House of Mourning (9781301227112) Read online

  At the end of the tunnel was a grill. There was a sliver of light stabbing through the bars. She could actually see the motor if she strained her neck upwards and to the right, but the grill was locked. It had a rusty iron bolt holding the bottom of the grill down, and a heavy-duty lock preventing it from being moved forwards or backwards.

  She sat down again, but she didn’t cry. Oh, she felt like it, but what good would it do? There was a way out of here, she just had to find it.

  ***

  Missing persons had been relocated to a larger storeroom and called the “Lola Laveque Room” in honour of DC Lola Laveque who had died in the line of duty. There was now enough space to accommodate two chairs instead of one. People didn’t say they were going to “Missing Persons” anymore. Everybody knew that when you said you were going to “Lola’s” you were going to “Missing Persons”. In fact, with the exception of one person, the whole station thought it was much better because you only had to say one word instead of two, and “Lola’s” tripped off the tongue much better than “Missing Persons”. You could eat a bacon and brie Panini and drink a can of coke in the time you saved saying “Lola’s” instead of “Missing Persons”.

  ‘Why don’t you call it “Lola’s” like everyone else, Sarge?’

  ‘Because I’m not an arse-licker.’

  ‘Lola Laveque was one of the detectives before us. She was the Chief’s partner.’

  ‘Fat lot of good it did her.’

  ‘She came from Haiti, you know.’

  ‘And I’m not dumb either.’

  ‘She knew voodoo.’

  ‘I wish I did. I’d stick pins in your lips to stop them flapping.’

  ‘You don’t actually stick the pins . . .’

  ‘Don’t you ever shut up?’

  ‘Still got those rogue hormones running riot?’

  ‘Did you know that premenstrual syndrome is considered a mitigating circumstance in cases of murder?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There have been two recorded cases. You could be the third if you don’t shut the hell up.’

  Stick opened the door to Lola’s.

  ‘Hi, Dena,’ he said to the woman sitting at the computer.

  ‘Hi, Rowley.’

  ‘Sarge, this is PC Dena Muggli. She’s now in charge of Lola’s.’

  ‘Missing Persons.’

  ‘We call it Lola’s, Sarge,’ Dena said.

  PC Dena Muggli had a long thin face, which housed staring eyes, and ears that were all cartilage and angles.

  ‘Do I look as though I’ve been living in a cave?’

  ‘I didn’t know there were caves in Hoddesdon?’

  Stick became excited. ‘Oh yes! Do you know about Royston Cave? It was built by the Templars in the shape of a beehive, and boasts an extensive range of wall carvings.’

  Xena sighed. ‘You’re turning me crazy, Stick. Listen Constable Muggli . . . are you any relation to Mowgli?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My family come from Switzerland – a family of farmers and brewers. I’m the first police officer.’

  ‘As much as I’m fascinated by your family history, I need to know about a missing person.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place, Sarge.’

  ‘I certainly hope so, because I’d hate to see you back on the farm stomping hops.’

  ‘No, you’re confused, Sarge,’ Stick said. ‘Grapes are trodden for wine. Hops are . . .’

  Xena pushed Stick up against the back of the door. ‘I’ll tell you what I am, Stick. I’m at the end of my rope. Can you tell me what happens when a person gets to the end of their rope?’

  ‘They drop?’

  ‘That’s right, and who do you think I’m going to drop on when I let go of my piece of frayed rope?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Stick. You. I’m going to go up to the squad room now before I crush your skull with my bare hands and dip my crusts in your soggy brains. I want you to stay here and whisper sweet nothings in Constable Mowgli’s ear. Tell her all about the woman we’re searching for, collect up all those missing person files that match the criteria and bring them upstairs so we can look through them. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  She opened the door and made her way up the stairs. She hated being so horrible. Normally, she was as sweet as mama’s apple pie. Not that her mother had ever made apple pie . . . well, not that anybody could actually eat. Her mother had been the worst cook in the world.

  Every month it was the same. It was like she had an alien inside her that reared its ugly head twelve times a year. She’d seen a number of doctors who were about as much use as Captain Hook at a gynaecologists’ convention. Other women took time off work and locked themselves in darkened rooms for days on end, but she couldn’t do that. She had to suffer the cramps, the back pain, the heavy bleeding, the puking, the migraines, the depression and the constant feeling of tiredness.

  She went to the ladies, locked herself in a cubicle and puked in the toilet.

  She heard giggles and then, ‘Somebody was out on the tiles last night.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she advised them.

  The laughter died as the door opened and closed.

  Her period had arrived. Thankfully, she’d brought it welcoming gifts. A spare pair of panties with liners in a plastic bag, supersized tampons and painkillers.

  The only painkillers the stupid doctors recommended were paracetamol, and they didn’t even get close to dulling the pain. So she’d started buying analgesics off the internet a couple of years ago, which were illegal and addictive, but she didn’t care. Just as long as they helped her live a nearly normal life. She popped two of the tablets in her mouth and washed them down with tap water.

  Stick was leaning against the wall next to the door waiting for her.

  ‘Got them,’ he said.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re standing outside the ladies toilet like the worst kind of pervert. I should report you to Vice.’

  ‘Vice already know about me.’

  ‘I bet they do. So, have you looked them over?’

  ‘I thought we could do it together.’

  Xena shook her head. ‘We’re talking about missing person reports, not snapshots of your holidays.’

  ‘I did have a quick look walking up the stairs.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I bumped into Inspector Threadneedle walking down.’

  ‘That’s not really what I was asking.’

  ‘Oh! Well . . .’

  ‘What was Threadneedle doing that she didn’t see you walking up the stairs?’

  ‘She was reading as well.’

  They reached their desks. The squad room was like the Bermuda Triangle.

  ‘What about coffee?’ she said.

  ‘I’d like that very much, Sarge.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you would. Get your arse in the kitchen. You know how I like it.’ She passed him her mug. ‘And wash my mug this time.’

  ‘I always wash your mug.’

  ‘Then why is it always filthy?’

  ‘Because you never wash it.’

  ‘I’m going to pretend you never said that.’

  Stick wandered off down the corridor. She was about to dip into the missing person files when Judy Moody appeared in front of her desk.

  ‘Yes?’

  Xena didn’t like Judy Moody. First, she made a point of not liking anybody with rhyming first and last names because they were bound to be psychologically damaged. Second, the woman had hairs protruding from her nose that she should have been trimming, but wasn’t. Third, the ugly cow didn’t believe in using unnatural perfumes on her body. In other words – she smelled like rancid fish. There were other things as well – she wore support stockings, had dandruff and knitted lumpy scarves in her lunch break.

  ‘You gave me some work to do.’

  ‘That mus
t have been a shock to the system.’

  ‘You don’t like me much, do you?’

  ‘I don’t like you at all. Well, what have you got for me?’

  ‘The function at the town hall was a local Chamber of Commerce dinner.’ She passed Xena a small booklet.

  ‘Did you get a seating plan?’

  ‘Did you ask me to?’

  ‘I thought it would have been obvious to a bare-arsed baboon that I needed a seating plan.’

  ‘It wasn’t, so no I didn’t get you a seating plan.’

  Xena pulled a face. ‘I suppose I’ll have to do it myself.’

  ‘I suppose you will.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Judy passed half a dozen stapled sheets of A4 paper across the desk. ‘Phone records for the telephone number you gave me.’

  ‘Something useful at last. Weren’t you also meant to be getting me the forensic artist’s picture of the woman we’re looking for?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? I’m sure I said . . .’

  ‘You asked me to arrange for the forensic artist. You didn’t say, “. . . and bring me the picture when it’s finished.” You can get it yourself.’

  ‘And that’s another reason I don’t like you – you’re a lazy bitch.’

  ‘Are you ever pleasant to anybody?’

  Stick shuffled up carrying the coffees.

  ‘I’m pleasant to you, aren’t I, Stick?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He has a short-term memory problem. You can go now.’

  Judy wandered off back to her desk on the far side of the squad room.

  ‘I wonder if there’s a world record for upsetting the most people in a day,’ Stick mused.

  ‘Do you think I’m an amateur? I’ve held that record for the past five years. I practise. I train. I eat all the right foods. I’ve devoted the best years of my life to exceeding the previous year’s total.’

  ‘I know you’re only joking, but it wouldn’t take much to believe you.’

  Her lip curled up. ‘While I’m looking at the missing person reports, you go and hunt down the forensic artist and get the photofit off her. Take a taser with you just in case.’

  ‘I’ve made myself a coffee.’

  ‘Oh, so you’d like me to go with my raging hormones?’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  The eight missing person reports were of no help at all. In fact, there was only one that vaguely resembled the woman they were looking for.

  Next, she examined the phone records for the mobile number the woman had given Maggie Kemp. At the top of the first sheet was the number in question together with a name: Amy Foster.

  Was it that easy? She skipped to the last page of the phone record and saw that calls had been made right up to yesterday.

  She rang the number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Amy Foster?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s calling?’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Blake from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘How did you get my number?’

  ‘It has come up during a murder enquiry.’

  ‘It’s Katy Ratcliffe, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we don’t know who the victim is. Where are you located?’

  ‘Groom Road in Turnford.’

  ‘Can we come and speak to you? We have a picture of the woman we’re looking for.’

  ‘I thought you had a body?’

  ‘I’ll explain when we get there.’

  Xena wrote down the number of the house and the postcode. ‘We’ll be there in about half an hour.’

  Stick returned brandishing the photofit. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Good.’ She stood up and put her jacket on. ‘We’ll need that where we’re going.’

  ‘But . . . my coffee.’

  Xena swilled down the last of her coffee. ‘We haven’t got time for coffee. While you’ve been wasting time chatting up forensic artists I’ve been solving the case. Come on, we have to go.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ***

  He was feeling a bit peckish. A pub lunch with a pint of lager would probably do the trick. His arse was killing him as well, and he was seriously bored.

  She hadn’t come out. He’d seen lots of people entering and leaving the building, but she hadn’t shown her ugly mug. He’d even seen two cops come and go. They were in plain clothes, but they may as well have been wearing pink pyjamas that glowed in the dark. Anybody with an ounce of sense could spot a copper from ten miles away. There was no telling who the cops had visited, and he wasn’t going to assume that it was Lorna Boyce just because he was sitting here waiting for her to come out.

  The question was: What was he going to do if she didn’t come out?

  He climbed out of the car, locked it up and began walking. The exercise would do him good after a whole morning of inactivity. Oh, he was used to inactivity, but usually he was doing something when he wasn’t doing something – like sleeping, watching the TV, or killing aliens on his console.

  If memory served, there was a pub at the end of the road called the Cat & Mustard Pot. He’d stroll down there and have lunch. If Lorna Boyce didn’t have the decency to make an appearance, then there was no point in starving himself to death because of that. He had to walk past the building where she was holed up, but he stayed on the opposite side of the road.

  The pub was busy. Well, it would be – it was lunchtime and they served pub food. Also, there was a primary school along the road, and those teachers liked to down a pint or two – male and female – they were a bunch of drunkards. How else could they cope with other people’s little bastards?

  Most of the pub’s customers were office staff, but he noticed a couple of builders, a nurse, a few jobseekers taking time out from the arduous task of job-seeking and a vicar.

  After ordering a pint of lager and a burger and chips he found a vacant table on a wooden-type veranda overlooking the entrance. A good assassin never sat with his back to the door. Maybe he should start writing a journal. Although his writing skills were meagre, he could probably make a few notes on his methods and his kills. Maybe he could anonymously write an assassin’s handbook, give budding assassins the benefit of his experience.

  The waitress brought his lager. He was glad he’d got there when he did. The place was beginning to look like rush hour in the underground. Not long afterwards a waiter brought his food.

  And then, to cheer him up, Lorna Boyce walked into the pub with two other women. The question now was: What was he going to do about it?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Moorcroft Debt Management call centre was located on Plough Hill in Cuffley on the second floor of a furniture showroom. They entered via a side door and walked up the steps to a large open-plan space containing around thirty individual cubicles. In each of the cubicles was a worker answering calls.

  ‘We were all devastated when we heard,’ the manager Mark Whitebrook said. ‘Do you know when the funeral is going to be?’

  Richards shook her head. ‘No, sorry. The body hasn’t been released yet. You’ll have to talk to her sister about the funeral arrangements.’

  He nodded.

  They were sitting in Mr Whitebrook’s office at the far end of the call centre.

  ‘So, what do you do here?’ Parish asked out of curiosity. He had a general idea of what call centres did, but he didn’t really know for certain.

  ‘Manage people’s debt.’

  ‘I owe a hundred thousand pounds. I ring you up. What do you say?’

  ‘One of our customer advisers will take all your details. We’ll want to know what you want from us. For example, reduced monthly payments, stopping demand letters, negotiating a freeze on interest rates and charges, and so on.’

  ‘And how do you make your money?’

  ‘We’ll charge you a percentage . . .’

  ‘I see, so now I owe a hundred and ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘Yes, bu
t we will have saved you money as well.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘That’s difficult to determine.’

  ‘Because it’s such a small amount?’

  ‘Because it’s complicated.’

  ‘And you get debts passed to you by loan companies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You send round the heavies?’

  Whitebrook laughed. ‘You’ve been watching far too much television, Inspector. We don’t do that anymore.’

  ‘You used to do it though?’

  ‘Not personally, but I know some people . . .’

  ‘Yes, I bet . . .’

  ‘So, Mr Whitebrook,’ Richards interrupted. ‘Can you tell us whether Fannie had any enemies here?’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘People she didn’t get on with then, anyone who had a grudge against her, that type of thing.’

  ‘You think someone here killed her?’

  ‘We don’t think anything. We’re simply making enquiries. Why? Do you think someone here killed her?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I run a tight ship. Everybody liked Fannie – she was a fun person.’

  Richards raised an eyebrow. ‘Was she?’

  ‘So the others say.’

  ‘Did she have relationships with any other members of staff?’

  ‘By relationships, I take it you mean . . .?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Relationships between members of staff are discouraged, but . . .’ He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘As far as I’m aware she didn’t have any.’

  ‘What about Gareth Hayes?’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he left about three months ago. We haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘Can you tell us where he went?’

  ‘I could, but I heard he didn’t last long there.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘No idea. I can give you his home address though.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Whitebrook went to a filing cabinet and withdrew a file from the second drawer down. ‘Here we are – 97 Cotton Road, Potters Bar.’

  Richards stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Whitebrook.’ She passed him a business card. ‘If there’s anything else that you think might be useful, please ring.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘So when people can’t pay,’ Parish said. ‘What do you then?’