House of Mourning (9781301227112) Page 7

  ‘The internet doesn’t tell me things like that. Sometimes we have to get off our backsides and do some work. It’ll take me a couple of days to find out what’s going on. Are you still happy to pay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll call you Thursday with an update.’

  ***

  Stick drove back to Hoddesdon and parked up at the station.

  ‘What do you want to do, Sarge?’

  ‘What I want to do and what I’m forced to do are two entirely separate things.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘We’ll walk down to where the hand was found. From there, we’ll visit the local nail shops and see if anyone remembers the flower design and/or the woman.’

  ‘If you’re not feeling up to it, I could . . .’

  ‘Are you inferring that women – specifically this woman – can’t cope with some minor hormonal disruption?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Good, because if I thought . . .’

  ‘Should we begin walking while you’re thinking?’

  ‘What do you think is going on then, Stick?’

  ‘What’s interesting is that the killer – if there is a killer – left the painted nails on the hand, the ring with Hebrew writing on the index finger, the bit of tattoo on her wrist and the blood and skin under her nail. We don’t often get killers who leave us so much evidence. He also wrapped the hand up in the Jewish Chronicle and left it outside our local fish and chip shop. Very generous.’

  ‘What do you mean, “If there is a killer”? The hand didn’t walk there by itself.’

  ‘The woman herself might have disposed of her own hand after it was accidentally detached from her body.’

  Xena snorted. ‘What planet are you on, numpty? That’s not even a hypothesis worth considering.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘You’ve just had your hand separated from your body by a high-powered meat saw. What’s the first thing you do?’

  ‘Scream?’

  ‘After all the histrionics?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘I’ll help you shall I? You dunk it in ice, rush to the hospital with it tucked under your arm and ask them to re-attach it.’

  ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘They can do amazing things nowadays. You might want to give them a try.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘What they don’t do is rush to the local fish and chip shop for curry and chips, and dump their severed hand in a rubbish bin. How the hell would she have eaten her chips for one thing?’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘I thought you were convinced we had a murder on our hands. A murdered woman wouldn’t be jogging around with her severed hand wrapped in newspaper.’

  ‘Just exploring all the possibilities.’

  ‘You mention the abundance of evidence. Do you think we’re being manipulated?’

  ‘I wouldn’t discount it. And it’s just occurred to me, but we might want to check whether that ring fits her wedding finger.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Well, she might have been married and moved it to her index finger on separation or divorce; it might have had no sentimental value at all and she wore it merely as decoration; or the killer could have planted it – maybe it wouldn’t fit on her wedding finger.’

  ‘Possible. Is it me, or are you showing signs of intelligent life?’

  ‘It’s you, Sarge.’ He wiggled a finger in his ear. ‘The only reason we think there’s a Jewish connection is because of the ring and the newspaper, both of which could have been planted.’

  They arrived at the fish and chip shop: “A Salt N Battered” – named because of the close proximity of Hoddesdon Police Station, and the fact that the coppers used it as their cafe of choice.

  ‘Okay, we’ll keep an open mind. Right, where’s the nearest nail shop from here?’

  Stick pointed right along Brocket Road. ‘I think there’s one down there.’

  ‘There’d better be for your sake. I’d hate to walk . . .’

  They began navigating their way through the shoppers along Brocket Road.

  ‘See, I knew there was,’ Stick said pointing to a nail bar across the road.

  ‘Is that where you get your nails done?’

  ‘Every Friday after work, Sarge.’

  They jingled into The Nail Studio. A young woman sporting a long thin nose and a dark hairy mole on her chin was having a pedicure near the door, and there were other women of all shapes, sizes and ages having manicures and paint jobs by a string of eager students.

  A pretty woman in her late twenties with short blonde hair and a white sleeveless overall approached them. ‘Hello, my name is Sherry, how can I help?’

  Before Xena could answer she took hold of her hands and began to examine the nails. ‘Oh dear! I see we have a low nail IQ. Careful hands mean longer nails. Your hands say a great deal about you, you know.’

  Stick grinned and leaned forward. ‘What do they say about her?’

  ‘What my hands say about me is that I’m going to arrest you for wasting police time any second now.’ Xena snatched her hands away. ‘We’re not here for nail advice.’

  Sherry smiled. ‘Maybe you should be.’

  ‘Maybe you could come back another time and get your nails done, Sarge.’

  ‘Will you shut up, numbskull.’ Xena took the photograph out of her pocket and held it towards Sherry. ‘We want to know whether this was done here either last Thursday or Friday.’

  Sherry took the photograph and examined it. ‘Shoddy workmanship, if you ask me. If you came here you’d get your nails done properly.’

  ‘Stop posturing,’ Xena said. ‘Were they done here, or not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where they were done?’

  Sherry shrugged. ‘I’m not familiar with the design. It looks amateurish to me, maybe a student.’

  ‘You’re not really helping, Sherry,’ Stick said. ‘The woman who owns this hand is dead and we’re trying to find her killer.’

  ‘Oh, you should have said. It’s good work. Try Rachel Cooper – it might be one of her flower design. She owns Finger Snaps on Taverners Way.’

  ‘You would have saved us a lot of time and effort if you’d just been honest from the start,’ Xena said.

  ‘If you’d have said why you were here in the first place I might have been more up front with you.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Sherry,’ Stick intervened. ‘Come on, Sarge. The sooner we get the answers we need the sooner we can go home.’

  Xena hunched into her jacket and headed for the door.

  ‘Always a pleasure helping the police,’ Sherry called after them.

  Outside Stick said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to . . . ?’

  ‘You’re like an accident looking for a place to happen.’

  ‘We’ll carry on, shall we?’

  They walked up Taverners Way to Finger Snaps. The door was locked.

  Xena nearly broke the glass banging on it.

  A thin dark-haired woman came to the door and shouted, ‘Are you crazy? We’re closed.’

  Xena nodded and held up her warrant card.

  The door opened.

  ‘Rachel Cooper?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m just on my way home.’

  ‘Need to ask you some questions,’ Xena said barging in.

  ‘I suppose I could spare five minutes.’

  ‘How about we throw you in a cell for the night and interview you sometime tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Maybe I have ten minutes.’

  Xena gave a caricature of a smile. ‘Ten minutes should do just fine.’ She pushed the photograph in her face. ‘This one of yours? Done last Thursday or Friday, woman with dark hair.’

  The woman took out a pair of reading glasses, put them on and held the photograph close to her eyes. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m the flower lady all right, but this is really not very good.’

 
Xena took a step forward into Rachel Cooper’s personal space. ‘I’m not asking about the quality of the work. This woman is dead and we’re trying to identify her killer.’

  ‘There’s no need to turn nasty. I didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Sarge,’ Stick said, taking the photograph back off Rachel Cooper. ‘You don’t have any idea where it might have been painted?’

  ‘You’ve tried Sherry Finnegan’s Nail Studio?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s only one other nail artist, and that’s Julia Cook’s “In the Buff” at the end of Burford Street. It doesn’t look like her work, but she’s always trying new stuff.’ She checked her watch. ‘Like me, she’ll be closed now though.’

  Stick smiled. ‘Okay, thanks for your help, Rachel.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Okay.’ She showed them out.

  ‘I think we should call it a day now, Sarge.’

  ‘I think you should have let me kill her.’

  ‘I think you should go home and lie down in a dark room.’

  ‘You’re a doctor now, as well?’

  ‘I have some medical experience. Would you like me to examine you?’

  ‘You’re just trying to get my clothes off again, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do you think it would work?’

  ‘In your dirty dreams, pervert.’

  They began walking back towards the station.

  ***

  ‘Lorna, it’s Jerry.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Cookie might have found something.’

  ‘Oh! What?’

  ‘Winton’s directors have skeletons, apparently.’

  ‘I take the minutes when they have board meetings.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘Well, it might be. You could have heard or seen something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do they talk about?’

  ‘Money mostly. It’s really boring.’

  ‘Do you know anything about four of the workers getting extra money on top of their salary?’

  ‘How much extra money?’

  ‘Cookie didn’t say.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, that’s where we are at the moment. Cookie said she needs a couple of days to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘I have to stay here for two more days?’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, Lorna. You came to me for help, remember. If you don’t want my help anymore, well . . . go home and get on with your life. I’ll just forget I ever knew you.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just a bit low at the moment.’

  ‘I understand. Listen, make a list of what you need. I’ll just finish up what I’m doing and then drive to your flat. When I get there I’ll phone you up and you can talk me through your list while I pack a bag for you.’

  ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘And remember . . . it’s for three days at the most. So no kitchen sink and no party dresses.’

  ‘I should be so lucky.’

  The call ended.

  She’d been hard at it for most of the day. Three cases had swallowed up her time: Coward v. Motor Insurers’ Bureau (1963); Olley v. Marlborough Court Ltd (1949); and Adams v. Lindsell (1818). English law was built on the foundations of case law and important verdicts were made in those cases relating to contract law.

  She wandered into the kitchen. Her father was sitting at the table nursing a mug of tea.

  ‘Hello, dad. Where’s mum?’

  ‘Ray calls her Genghis Khan’s older sister, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He loves her really.’

  ‘No, I don’t think he does. I don’t even love your mother.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be with her.’

  ‘You think she’d let me go?’

  ‘That’s because she loves you.’

  ‘She loves me like a fly caught in her web.’

  It wasn’t really a conversation she wanted to have with her father at the moment . . . if ever. Her mother was a control freak, and her father let his wife control him to keep things running on an even keel. Getting involved would mean taking sides and that was the last thing she wanted to do. The best thing was to stay out of it.

  ‘Where is mum?’

  ‘Having a lie down before the children come home from school.’

  ‘How’s the garden going?’

  ‘I think I have the measure of it.’

  ‘I have to go out. Will you and mum be all right for a couple of hours?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  She went upstairs and put on a pair of jeans and a loose top. Functional, that was how she dressed on days like today. Handbags, clothes, shoes and jewellery were way down the list of what was important in her life now – she had other irons in the fire.

  Lorna lived in a two bedroom flat on the middle-floor of a three-floor block of nine flats on Chingford Lane in Woodford Green. A spare key was buried in a peanut butter jar under the bush next to the drainpipe on the right of the entrance. Jerry broke a nail trying to find the damned thing.

  ‘Okay, I’m inside your flat,’ she said to Lorna down the phone. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Yes well, I was . . .’

  ‘I’m joking.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  After twenty minutes of rooting through Lorna’s clothes, toiletries and possessions she had an overflowing bag and wondered if there was enough for a three-month stay.

  ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll be with you in about half an hour.’

  ‘See you then.’

  Jerry made her way out of the building. After burying the key under the bush again she climbed into her car and headed towards Buckhurst Hill.

  She’d have to talk to Ray tonight, tell him what she’d been doing. If Cookie did discover that someone was trying to kill Lorna then she needed to know what to do.

  ***

  Living in one of the three tower blocks on the Crossways Estate in Bow, London with a name like Terry Merry was likely to get you killed, or at least in some serious shit. When he’d moved into the middle tower block with his mum five years ago he told her that they had to change their name. She took some persuading, but eventually she agreed. He changed his to Tom Steel. Nobody messed with Tom Steel or his mum, Sonia. In fact, he liked the name so much he was going to change it by deed poll just as soon as he’d got the money together. There was something liberating about choosing your own name.

  He didn’t have a real job. It wasn’t through the want of trying, but the country was in a recession and nobody wanted to hire a nineteen year-old without educational or training qualifications and no work experience. At the interviews he’d told them:

  ‘What I can’t do with an Xbox 360 console isn’t worth doing.’

  But they weren’t interested in those type of skills. So he’d had to start his own business just like those old guys Lord Sweet and that virgin dude who flew balloons or something. Weren’t the English famous for inventing shit? Yeah well, he’d invented himself.

  One day, eighteen months ago, he’d been lying in his pit thinking about dumping his girlfriend Lucy when he’d asked himself a fundamental question: ‘What do you like doing the best of all, Tom Steel?’

  ‘Killing things. Shit like that.’ He grinned at the idea of being a mass murderer. He’d killed hundreds of those acid-drooling aliens as a Colonial Marine; he’d been a member of Kilo Squad and stopped the unstoppable enemy; he’d been on campaign in Call of Duty; and he wouldn’t even think about being the Master Chief battling the ancient evil bent on vengeance and annihilation in Halo. He’d killed everything and everyone, and if that wasn’t a bankable skill – then shit, he didn’t know what the hell was. So he decided he’d kill people for a living. Aliens, terrorists and such like would have been prefer
able, but he’d just have to make do with everyday people.

  He carried out some internet research. Made a list of what he needed. Hired and watched training films from Netflix: “The Mechanic” and “The Specialist”. Advertising his services was a pre-requisite, of course. If people didn’t know there was an assassin available for hire and how to hire him then he wouldn’t make very much money, and his business start-up would crash and burn. There was a problem though. He’d read a number of reports about how undercover cops had trapped assassins. He decided that nobody must know who he was. He’d carry on living with his mum, and put all the money he earned in a bank account in the name of Tom Steel. Nobody would look at him and think he killed people for a living, or wonder where he was getting all his money from.

  There was a machine in the arcade, which allowed him to design his own business cards – fifty for six pounds. He bought a cheap mobile phone and produced a hundred cards:

  Assassin

  0789564845

  The cards were basic, but got the message across. Once he began getting paid he’d become a bit more sophisticated. He spread the cards about in phone boxes, left a few on the underground and in mainline stations, and pinned a few to community notice boards.

  Within twenty-four hours he’d had two phone calls. He explained that they would never meet each other, and that fifty percent of the thousand pounds – in cash – was required up front with the details of the person they wanted killing.

  He’d made a thousand pounds. More money than he’d ever seen before. Of course, it wasn’t that simple. If they were never going to meet, how could he get the money and the details? Also, he had to be sure the coppers weren’t waiting for him. He directed the callers to the top floor of a multi-storey car park in Tottenham, and then instructed them to throw the bag over the roof without any hesitation – they did. He scooped the bags up and sped off on the motorbike he’d stolen the day before.

  That was how it had all begun. Since then, he’d killed seven people and made seven thousand pounds. It hadn’t always gone according to plan though, but he was learning with each job.

  As the woman’s car pulled away from the flats in Chingford Lane, he followed her at a distance.

  This job was becoming a bit of a problem. His instructions had been to make it look like an accident, but Lorna Boyce didn’t want to die. Twice he’d tried to kill her. He hadn’t really known what he was doing with the gas cooker, but the cut brake pipe should have worked. Now, she knew someone was trying to kill her, and he was left with following this woman to find out where she was holed up.