The Vault Page 5

  The delicious aroma of lamb hotpot snapped him out of his reverie and, slipping on oven gloves, he lifted the heavy iron casserole dish out of the oven and opened the lid.

  “This smells delicious!” he called out. “Will you be joining me?” He paused for a moment or two, before taking a single plate out of the cupboard, scooping a generous portion onto it and settling down to eat. Olivia, he concluded, must be having one of her headaches.

  The item that most intrigued Toby was an Ethiopian redwood headrest. It was, in his opinion, undervalued at three hundred dollars due to its exquisite hand carved ridges and brilliant conker shine. He could probably source a similar item on the internet or by trawling local dealers but he coveted this particular headrest and knew exactly how to utilise it in his collection. What he needed to decide was whether to just make the item and catalogue number disappear or to replace it with a similar but inferior piece. As he mulled this problem over, he realised that it was now close to midnight and he’d made no effort to check on his wife. Contrite, he quickly washed and dried his utensils and poured two glasses of single malt. Checking again that the kitchen door was locked, he made his way up the stairs to the master bedroom.

  The bedroom was illuminated by a small, low wattage lamp, which had been left on so that he could enter the room without disturbing her. Olivia?” he whispered to the shape on the bed. “Livie, are you alright darling?” Slowly and gently Toby placed the two glasses on the bedside table and sat on the bed. The light illuminated her beautiful porcelain skin and highlighted her long auburn hair, which fanned across the silk pillowcase. For a moment he felt quite overcome with his good fortune at having met such a wonderful creature as Olivia. Quietly, he leaned back against the footrest and humming a tune from his youth, began his nightly ritual of massaging her feet.

  Eleanor wasn’t particularly surprised when she found herself pulling into an unlit street in the downtown area, rather than the allocated space below her apartment. The parking was moderately secure and a stone’s throw from ‘La Reine’s’, a private, unadvertised club for the discerning client. La reine herself was, Eleanor knew, a senior lecturer in demographic studies at one of the city universities, and had designed her dungeon as an indulgence, rather than an on-going financial concern. Dressed in a black, patent leather cat suit and mask, la reine presided over her lair with dignity and flair. She understood her client’s need for redemption, indulgence and privacy and charged accordingly. So, for Eleanor this was to be considered a rare, if necessary, treat.

  The club entrance was, to the uninitiated, nothing more than a fire exit for what looked like the rear of a shop. There were no handles or obvious means of entrance but a small enamel button bearing a yin/yang symbol in the left hand corner of the door, rang a buzzer internally. It usually took about ten minutes for the door to be opened, thus giving the supplicant time to reconsider his or her commitment level.

  The first minutes of these sessions were the most painful to Eleanor. Not in a physical sense, as not a finger had been lifted by the mistress. It was the transition from DI Raven back to herself, which caused the most distress. Letting go of status, power and physical dominance always caused her to balk. But her needs had taken on a physical urgency and as she removed her clothing and let la reine fasten her hands above her head and attach her to a chain she felt the accumulated fear and horror that had haunted her for the past few months begin to ebb away. As la reine tightened the leather fastening she whispered into Eleanor’s ear, “What is your safe word?” The safe word was a bond between the mistress and her supplicant; a word that once uttered would stop all actions immediately. It was a fall back, for when the pain outweighed the pleasure or the climax was reached. Eleanor’s safe word empowered and protected her and was treasured as such.

  “Caleb,” she whispered.

  “The safe word?” la reine repeated.

  “Ca-leb Eleanor said slowly, articulating the syllables carefully and with reverence.

  La reine had taken time and pleasure in understanding each of her client’s very specific needs and desires and quickly took in the numerous injuries Eleanor had sustained. She began slowly, allowing the leather tail, to expend its energy in sound, rather than impact. Eleanor’s breathing was laboured and shallow; she was holding back, so la reine stopped and slowly twisted the lever that raised Eleanor onto the tips of her toes. She was given a moment or two to adjust her balance.

  Eleanor needed to control her breathing. The shock of losing her balance and being unable to support her weight was focusing her mind. The flow of pain began at her fingertips, spread along her spine and ended in a knot between her legs. She wanted to lift her feet, let gravity purge her but la reine controlled the pace and began to flick at her calves and buttocks with a thin, tapered cane. The pain was razor sharp and contrasted with the lower tones spreading downwards from her wrists. She was close to orgasm and her breathing betrayed her. La reine stopped and waited, watching the slim, well muscled body shiver with emotion and lactic acid. Slowly and deliberately, la reine dug her tapered, immaculately polished and hardened fingernails into Eleanor’s belly, tracing a ring around her waist, chest and breasts. The pain was loud and urgent, making her struggle. For a moment or two before her brain released its tide of hormones, the need to breathe, excuse or justify her desires vanished, leaving an exquisite peace.

  Eleanor was barely aware of the woman gently lowering her to the ground, unfastening her and wrapping her in a blanket.

  Chapter Five

  “Ok, this is everything I could find on Richard Leslie Baker, aka Leanne, Tiffany and most recently, Giselle,” said Sarah Wadesky, placing an ominously plump file on Eleanor’s desk. She began to leaf through the numerous arrest sheets and summonses that characterised the life of a fairly low-rent street prostitute.

  “Apparently, I arrested him six years ago when I worked vice,” mused Wadesky, narrowing her eyes as she looked Eleanor up and down. “But I’m damned if I can remember. Anyway, how are –”

  “How’s baby Tessa?” Eleanor cut in quickly.

  Wadesky smiled broadly and selected a couple of photographs on her cell phone. Eleanor stifled a laugh when she saw the baby.

  “It’s ok,” giggled Wadesky. “Timms has this one printed out and stuck to his dashboard to cheer him up.” Baby Tessa was as round as a football and sported a magnificent halo of soft, fluffy dark hair, hazel-green eyes, skin the colour of Demerara sugar and a beaming smile. “I have to put in a written application to get a cuddle!” smiled Wadesky. “Joe won’t put her down. Doubt she’s ever gonna learn to walk.”

  “She’s lovely,” said Eleanor, a little surprised that she actually meant it.

  “Anyway girl, just letting you know that Samuelson has asked me to ‘evaluate’ –” she drew air quotes and rolled her eyes “– whether this case is too big for you to handle, in your present delicate condition.”

  Before Eleanor could proffer an opinion on this Susan Cheung tapped lightly and peered round the door. “Good morning fellow workers. Hear you’ve got some boxes that need collecting and as I was in the vicinity… Those them?” She pointed to the trolley. “Say they’re not full,” she groaned.

  “Sorry,” replied Eleanor.

  “Don’t suppose there’s a hair sample going is there?” asked Susan.

  “Yes.” said Eleanor, pointing to the third box.

  “Well, I set some tissue samples processing overnight and got a reading for arsenic.”

  “High?”

  “Non-lethal levels but something I wouldn’t expect to find.”

  “You think the guy was poisoned?” asked Wadesky.

  Susan wrinkled her brow. “I’m thinking arsenic was used as an embalming agent, not a method of murder. Which is why I’d like to analyse a hair sample for elimination.”

  “Why the hell would anyone use something as dangerous as arsenic to embalm someone?” asked Wadesky. “Why not just use formaldehyde? Jeez, you can order it on Amazon
for next day delivery.”

  Eleanor thought for a moment or two before answering. “Maybe because he has time, a taste for experimentation and lives by his own rules.”

  “I don’t like what you just said,” said Wadesky unhappily.

  “Why?” asked Susan.

  “’Cos Raven’s just defined a serial killer,” she replied. “I’m gonna tell Samuelson that you’re all over this case and it’s a slam dunk because me and Timms don’t want none of this ugly shit coming our way.”

  The door flew open behind Wadesky and Timms strode in. “Morning all!” he boomed.

  Wadesky let out a shriek of laughter. “Really… Really? You’re gonna win over Joe’s nasty babushka mama with a suit that maybe fitted you back in the nineties?”

  “This suit fits like a goddamn glove,” said her partner, unruffled.

  Wadesky pulled open his jacket and poked his stomach. “You sit down and seams will pop!”

  Timms snorted.

  “Tell all why you are dressed up then,” smirked Wadesky. Eleanor and Susan had never seen Timms in anything other than un-ironed shirts and baggy slacks held up by a set of braces.

  “I am taking Joe Wadesky, my partner’s husband and his delightful mother out to lunch today in the confident belief that I will be selected as little Tessa’s godfather,” said Timms, gingerly lowering his backside onto the corner of Whitefoot’s desk.

  “But you’re already Aaron’s godfather aren’t you?” asked Eleanor.

  “I am indeed,” said Timms proudly. Aaron was Wadesky’s eldest son. “I have, I believe, been an excellent example of a godparent and…”

  Wadesky held up a finger. “No one is questioning that. It’s the birthday present that initiated your de-selection process isn’t it?” She poked Timms in the stomach once more. He chose to ignore her.

  “What d’ya buy Timms?” asked Susan.

  Timms pursed his lips and said nothing.

  “For Aaron’s tenth birthday you bought him a Glock 9mm, didn’t you? And then proceeded to teach him how to load and shoot the damned thing,” said Wadesky pointedly.

  Timms threw his arms up into the air, “What the hell sort of godparent doesn’t teach his kid to shoot?”

  “I warned you not to do it! Joe said no guns and you just ploughed ahead like a bull in a china shop.”

  “Maan, why is everyone so touchy!” With that Timms flung himself upright, slid off the desk and stormed out of the room. Wadesky turned to follow him.

  “I didn’t know you were Catholic?” said Eleanor.

  “I’m not but it’s important to Joe to do things properly. Mainly, I think, it’s because his mother terrifies him. She sure as hell does me.” Wadesky was just closing the door behind her.

  “Could I have a photo of Tessa?” asked Eleanor.

  Wadesky’s head peered back round the door, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Yeah,” she said suspiciously. “You want a baby pic… You having some sort of hormonal crisis?”

  “Have you one of her asleep?” asked Eleanor cautiously.

  There was a slight pause, “Urm… Sure. I’ll print one out for ya!”

  Susan, smiling and shaking her head, turned to the boxes. “What have you got here?” she asked, pulling out a pair of latex gloves from her white coat pocket and approaching the first box.

  “Giselle’s room-mate boxed up his/her possessions after the disappearance. There are a couple of interesting items. First, a pack of photographs,” Eleanor reached into the box and brought out the solid mass of photographs. “Unfortunately, a bottle of perfume broke over them and glued them together.”

  Susan cast her eye over them, carefully peeling back a couple to test the amount of damage. “Hmm, this is going to challenge. Not sure how much of the images I can retrieve. However, Jan over in the documents department is a dab hand at photo restoration. He’ll scan it in and reconstruct but I know he’s got a backlog at the moment, so we might have to be judicious about what we send through. Leave it with me.”

  “And this,” Eleanor handed Susan the wooden snake already sealed into a plastic evidence bag. “Looks like a kid’s toy. It’s old and I want to get it appraised but need it dusting first. Could you prioritise this one first and then the photos?”

  “If you’re willing to send up lunch I can have it done for one.”

  “You’re a star,” said Eleanor. “Still the usual?”

  “You got it,” she replied, securing the seal on the boxes and manoeuvring the trolley between the desks.

  “Ooh, and one of those peanut things.”

  Eleanor nodded, “Roger that.”

  .There were several arrest photographs covering a four-year period that showed Giselle in various stages of transformation, from androgynous teenager picked up for possession of narcotics and soliciting, to the latest taken two years ago. In this Giselle had grown her hair, adopted a more aggressive make-up regime and acquired a rather unconvincing cleavage. The older Giselle had a harder expression, duller eyes and exuded hopelessness from every pore. There were only two addresses associated with Giselle since 2007, one of which was presumably parental as it was listed as a hardware store on the outskirts of the city and the second was the apartment share with Parminder Kaur. Eleanor scowled and checked her notes. If the files were correct it appeared that Giselle had been a resident of the Rowton Drive apartment for some considerable time before Parminder started her college course. This intrigued Eleanor; she knew that Parminder had been deceitful but not why, or about which thing. She made a note to call the landlord and find out who sublet to whom but first she wanted to contact Giselle’s parents. Running a quick check she established that both Mr and Mrs Baker still ran the store and dialled. It took nearly a minute for the phone to be answered. A man answered, his tone brusque, “Baker’s hardware.”

  “Is that Mr Baker speaking?”

  “Yes,” answered the voice after a momentary pause.

  “Are you the father of Richard Leslie Baker?” she asked.

  A sigh accompanied, “I am. Who are you?”

  “Detective Inspector Eleanor Raven. I wondered if it would be convenient for me drop by this morning and speak to both yourself and Richard’s mother?” The silence was interestingly long. Eleanor let it run.

  “What’s he done?” snapped Mr Baker. Eleanor could detect a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Would ten thirty be acceptable?” she asked. A grunt preceded the phone being disconnected. Sifting through the catalogue of Giselle’s misdemeanours she noted that the last state sanction meted out had been a community service order for a land conservation project in the Annex area of the city. Perhaps the jails were full or an enlightened magistrate had calculated the lack of redemptive effect in any of the light custodial sentences that Richard Leslie Baker had received so far. She noted the name and contact details of the probation officer and began to dial. After several minutes of switchboard inactivity and redirection she tracked down Samson Orbrook, Giselle’s probation officer.

  “Jeez, yes I remember Giselle. “Hang on.” Some faint keyboard hits and scrolling sounds were accompanied by a tuneless humming sound. “Richard Baker, liked to be called Giselle…Three short terms in The Don, each one earned an early release for good behaviour. Last sentence was a community service order, land clearing the new park in the Annex. Gotta say there are no missed appointments, he attended rehab when asked and seemed to have actually benefitted from his community service order, as there’s no sign of him having offended again.”

  “That could be because he’s dead Mr Orbrook, rather than some epiphany with a spade and bin liner.”

  There was a pause. “Shall I update my records then?”

  “I’d wait. Who organised his community service?”

  “Urm… In the office that would be me but on the ground it was Jacob Hareton. He’s the city parks officer and organises the volunteers, and those less civically minded, to clean and plant areas that need it.”

  “Hav
e you got contact details for Mr Hareton?”

  “Should have. Uh-huh… Hang on…”

  The door opened and Laurence walked in, accompanied by Monster. He had an armful of reports, two coffees and a large pastry balanced precariously on top of one of the cups. As he manoeuvred round the desk the pastry slid off the cup and onto the floor. There was a fraction of a second when the words, “Leave it!” were processed by the dog, before he leaned his huge head forward and deftly lifted and swallowed. “You complete bastard!” yelled Laurence. Monster gazed at him with incomprehension and then sauntered over to Eleanor, plonking his head on her lap.

  “Did you see that!” said Laurence outraged.

  “Thank you Mr Orbrook. Perhaps you could send that over to me?” She slipped her phone into her bag and stood up. “Can you pick up a DNA swab test kit?”

  “Sure. You found a relative?” replied Laurence, scowling menacingly at Monster.

  “Giselle’s parents are still living off Dupont. Did you get any joy from the reconstruction?” she asked. While Laurence wrestled with the folder, Eleanor tentatively stroked Monster’s head.

  “Ok, what d’ya think?” said Laurence, placing a series of grey and white print-outs in front of her. The images formed a series of reconstructions from the initial morgue skull x-ray, through a standard block composite, to a rough software interpretation of the features. “I’ve asked Lucy to pop in today and see if she can give us a forensic sketch.”