Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  Gower Street was the home of his favourite bookshop. He’d spent many hours browsing in there and even paid for the odd tome on occasion: he’d always considered stealing books to be too grubby a pursuit for someone of his calibre. But needs must, and he entered the shop with the purpose of acquiring a little reading matter for the journey ahead. He’d work out how he was going to accomplish the practicalities of the journey while he loitered among the shelves: he was safer in the shop than out on the streets.

  He’d picked up a book on rococo art and was just leafing through it when he noticed that the woman operating the till nearest the door was a novice. An older woman from an adjacent till had to keep coming across to help her. Peter watched them. The novice was very slow and clearly embarrassed she needed so much assistance, especially as the colleague’s patience was becoming frayed.

  Peter continued to watch them for a while. At length, during a period when the novice had no customers, the colleague disappeared, perhaps to take a break. The novice was left glancing anxiously up and down her part of the shop, which luckily was deserted. Peter moved in.

  “I’d like to buy this,” he said, giving her a winning smile and handing over the art book.

  “Thank you.” She scanned the bar code on the back of it. “That’s twenty-five pounds, please.” She pressed some buttons and the till drawer opened.

  “Oh, I’ve just remembered,” said Peter, “I have a book token that I’d like to use. It won’t cover the whole amount: I think it’s for ten pounds. It is all right to pay part in cash, part by voucher, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, I think so.” The novice bookseller craned her neck across the counter and scanned the shop floor with a wild eye. “I’m not quite sure how to do it. Just let me ask one of my colleagues to help.”

  “Of course,” said Peter. “No hurry.” He stepped back a little and folded his hands patiently in front of him.

  He was a little alarmed when the woman rang a bell under the counter, but when this produced no effect she said, “Excuse me,” to Peter and, to his great delight, emerged from her station to go in quest of aid. He’d expected to have to snatch the money from under her nose, but as it was he was able to empty the drawer of twenties, tens, fives and even a single fifty quite casually before he sauntered out of the shop. He didn’t start running until he was in the street. He carried on running until he reached Fitzroy Square. He looked over his shoulder. No one appeared to be following him. There was a pub on the corner. He really needed a drink, but made himself press on. He wasn’t out of the wood yet: the police would be after him now, as well as Jas’s henchmen. There was no need to kill himself, even so: his heart was hammering away and his injured leg throbbed. He slowed his pace to a fast walk.

  This unexpectedly large windfall would allow him to change his plans. He didn’t know how much money he’d lifted from the till, but it was way more than he’d expected: enough to take him to France and keep him for a few days until he decided on what to do next.

  The girl popped up in his imagination again. There was no other remedy, he was going to have to help her. He found the number that he’d saved in his phone and pressed ‘call’.

  “DC Armstrong,” said a woman’s voice. He hesitated. Was this really such a good idea?

  “DC Armstrong. Who’s calling?” She sounded impatient now. She’d probably ring off if he didn’t speak soon.

  “The girl you’re looking for,” he said, trying to disguise his voice by making it deeper and more monotonous than natural. “Margery Pocklington. She’s being held at a private hotel in the Mile End Road. It’s called Caspiania. Be careful. The people there are armed.”

  “Thank you for the information,” said the woman. “Who are you? Please identify yourself.”

  She’ll trace the phone, thought Peter. And Jas will trace it, he panicked. He pressed the red button and hurled the phone into the road. Immediately it was flattened by a passing lorry.

  Peter Prance allowed himself the smallest puckering of a grin. His conscience was salved. Weary, but walking more jauntily despite his injuries, he continued steadfastly on his way.

  Chapter 71

  “Fuck me!” said one of the students.

  Nancy raised her head and smiled. The student’s name was Gus. Nancy liked him, but he’d already been in trouble more than once for using colourful language in the office.

  “Now, Gus,” she said. “You know what I’ve told you.”

  “Sorry. But I think that’s ’im – the old geezer.”

  Nancy shot up from her desk.

  “Show me.”

  Gus turned the footage back for a few seconds. Nancy pushed her face close up to the screen.

  She saw a grainy picture of an elderly man loitering near the barriers. There was a break in the footage, but when the picture returned he was still there. The next time round he could be seen walking across the concourse with a slightly-built woman carrying a rucksack. The quality of the film was poor: the images of the woman were blurred and shadowy. Because the man had been caught twice on camera while he was standing motionless, his features were better delineated; although Nancy had never seen him in the flesh, she was convinced it was Peter Prance. She couldn’t be sure the girl was Margie, but she was sure enough not to want to wait for forensics to take stills and point up the definition.

  “Well done, Gus!” she said. “Can you fetch DI ’acker?”

  “He’s gone out.”

  “Damn!” said Nancy. She called Derry on her mobile.

  “Nancy? I’m busy at the moment. I’m with a colleague.”

  Nancy remembered that Derry had told her he would be meeting one of his grasses.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But it’s urgent. We fink we’ve found your Mr Prance on the CCTVs. And it looks as if Margie Pocklington’s wiv ’im.”

  “I’m coming back,” said Derry. “I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”

  Chapter 72

  Saturday promises to be a very long day. After my confession to Juliet, I ask her if there’s anything I can do to help her, but she says there isn’t. She’s forgiving about not having known before about my conversation with Margie: she says that it doesn’t even prove that Margie intended to run away. Teenage girls hint at desperate actions when they’re not getting their own way and the police already knew she was unhappy at home. Margie didn’t really tell me anything that would help the investigation or change its focus.

  I think that Juliet’s just being kind, until it occurs to me that these days she’s much sterner and unyielding than she used to be. Not kind any more, in fact. I can see that she feels she’s not getting anywhere with her life. I hope that Superintendent Thornton and Tim will have the sense to give her the DS job.

  After I’ve spoken to Juliet I notice that Tim has texted me from Delhi to say he is waiting for a flight back to Heathrow. He sent it around 1.30 am my time. He should be home by this afternoon. I’m looking forward to seeing him even though I know we have some straight talking to do. I’ve decided that I believe Patti’s story, but that doesn’t let Tim off the hook. He’s been inconsiderate and foolish, but I’m sorry for him, too. This trip to Delhi was certainly not his finest hour. It may even have damaged his career. I know that Superintendent Thornton encouraged it, but he’s not going to admit that, is he?

  I try to focus on playing with Sophia, but she’s irritable and restless. I decide that the only way to get some peace is to take her for a walk in the buggy. She falls asleep immediately.

  Chapter 73

  Juliet’s first impulse after listening to the mystery caller’s abrupt message was to call Nancy Chappell. She was surprised at herself, but she had good reason: it had been Nancy’s hunch that Margie had gone to London and she knew that it was because of Nancy’s tenacity that the CCTV request was being actioned. Juliet knew she should tell Superintendent Thornton first, but he�
�d gone home and when she called his wife said he was taking a shower. Juliet said she’d ring back.

  She found Nancy’s number and called her just as Derry Hacker had finished examining the CCTV footage.

  “Juliet, ’ow amazing! I was just going to call you. DI ’acker’s ’ere. I’ll put you on speak.”

  “I’ve had a call from someone who claims they know where Margie is. They said she was at a private hotel in the Mile End Road.”

  “Did they give you the name?”

  “It was an odd name. Caspeena, or something like that.”

  “Caspeena?”

  Derry Hacker seized the phone.

  “Juliet? It’s Derry. Could the name of the hotel have been Caspiania?”

  “The man who called was speaking in an odd way. It could have been that.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No.”

  “You know Tim asked me to keep a look out for a bloke with form, a con man who lived in Spalding a few years ago?”

  “I didn’t know that, but while he was with you in London he told me he’d seen Peter Prance again. Is that who you mean?”

  “Yes. You knew Prance, then? Could the guy on the phone have been him?”

  Chapter 74

  Tim cursed his luck as the plane touched down at Gatwick. At some point when it was flying over Eastern Europe, for a reason not adequately explained by the captain’s announcement, it had been diverted to the other airport. The passengers had been advised to collect their luggage and catch the bus. Dog tired and desperate to get home, Tim had queued dispiritedly for a voucher to cover the cost of the bus ticket, incensed by the airline’s smug assumption that such largesse offered adequate recompense for ‘any inconvenience’.

  Having obtained the ticket and a bus timetable, he established that the next bus wouldn’t arrive for another fifty minutes. This would seem like an eternity if he just hung around, so despite his weariness he headed for the nearest W.H. Smith, thinking that he might as well make good use of the time by buying a couple of newspapers and reading the press accounts of the search for Margie Pocklington.

  At the newsagent’s, he joined, with a very bad grace, yet another queue. Belatedly, he realised that he was probably dehydrated and scanned the shelves on either side of the queue to see if he would be able to reach for a bottle of water without losing his place. He spotted a wire basket of bottled water near to the cash desk and his spirits lifted a little.

  The queue shuffled forward. As Tim moved along, his eye fell randomly on a ‘true crime’ magazine. He had nothing but contempt for such publications: the accounts of the cases they covered were anything but ‘true’, and invariably painted the police officers involved as blackly as possible. Descendants of the Victorian ‘penny dreadful’, they shrieked sensationalism. This one was no exception: on its cover was the luridly tinted silhouette of a woman’s body hanging from a gibbet.

  Tim looked again. He must have exclaimed aloud, because the woman standing ahead of him in the queue turned round and glared.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just saw something I recognised.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows and faced forward again. Tim seized the magazine and scrutinised the picture. There could be no doubt: it was the same disturbing outline that he’d seen in the upstairs window of the house in Ilford. Had he been suffering from some kind of psychotic episode or was there a simpler explanation? He opened the magazine and began to read avidly.

  “Move along,” muttered a voice behind him.

  “Sorry,” Tim said. He was nearly at the checkout desk now. He closed the magazine and added it to his pile of newspapers, just remembering to grab a bottle of water before it was his turn to pay.

  Once outside the shop, he hurriedly found a bench where he’d be able to read the magazine in relative comfort. He’d just sat down when his mobile rang. He was surprised to see Derry Hacker’s number flashing up on the screen.

  “Derry? I didn’t expect to hear from you today.”

  “I’ve just been talking to Superintendent Thornton. He said he thought you’d be back in the UK later this afternoon. I take it you’re here already. Are you at Heathrow?”

  “No. I was supposed to be, but the plane was diverted to Gatwick. I’m waiting for the bloody bus to take me to Heathrow.”

  Derry chuckled briefly before becoming businesslike again.

  “I reckon I can save you from that bus. I think I’ve got enough information to bust the Khans. I’ve had permission to deploy an armed officer unit and I’m waiting for them to arrive. Then we’re going to arrest the Khans at the hotel they run. Do you want to come?”

  “What? I guess I’d love to at any other time, but I have to put my own case first. That’s why I’ve come back from India early: to join the search for Margie Pocklington.”

  Derry’s voice when it came again was grave.

  “I think we may have found her. That’s why I called you. We think she’s being held prisoner by the Khans.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “A tip-off. Probably from the guy you told us about, Peter Prance. And we’re pretty certain we have CCTV footage of him with Margie, too.”

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I can get out of here.”

  “Stay put. I’ll send a car for you. I’ll give them your mobile number, get them to call you when they’re ten minutes away.”

  Chapter 75

  Margie was hauled from a bruised and febrile sleep by a loud bang. Half delirious with pain, she tried to concentrate. She was now back in her own room: how had that happened? She heard the sound of wood splintering and guttural shouts delivered staccato, like machine-gun fire, followed by the din of many pairs of boots running. The noises were coming from another part of the building, but getting closer. There were more angry shouts and a bellowed command, then the firing of a gun. A brief silence, another command, then the running boots moved yet nearer.

  More scared even than when she had been abandoned by Moura in the strange bedroom, with her heart hammering in her chest, Margie tried to climb out of her bed, wildly hoping that she’d be able to hide under it until this new danger passed. Again she was stricken by the searing pain, but she tried to ignore it. Her legs betrayed her: they were lumps of lead that refused to do her bidding. She panicked as she discovered that she couldn’t move them at all. She allowed her head to sink back on the pillow and wept.

  The door in the panel that led to the larger room suddenly burst open. Margie opened her eyes. She saw a thick-set man hastening towards the other door, the one that led to the corridor. He paused for a few moments, his back against the door, listening. For a second his eyes met hers. He motioned to her to keep quiet, his forefinger crossing his neck in a cutting gesture to indicate what would happen to her if she disobeyed. She nodded mutely. He turned to listen again, then wrenched the door open and thrust himself into the corridor. She heard his running footsteps receding. There was another shout. This time she could hear the speaker clearly. “Armed police, get down!” A split second pause, then: “Armed police, get down on the ground and put your hands behind your back!” A shot was fired. She heard rapid talking, someone enunciating very clearly, spelling out an address; a crackling reply accompanied by static, as if the respondent was at the other end of a poor telephone line.

  The actions now became less frenzied. She heard doors being forced open along the corridor. They were getting very close to her now. Since she’d heard the word ‘police’, she’d understood that help was coming. Too weak and still too afraid to call out, she waited.

  A door was being pounded. “It’s double-locked”, said a man’s voice, “and stronger than the others. We’ll need the ram.”

  Margie waited. A couple of minutes limped by. There were more footsteps. “
One, two, three, go!” shouted the same voice. She heard wood splintering, the crack of a door being ripped apart.

  “Oh, Christ!” The man’s voice again.

  “Sweet God!” said another voice. “Poor kid. How could they have done that to her?”

  “Check for vital signs.”

  “I can see that she’s dead . . .”

  “Check, all the same.”

  “She’s dead, sir. The body’s cold and stiffening.”

  “Where’s DI Yates?”

  “DI Hacker made him wait outside.”

  “Somebody fetch him.”

  There was another pause. The men in the room were silent for a while. Then the first voice spoke again.

  “Carry on checking the rooms. There are two left. We haven’t found the other girl yet.”

  “The door to that one’s been left ajar.”

  “Be careful, then. Shout a warning.”

  “Armed police! If there’s anyone in there, come out with your hands above your head. I’m going to count to three. Then we’re coming in. One, two, three.”

  “Please help me!” Margie called, as loudly as she could.

  “Did you hear that? Sounded like a girl’s voice.”

  “Could be a trap. Someone might be holding her in there.”

  There was another silence. Then Margie could just discern some low whispering. Two men burst into the room, the second covering the first with gun poised. He turned to look behind the door, then crossed to where the panel gaped wide open.

  The first man walked up to the bed. He was still holding his gun, but he’d pointed it downwards. He knelt down on the floor so that his face was level with Margie’s. He spoke gently.

  “Are you Margie Pocklington?”

  It was all she could do to nod before she was overcome by a paroxysm of sobbing.