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She Will Rescue You

Page 14

by Chris Clement-Green


  Ellie closed her eyes, resigned to the fact that Mia would be left with it all her own way anyway. Alex would do whatever she said because Alex was in love with Mia.

  ‘I give up . . . do it your way.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Impartiality only ever helped the tormentor — never the tormented.

  When Mia returned from compassionate leave, she was met by smiles from the growing number of detectives in the NCA’s incident room. Knocking on the SIO’s door, she heard a familiar Yorkshire twang to the ‘come in’, and was horrified to find Mark Johnson sitting behind the oversized desk, transplanted from Leeds to London.

  ‘It’s great to have you back, Mia!’ Mark’s enthusiasm propelled him from his high backed leather chair and he planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Things have really moved along in the last few weeks.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Her own smile was fixed. ‘I didn’t know you were PiP four trained.’

  ‘I’m not, but Gold Command liked the way I — we — thought re our body.’ Mark gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘They decided my PiP three and experience would be enough for a trial run. This is it, Mia: my big break — my chance to bag a serial killer.’

  ‘I’m happy for you.’ She sat down.

  ‘And now I’ve got all this power,’ Mark waved his hand towards the bustle of the incident room, ‘I’ve brought Sandy on board too.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased. She’s the best West Yorkshire has and I wanted to gain some forensic consistency between the crime scenes.’

  She saw his sideways look.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark . . . I’m just a little . . . tired — it’s a great idea! Our little lady killer had better watch out — her card is being well and truly marked!’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your mother. The fall was obviously far more serious than you first thought?’

  ‘It was.’ She shrugged off the lie.

  Mark could sense Mia wanted the subject dropped and so leapt into the distraction of work. ‘So, let me fill you in on what’s been happening here.’

  Mia reached into her new attaché case and took out a ring-backed notebook.

  ‘What’s happened to your iPad?’

  ‘Believe it or not, it got nicked. So now I keep important stuff in a little old notebook that no one will look at twice.’

  Mark waved an expensive looking pen at the notebook. ‘But you can’t password protect that.’

  ‘Your DCs can’t password protect their pocket notebooks either, but they still use them.’

  ‘True.’

  Mark sensed something still wasn’t quite right. There appeared to be a new barrier between them. It couldn’t be work related. Mia obviously had her mind on other things. Tartan-themed hotel rooms perhaps? Or, more likely, the unexpected death of her mother. Grief. Plain and simple. That was it.

  He started on the update, hoping that they’d be able to at least re-establish their working relationship. ‘Anyway — these big developments — two more bodies have been found in Birmingham: a father and son who sourced badgers for baiting.’

  ‘I read about it online, but no cause of death was given.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, and why we’ve got anti-terror detectives on the team. Toxicology shows they died from ricin poisoning!’

  ‘Shit!’

  What the fuck? Why had no one told her they’d already used this stuff? After Mick’s intervention, she and Alex had spent very little time together in Ellie’s presence, and Ellie had insisted on working through everything in chronological order. The longer it had taken, the sicker she’d become and the increased morphine had resulted in more disjointed, sometimes repetitive discussions. Obviously some areas, some fucking important areas, had been missed completely.

  Recovering, she asked, ‘What’s ricin got to do with badger baiting?’ Mark shrugged. He was still staring at her as though he had X-ray vision.

  ‘And the turkey feathers?’

  ‘Theatrically placed over their hearts. But ricin, Mia! It looks to me as though she’s planning something really big. That poison’s a weapon of mass destruction — not individual murder.’

  ‘It’s certainly worrying.’ She then confirmed what Mark was already thinking. ‘It looks like these two were some sort of human experiment.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly!’

  ‘The media obviously doesn’t know about this development?’

  ‘God, no. Imagine the panic! In fact you, me, and Matt Brown, my DI, the Commissioner and the toxicologist are the only ones that know . . . at the moment.’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What about the anti-terrorist DCs?’

  ‘They’re just here to swell numbers. From a political point of view we need to be seen to be throwing everything we’ve got at this bloody woman.’

  Mia pictured the diminutive Ellie lying in her bed, her body so wasted it hardly disturbed the shape of the duvet. She also wondered what would happen to the investigation if Mark, and the handful of people that knew about the ricin, were . . . removed. It was a stupid, illogical thought that frightened her. There’ll be no collateral damage on my watch! No unnecessary deaths — in fact no deaths at all if I can help it. I’m going to be the exception to the rule! I’m going to prove there is such a thing as a ‘good terrorist’!

  She started reviewing all the evidence collected in her absence, freely suggesting lines of possible enquiry that seemed good, but she knew would come to nothing.

  ‘We’ve also found this.’ Mark tossed her another CSI photo. It was the remains of a small white roll-up.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near the baiters’ Volvo.’

  ‘Theirs?’

  ‘Nope. Family say the old boy quit years ago and his son never started.’

  ‘So why do we think it’s connected to the vehicle?’

  ‘It was only a few inches from the driver’s door.’

  ‘DNA?’

  ‘Awaiting results.’

  ‘Anything else found in the car?’

  ‘Nope. Smudged prints belonging to the father and son, but the vehicle had been wiped.’

  ‘Which suggests it was used by the killers.’

  She now hated that word.

  ‘Yep — family and neighbours have been surprisingly forthcoming. A badger baiting had been organised for that Saturday night and quite a few people have admitted to knowing the Bradys were responsible for sourcing the poor bloody badger. It looks like our killers knew it too. We’re doing ANPR on the Volvo to see if anyone followed them the night of their death.’

  ‘Call of nature!’ Mia hurried to the ladies.

  After checking each of the three stalls was empty, she got out a small pay-as-you-go mobile and rang Alex. She was still mulling over what to say about the ricin murders, but the fag end and automatic number plate recognition were no-brainers.

  ‘Alex!’

  ‘Yes, lass. What’s up?’

  ‘You’re up, you idiot! They’ve got one of your roll-ups from near the baiters’ Volvo. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about the ricin? Jesus, Alex — human guinea pigs! What were you thinking? Don’t answer that — I haven’t time. What if the roll-up comes back a match?’

  ‘I’ve got no record — what are they going to match it against?’

  ‘Didn’t you have to give a DNA sample when you joined the army?’

  ‘Me and 80,000 other guys — for body identification if we were blown up. But police aren’t allowed access to that database.’

  ‘What about family?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘There’s such a thing as familial DNA. Any closely related males with a criminal record?’

  ‘My brother’s as clean as a whistle. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose let alone steal one — or kill it.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He left home when I was fifteen. Not seen him since.’

  ‘Was
he the type to have a record?’ There was silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Alex?’

  ‘He used to belt my mother . . . before I got big enough to belt him back. But plods don’t care about domestics — especially in bonny Scotland.’

  Mia didn’t feel particularly reassured. ‘They’re also doing ANPR of the baiters’ Volvo to see if anyone followed them from Birmingham.’

  ‘How green do you think we are, lass? All dark-op vehicles are cloned.’

  ‘On false plates?’

  ‘No, cloned. Whenever we purchase a new vehicle we do surveillance on the dealership and get the index number of a same make and model. An old army mate at DVLC then supplies me with details of the new keeper. The driver memorizes those details so if they’re ever stopped they can give the correct information. We don’t even bother with insurance because the real keeper does that for us, and, as Jo does all the servicing at Mountain View, our dark-op vehicles are plod-proof.’

  ‘Fine!’ It was far from fine but Mia needed to get back. This whole double-agent crap was far harder than she’d expected. ‘I’ll see you at the weekend. How’s E doing?’

  ‘She’s holding on, lass. But we’ll need to make a decision soon if we intend using her death in any way.’ Mia heard the crack in his voice.

  ‘Yes. I know. I’ve got enough info to help make it. If she worsens call me and I’ll come back ASAP.’

  ‘Will do . . . Love you, lass.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The wrong side of heaven but the righteous side of hell.

  ‘She wants her death to serve some purpose, Mia! It seems like you just want her to slip quietly into the night, but you know that’s not what she wants!’

  ‘I know, Mick. But if I’m to continue where E leaves off, she needs to go without the media fanfare of a deathbed confession.’

  Mick looked to Alex, who found himself between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

  ‘Look, Mia, if you lead the NCA to E now, you’ll both get some glory and you’ll be — what do they call it — future-proofed. You’ll be solid with the plods and in a better position to protect us in the future.’

  It was Mia’s turn to glare at Alex, who this time raised his hands and retreated from what had become a set piece — something to fill in the time. Ellie was unlikely to last the night.

  He climbed the stairs and entered her bedroom with Hamish at his heels.

  ‘How you doin’, lass?’

  Holding her hand, he caressed the back of it with such tenderness that Ellie relived the stab of jealousy she’d felt when she’d watched him stroke Wilma’s neck.

  ‘Okay. They still arguing?’ Her mouth was continually dry and her voice held a rasp that Alex had heard before.

  ‘Aye. You chose well, lass. Mia’s the spit of you — insisting things are done her way.’

  He took a raspberry-flavoured ice chip from the flask on the bedside table, and ran it slowly along her cracked lips. In another time and place the gesture could have been sensual, but now it just mocked her wasted body with what might have . . . what should have been. She turned her head and gazed out of the window but her sight, like the rest of her, was failing, and the view was just a memory.

  While she’d reluctantly accepted the loss of Alex, Ellie remained angry that her fortune could not buy her more time. Why had fate given her the money if she wasn’t going to be allowed to spend it? If a good spirit (the title God came with too much baggage) had provided her with the winning ticket, then she had done good work. If, on the other hand, the Devil had provided it, then she had probably done plenty of his work too.

  She heard Mick and Mia enter, Mick immediately hurrying to her free side. The two men in her life flanked her bed like frightened sentinels –powerless to stop her departure. She groaned and the nurse shouldered her way past Mick to give the morphine drip another large twist. She could feel his panic and wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t have the strength.

  Mick shot the nurse an enquiring glance but the woman just shook her head. She was fairly certain she’d be returning to her own home the following day. Ellie’s two dogs had not left her bed for three days, except to rush outside for a pee, and that morning Lulu had even growled at her when she’d tried to move the lurcher to change the sheets. She’d complained it was like nursing in a kennel but no one had taken any notice. She didn’t really mind. She knew how much comfort the dogs gave her otherwise undemanding patient, and she got paid handsomely to manage death as the dying person wanted it managed. Although she would never proactively administer the final blow, she’d been gradually upping the opioids on a pain management basis. But that was it. There were black and white lines that should not be crossed.

  Mia swapped places with Alex and waited for the nurse to leave. She squeezed Ellie’s limp arm to get her attention. Ellie turned her head slowly, the movement taking effort and time.

  ‘E — if we reveal your identity now, we’ll have to postpone the Danish job for another year, and that means another pod of whales will die. You don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t want that.’ Ellie sounded exhausted, defeated.

  ‘But I promise you,’ Mia continued, desperate to reassure Ellie while she could still hear her, ‘when the time is right the whole world will know what you accomplished.’ She took Ellie’s hand from Toby’s back and sealed her deal with the lightest of kisses.

  Ellie wondered if Judas’ kiss had felt as light.

  She tried to focus on Mia’s pretty face, but could no longer make out the details. She rasped ‘okay’. It wasn’t okay, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Her world was returning to its point of singularity. Like the Big Bang in reverse, her whole universe had shrunk back to pinpoints of intense pain. Pain was the only thing that registered now, until the extra morphine kicked in and she drifted once more into drugged sleep.

  She suddenly felt bone-cold, as though someone had opened the door of an industrial freezer. She found it easy to open her eyes and was surprised to find herself sitting in the deserted Sunday School of her childhood. Looking around, she saw the red door had been blown open by a gust of wind. The same gust had blown in a handful of withered brown leaves, which chased each other around the doorway in a meaningless game of tag. She recalled there had been a bit of a ‘to-do’ when the vicar had the door painted red. He thought the colour cheerful and welcoming, while Miss Adams, the Sunday School teacher, had claimed it was the colour of harlots.

  A teenage Goth ambled into the musty-smelling room. He was holding a branch of apple blossom. This was odd. Goths hadn’t been invented when the Sunday School existed. His jet black hair had a healthy shine which clashed with the death-white pallor of his skin, and the matt black eye makeup circling his eyes served to emphasize their greenness. They were Alex’s eyes. Odd. Very . . . odd.

  He sat on the chipped, plywood chair next to hers, with all the bone-weary boredom of youth, and stared up at a patch of mould on the ceiling.

  ‘Does that look like Noah’s Ark to you?’ he asked. ‘It does to me.’

  His voice reminded Ellie of Doctor Who — the young excitable one who ran everywhere — which was again odd, because Goths never got excited about anything and never ran anywhere. She also remembered thinking, as a child, the same thing about that patch of mould . . . but other things filled her mind now.

  The Goth acknowledged this. Turning his green gaze from the ceiling, he asked, ‘So, Ellie, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘Everyone’s dying, E. It’s the nature of life.’ He turned his gaze back to the mouldy ark.

  ‘I know. But I’m dying right here, right now. I can feel my body shutting down. I can feel the lights being switched off. I’m scared.’

  ‘I’d be scared too if I were you.’

  ‘Am I going to hell?’

  ‘You don’t believe in hell.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s not there
.’

  ‘True. But in my experience, hell is something of a movable feast. It means different things to different people — another’s man poison so to speak.’ The youth turned to face her and Ellie imagined she saw two huge black wings unfurl from slits in the back of his floor-length black coat.

  ‘Are you the angel of death?’

  ‘Do you believe in angels?’ He smiled, but the smile was fixed and held no comfort.

  ‘I don’t know what I believe in anymore.’

  ‘Justice and revenge. That was your mantra in life.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there is always a price to be paid for revenge, E.’

  As the angel stood, his wings spread silently, enveloping her in a world of soft, suffocating black feathers. She heard herself scream.

  Ellie did not die peacefully. Her death rattle was one of obvious pain and regret and Toby and Lulu responded like a pair of wolves, howling in unison at the loss of their leader. Mick gave one sob but was otherwise silent as his tears flowed. He refused to let go of Ellie’s hand until the doctor arrived an hour later, to certify the obvious.

  Alex left the room, his face closed and hard. He was found a few minutes later by Mia, who sat next to him on the bench facing the mountains. They stared into the blackness that now engulfed them, hiding the surrounding beauty from view. They did not speak and they did not touch, until Alex finally broke down and wept; his head hung low, supported by hands that for once did not hold a cigarette. Mia placed her hand on his thigh, a small token of comfort in a place that was beyond comfort.

  Staring out into the night, Mia felt her chest tighten as she fought a sense of rising panic. Ellie’s death had finally slammed shut the door to any expectation of a normal life, and she knew with a certainty that sat like a lump of ice in the pit of her stomach, that she too would have to pay a price. The loss of Alex? Her own death? A prison cell? She wasn’t sure — but she was sure she’d have to pay. You didn’t get to control £90,000,000 and be with the man you loved without some redress from the universal laws of balance and harmony.

 

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