‘Good morning, National Lottery. How may I help you?’
Ellie’s mouth was so dry she had to peel her tongue from its roof. ‘I’d like to make a claim, please.’
You sound bloody terrified—
You sound guilty.
Try and sound more excited.
‘Certainly, madam. On which ticket?’
She was confused. ‘I have the winning one.’
‘I gather that, madam, but which lottery is your ticket from?’
Hear that? ‘Your’ ticket.
‘It’s the EuroMillions rollover — the £88,000,000.’
‘Wow! Lucky you! I’m Sarah, now shall we confirm the numbers and then I’ll take your details.’
As they ticked off the numbers, Ellie detected an edge of excitement creeping into Sarah’s voice, although it quickly became business-like again as she took down details. She also detected a sense of disappointment when she insisted on, ‘Absolutely no publicity!’
‘That’s fine, Miss Grant. Most winners wish to remain anonymous.’
What was the tone now? Respect? With a hint of reverence? It seems being even the ‘theoretical’ owner . . . thief . . . of £88,000,000 brings . . . obedience. Nice.
‘Would you like verification to take place at your home?’
‘No!’
‘Well, would you like to travel to London? We could meet you in a hotel or restaurant — whatever is easiest for you, Miss Grant . . . Miss Grant?’
‘Hello, yes . . . Can I come to your offices?’
‘You can, but if you want to maintain anonymity a more public place is advised. Tea at the Ritz has become something of a favourite with our winners — it makes it a nice celebration. How does that sound?’
‘Expensive.’
‘Not for you, Miss Grant.’
‘Okay. That sounds nice. When will that happen?’
‘Whenever you want it to — how about this coming Friday? Would that be soon enough for you?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Your verifier and winner’s counsellor is called Dorothy Chambers and she’ll meet you in the Ritz café at 3.30 this Friday. Congratulations once again, Miss Grant. Now, can I advise you to put your ticket somewhere secure but easy to remember; you won’t believe how many people lose their winning ticket while awaiting formal verification.’
Ellie was wearing her only dress, which was already damp with sweat as she hovered just inside the entrance to the Ritz café. The quiet hum of polite conversation and the clink of silverware on plates and porcelain on porcelain roared in her ears as she scanned the busy restaurant for Ms Chambers. She imagined a young executive wearing a power suit, with hair immaculately groomed and lots of professionally applied makeup. Instead, a rather matronly woman in a floral dress stood up and waved her over.
God, I must really look out of place.
She walked across the room, head down, avoiding the gaze of the elegant. They belonged here. They knew how to act and how to dress. This was their world: comfortable, affluent, complacent.
‘Miss Grant?’ Dot’s smile radiated from the periwinkle blue of her eyes, whose corners had become creased by the habit.
Ellie nodded and shook the proffered hand.
‘Have a seat. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve already ordered ‘tea for two’. Is that okay?’
Ellie forced a smile and sat down.
‘I’m Dot.’
‘Ellie.’
Don’t cry, just don’t cry. Grit your teeth, think of the animals and just get through this.
‘I can see it’s all still a bit overwhelming.’
She nodded.
Dot was pouring strange smelling tea into a porcelain teacup. ‘Milk and sugar?’
She nodded again.
For Christ’s sake, stop nodding and say something.
‘So, Ellie, may I see your passport to heaven?’
She handed over the much folded ticket.
‘Tell me its story.’
‘Story?’
Ellie felt the heat of a deep blush once more creep up her neck, and her palms were clammy under the starched white linen table cloth. Get a grip.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, how did you pick the numbers? Special dates, that sort of thing?’
‘It was a lucky dip.’
Is she trying to catch me out?
‘Of course it was! How silly of me.’ Dot’s smile seemed genuine.
‘But even so, the numbers turned out to be very significant.’ Ellie felt the need to prove ownership.
She told Dot about the significance of each number — even explaining the theory behind the power of three.
‘You’d be surprised how often that sort of thing happens.’ Dot popped a tiny cucumber sandwich into her mouth. ‘I could tell you quite a few stories about the bizarre coincidences — some would call it fate — that has led people to their fortunes . . . but I’m not allowed to!’ She grinned.
‘So who else knows about the win?’
Still can’t bring yourself to say ‘my’?
‘Just Sarah and myself at the moment.’ Dot took a sip of Earl Grey.
‘At the moment?’
‘I know you don’t want any publicity, which is fine, but we always recommend that big winners like yourself make use of our, optional, legal and financial advisory panel.’
I won’t need any help spending ‘my’ money.
‘They usually meet with large winners about four weeks after the win.’ Dot popped in another sandwich.
‘How do you guarantee no publicity?’ Ellie reached for a cream cake. It was the first thing she’d eaten all day.
‘Nearly seventy-five per cent of winners opt for no publicity, so our systems have a well-established and proven track record in the keeping of other people’s secrets.’ Dot winked as she too reached for a cake. ‘Have you had any thoughts about what you’re going to spend all this money on?’ Her tone held genuine curiosity, but was delivered with a ‘feel free to tell me to mind my own business’ air.
I could get used to this deference; this innate respect. I might actually enjoy being really rich.
Ellie. My poor lost Ellie.
Get over yourself, Mum. You can buy so much more than ‘things’ with this sort of money.
‘I’m going to help animals.’
‘Any particular sort?’ Dot picked up a second tiny cake.
‘The sort used and abused by us humans.’
‘How very noble of you. I make a monthly donation to the RSPCA and every Christmas I give something to a local donkey sanctuary instead of sending cards. People don’t seem to mind when I tell them what I’ve spent the postage on.’
‘I work in an animal shelter at the moment, but I want to set up my own. I’m looking at property in the Brecon Beacons.’
‘That all sounds eminently sensible and practical. But if you’re going to spend your money on ‘doing good’, it’s even more important that you speak to the experts. They’ll be able to help you really make your money work for you, so you can keep working for the animals.’
‘Thanks, Dot. I’ll do that.’
‘Is there anyone who’ll be sharing in your good fortune?’
‘No. There’s no one. My mum died last year and I never knew my dad.’
‘No partner?’
‘Not with a face like this.’ She did a cheesy grin, exposing her crooked teeth.
‘You could get them fixed now, and a new haircut will do wonders.’
‘No, Dot. This money is about saving animals, not me.’
‘Okey dokey. Now, about this £88,000,000; what bank shall we transfer the funds to?’
‘I don’t have a bank, just a post office savings account.’
‘Not to worry. I’ll give you the details of several banks that are used to opening up new accounts with such large sums, and you can pick one. Though I’d advise against the really elite ones — they’re unlikely to have many branches in Wales.’
<
br /> By the time Dot and Ellie had finished off the last of the cakes and drunk their third cup of tea, Ellie was free to start changing the world. She’d also agreed that a house with land and a new four by four would be the only big purchases she’d make before talking to the panel.
Leaving the Ritz, Ellie took the doorman’s genuflection as personal endorsement of a job well done.
I’ve done it!
You’ve got away with it.
I’ve braved the lion in its den and emerged unscathed — although Dot turned out to be more of an ageing pussycat. She reminded me of you, Mum; down to earth and unperturbable.
I’m perturbed now.
With a few hours to kill before her train back to Wales, Ellie bought herself a laptop from John Lewis. It wasn’t the most expensive, but it nevertheless emptied her post office savings.
Did you see how sniffy that assistant got when I asked for a protective case to be included, Mum? But old habits die hard.
Apparently not the good ones …
CHAPTER FIVE
I fight for the unheard and violated.
One-off, apparently unrelated murders no longer fell within the National Crime Agency’s ‘remit of threat’, but they were something still covered by the four geographical regions. Mia sent an email to the relevant detective sergeants:
Dear All,
I would be grateful if you could liaise with your local Serious and Organised Crime Teams and provide me with brief details and relevant case numbers for:
• Any unsolved murders that have been particularly brutal.
• Any ‘odd’ acts of apparently random violence with no established motive.
• Any serious violence that has any sort of animal connection.
Kind Regards
Doctor Mia Langley
National Crime Agency
No point in mentioning turkey feathers. The distance between Norfolk and Leeds means no one’s going to take a formal link seriously at this stage. The feathers would need to be DNA’d. If they came from the same bird, then the distance would become a bloody big bonus. Did turkey DNA work the same as human? Could it confirm the feathers were from the same bird, or just a family-species link?
Mia was sitting in a cubby-hole that had replaced her desk in the main incident room. She missed the buzz of the large, well-lit office and wondered if there was a non-professional reason behind her allocation of this private space.
There was a sharp rap on the door, which opened before she could say anything, and Mark Johnson strode in.
‘We were right!’ His tone was that of someone who was rarely wrong. ‘The DNA confirms they’re all male and all known.’
‘For violence?’
‘Funnily enough, no. They’re foot soldiers — the sort used for errands, not enforcement. David Robbins, aka mauled body, has got previous for drugs, class B and C, and one ABH. Just a black eye and split lip delivered during a domestic.’
‘Just?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Mia smiled. ‘What goes around comes around.’
‘The urine and vomit come back to three lads in their late teens, all known to each other. Robbins was their leader. They’ve all got previous for theft, shoplifting and the odd mobile mugging …’
‘But not violence?’
‘No. They just bullied younger kids for the phones; didn’t use force –didn’t have to. They also all have previous for possession: skunk mainly, but never enough for dealing.’
‘So, all four know each other well?’
‘Yep.’
‘And none of them real players?’
‘Nope. Capable of taking orders, but definitely followers, not leaders. Forensics also confirm that the only human blood in the pit belonged to Robbins. If the other three were killed, it wasn’t there.’
‘Who are the other three?’
‘Kai Williams, Darren Thicket and Lee James; three scroats from the same estate. Usual back story: drug-addicted parents, no schooling to speak of and criminal records starting from the age of ten — but thieving and vandalism starting two years before that.’ Mark sounded depressed.
‘So why such a brutal death? If Robbins had no real power, no scope for hurting the type of person that went to the trouble of extending that pit . . . it makes no sense.’
‘I still think it’s gang-related. Even if Robbins didn’t have any useful info, the manner of his death sends a strong message to his master and the other minions. It’s certainly capturing the public’s imagination.’
‘I’m sorry, Mark; I keep coming back to the digging of that pit. It took time and money — too much effort went into that death. And, another thing, if the other three have been killed, why hide their bodies?’
‘I’ve got sniffer dogs up there now. If there are any more bodies at the farm, these dogs will find them.’
‘I’ve already told you — you’re looking for converts not corpses.’
‘I believe you, but I’ve still got to follow procedure and tick off the actions.’
‘Okay, well, I’m off back down to Norfolk to do some work on their turkey killing. They’ve just established a clear motive.’
‘You’re leaving now? I thought we were having dinner?’
‘When I get back — promise!’ Mia picked up her briefcase and kissed the doughy cheek.
DI Matt Brown stepped aside to let her pass. He grinned at his boss.
‘You look like someone who’s lost a tenner and found a quid.’
‘Story of my life.’
‘Perhaps you’re aiming a little high?’
‘Thanks for the unrequested feedback, DI Brown.’
‘There’s always Tina from the press office.’ Matt grinned. ‘She follows you around like a puppy.’
‘I’m old enough to be her father!’
‘It’d be one in the eye for your Joyce . . . a younger woman.’
Mark’s face shadowed.
‘Sorry, none of my business.’
‘You’ve got that right. Any joy with the sniffer dogs?’
Mia’s thoughts kept turning to Mark as she made the long drive back to Norfolk.
He’s ‘a good guy’ — too good. But pasty bodies had no appeal. Fit, lean, muscular and hard. Good sex. Good sex was what it was all about . . . all she wanted . . . All she was capable of.
She pressed the CD button on her dashboard and selected some mind-numbing Metallica. Only five hours if she didn’t stop.
As Mia walked into the porta-cabin, Gemma was at her side. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
Squeezing between the desks, she made her way to the whiteboard where the DI was studying statements.
‘Afternoon, Jayne.’ She looked around. ‘No Brian?’
‘Out on errands.’
‘So, your text said you’ve now ID’d both man and motive?’
Jayne nodded. ‘Jan Dubrovski. He was sacked from the factory four months prior to his death. Animal rights activists secretly filmed him and a friend abusing live turkeys.’
‘How?’
‘They took it in turns to pick up the turkeys by their legs and swinging them around like floppy baseball bats, while the other one lobbed a cricket ball at their heads.’
‘It was like a snuff-version of the croquet match from Alice in Wonderland.’ Brian had returned, holding a carton of milk.
Jayne continued. ‘The footage made national headlines and the two men were prosecuted by the RSPCA. They got off with a sodding community order and fine.’ The DI’s disapproval was obvious. ‘That turkey feather looks pretty significant now.’
‘It certainly does. I’m working on a particularly vicious murder in Leeds involving dogs and,’ Mia couldn’t help shooting a triumphal look at Brian, ‘a turkey feather.’
The DC scowled and headed for the fridge and kettle.
‘NID confirmed that there were at least two attackers.’ Gemma handed Mia her coffee.
‘Told you so!’ Brian shook the emp
ty kettle.
Gemma ignored him. ‘You think the activists could have done this?’
‘No. If they’d wanted this sort of justice they’d have meted it out at the time. The majority just release animals and daub paint.’
Jayne frowned. ‘The ALF used to firebomb cars and homes.’
‘They’ve not been active for years, and even then the bombs were generally intended to warn and frighten, not maim and kill.’ Mia sipped the coffee; she’d forgotten to ask for sugar.
Gemma was hovering. ‘So, if not the activists, who?’
‘My guess is that someone clearly didn’t think the punishment fitted the crime, and that beatings should be paid for with beatings and deaths with death. If he was no longer working at the factory, it’s telling that they knew where to find him and bothered to bring him back to his scene of crime. What about his accomplice?’
‘No trace,’ Jayne replied. ‘He’s off grid.’
‘No family or friends?’
‘No. He left his family in Poland with the usual intention of slumming it here for a few years, before returning home with a nice little nest egg. If he made it back, everyone there’s keeping very tight-lipped about it.’
‘His family’s been spoken to?’
Jayne nodded. ‘By local police. Their impression was they knew where he was but weren’t about to tell us.’
‘In case the killers do the same to him?’ Gemma asked.
Jayne shrugged. ‘Or we try to summons him as a murder witness.’
‘What about friends?’ Mia gave up on the coffee, placing it surreptitiously on the desk.
‘Didn’t seem to have any,’ Jayne said, ‘except his co-offender. The two men shared a room in one of the farm’s rented houses and, from what we can gather, no one else in the house liked them very much. ‘Weird’ was a word used quite a bit. They were into violent porn — too extreme for the tastes of the other men we spoke to.’
‘Well, that fits. Normal people don’t treat living creatures like baseball bats.’
She Will Rescue You Page 4