by Ellis, Tim
She then moved the recording forwards in time and watched the woman leave Terminal One and climb into the same silver Mercedes that had dropped her off.
The Driving and Vehicle Licensing Agency (DVLA) in Swansea was her next port of call. She hacked into the server, keyed in the vehicle registration number and found that the Mercedes was owned by Avis Car Rentals in Whitechapel, London.
Why Whitechapel?
She wormed her way into the servers at their London headquarters and found that the man had paid for the Mercedes by cash. The “Hire Agreement” gave his name as Lee Wells, with an address in Hackney.
Back at the DVLA server she typed in the name Lee Wells, only to discover that the address in Hackney was correct, but Lee Wells was a sixty-nine year-old retired bus driver.
Mmmm!
She returned to the security recording, noted down the time, duration and end of the woman’s phone call. Then, she hacked into the cell monitor at Heathrow to identify the numbers of the caller and receiver. Eventually, she discovered that they were pay-as-you-go phones and no longer active, so she couldn’t trace their current locations via the GPS tracker.
Although she had drawn a blank on the man and woman, what it told her was that whoever had set Gilbert up were professionals.
The Southend Police Station server was like a marshmallow. She pushed, and her metaphorical finger went right through the soft outer layer and into the squishy innards. DI Nathan Banister’s investigation of DS Rowley Gilbert – what type of a name was Rowley? – was listed and up-to-date. Well, she thought, Banister had nothing to investigate. It was all there – in glorious Technicolor. As the Americans said, it was a slam-dunk. Proving that Gilbert was being set up wasn’t going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination. She printed off everything Banister had on file, which gave her:
Gilbert’s four passport numbers: 503801318 – Rowley Gilbert, 599915876 – Hector Curry, 512804563 – Adam Dwyer, 501553194 – Derek Freeman;
Details of all the supporting documents – driving licences, credit cards, National Insurance Cards, NHS Cards;
The serial numbers of the Uzi 9mm;
The serial number of the Glock-19 and the three murders connected to the weapon: Peter Roe – March 23, 2009, Mathew Vagg – August 14, 2010, Joanna Solomon – February 12, 2012;
Leonid Yurkov’s details and a copy of his statement;
The serial numbers and amounts of the different currencies that made up the £100,000;
A scanned colour photograph of an attractive woman in her early twenties sitting on the bank of a river or lake. She had ginger hair in a bob cut, and was wearing a sleeveless blue-patterned dress, which had been pushed up to reveal long white legs. On the reverse of the picture was written: Chloe – April, 2009;
The serial number of the camcorder;
A copy of the camcorder murder footage;
A copy of the CCTV footage from Hoddesdon Police Station for Sunday, May 22 between 0800 – 1400 hours.
She also made a note of DI Banister’s details and printed off his personnel record.
Now, she was fully armed.
But first, she made herself scrambled egg on toast. Ate it, and then sat back down at her computer with a coffee and a piece of Honey’s apple pie. ‘Okay,’ she said out loud. ‘Let’s see if you really are innocent, Rowley Gilbert.’
Her Majesty’s Passport Office was initially unwelcoming, but she soon made friends with it. She queried the four passport numbers and they were original ten-year passports issued between 2009 and 2012 – long before what was happening now. If someone was setting Gilbert up, then they’d been planning it for at least five years.
The application forms had been electronically scanned in, and – assuming the one under Gilbert’s real name was the original article – the handwriting on the other application forms were almost identical. In her unqualified opinion, all four application forms had been written by the same person, which must have been Rowley Gilbert.
‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ cried Alice.
She clicked on the CCTV footage from Hoddesdon Police Station for Sunday morning.
Gilbert said he was at the police station during the time that the Shrub End four were murdered – was he? Why would Banister have a copy of the recording if it proved that Gilbert was innocent?
She whizzed through the compressed six hours of footage. If Gilbert entered the station and did some finishing off as he said he did, then he must have worn a disguise. Why would he lie?
She knew Charlie and Xena were meeting at two o’clock, so she sent Xena another email.
Hey sleeping partner!
The woman phoned a man. Unable to identify or trace either – they’re professionals!
All passports were obtained by Gilbert between 2009 – 2012. Handwriting on all four application forms is the same;
Gilbert has no alibi. Checked Hoddesdon Police Station CCTV – he wasn’t there.
Say “Hi” to Charlie.
Scylla
***
‘Ernie Compton?’
‘Aye.’
‘Ray Kowalski,’ he said, and sat down on a wooden bar stool next to the man he’d come to see. Although it was Wednesday the tap room was quite full. Not with regulars, but with workers seeking food, a midday anaesthesia and respite from the drudgery of their offices, shops and stockrooms.
‘Brought tha wallet?’
‘Aye . . . eh yes.’
‘Mine’s a pint, and whatever you be having.’
‘Very kind, but I’m on duty.’ He signalled the barman and ordered a pint for Compton, and an orange juice for himself.
‘And ‘t ploughman’s with a double helpin’ a stilton and chutney,’ Compton added.
Kowalski nodded at the barman. ‘I’ll have the same, but with single helpings.’
The King Alfred’s Head tap room was all wood panelling and log fire, although the log fire wasn’t really necessary at this time of year. The clientele were mostly men, and had been since 1779. Women were allowed in now, but they were unwelcome and frowned upon. This was a man’s domain – a sanctuary of sorts from the rigours of married life. A place where a man could pontificate and bluster about rugby, football, boxing or any other male sport without feeling he had said too much. A place where he could play darts – round-the-board or 501 – without the pressure of a wife or girlfriend sitting on their own waiting for inane conversation. A place where a man could fall senseless off his bar stool, piss himself or puke through the gaps in the floorboards without a look of disgust, the threat of divorce or large helpings of cold shoulder for months on end.
‘This your regular?’
‘Aye.’
‘They serve a good pint in here.’
‘Aye.’
The barman brought their drinks.
Compton finished the pint he’d been drinking and swallowed half of the next one.
‘And another,’ Kowalski said to the barman.
‘Aye – keep ‘em coming.’
‘You used to work on the railways?’
‘Aye. A few years ago now – Senior Inspector.’
‘Did George Whitton tell you about the information I needed?’
‘Aye.’
‘And can you get it for me?’
‘Aye.’
‘When?’
‘In’t rush?’
‘Yes. Did he tell you what it was about?’
‘Nay.’ He pushed his empty glass towards the barman and nodded.
The barman glanced at Kowalski.
Kowalski nodded. He’d been in the pub barely fifteen minutes and Compton had drunk three and half pints. He’d been a heavy drinker himself in his younger days, but he paled into insignificance against Compton. He imagined that Compton could have been one of the all-time greats with a place in the Guinness Book of Records if he’d wanted to.
‘It’s about the murder of six women in the early eighties. Two of those murders were at . . .’
‘Aye
,’ Compton said. ‘Maria Jansen at Rye House station on November 1, 1984 and Claudia Olsson at Cheshunt station on October 24, 1985.’
‘That’s right. You have a formidable memory, Mr Compton.’
‘Aye.’ He nodded at the barman and thrust the empty glass towards him.
The barman filled it up and passed it back.
Their meals arrived.
Ernie began devouring his food like he drank his pints. He had silver hair, a full matching beard and moustache, and a fat red face that looked as though it had just come out of the lobster pot.
It was obvious to Kowalski that conversation was the last thing on Compton’s mind, so he decided to focus on his own ploughman’s, which was definitely of a high standard.
Compton licked the plate clean – literally, poured the last of his pint down his throat, burped loudly and pushed the empty glass across the bar to the barman who had stopped looking at Kowalski for confirmation.
‘I think you and I can do business, Ray,’ Compton said, and took a long swallow from his topped up pot. ‘Come back here tomorrow at the same time and we’ll see what we’ve got. There were two other trains in Rye House and three at Cheshunt on those dates. I need to check my facts, but I’ve got a feeling you might be onto something.’
‘That’s good news, Ernie.’ He took his wallet out to pay the bill.
‘Aye.’
The barman came over. ‘Thirty-seven pounds fifty, please.’
Kowalski passed him two twenties. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Aye, and another forty ought to do it,’ Compton said.
He gave the barman two more twenties.
Compton pushed out his thick lips and nodded. ‘Aye, that’ll do.’
‘Take care of yourself, Ernie, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Aye.’
He headed outside eighty pounds lighter, but at least he’d had some lunch.
***
‘You look familiar,’ Xena said to the man standing in the doorway of her room carrying a brown paper bag that smelled suspiciously of grapes.
‘Thanks for letting me use your flat,’ Charlie Baxter said. ‘I feel like a new man.’
‘You didn’t say you were gay.’
‘You’re looking better.’
‘Better than who? Kate Moss? Heidi Klum?’
The nurses had dragged her out of bed earlier, stripped off her nightgown, shoved her naked into the shower and made her wash herself.
‘You fucking sadistic bitches,’ she screamed at them.
‘All complaints should be sent in triplicate to Staff Nurse James.’
The doctor – who looked like a teenager with greasy hair, a few spots and some patchy stubble – had come in shortly afterwards, made her lie on the bed, and began poking and prodding her.
‘Looking good,’ he said.
‘You haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re doing, have you?’
He smiled. ‘Not really, but you seem to be on the mend anyway. Any vaginal discharge?’
‘That’s not the best chat-up line I’ve ever heard. I’d like a uterus transplant, please.’
‘Sadly, there have been no completely successful uterine transplants. Of the two that have been carried out – one uterus died and had to be removed. In the other one, a pregnancy did occur, but the foetus died after eight weeks and had to be aborted.’
‘Maybe mine will be successful. You could become a real doctor instead of a pretend one.’
‘Did I mention that the NHS currently have no uterine transplantation programme here, or anywhere else for that matter?’
‘You’re just making excuses.’
‘I wish I were. I’d like nothing better than to give you a new uterus, so that you could have a dozen babies if you wanted to. Instead, I’m going to send you home on Friday.’
She gave half a laugh. ‘You do know I’m a murder detective, don’t you? I’d like to see some evidence that you actually do have qualifications in quackery and butchery. I haven’t investigated a case of death by medical negligence yet, so my death through your incompetence could be the first.’
‘You’re not going to die. In fact, you’re doing exceptionally well. I’m very pleased with your progress. I think we can thank Staff Nurse James for keeping you on the straight and narrow.’
‘Staff Bitch James? You’re having a laugh. I want a second, third and fourth opinion before I agree to any change in my current living arrangements.’
‘In between now and Friday I want you doing abdominal exercises.’
‘You’re crazy. That bitch has sent you in here as a joke, hasn’t she?’
‘I’ll ask Staff Nurse James to arrange for the physiotherapist to come up and see you.’
‘An assassin by any other name.’
‘Have a good day, Xena,’ he said as he left the room. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow.’
‘You’re being overly optimistic, aren’t you?’ she called after him.
‘Better than either of those two old hags,’ Charlie Baxter said, bringing her back to the present. ‘But especially better than you looked yesterday.’
‘It’s an illusion. Inside, I’m slowly dying, and they’re saying I can go home on Friday.’
‘They must think you’re well enough.’
‘A bunch of idiots who think that the moon is made of green cheese.’
‘So, you want me to move out?’
‘Did I say that? If you weren’t there, I could die and nobody would know. They’d find my skeleton in ten years’ time and wonder why nobody cared.’
‘I’m happy to stay.’
‘Yeah, I bet you are. You just want to take advantage of a sick, defenceless woman.’
He rubbed his hands as if he were auditioning for the part of Fagin in Oliver. ‘I’m really looking forward to the opportunity. Friday night, you say? I’ll get some beers in, order a takeaway, put the word out for the lads to come round.’
‘You strike me as the type of person who would do exactly that.’
‘Should we get to the real reason I’m here?’
‘I suppose so. Have you spoken to Stick today?’
‘No. You?’
‘If I’m not mistaken, prisoners don’t have telephones in their cells, and they’re not permitted mobile phones either?’
‘That’s correct, but he might have phoned you.’
‘He hasn’t, and I need to speak to him. You have to go and see him, and tell him to ring me on my mobile every day.’
‘Any specific time?’
‘No. I have nothing urgent on until Friday night when I’m supposed to be the main attraction at a soiree.’
‘Okay, I’ll drop in this afternoon.’
‘Scylla sent me a couple of emails.’
‘I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from her for a while. She must be cutting out the middle man – me.’
‘More than likely, but she says, “Hi”.’
‘Very decent of her. What else did she say?’
‘She checked all four passports – Stick applied for all of them.’
‘They’re all his?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s bad. You can bet Banister knows that as well.’
‘Without doubt.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He wasn’t at the police station on Sunday morning.’
‘She checked the CCTV footage?’
‘Of course.’
‘Jesus. Are you sure he didn’t do it?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Because from where I’m sitting . . .’ He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.
‘That’s why I need to speak to him. I want to know what the fucking hell he’s playing at.’
‘I can imagine. He lied, he has no alibi and he has four passports under four different names. The implications are that he . . .’
‘I know what the implications are – if he lied about his alibi, what else is he lying
about? And, if the passports belong to him, what else in the box is his? I should have put the fucking phone down when he rang. I should have told him to sling his hook. I should have . . .’
He put his hand on her forearm. ‘But you didn’t, because you care about him.’
She pulled her arm away. ‘That’s a terrible accusation, Charlie Baxter. I’ve a good mind to throw you out of my flat on your ear.’
‘You can’t fool me, Xena Blake.’
‘Only because I’m not at my best at the moment. There’s something else as well.’
‘Oh?’
‘Scylla saw a woman watching Stick being arrested on the CCTV security recording, and tried to trace her and a man she had phoned. She had no luck, and she thinks they were professionals.’
Xena brought the picture of the woman up on the screen of her laptop and showed Charlie.
‘I could do with a hard copy to show Gilbert – he might recognise her.’
‘I’ll send it to . . .’
‘If you recall, I have no possessions.’
‘Shit. NURSE,’ she shouted.
A nurse came running into the room. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I need to print something off.’
The nurse laughed.
‘It’s not fucking funny. Tell Staff Bitch James to get her arse in here.’
‘Not here.’
‘Who’s in charge then?’
‘Sister Taylor.’
‘Well, tell her to come in then.’
The nurse left.
‘Have you ever thought of being nice to people?’ Charlie asked.
‘No.’
A thin, attractive woman with Sister Jeni Taylor on her name badge stood at the door. ‘Yes?’
‘I need to print a picture off.’