Текст книги "The Electrician's Code: An Evans and Blackwell Mystery"

Автор книги: Clarissa Draper

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Chapter Five

At exactly seven minutes to nine, Sophia pulled up in front of a block of flats in the East End of London. What was she getting herself into? Any ideas Liam entertained only complicated her life. She loved sitting behind a desk analyzing and decrypting information. Why couldn’t he accept that? He was convinced she sought more than her desk job. Three weeks ago, he insisted she begin firearms training and she almost used him for target practice.

When she got out of her Merc, she looked around the car park but she couldn’t see Liam’s car anywhere. Five teenage boys stood between her and the red brick building. One looked her up and down while he took a puff of his fag and blew the smoke in her direction. She slammed her door and pressed the fob until she heard the short honks. Why didn’t she bring the Fiat? Clutching her bag tightly to her chest, she made her way forward.

She considered finding another entrance but she knew she had no choice. Only one way to enter the building without a key—through the front door. Raising her chin, she walked right up to where the boys were standing and said, “Excuse me.”

The boys separated, allowing her to pass.

“Thank you,” she said, smiled at them and made her way through. She had to pass by them so closely she could smell the strong odor of smoke wafting from their clothes.

A few steps later, she heard one of the boys reply, “Nice car.”

Liam would pay if her car was missing when she came out.

Once inside the front doors, her uneasiness didn’t subside. She didn’t need a key. Anyone could enter provided they could climb over the rubbish all over the floor. A half-eaten rat lay atop a pile of unopened mail in the corner and decomposing bin bags in the confines of the wall of graffiti covered letterboxes. Liam was taking his revenge by exposing her to the Hantavirus.

As she walked the five flights of stairs to the fifth floor, she pulled her bottle of Mace from her bag. She passed a man lying on the third landing. He opened one eye and growled at her. Sophia climbed a little faster. The overwhelming smells of cannabis and urine made her nauseated. By the time she reached door 523, she felt like vomiting. She rapped sharply on the door and a few seconds later, the door opened.

A woman she had never seen before stood in the doorway dressed in a simple gray tee and tracksuit bottoms.

“I’m looking for—” Sophia said but the woman quickly held a finger to her lips.

The woman stepped aside and motioned Sophia in with her hand. Sophia wanted confirmation that she had at the right address but the urgency of the woman’s movements caused her to silently obey. She found herself in a room smaller than a lift with a closed door ahead of her and one to her right. And the woman shut the door behind her leaving them in the dark. Once enclosed, she opened the door to Sophia’s right and the bright lights blinded her.

“I’m looking for Liam—”

Again the woman cut her off, “I know.”

“Evans,” came Foxton’s voice from the room, “you made it.”

“What the hell is going on, Liam?”

Sophia looked around the white-walled room. Tables with monitors and other recording equipment lined the walls. Whiteboards with pictures and diagrams acted as partitions and coat hangers. A standing fan wafted the smells of stale coffee, smoke, and baby powder around the room.

Then she saw it. “What is my desk doing here? When did you move my things? I’ve only been away from the office—”

“It’s okay, Evans,” he interrupted.

“It’s not bloody okay.” She ran over to her desk and looked over her computer and the contents of her drawers. “You took everything . . . in less than five hours. What’s going on here? Am I being transferred? Here? To this hell hole? Is that a blood stain on the carpet?”

“Maybe,” replied Liam, “but we can clean it, all right?” He came over and grabbed her arms. “In the meantime, why don’t you help yourself to a cup of coffee.”

“I don’t know.”‘ Sophia put her hands on her hips. Although she longed for some soothing liquid, she was worried. “I want to know why I’m being sent here. Is this punishment for the comment last week? Is this where you take people and shoot them?” She pointed to the stain on the carpet.

“Relax,” he replied. “It’s nothing like that. Come, let’s fetch you a cup of coffee.”

“Am I going to be able to use the loo?”

“Yes of course, didn’t you see the loo when you came in?”

“The other door,” the unnamed woman replied pointing to the entrance.

“By the way, this is Melony Howe. She will meet you here every morning at nine. She works the night shift from 1:00 a.m. to nine with another officer.”

“I have to stay here until one in the morning? I’m not leaving this flat in the middle of the night.” Her voice came out louder than she had hoped.

“Whoa, sweetheart,” Liam replied sarcastically. “You have to calm down. You leave at five. Office hours. Now, come, I’m getting you a coffee. That’ll make you feel better, won’t it?” He got behind her and pushed her into the small kitchen attached to the room. The only thing on the worktop was a coffee pot, a box of white sugar, and a used spoon.

“Don’t be condescending. You could’ve told me what to expect last night. You didn’t have to pull this stunt.”

Liam reached into a cupboard and took a foam cup from the stack. “Just milk, right?” She nodded and placed her bag on the worktop. He handed her a carton from the fridge and she poured it in.

“What am I doing here?”

“I need your help.”

“Oh no you don’t.”

“It’s only surveillance. You don’t have to go undercover or even leave the flat. Simple watching, listening, and reporting. You can even work on your other cases while you’re here.”

Sophia took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. “How old is this?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only arrived twenty minutes ago.”

She dumped the contents of her cup down the sink and opened cupboards until she found the things necessary to make more coffee. “How long is this assignment? Days that will turn into weeks that will eventually turn into months? Am I unwittingly going to have to shoot Melony—”

“Melony.”

“To shoot Melony in a few months after I form a close bond with her? I’m not trained for surveillance any more than I was trained for undercover. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“We’re short staffed at the moment. You’re not the only analyst out of the office and in the field.” He led her to a whiteboard beside her desk that contained photos of men and women taped to it. He pointed to a picture on the far right of the board. “Listen, this is important. The man here is Mychajlo Placko, head of a Ukrainian crime family. He’s shipping guns into the UK. That we know.”

He moved his hand to the far left of the board, past a photo of a man and another of a woman, following an arrow leading to a white page with a large question mark. “This is our target, and as of now, he—or she—remains anonymous. We have tried to trace the money trail with no success.” Moving right, he jabbed at the face of the woman. “She, in between the unknown and Placko, is Elaine Smith—probably not her real name—and she is the woman who gives the money from unknown man to one of Placko’s men—a man known as Miles.” He tapped the man’s photo to the right. “Elaine lives in a house across the street, number 412. We can follow the money trail but we have no idea who’s buying the guns and how the unknown man receives the guns. After handing over the money, Elaine talks to no one.”

“How does Elaine get the money to give Miles?”

“It’s all done electronically.”

“Well, perhaps she sends a message electronically or communicates to someone when she leaves the house to go to the shops.”

“That may be the case but we haven’t found anything to lead us to the guns. We have a person on her whether she’s in or out, so eventually we’ll figure it out but for now, it’s watching and analyzing. We’ve placed bugs and cameras throughout her flat so we can watch all her movements. It’s only a matter of time before we see how she relays the information to her boss. The interactions take place about every two weeks and it’s been about a week and a half since the last so we need to be on our toes. Knowing who this man is, is vital in keeping Britain safe.”

As Liam gave her a file with specific instructions, there was another knock at the door. Melony walked to the entranceway and returned with a thin, redheaded woman.

“Crystal,” Sophia signed in British Sign Language. “You’re assigned here too?”

Crystal Priestly, Sophia’s aide, came to work for MI5 after being arrested for hacking into HOLMES for information on her missing nephew; she was immediately recruited to the unit. Sophia learned sign language just to communicate with her.

“Sorry I’m late. I was told to be here at nine. By Liam.” She placed the sign for the letter L on her forehead, Liam’s nickname. “Those are our desks and computers. What are we doing here?”

“I’ll explain soon. Coffee?” Sophia led Crystal to the kitchen where she poured them cups of new coffee.

Liam walked into the kitchen and said, “I need to leave, Evans, but you have your instructions.”

“Liam, you’re leaving?” Sophia grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

“I have other cases to handle. Don’t worry, all you have to do is watch. I want to know who that man is. How does Smith contact him? If you have any questions, ring me.”

Her shoulders sank and she let go of his arm. Sophia nodded and Liam made his way to the door. He may often drive her mad but she didn’t want him to abandon her, not on the first day. There was some comfort in his company.

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

His eyes studied her and she felt her face turn red.

“But, if you do,” she continued, “I want you to take my car. Had I known what kind of place you were going to drag me to, I wouldn’t have brought my Mercedes.”

“Fine.” He held out his hand for the keys and when obtained, pivoted on his feet and left the room.

Chapter Six

Theo thrust his hands in his pockets and turned in the direction of his partner’s 1982 Cortina. He couldn’t see the car but he could hear it. Sputter, sputter, bang and then silence—Dorland Jackson’s classic entrance. Finally, Theo caught sight of Dorland running down the street toward him, licking his fingers and patting down his hair. If his car was loud, his clothes were even louder. Today he sported white trousers and coat, a black dress shirt and green tie. And, to add insult to injury, his pointed white shoes.

“God, Dorland, all the spectators will believe we’re filming an Ashes to Ashes episode. Listen, the studio rang and they want their costumes back.”

“Very funny, sir. I’ll have you know, I saved up for two months to buy them from a vendor in Camden Town who then proceeded to double the price. I had the nerve to leave and had walked past three shops before he chased me down. These shoes are worth a lot.”

“I can imagine the poor alligator thought so as well. Why are you late?”

“Bloody traffic,” Dorland explained. He pulled up his skinny tie. “Did you know a lorry flipped on the A40?”

Theo nodded.

“What do we have, sir?”

Theo didn’t answer. He just led his partner to the body that lay there, decomposing in its own muck and indignity.

Dorland peered over the fence. “I don’t understand. How did he die? Is that his blood? I guess it would have to be, wouldn’t it. Does he only have one leg? Did that happen this morning? Did someone cut off his leg?”

“I don’t know, stop asking questions. We should just wait for the pathologist. Where is the man?” Theo was becoming impatient.

Dr. Alfred Waynton, home office pathologist, finally arrived ten minutes later. Although late, he meandered his way to the body, stopping at the SOCO van to don coveralls, but the largest size wasn’t large enough. While he did manage to zip up the front, he could only walk like a penguin.

“Uncle Al,” Dorland exclaimed. “We finally get a chance to work together.” He looked for a way to get to his relation on the other side of the gate, but realized that he would have to go around through the driveway and off he went. When they finally met and hugged, Dorland almost disappeared somewhere between the folds of the man.

“Well, if it isn’t little Dorley. I guess you’re not so little anymore.”

“No, no, not so little anymore.” Dorland flexed his arm muscle for his uncle. “However, it looks like you’ve lost weight.”

“You know your aunt Laurie. She has me on a diet of salad and other useless vegetables.” He paused and took a deep breath. “How was your move? How’s your sister? I hear she lives with you now.”

Dorland gave Theo a quick glance and quickly replied, “Good, good. All moved in. She’s my step-sister, you know.”

Theo hadn’t been aware Dorland had moved. He hadn’t taken a day off work. Where did he move? When had he moved?

“So they’ve got you on the case, have they?” Waynton asked. “Good on you. Sorry I’m late, by the way. Bloody traffic. Did you know a lorry flipped on the M40?”

Dorland nodded.

“Have you ever met Detective Inspector Blackwell?”

Al lifted his gloved hand and reached for Theo’s. “Yes, how are you?”

Theo took his hand and received a firm handshake.

Turning back to Dorland, Waynton continued, “Heard you’ve made detective.” He slapped Dorland in the stomach. “How the hell did you manage that? Your mother must be so proud. How’s the old bird?”

“I hate to interrupt your fun,” said Theo, “but we are standing over a dead body and sadly he is getting colder by the second. Before he turns to dust at our feet, could we find how he died?”

Both Dorland and Alfred turned to face Theo. “Well, I suppose you’re right. To work.” The pathologist listened as Theo related the details of the case to him. Then, he knelt down but his suit wouldn’t let him so he spread his legs as wide as possible in order to get closer to the body. “Let’s see what we have here.”

“What we’re looking for is cause of death,” said Theo.

Waynton did a quick examination of the body. He opened the black bathrobe and carefully unbuttoned the deceased man’s pajama top. The blood had left a large red stain on the shirt. “It looks like he’s been stabbed,” said Waynton.

“Did you say stabbed?” asked Dorland.

Waynton’s voice when leaning over a body barely rose above a whisper due to the fact his large paunch folded over multiple times while in a stooping position and prevented him from catching his breath. “Yes. I can only see one entry wound but it seems to have hit his heart. And it pumped the blood from his body. Have you found a knife or any other type of weapon?” He looked up at Theo, his eyes were extremely large and magnified by his large round glasses.

Theo called Borders over. “Has SOCO found a weapon?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Dorland, help me look for a weapon. I can’t imagine the killer got far with a bloody knife.” Theo stepped back from the gate and carefully examined where he was standing for any drops of blood. The bush, working its way between the wooden boards, made it difficult to see anything. He couldn’t see anything on the pavement. He knelt down to study the white fence more closely. “I didn’t notice any blood here before but look, here’s a drop on the fence.” He pointed left of the gate. Then he noticed another and another. “Search in the bushes on the other side of the fence. Will someone fetch me a torch?”

Dorland got down on his hands and knees and searched under the bushes. “I don’t see anything, sir. Perhaps the killer took the weapon with him, hid it in a bag.”

Theo walked around the other side of the fence and started looking. He sent other officers down the street and ordered them to check for a weapon in any of the neighbor’s gardens. An officer handed him a torch and he shone the light into the bushes. He was determined to cover the bushes down the length of the street inch by inch if he had to, but within a minute, a glint shone.

“Found it,” yelled Theo.

Pushed down into the bushes was a standard kitchen knife. After photographs, a crime scene officer cut the knife out of the bush, bagged it, and handed it to Theo.

“Could this be the murder weapon?” Theo asked.

The pathologist examined the murder weapon. “I can’t say for sure but it does look like it could cause the wound. That and the fact it was found in a nearby bush with blood on it. I will have more for you after the autopsy.”

“Dorland,” said Theo, “now that we know this is murder and not just an accident, we have our work cut out for us. Who the hell kills an old man with one leg?”

Chapter Seven

As Theo headed toward the house, he asked Dorland to fetch the nurse and bring her. The front hall led straight into the kitchen. To his left was the drawing room with hardwood floors and a faux fireplace. There was no television, no radio, and no framed photos of family or friends on the mantle only a medal encased in glass. A comfortable leather recliner and a wooden side table with one lamp were the only pieces of furniture in the room. However, lining three of the white walls were rectangular framed sets of multi-colored tile.

“That’s one way to tile a wall,” Theo remarked to himself. He went up to the art to take a closer look. “What is this? So this man, for relaxation, would not turn on a match on the telly or play chess or scrabble but would sit in this chair and stare at these? Did Mr. Tipring create them?”

“He did. He called this room his gallery.”

The nurse stood in the doorway with Dorland. Her pale face, white nurse’s uniform, and clean white shoes made her look like a ghost.

“Thank you for coming in,” said Theo. “I know this day has been traumatic but I’m hoping you can answer some questions. But before that, could we possibly go through the flat and see if anything has been stolen. Ms . . . Mrs . . .” Theo fished for a name.

“Perkins, Ms. Perkins. Megan is my first name. I’m Mr. Tipring’s nurse, I mean, I was. I work here every day, weekends included, from nine until five. I cleaned for him, cooked his meals, made sure he took his pills. Anything he needed.”

“Wow, every day.” Theo remarked.

“I have no family so I don’t mind. I knew what I was taking on when he hired me, and he paid me well. I just don’t understand. Why would they stab him? What possible reason . . . ?”

“That’s what we hope to find out. Did Mr. Tipring live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have family?”

“I’m sure he did. However, I’ve yet to meet any of them.”

Theo gave her a pair of gloves and led her through the rooms—bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—and she quietly looked over Mr. Tipring’s things.

In the bedroom, Theo went through the man’s belongings. When he reached the chest of drawers, he motioned Dorland over.

“What do you make of this?” he asked pointing to a large shadow box sitting atop the drawers. The box had neatly arranged earrings in rows. “Why do you think he has all this jewelry?”

“Those belonged to his mother,” the nurse said, coming to view the jewelry with them. “He loved those. I believe they are the only thing in the house that belonged to his mother.”

Theo nodded and opened the top drawer. The socks were not folded. Instead, they lay flat, one on top of the other. Almost new. He reached under them—nothing. “Did he have a desk?”

“No. He did all his correspondence at the kitchen table.”

Theo stepped through a doorway at the back of the kitchen that led to a tiny bathroom with a plain bathtub. The bathroom was white, clean, and simple, the towel was blue, even his toothbrush, which lay parallel to the toothpaste on the sink, was white.

“He was a very particular man. He had a place for everything and if it were missing, he would notice. Many of my friends thought it would make me crazy because if you saw my house four months ago, well, it was in no particular order, if in any order whatsoever. However, I prefer things neat now. I don’t believe anything in the house was touched.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “He didn’t have many belongings and never bought more than he needed. One day I went to the shops with his list and just added a small box of biscuits thinking he would like them . . .” She walked over to the cupboard beside the fridge and opened the door. “He never touched them.” She pointed to the box of digestives.

She turned to face the detectives and leaned back against the worktop. “I should make some tea. I come in every day and the first thing I do is make tea.” She poured water from the tap into the metal kettle and placed it on the hob. “Two lumps and no more than two lumps, he would say to me. Every day he would tell me when the kettle started whistling even though I’ve been working here four months. Every day.”

“Do you know how Mr. Tipring lost his leg?” asked Theo.

“At first he wouldn’t tell me. Said I should mind my own business. However, in time, he explained he received a wound in the war, and because of an infection his leg had to be amputated. Apparently, it’s why he received the medal in the drawing room.”

“Okay, Ms. Perkins,” Dorland said, “do you have any idea what happened today? Any idea why someone would murder Mr. Tipring?”

“What do you mean? Should I know what happened?”

“Did your boss have any enemies. Anyone who would want to kill him. Did he get on with his neighbors? Did he owe someone money? Maybe he owned something valuable and someone killed him for it?”

“No,” she cried out. “That’s horrible. No, he never had any enemies. He was just an old man who couldn’t even walk very far. He rarely left the house. I think he must have been the most boring person on the street. I can think of five other people just on this crescent who would be more likely targets than Mr. Tipring.”

“Why was he outside this morning? Was it to get his morning newspaper?” Theo asked her, motioning the nurse to sit in the reclining chair.

“He retrieved his paper every morning and left it on the kitchen table until his tea was prepared. I told him when I started working for him that I could bring the paper in when I arrived but he told me it was something he liked to do for himself.”

“And he never even started reading the paper until you arrived anyway?”

“No. He always waited to read the paper until I had prepared his tea and toast. A creature of habit that man was. But, many older people become like that. I worked for an older man before Mr. Tipring who had to have his bath at ten twenty-five in the morning. Every day. On the dot. One day, there was not any hot water for his bath. When I told him to wait while I boiled the water, he didn’t. He climbed into the freezing-cold water. I found him shivering and blue trying to find the soap he had lost under the water. The silly old man nearly froze to death; he ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. Some older people are just like that, I hope if I become like that someone will just shoot me and put me out of my misery.” She stopped. The kettle let out a loud whistle and she shut the burner off. “Would you like a cup?”

Theo nodded.

She retrieved three white cups from the cupboards and placed them on the table with matching sugar container.

“I really need to ask about the gallery,” said Theo. “It really is very unusual. Tiles pushed into pink mortar. Did he consider it artwork?”

“He was very attached to those creations. He considered it art. In fact, the previous full-time nurse told me that when he does leave the house, it often is only to an art gallery where some of that artwork was displayed. He never asked me to take him there so I don’t know how much art he has sold or has on display.”

“Does it mean something?” asked Theo. “Most art contains or portrays a message, something the artist is trying to express.”

“I don’t know, I never asked. He never told me. When he . . . I don’t know, some nights he would go in there and sit down and just stare at them. Lost in contemplation. I thought that he liked the art because they are orderly, each tile the same size, in rows, orderly, maybe looking at them calmed his mind.”

“Is there a chance that whoever killed Mr. Tipring did so because he wanted to have access to the art?”

“Are you asking me if someone wanted to steal those pieces of art? Why? Why would they want to? I doubt anyone knew he had art here. In the four months I have worked here, he had never had a single visitor. Not one. Besides me, no one has entered this house, until today.”

“And nothing, none of his art has been stolen?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. None are missing, as far as I can tell.”

“And he never had art anywhere else in the house?”

“Just there.”

Theo pointed to the roof. “This is a two story house. Does Mr. Tipring own both flats?”

“He only uses the downstairs.”

“Who lives upstairs?”

“No one, it’s empty. He keeps . . . kept both the upstairs and the downstairs but no one lives up there. Mr. Tipring liked the quiet; it would have been too noisy for him if someone were upstairs trampling on the floor all day. I believe he keeps . . . kept it empty, but I have never been upstairs. He could have used it for storage, but I doubt it because he would have such a difficult time climbing the stairs to fetch anything.”

“Do you have a key for upstairs?”

“No. He must have one, but I don’t know where he would have kept it.”

“That’s all right. We may find it around here. Do you know of any family Mr. Tipring had that we should notify?”

“He kept all his correspondence and bills in there. I think if he had any letters from his family, it would be with them.” She opened the pantry and pulled out a wheeled three-drawer plastic container. Inside were neatly labelled files and other correspondence.

“We would like to take these. Dorland, try and find a way to contact his nearest relative. Also, I would like you to find the key to the upstairs flat. In the meantime, I’m going to re-visit your uncle.”