Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18) Page 3

  BLogo – Boy Lover: A small blue spiral-shaped triangle surrounded by a larger triangle, whereby the small triangle represents a small boy and the larger triangle represents an adult man;

  LBLogo – Little Boy Lover: A variation on the BLogo, which also embodies a small spiral-shaped triangle within a larger triangle; however, the corners of the LBLogo are rounded to resemble a scribbling by a young child;

  GLogo – Girl Lover: Is a small heart surrounded by a larger heart, which symbolises a relationship between an adult male or female and a minor girl;

  CLogo – Child Lover: Resembles a butterfly and represents a non-preferential gender child abusers;

  CLOMAL – Childlove Online Media Activism: A general purpose logo used by individuals who use online media such as blogs and webcasts;

  ATBOYS – Attracted To Boys: Appears on websites, and the A is actually the BLogo.

  Parish shook his head. ‘No – it’s not one of those. We’ll contact CEOPs later and see if they know what it means.’ How did a tattoo get under the boy’s lip? Who put it there? When was it done? Did the mother know about the tattoo? Has it anything to do with why he was abducted and abused?’ He pulled out his phone and took a picture of the tiny tattoo while Doc Riley curled the boy’s lip back again. ‘We’ll see what the mother has to say about it.’

  ‘You know it’s half-term week this week, don’t you, Sir?’ Richards said.

  He stood up and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. ‘And that’s interesting how?’

  ‘We don’t believe in coincidences – remember?’

  ‘That’s true. Okay, thanks, Doc. Lunch in the hospital cafeteria tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have the PM results by then.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll see you at twelve o’clock. Whose turn is it to pay, Richards?’

  She wriggled to find her notebook, opened it up and said, ‘Yours, Sir.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Richards’ eyes narrowed. ‘Okay?’

  ‘That’s what I said. If it’s my turn, then it’s my turn. I’m not a person who shirks his turn.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They made their way outside.

  ‘Anything from you, Toadstone?’

  ‘You want a contribution towards your lunch?’

  ‘Evidence, not charity?’

  ‘Oh yes! No, nothing from forensics. We have a lot of waste items, footprints and cycle tyre tracks. My officers are methodically searching the area, but it’s early days yet.’

  ‘Same old then?’

  ‘That’s hardly fair, Sir.’

  ‘Life isn’t fair, get used to it.’

  Toadstone lowered his mask and the corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘Bill Gates said that.’

  ‘Ha!’ Richards said, as she tore off the paper suit. ‘He beat you again.’

  ‘A lucky guess, Richards.’

  ‘That was also a quote in there about the footprints, wasn’t it?’

  Parish nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t you know that one, Paul?’

  ‘Of course I did, but the Inspector and I both knew that it was by an unknown author, so there was no need for me to say anything.’

  ‘Come on, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘We have a witness to interview, and then the unpleasant task of informing a mother that her son will never be coming home again.’

  ***

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ Kowalski said to the woman. He guessed she was between twenty-five and thirty years old and had a good figure beneath her maroon heavy coat and scarf. Underneath a Red Rabbit fur hat she had long wavy black hair pulled back into a ponytail, her skin was clear and she jiggled a small diamond engagement ring around on her ring finger with the thumb of the same hand.

  They were in his office on Chigwell High Street. It had been Bronwyn’s idea. She’d suggested that the landlords of the closed-up shops would be more than eager to rent them out at any price. He didn’t know how she’d done it, but she had.

  ‘Two hundred pounds a month! Are you sure?’

  ‘Let’s just say I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. A man with that much internet history on his computer shouldn’t put himself out there in my humble opinion.’

  ‘You blackmailed him?’

  ‘I appealed to his entrepreneurial spirit by persuading him that he’d be doing himself a massive favour by investing in our private detective agency, and if he availed himself of this opportunity I’d keep what I accidentally discovered on his computer a secret as long as he didn’t piss me off with hidden charges, maintenance fees and crap like that.’

  ‘Okay.’ He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t constrained by his position within the establishment anymore. There were many more colours than black and white, such as grey. In fact, hadn’t Jerry said, only the other day, that she’d like to show him what fifty shades of grey looked like? Fifty seemed to be a lot of shades, but Jerry seemed to know what she was talking about when it came to colours.

  That was last Monday, after he’d resigned on the Saturday. During the week they’d had the whole place fitted out with carpets, storage cupboards, new kitchen units, boiler and radiators, the frontage redesigned and sign-painted.

  He’d expected Bronwyn to move closer to Chigwell; come into the office Monday to Friday; act as his personal assistant, receptionist, drinks-maker, typist and general girl Friday . . .

  ‘You’re a fucking moron, Kowalski.’

  ‘You have a lovely turn of phrase.’

  ‘I’m staying here in my squat.’

  ‘But you’re coming into the office on a daily basis?’

  ‘Am I fuck.’

  ‘I thought you were fifty percent of Abacus Investigations?’ She’d thought of the name. Said an abacus didn’t just mean a calculator, it could also mean the brain, a computer and artificial intelligence. Not only that, it was always at the top of any alphabetic list in the search engine and the nearly defunct Yellow Pages.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’m your gopher.’

  ‘So, what are you going to be doing?’

  ‘You’re the hardware, I’m the software.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You’re the legwork, I’m the brainwork.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re old, I’m young; you’re a man, I’m a woman; you’re ugly, I’m beautiful . . . Do you want me to carry on?’

  ‘No, I think you’ve made it quite clear where I fit into this partnership.’

  ‘That’s good. I’d hate for there to be any misunderstanding.’

  Next thing, two desks with high-backed brown leather chairs arrived, followed by a half-dozen people from different companies who installed a computer network with the server in a lockable steel cabinet, which was bolted to the floor; installed video-conferencing software and equipment; internal and external CCTV cameras and software; motion-sensitive lighting; alarms connected to a security company; deadbolt locks on the doors . . . It wasn’t the Bank of England, but it was the next best thing.

  ‘Are you expecting the Zombie Apocalypse?’ he said.

  ‘You obviously haven’t heard – it’s already begun.’

  Now, he said to the woman sitting across from him, ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It states on the window that you were a senior officer in the police?’

  ‘That’s right. Up until a week last Saturday I was a Detective Chief Inspector in charge of the Murder Team at Hoddesdon Police Station.’ He knew he didn’t need to elaborate, but he did. ‘I resigned because I didn’t like sitting behind a desk.’

  ‘And yet here you are sitting behind a desk.’

  ‘Which I’m hoping is only temporary.’

  ‘It’ll be you dealing with my case?’

  ‘Yes. I have a partner who provides technical support, but she’s more like a silent partner.’

  ‘In your dreams, Kowalski.’

  He sm
iled. ‘Sometimes she’s not as silent as I’d wish.’

  Bronwyn’s grinning face appeared on the computer screen. He turned the monitor round, so that the woman could see her as well. ‘This is Bronwyn, my not-so silent partner.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘My name is Amelia Frost.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Bronwyn said.

  ‘My father has gone missing.’

  Kowalski‘s brow furrowed. ‘Surely you’ve been to the police?’

  ‘Of course – they were useless.’

  ‘I see. When did your father go missing?’

  ‘Six months ago.’

  ‘Mmmm! Do you want to tell us the story?’

  ‘I know, it was a long time ago, but I didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘His name is Linus Frost. He lives in a flat on Mulberry Way in Woodford.’ She slid a bunch of keys across the desk. ‘Number 17. The key is on there.’

  He left the keys where they were. Picking them up might have been misconstrued. He wanted to hear a lot more about Linus Frost before he accepted the case. ‘Do you live with your father?’

  ‘No. I live with my fiancé – Steven Villiers – on Roding Lane in Redbridge.’

  ‘What work does your father do?’

  ‘He delivers cars all over the United Kingdom – They’re called trade platers because after they’ve delivered a car they stand at the side of road with red trade plates trying to hitch a lift back home.’

  ‘I’ve seen them. Which company does he work for?’

  ‘AutoMove – they’re based in Highgate.’

  ‘Hey!’ Bronwyn said. ‘So am I.’

  Kowalski’s eyebrows wrinkled together and he stretched his lips pencil thin ‘So, what made you realise he was missing?’

  ‘He always called me without fail at eight-thirty on a Friday night to see how my week had gone. I could set my watch by him. He loves Coronation Street, and we’d chat for half an hour between the two episodes. Anyway, six months ago he stopped calling. After that I kept ringing him, but there was no answer. I went round to his flat, but he wasn’t there. He’d given me a spare key, so I let myself in. Every room had been ransacked. That’s when I went to Cheshunt Police Station and reported him missing. I filled in the Missing Person’s Report and they said they’d look into it, but they didn’t. I pestered them until they sent a Community Support Officer to his flat. She had a look, asked a few questions and then left. I knew they weren’t going to do anything, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I did nothing.’

  ‘What brings you here now?’

  ‘Six months ago, when all this was going on with my father, the postman arrived with a parcel. It wouldn’t fit through the letterbox and there was nobody in, so he left us a card saying that we could pick it up from the local Post Office. Well, don’t ask me how, but that card became wedged under the hall mat . . .’

  ‘And you’ve just found it?’

  ‘I found it when I was cleaning on Friday. Of course, the Post Office didn’t have the parcel anymore, they’d sent it to their depot at Beckton in London, so I had to go all the way there on the train to retrieve it on Saturday. I hadn’t been expecting a parcel, so I didn’t know it was missing . . .’

  ‘It was from your father?’

  She rummaged in her handbag, took out a three-inch square jiffy bag that was torn open at one end and put it on the table. ‘Yes, I recognised his writing.’

  This time, he felt that looking inside the jiffy bag couldn’t be misconstrued as accepting the case, it was merely curiosity. He took hold of the brown cardboard box inside the bag between thumb and forefinger, slid it out, lifted the lid off the box and tipped the contents out onto the desk.

  ‘It’s a key,’ Amelia said.

  ‘So I see.’ There were also a handful of shredded newspaper inside to prevent the key from rattling around. He picked the key up and turned it every which way. It was about two inches long, made from brass and steel, and had two numbers engraved on it – one at the top: 199, and one along the spindle: 18975.’

  ‘I think it’s a left-luggage locker key.’

  ‘Yes, but from where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He picked up the top and bottom of the box, examined them inside and out, but he found no obvious clues. The shredded newspaper were of no help whatsoever. Finally, he examined the jiffy bag. The postmark was dated Thursday, August 13 last year and had been posted from Woodford Green Post Office.

  Amelia sighed. ‘There’s nothing, is there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll take the case,’ Bronwyn said.

  Kowalski stared at the face on the screen. ‘We will?’

  ‘Yes. Have you told Amelia our rates?’

  ‘No.’ He turned back to Amelia Frost. ‘Do you want us to take the case?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sure. How much do you charge?’

  ‘Fifty pounds an hour plus any expenses incurred.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I found two thousand pounds hidden in my father’s flat. I plan to pay you with that – it’s all I have.’

  ‘A thousand pounds will probably pay for two days. Let’s see if the investigation has any legs after that. I’m not going to take your money unnecessarily. If we find a decent lead, we could pass it onto the police. As I understand it you need evidence he’s still alive, or that he’s been the victim of foul play?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One final thing – was your house broken into?’

  ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘An educated guess.’

  ‘It was about a week after I’d been round to my father’s flat. Of course, I reported it to the police again, because that’s what you’re meant to do. They sent an officer round who took some notes, but because nothing was taken he wasn’t really interested.’

  He picked up the key. ‘I expect they were looking for this. Do you have a recent photograph of your father?’

  ‘She took a strip of passport photographs from her handbag and passed them to him. They were of the two of them – father and daughter – six months ago when she was sure she still had a father who was still alive.

  He found a pair of scissors in his desk drawer, cut the best picture out of the strip and handed the other three photographs back to her.

  ‘Can you write down your contact details on there?’ he said, sliding one of his new headed notepads across the table.

  While she wrote them down, he placed a business card on the table for her to keep.

  ‘I work at Gill’s Pharmacy along the road, that’s how I knew you were here.’

  ‘That explains it then. I’ll contact you tomorrow morning about ten o’clock to let you know how we’re doing. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ She stood up and offered her hand.

  He shook it.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Kowalski.’

  ‘If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it, Miss Frost.’ He opened the door for her.

  Chapter Three

  ‘We probably need to interview Dr Tyndall, don’t we?’ Stick said. ‘Do you think we’ll get permission to fly to Greenland?’

  ‘You think Greenland is green, don’t you?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘It’s not green, numpty. It’s white – sheet ice white. It’s one of the coldest places on earth and it’s full of Eskimos, igloos and icebergs. If you want to go there to interview Tyndall, you have my permission.’

  ‘You don’t want to go?’

  ‘I’m cold enough here thank you very much. And it’ll probably take you a month or more by plane, icebreaker, and a sled pulled by a team of huskies to reach the Petermann Glacier, and there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to get back before next Christmas.’

  ‘Maybe I was a bit hasty.’

&nbs
p; ‘We’ll contact the expedition organisers at King’s College London and interview Tyndall by video link.’

  ‘I should have thought of that.’

  ‘With only one brain cell, I can understand how it might become overloaded.’

  ‘Video link is not really the way you want to hear that your wife has been murdered.’

  ‘No, but sometimes life doesn’t always go according to the plan we have in our heads – I should know that better than anyone.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  Stick’s brow crinkled up. ‘Go where?’

  ‘First, we have the media to satisfy, and then I suppose we’d better try and get hold of Professor Tyndall via King’s College. The sooner we’re able to speak to him, the less chance there is of him finding out that his wife has been murdered from some other source.’

  ‘Yes, that wouldn’t be good.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Maybe we should phone first?’

  ‘I’m astounded when you have a half-decent idea.’

  ‘I like to try.’

  ‘I know you do. And don’t think it’s not appreciated, Stickynuts.’

  Outside, the media were there in all their glory – three-deep with the group mentality of football hooligans. There were television crews with cameras and boom microphones on extendable poles connected to vehicles that were stuffed full of electronics and boasted satellite arrays on the roof. Like a rare species of insect in the dense thickness of the Amazon jungle, spotlights picked Xena out and forced her to shield her eyes with a defensive hand and forearm. There were journalists aiming telephoto lens at her that could focus on a blackhead from a mile away. There were the paparazzi who would stop at nothing to get the one picture that would make them rich and famous.

  ‘What have you got for us, Inspector?’

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘How many bodies are there inside?’

  She held up a hand and waited for a semblance of quiet. ‘Thank you. A woman’s body has been discovered in the house. We have yet to inform her husband, and the investigation is ongoing. A press briefing will be held at Hoddesdon Police Station at five o’clock this afternoon.’