope from her ankle.

  The train had arrived.

  There was no time to get off the track.

  She turned her body sideways, so that she was lying on the board between the rails.

  The train whooshed over her.

  The noise made her head throb. The air turbulence turned her skin blue, her blood to ice and sucked the breath from her lungs.

  She had done a lot of stupid things in her short life, but lying naked under a speeding train took the biscuit.

  And then the train was gone.

  She was plunged into darkness again.

  Oh God! She was alive. How had she survived?

  She lay there for what seemed like ages. She wasn’t thinking, wasn’t planning her next move, wasn’t doing anything in particular. She was just being alive.

  Until she heard a rumbling.

  Shit – another fucking train!

  She climbed off the track and moved in the direction the men had gone. What she needed to do was find the light switch, and then find Harley and Romeo. Were they alive or
dead?

  As the train sped past she found the side of the tunnel and pressed her naked body against it. Her heart was beating a hundred miles an hour – probably as fast as the train was travelling. She closed her eyes and tried to bring her breathing under control.

  The darkness and silence returned.

  She waited for the next train.

  As the metal monster flew past, she used its light to examine the tunnel around her, and spotted a doorway and a light switch.

  Once the train had gone, she felt her way along the wall, found the switch and pushed it down – the lights came on.

  Shivering, she picked her way along the track. The bastards had left her with nothing – no clothes, no shoes – nothing. They’d even removed her piercings.

  It wasn’t long before she found Romeo and Harley, or at least – what was left of them. She cried. They’d been the closest she’d had to a family for a long time.

  ‘I’ll get the bastards for you,’ she said out loud.

  Another train rumbled past.

  She pressed herself against the wall again, and wondered if the train passengers could see the crazy naked woman clinging to the tunnel wall.

  When the train had gone she had an idea. Harley and Romeo had been left with their clothes on. It wasn’t pleasant, but she managed to find Romeo’s torso with his shirt and waistcoat still on, Harley’s lower half with her jeans intact, and three feet encased in shoes. Two of the feet belonged to Romeo and he’d had big feet. She would have preferred Harley’s slip-ons, but she couldn’t find her left foot, so she had to make do with Romeo’s basketball trainers. Pretty soon, she was fully dressed. It wasn’t pretty. She was covered in blood and filth, and she had no panties on. Harley had still been wearing her knickers, but they were bigger than a four-man tent – she still had some self-respect.

  Before she left, she wanted to say something over the bodies. She wasn’t a believer, but she knew Harley had been. She didn’t know any prayers, so she recited her favourite poem: Footprints in the Sand by Mary Stevenson.

  Afterwards, she wiped her eyes and runny nose with the sleeve of Romeo’s shirt and made her way back along the railway track to the doorway she’d seen.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You don’t know who Ethel le Neve was, do you?’

  Stick scratched the side of his head. ‘The woman we’re looking for?’

  ‘That’s why I’m a Sergeant and you’re a numpty.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen?’

  ‘He poisoned his second wife in 1910.’

  Xena leant back, stretched her legs out and interlocked her fingers across her stomach. ‘What’s the story?’

  The waitress came up to pester them because they were taking up space, but not buying anything. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ Xena parried. ‘Is there something wrong with the coffee?’

  She smiled. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘If we want poisoning we’ll let you know.’

  After the waitress had gone Stick said, ‘You’re so lovely.’

  ‘Why thank you, Stick. I like to make an effort when I can. So, come on, tell me the story.’

  ‘Well, Crippen killed his second wife, buried her in the cellar of his house and then tried to escape on a ship to Canada.’

  ‘Who was with him on that ship?’

  ‘His lover disguised as a boy.’

  ‘And her name was?’

  ‘I don’t . . . Ah! It wouldn’t be Ethel le Neve, would it?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘So our victim isn’t . . .’

  ‘Do you believe in astronomically impossible coincidences?’

  ‘I’m meant to say no, aren’t I?’

  ‘I would say so, yes.’

  ‘That means we don’t know who the hand belongs to again, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re so quick. I may be shooting in the dark here, but I have a sneaking suspicion that your ancestors were tortoises, or possibly snails.’

  ‘It probably means that the telephone number she gave Maggie Kemp and the story about the town hall are also lies as well.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised at all, numpty.’

  He sighed. ‘Back to the drawing board.’

  ‘What do you know about drawing boards?’

  ‘I have one at home.’

  ‘An unlikely story. What interests me more is why the woman would lie. Who was she? Why would she find it necessary to give a false name and telephone number, and fabricate a story about a night out at the town hall?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Feel free to chip in with any ideas of your own.’

  Stick shrugged.

  ‘The offer is not time-limited. Come on, let’s go and find a newsagents.’

  Stick finished his coffee and they made their way out into Burford Street.

  ‘Which way?’ Xena asked.

  Stick looked both ways, shrugged and suggested, ‘Left?’

  ‘There are two of us in this life raft, you know. I feel as though we’re travelling against the current, that I’m the only one who’s paddling and my paddle has holes in it.’

  ‘Why has your paddle got holes in it?’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me who Jennifer is.’

  Stick smiled. ‘Maybe the woman wasn’t as innocent as we’re thinking she was.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, people lie for various reasons, but one reason they lie is to hide who they really are. She didn’t want the nail shop knowing her real name – why?’

  Xena shook her head. ‘I just asked you that.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Have you got an answer?’

  ‘Maybe she was a criminal.’

  ‘No database match.’

  ‘Maybe she’d never been caught.’

  ‘One too many maybes for my liking, Stickanumpty.’

  They found Singhsbury’s News on the corner of Brewery Road. It was owned by an Indian couple called Singh.

  Xena flashed her warrant card. ‘The Jewish Chronicle . . .’

  ‘Special order, please,’ the man interrupted her. ‘All the way from America.’

  ‘I don’t want one. I want to know how many you distribute locally.’

  ‘Fifty-seven, please.’

  ‘I’d like the names and addresses of those fifty-seven, if you’d be so kind?’

  ‘Just one moment, please.’

  He disappeared into the back, and came back a couple of minutes later with three A4 sheets stapled together.

  ‘Very efficient,’ Xena said.

  ‘All on computer database – a lot easier.’

  ‘What about the other newsagents? Do they distribute the Jewish Chronicle as well?’

  The man nodded. ‘Most definitely, please.’

  ‘How many more local newsagents are there?’

  ‘Twenty-three, please. But also marts, garages and other shops that may order the paper all the way from America.’

  ‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ Stick said.

  ‘For once, I’d like you to tell me what will work.’ She turned to the couple. ‘Thanks very much for your help.’

  ‘Always happy to help the police, no thank you.’

  Outside Stick said, ‘We should have asked him about a tattoo parlour.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  ‘Well . . . nothing really.’ He went back into the shop.

  ‘There’s one on Legra Avenue, off Conduit Lane,’ he said when he came back out.

  ‘See how much easier life is when you use your brain.’

  They walked down the High Street, turned left past Hoddesdon Library and right into Legra Avenue. The name across the window was The Ink Depository.

  The bell tinkled as they entered.

  A short woman with barely a ponytail and about twenty small stars tattooed on the left side of her face, around her eye
and on the side of her nose came out of a back room through a curtain.

  ‘Yes?’

  Xena held out her warrant card. ‘Are you the owner?’

  ‘Yes. Rachel Currie-Cathey. What can I do for you?’

  Stick passed her the photograph of the severed hand showing the two bits of tattoo.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Xena asked.

  ‘It’s a hand.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Do you think so? I was going to travel up to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in August to do some stand-up.’

  Xena snorted. ‘I’d stick to tattooing if I were you. I’m assuming, of course, that you’re a half-decent tattoo artist.’

  ‘Yeah, but I want to do stand-up.’

  ‘Can we get back to the hand?’ She pointed to the edges of the wound. ‘Any ideas what those might be part of?’

  The woman laughed. ‘I’m a tattoo artist not a frigging psychic.’

  Xena went to take the photograph back, but the woman snatched it away. ‘I’ll have a proper look at it when I’ve got a bit of time.’

  ‘That’s police property,’ Xena said. ‘Don’t show anybody else, don’t make any copies and don’t sell it on eBay.’

  ‘Do you think it would be worth anything on eBay?’

  ‘Probably about five years for perverting the course of justice. You’d have lots of time to perfect your stand-up then, and a captive audience as well.’

  ‘Maybe you should do stand-up,’ the woman suggested.

  Xena smiled. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My colleague will be back this afternoon for the photograph – don’t lose it.’

  They left the shop and began walking back to the station.

  ‘I think you could do stand-up, Sarge.’

  ‘Shut up, numpty.’

  ***

  Jerry was in the cafeteria in-between Discharge of Contract and Mutual Obligation. Discharge of Contract had been sleep-inducing, and she hoped that the Mutual Obligation lecturer was a bit more lively and interesting.

  Cookie wasn’t answering her calls. She wasn’t too concerned, because she had said that she’d phone her on Thursday with an update. Well, it wasn’t even lunchtime yet on Tuesday, so there was plenty of time. She just had a nagging feeling in the back of her mind, especially as Cookie always answered her phone.

  She phoned Charlie Baxter.