Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18) Read online

  The other man eventually got his own gun out in the confined space and levelled it at Kowalski’s face. ‘Let him go.’

  Kowalski’s lip curled up. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘If you don’t, I’m going to put a bullet in your head.’

  ‘If I see your finger begin to press down on that trigger – I’ll kill your friend. So, what’s it to be?’

  It was a Mexican stand-off and both of them knew it.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the passenger said.

  ‘More to the point – who are you? You’re travelling in a Mercedes 4x4 and carrying concealed Glock handguns, which – as a recently-retired copper – I know is illegal. Correct me if I’m wrong, but my guess is MI5 . . . ?’

  As he was speaking the driver crunched the SUV into gear with his left hand and rammed his foot on the accelerator.

  The vehicle raced forward, ripping the driver’s elbow out of Kowalski’s grip, and hurtled down the road towards the North Circular.

  Kowalski still had the Glock-19 in his hand. He pushed the safety catch back on and noticed that the serial numbers were still visible on the barrel and inside the ejection port.

  After watching the Mercedes disappear from view, he emailed Bronwyn and asked her to check the Glock-19 serial number: 375GDF.

  He knew he hadn’t seen the last of the two men, but at least now he had a Glock-19 with a full magazine to defend himself. He’d been a private investigator for a whole morning – how many laws had he broken already? At this rate, he’d be doing five-to-ten in Wormwood Scrubs by the end of the week.

  Frost’s flat was cold and damp. There’d obviously been no heating turned on in the flat for the six months he’d been missing. Besides that, the whole place had been ransacked both by a person or persons unknown, and his daughter – Amelia Frost. Not wanting any surprises, he made sure he locked the front door.

  Beginning in the bathroom, his search was methodical and systematic. There were places where the previous searchers hadn’t searched – behind the side panel of the bath, under the carpet and floorboards, in and behind the toilet cistern, behind the wall mirror, inside the ceiling spotlight spaces. He hadn’t arrived with any type of equipment, and as a result made a lot of noise and a fair amount of mess.

  Before he could get to the bedroom his phone vibrated.

  ‘Kowalski?’

  ‘You’re sitting in your new office drinking coffee and watching all the sexy women walk past as if it’s your own personal catwalk, aren’t you?’

  ‘You know me so well, darling.’

  ‘I’ve had years of practice. How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, you know? I’ve worked out that if I carry on as I am I’ll be sitting in the high security wing of Wormwood Scrubs by the end of the week.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m on a missing person case and I’ve broken a handful of laws already this morning. I’ve done a lot of speeding, nearly been shot and now I have a concealed handgun in my coat.’

  ‘You’re frightening me, Ray.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. It’ll be a one-off. Most of the cases I get will be following cheating husbands and wives. This one is a bit more complex, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ll be careful?’

  ‘I’m always careful. And anyway, you’re the one who keeps getting yourself into places you can’t get out of. Tell me you’re sitting in a lecture room listening to a boring lecture on some aspect of the law that absolutely no one is interested in.’

  ‘You must have second-sight. That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Shakin’ and Joe say hello, by the way.’

  ‘You’re not still hanging about with those two wasters, are you?’

  ‘They’re nice boys.’

  ‘I should have thrown them overboard into the shark-infested waters of the Atlantic when I had the chance.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Every word.’

  ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘Okay. Be good.’

  He continued with his search in the bedroom. Under the carpet, behind the skirting boards and inside the air vent. He did plenty of tapping and knocking, searching for hollow spaces in the walls and at the back of the wardrobe . . .

  Above the front door was a ledge with a few ornaments on it. Behind the ornaments was a hollow and inside the hollow he found a battered old three-by-four inch journal with a black wrinkled hardboard cover. It was wrapped inside a clear plastic bag and had two elastic bands around it.

  Now he was getting somewhere. Maybe the key wasn’t what the two men were looking for, but this journal. Why wasn’t the journal inside the left-luggage locker? Why had it been kept here where anybody could find it? Maybe Frost didn’t have the opportunity to move it from one place to the other. Or, maybe Frost had separated the key and the journal, which Kowalski had just brought together again.

  He decided that he’d exhausted his search of the flat, slid the journal into his inside pocket with the Glock-19, locked the door and made his way back down to his car. He thought that the two men might have come back to finish what they’d started, but he saw no sign of them.

  Before he left the car park, he scrambled on all fours under the car looking for a GPS tracking device. He’d expected to find one at the back of the car, but instead he found it stuck to the metal in the space beneath the radiator. It was a two-inch square black box with a small aerial, a flashing LED light, a switch and two round magnets on the back. It also had a white sticker on one end with a barcode, a row of Chinese characters and an IMEI number. He photographed the sticker, emailed the picture to Bronwyn and then stuck the device on the white van.

  A Lunch Specials board outside a pub called The Nag’s Head on Offord Road caught his eye and made his mouth water. He decided that a ploughman’s lunch consisting of a pork pie, Stilton cheese, pickled onions, tomato, chutney, and fresh bread and butter washed down with a tankard of real ale was exactly what he needed while he looked through the journal and thought about the case. He pulled into the car park and made his way into the pub.

  Chapter Five

  They were on the train doing the reverse journey from Temple back to Liverpool Street.

  Stick screwed up his face. ‘If it isn’t Mrs Tyndall – who is it?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. Or should I say, that’s what Hefferbitch needs to find out.’

  ‘And why did the killer use the Tyndalls’ house?’

  ‘More to the point – how did he know the Tyndalls’ house would be empty?’

  Stick pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Yes, that is a good point. The killer must have known he wasn’t going to be disturbed while he was painting the woman.’

  ‘Also, there was no break-in,’ Xena said. ‘In fact, that’s another thing Hefferbitch was wrong about – it wasn’t a home invasion at all, it was a home occupation.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. It couldn’t be a home invasion if there was no one at home.’

  ‘My point exactly. He had a key. And if there are only four keys, then he must have used the one in the cigar box in the drawer of the Welsh Dresser.’

  ‘Unless there is a fifth key.’

  ‘Did you speak to Hefferbitch about her catastrophic mistake?’

  ‘No, but it was hardly catastrophic. Everything turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?’

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. ’You think that mistakenly telling a man that his wife has been murdered isn’t catastrophic?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘If I were you I’d keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘Yes, that’s probably good advice.’

  ‘Which I recommend you take. So, what have we got?’

  Stick took out his notebook and flipped over the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘We have a dead woman lying on a bed who was painted as two halves of a clown – one half good, the oth
er half evil . . .’

  ‘Have you figured out what that dichotomy might mean yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘You’ll be sure to let me know if and when you do, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about the clowns?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Are they real clowns?’

  Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘Real clowns?’

  ‘You know – famous ones like Bozo, Pennywise, Coco and Pogo.’

  ‘Pennywise is a fictional clown by Stephen King, and Pogo was the serial killer John Wayne Gacy.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I don’t have a point.’

  ‘Good job as well. So, do you think either side of the clown painted on the woman looks like a famous clown – fictional or otherwise?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Well, you’d better find out.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’ He wrote it down in his notebook. ‘Do you want me to continue?’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘We now know that the dead woman was taken to the house . . .’

  ‘Dead or alive?’

  ‘Hard to say, but I’m thinking alive . . .’

  ‘Voluntarily, or by force?’

  ‘Voluntarily, I’d say. Maybe the woman thought she was going to the house for another reason . . .’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘Possibly. Or even to be painted alive. Maybe the killer told her that it was his house.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘The house itself is isolated, but if she was killed before they got there the killer would have needed to have carried her body from a vehicle . . .’

  ‘Have we had any word on the house-to-house yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘After you’ve bought me one of those giant Cornish pasties and a coffee for lunch from that cafe at the top of the elevator outside Liverpool Street station, you can phone the Duty Sergeant and find out if anyone reported seeing a vehicle outside the Tyndalls’ house.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh! And we also need to listen to the anonymous call, so ask them to put a copy on my desk.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘It looks like he used a key to get in, but where and how he got that key has yet to be determined, but we might be in luck if we can match the fingerprints found on the spare key in the kitchen with someone on the IDENT1 database.’

  ‘We need to talk to Mrs Tyndall and find out if she has any idea how the killer could have obtained a front door key, and how he knew the house would be empty for a prolonged period of time.’

  Stick wrote it down in his notebook. ‘The CCTV was also disabled and the computer hard disk removed and taken, so it’s also possible that the killer had previously been in the house and knew all about the CCTV system in operation.’

  ‘Good point. Find out when and who installed the system.’

  He wrote it down. ‘As well as the body being painted . . .’

  ‘What do we know about this body painting malarkey?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about it other than what Doc Paine has told us.’

  ‘And she’s hardly an expert, is she?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose she is.’

  ‘So we need to find someone who can give us chapter and verse on these weirdoes who paint other people’s bodies.’

  ‘I could ask Julie Hooley in administration to do some research for us?’

  ‘One weirdo to find another one – why not?’

  ‘Also, the killer replaced the dead woman’s eyeball with a prosthetic one, and Doc Paine still needs to come back to us about tracing the serial number if there is one.’

  ‘That’s true. You can call her as well.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll get the chance to have a pasty and a drink?’

  ‘Don’t be selfish. We have a dead woman who needs our undivided attention.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘Is it me? Or, are we the only ones who appear to have our fingers on the pulse of this case?’

  ‘Yes, it does seem like we’re paddling upstream on our own, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to kick some arse.’

  ‘Shall I continue?’

  ‘Please do . . . Oh!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you believe that a prosthetic eyeball would cost four thousand pounds?’

  ‘Maybe you can get fake eyeballs on the National Health Service?’

  ‘Maybe? But I think we need to do some more research on eyeballs . . . I mean, let’s say that the eyeball he used did cost four thousand pounds – why? Why would you kill a woman in someone else’s house, paint her all over, replace her eyeball with a glass eye that cost a small fortune, and then leave her and the eyeball there? I still come back to the question: What’s it all for? What’s the point of it all?’ She sighed. ‘Okay, you can carry on now.’

  ‘Well, if you recall, Doc Paine and Maurice suggested that the reason the killer murdered the woman was to leave us a message . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know that’s what Doc Paine said, but I think there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If I knew that I’d have solved the case, numpty.’

  ‘Well anyway, the killer left us a message in invisible writing in binary code, which tells us to follow him . . .’

  ‘But we still don’t know where he wants us to follow him to.’

  ‘Except he’s left us a clue, which Doc Paine and Maurice think is related to a map, but nobody knows which map.’

  ‘It must be a local map.’

  ‘Why?’

  Xena shrugged. ‘There’d be no point in the killer giving us a clue to something we’d never find – it defeats the object of a clue. Also, he wants us to follow him. We can’t follow him if we don’t know where he’s going.’

  ‘Actually . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘According to Maurice the clue was: FOLLOW ME.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, it was written on the corpse, so the clue might refer to the dead woman.’

  ‘The great medical minds of the century should perform a scan of your brain cell while it’s coming up with a stupid idea. It’d be like discovering a new species of amoeba in the depths of the Arctic Ocean. How can we follow the woman? She’d dead. And if I’m not too much mistaken, that prevents her from going anywhere except to the mortuary and from there to the crematorium or a hole in the ground.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the point.’

  ‘Explain, amoeba?’

  ‘Maybe we’re next on his list?’

  ‘If this were an overground train, I probably would have opened a door and pushed you out long ago.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  The train began to slow down. A mechanical voice informed the passengers that they were arriving at Liverpool Street station and to take any items of luggage with them.

  Xena shook her head. ‘Why do we always get the difficult and complicated cases, Stick?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to suggest that it’s my fault because I insisted on taking this case instead of the one Parish and Richards were given?’

  ‘I never would.’

  ***

  The Ink Criminal Tattoo Studio on Hoddesdon High Street was mainly black and white. It had small three-by-three black and white tiles on the floor that gave people the impression that they’d walked into the middle of an optical illusion; a black sofa for waiting customers; a black counter; a full-length black-framed mirror; white walls and a low white ceiling. It looked uncluttered and clean.

  The proprietor was an attractive woman in her late twenties called Kat Wagner. She had long black hair, black lipstick and a patchwork of tattoos that covered every bit of flesh that they could see except her face, although her neck and ears were inked with exotic designs.
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  ‘Did they hurt?’ Richards asked her.

  ‘No. You should get one.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Parish said.

  ‘You’re her father?’

  ‘He’s my step-father,’ Richards clarified.

  ‘They’re the worst. They think they own you. You’re old enough to make your own decisions, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Would you like to see what I could . . . ?’

  ‘No she wouldn’t.’ Parish brandished his warrant card like a crucifix. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Detective Constable Richards. We’re here to ask you some questions.’

  ‘You think I’m a suspect in a crime?’

  ‘No,’ Richards said. ‘We have a dead body with a tattoo, and we were wondering if you might know anything about it.’

  ‘I don’t tattoo dead bodies.’

  ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’ Parish challenged her.

  ‘I do piercings as well, you know,’ she said to Parish. ‘You’d look good with silver rings through your nipples.’

  ‘And you’d look good with handcuffs round your wrists.’

  ‘Ah! One of those, are you? Like to dominate women?’

  He had a horrible feeling that he’d lost control of the situation. ‘You deal with her, Richards.’

  ‘Deal with me?’

  Richards laughed. ‘I like you, Kat Wagner.’

  ‘I like you too, Richards. Have you got a last name?.’

  ‘Richards is my last name. My first name is Mary.’

  ‘He calls you by your last name?’

  ‘Come on, Richards. Let’s go somewhere else.’

  ‘Am I not what you expected?’ Kat aimed at him.

  He took a couple of paces towards the door.

  ‘Can I ask you some questions about a tattoo?’ Richards said.

  ‘Sure – ask away.’

  ‘Give me the picture, Sir.’

  He found the photograph on his phone and passed it to her, but he moved back to stand by the door.

  ‘Thanks,’ Richards said and showed the photograph to Kat. ‘We found this tattooed under the top lip of a ten year-old boy. Do you know what it means?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Parish took a pace back into the studio. ‘Oh?’