by Linda Coles
An opportunist.
And the opportunist would have to look a lot like Tabitha Child. How else would she be able to use the woman’s passport successfully? Would it be possible for them to use the opportunist in place of Child? He mulled it over while nursing a bottle of beer before his flight. Maybe it was time to dial Morton and run the idea past him. It wasn’t crazy once he’d tossed it around his mind a couple of times. If they could find the woman that had impersonated Child, maybe she could be of use in the trial somehow after all. Since all the forensics and medical examinations had already been completed, they only needed her coached testimony. It was simple and, more importantly, it could work. He waited for the call to connect and when Morton answered in his usual gruff manner, Dominic garbled the idea in a hurry.
“It’s not over,” Dominic explained. “The similar looking woman could take over from now, once we find her. Our plan is not necessarily lost, we can use this still, we’ve just got to figure out who the woman impersonating Child is and locate her.” Dominic gave his boss the details of how the rough swap might work.
Morton stayed silent on the other end while he thought the swap through. “It’s worth further investigation. Find out who she is then. However you manage to do that God only knows,” he said, “but I’d start with the CCTV at passport control, that is the obvious place. But bring her back alive. We don’t want any more dead bodies.” He exhaled loudly into Dominic’s ear. As Morton hung up, Dominic imagined the man’s cigar-tinged halitosis from his exasperation and grimaced at the thought, thankful for the distance.
Dominic made the call back to the office to request CCTV footage of both Dover and Calais passport control. It had been a tiresome case and he was exhausted. Looking after a protected person was not the easiest job at times, particularly when they did stupid things like running off or getting themselves killed so close to when they were needed to give evidence. They made his head hurt and he wondered why he’d ever left his last role. Working in vice had had its ups and downs, but it was a good deal more interesting than babysitting headstrong adults. And it paid better too.
His phone buzzed and a glance at the screen told him it was a colleague, another detective back at the office. “That was quick,” he said.
“The footage was already handy apparently. I’ve sent you a link to it. I thought you’d like to know that you’re not the first person to order it, for Dover anyway,” said a male voice.
“Oh, who else?”
“A DS Alan Davies. Do you know him?
“I’ve heard the name before. So he’s got the footage too?
“Appears so. Anyway, just thought you should know. Your case is proving popular.”
And then he was gone.
Was this case ever going to be straight forward? Dominic doubted it and another detective being interested in it wasn’t good news. He might already be one step ahead. If that was the case, things could get tricky and Dominic didn’t want to have to get Morton to interject his bulk.
He took a deep breath in and let a heavily laden sigh out.
Who else knew?
Chapter Fifty-Seven
True to his word, Dean, the pathologist, rang back a couple of hours later. They arranged to meet up at the same pub again but, this time, chat over a decent bar snack and a pint or two. After the day Alan had had searching through other people’s belongings in a dark and draughty hangar, he’d been grateful for a hot shower and a change of clothes before heading back out. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Alan that Dean had something he’d rather not say over an unsecure line and wondering what it could be was making Alan’s brain matter turn to froth. He was perched at a corner table, halfway down his first pint, when Dean entered, head searching. Alan waved him over with as relaxed a grin as he could muster and waited for him to sit down. Dean glanced at the waiting pint, nodded his appreciation and took a long swig. It could have rivalled Alan’s own Olympic guzzle.
“I’m intrigued,” Alan said, keen to get his answer and avoiding preamble. He wanted to rub his hands together in anticipation but refrained. The wait was killing him.
“You know I told you about Chief Superintendent Morton dropping by?”
Alan nodded a ‘get on with it’, his head bobbing furiously, eyes wide.
“Well, he wouldn’t confirm that he knew the woman or not, kind of avoided my direct question, and I thought nothing of it. The poor woman could do with a confirmed name and next of kin, mind, but I guess she’ll have to wait. Anyway, as I say, I didn’t think much of it, but then it dawned on me when you asked about her tattoo.” He stopped to take a much smaller mouthful of beer.
Alan waited patiently but couldn’t help the “And?” that urgently wanted to leave his mouth.
“And that was what Morton wanted to see too. The inside of her thigh. Now, answer me this: if he didn’t know her, how did he know she had a tattoo in such a place? It wasn’t like he picked her arm up to look underneath on the off chance. He was checking whether it was there or not. And when he saw it, he left almost immediately, without another word.”
This was getting deeper and deeper with each day dawning. “And did you check if the tattoo was real?” Alan had to know.
“I did, and yes, it is. Can I ask why you thought it might not be?”
“Because the other missing woman, Susan Smith, had the exact same tattoo, as a temporary transfer, in her luggage. All ready to be applied at some point.” Alan sat back and watched Dean’s reaction. It was genuine, and similar to what his own had been. And since Dean had come to him for help originally, Alan felt comfortable he could be trusted with such information.
“So those two are connected somehow. Yet we know they are not related. That leaves one option,” Dean said.
“I agree. They had something planned. And I need to find out what because Susan Smith is gallivanting across France pretending to be Tabitha Child, a woman in the protected-persons programme.”
“Shit, you have been busy. And I gather you think Susan could be in danger?”
“I do, yes. But, and here’s the tricky part, I think she may be in danger from Tabitha Child’s handler too, or at the very least Morton, since you’ve told me of his reaction. Now they know Tabitha is dead, I’m wondering if they’ll figure out Susan and go after her.” Alan downed another quarter glass and wiped foam off his upper lip while Dean thought about the situation.
“I doubt it and here’s why: they don’t know of the tattoo transfer, I’m guessing?”
“No, and they won’t. But they might somehow know of Tabitha’s passport being used. It’s easy enough to check the footage and see a woman who looks a lot like their woman.”
“Yeah, but I doubt any officer would use a fake person in a court case, simply because she looked like their protected one, now deceased. She wouldn’t have the knowledge to pull it off.” He sat thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “Though the medical evidence would already be on file so no need for further checks, I suppose.” He pondered for a moment, “Could it really be pulled off with coaching?”
“Anything’s possible. But what’s in it for Susan Smith?”
“That’s easy. They’ll offer her something she can’t refuse. Everyone’s got a weak spot when the pressure is on. Children, sick parents needing treatment, it’s easy enough to find something painful in most people’s lives. No matter how ordinary and suburban they might seem.”
“You watch too many movies.”
Dean shrugged. Both men chewed over what they’d spoken about: could it be done? Was Susan Smith really in danger? It wasn’t the first time it had crossed Alan’s mind.
“They’d have to be more than dirty to attempt it if that’s their viable plan. And proving it, suggesting it even, that’s massive. It’s career suicide if you go down that track.” Dean’s voice was full of concern for his friend and colleague.
“I know, and I have no proof, only an inkling at the moment. It fits a theory.”
Alan could s
ee two plates of food heading their way. Changing the subject for a moment, he said, “I took the liberty of ordering fish and chips each,” as plates piled high with food were placed in front of them. Fat chips sent tiny trails of steam into the air and Dean reached in a picked one up, biting into the end and instantly dropping it back on his plate.
“Damn, that’s hot,” he said, tossing the small amount he’d bitten off around his mouth to try and cool it. “Thanks, though, I’m ravenous.”
“So, what should we do next?”
“We?”
“All right, me. Because the fewer people that know about this the better. I don’t trust Morton in the least, and he won’t be doing this on his own, there’ll be a fall guy in between.”
“Don’t you think you’re reaching a little too far? You’ve only got my word that he was looking for a tattoo. It’s not much to go on.”
Alan picked up his fork and stabbed a chip, ready. “I hear you. But I’ve got to take a closer look, because if I’m right, Susan Smith could be in bother. And I’ve got to try and find her. Though I’m struggling how.”
“You’re a detective, you’ll find a way.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But let’s keep this between you and me, okay?”
“Fine by me. I wonder who she really was, Tabitha Child. What’s her story, do you think?” Dean tucked into his cod, crispy batter crumbling on his plate as he scooped up peas for a tasty forkful. “I’m assuming the tattoo is important then?”
“Oh yes. If you look closely at the centre of it, there’s a distinctive first tat that has since been inked around to disguise it – it’s been added to. The rose was tastefully done whoever did it. But the original tat? It was the signature of something really rather ugly and I don’t want to put you off your meal.”
“I’m a pathologist, remember? There’s not much I haven’t seen mankind do to another human being. My stomach is solid. So, tell me, if you don’t mind, what it signified?”
There was no point hiding what had gone on. The supposed ringleaders were in prison, and Tabitha Child had been a remaining victim. He’d helped put them away some years ago. But, like any festering cyst, sometimes a modicum of infection stayed behind after its removal. It seemed that’s what had happened here. He wondered if there were still others carrying the inky moniker.
“It was a sign of ownership. Tabitha, or whatever her real name was, had been kept as breeding stock for a time.”
“Shit. That explains her pregnancies and no one missing her.”
“Quite.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Tabby watched the world whizz by as the car sped out of Paris and down through rural France. Albert had graciously suggested she try Albi, though she knew virtually nothing of the place. He’d said it was a small medieval town; though with its own rather grand cathedral, it was perhaps officially a tiny city. Not on as grand a scale as Paris, but more akin to a picturesque town in Devon. Since they’d made brief introductions, she’d not said another word, choosing instead to relish the gentle hum of the engine. It was making her eyelids droop uncontrollably. Tiredness was catching up with her and being constantly on the move was exhausting. She needed to find a base for a while so she could readjust to her newfound lifestyle and start to relax a little. Her shoulders were constantly taut, like cling film covering salad greens in a bowl at home.
The mere mention of home, even in her mind, sent her recoiling and she moved away from the window slightly, resting her head back as if the motion of doing so would reset the images in her mind. It didn’t work. Marcus’s face swam in front of her eyes and he wasn’t smiling. She wondered what he was doing right then. At work and back in Hong Kong? Drinking red wine and getting drunk at her absence? She doubted it. She doubted he’d understand the reason she’d fled the scene of the accident. She doubted anyone would.
Tabby desperately needed more belongings – the few pieces of clothing she did have needed washing, or tossing – but her funds were running low. Though she’d ditched the phone after Dominic’s last call, she still had the credit cards – for a dire emergency, she’d told herself. But looking down at herself and feeling the need to tidy up and eat a decent meal, she was tormented by the thought of a hotel room. Could it do any harm? How would anyone know it was her using the dead woman’s card? And, since she’d pay on departure, so what if someone was alerted to the expenditure? She’d be long gone by the time they got there. It was tempting.
Last night, she and the others in the car had stayed north of Toulouse, tiredness overcoming the trio and stopping them from driving on any longer. It had been a long way down. Since Tabby was tagging along, she’d chosen to stick with the group rather than find another way on her own, her options limited. The cheap backpackers’ place had been the worst yet, her mattress lumpy, the shower tepid at best. She certainly didn’t look like the princess of The Princess and the Pea, but she did feel like she’d slept on something knobbly all night, her back voicing its discomfort.
Kirsty was in the back of the car alongside her. It was Will’s turn to drive, with Jez riding in the passenger seat and doing directions. Each was quiet, busy in their own worlds, as they made their way south. Once they arrived in Toulouse, she knew she’d have to find another ride and, so far, she’d been lucky with who had picked her up. Kirsty yawned loudly and Tabby turned towards her and smiled a little. “I guess it won’t be long until you’re at your destination.”
“I guess not,” she answered, sounding uninterested, bored even, at the prospect. “I think I’d rather be going on further, like you, to Albi or even the coast. It sounds much more fun.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“We agreed to go to Toulouse, find work. And Will has a mate there so we can crash with him for a few nights. It’s all arranged. Do you have somewhere to stay when you get to Albi?”
“Nothing organised, no. More backpackers’ lumpy mattresses and cold showers, I expect, though I’ve got to get there first.”
“You’ll be fine. You’ve got this far,” Kirsty said, drifting off a little. Tabby thought the young woman had finished and had turned her gaze out of the window when she added, “You know, I’m sure whatever it is that’s bothering you will work its way out in the end. It always does.”
Tabby turned quickly at the young woman’s observation. Her green eyes held hope and kindness as they connected with her own. The redhead meant well.
“I think it already is,” she said, forcing a smile.
Already the time away was starting to have an impact on how she felt, how she viewed things and decided on what was important to her. Life’s luxuries that she’d been used to didn’t matter so much any more, though a soft bed and hot shower would still be delightful and hard to turn down. But it was the fleeting friendships she’d had over recent days that mattered more, and Tabby wondered about Albert, the older man. He’d been so wise, a delight to travel with, a lot like her grandfather. She thought of the nice lorry driver on her first day alone on the road, and the three that surrounded her now. Each with their own story to tell. What about her own? And the real reason she’d set off to Paris that day. It seemed almost silly now, immature of her. And now Tabitha Child was dead. Her life now in stark contrast to her life only last week.
And next week? It could well be different again.
Tabby opened her mouth and words she wasn’t planning on using came tumbling out. “Why don’t you come with me, to Albi? Leave the boys to their mate in Toulouse, and tag along with me. I can’t promise you bright lights and excitement, but I can offer you female company, if you’d prefer. My schedule is fairly loose at this stage.” Tabby smiled, immediately wondering where the hell that had come from. When she’d recovered from the shock of what she’d just suggested, she realised it no longer mattered. No one knew her real name, no one knew where she was and she was hardly leaving any kind of trail if someone was indeed looking for her. France, in fact, Europe, was a big place to get a
nd stay lost in. The time away was healing her.
Until she was ready to go back. And deal with her issue.
Green eyes searched Tabby’s as Kirsty’s mind ticked over.
“Why not!”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Alan Davies left the pub deep in thought. The case seemed to be getting murkier and murkier, and the more he found out, the more it disturbed him. The knowledge that Tabitha Child been part of some macabre baby-breeding idealism was hard to imagine. But she’d had several pregnancies, had the distinctive tattoo, and was in the protected-persons programme. It was likely the reason nobody had come forward and claimed her – she was in this world totally on her own.
Alan sat in his car but failed to start the engine. His head was spinning with so many unanswered questions.
“What the hell was Tabitha going to Paris for in the first place?” he asked himself out loud. “And add to that, what was Susan Smith going to do in Paris? Because they quite clearly knew one another and were up to something together. And maybe Susan is still planning to do whatever it was that they’d arranged between them. Where had they arranged to stay in Paris? What was nearby to interest them? There must be something, some way I can figure it out.” Alan had always found it easier to say his questions out loud to himself, but a young couple must have overheard him as they walked by, because the woman glanced back over her shoulder and smiled his way. Even though it was dark outside, the lights in the pub car park made it easy to be seen. Suddenly he was self-conscious about having a one-sided conversation where he sat and decided to do so while he drove. The engine caught and he pulled out of the car park.