The Kisses of an Enemy: (Parish & Richards 17)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Of course they are. That’s exactly what I told your mother, but if that was the case why would you keep them hidden under your mattress?’

  ‘Because I knew exactly what you’d think?’

  ‘But I never go into your bedroom. I never would have seen the magazines.’

  ‘I knew what mum would think, and I also knew that she’d tell you.’

  ‘Or . . . there could be another reason.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no other reason.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so – in the strongest possible terms.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll say no more about them then.’

  ‘That suits me just fine.’

  ‘Except . . .’ He gave a laugh. ‘You’re meant to have a man before you start planning your wedding and picking your dress.’

  ‘See, that’s exactly why I put them under my mattress. I knew you’d make fun of me.’

  ***

  The light bulb in the next room kept buzzing and flickering.

  ‘Do you want to spend the night in here in the dark, numpty?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be my preferred option.’

  ‘Then get back into that room.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘I thought you were a gentleman.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘A gentleman would not be asking a lady to go into that room, and if you so much as hint that I might not be a fucking lady you’ll have seven years of bad luck to look forward to – I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘And there’s no one else?’

  ‘Do you see anybody else . . . ? Well, anybody else who hasn’t been tortured, raped and murdered.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you go then . . . Oh!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you wearing your thermal vest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew you would be – take it off.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘What for.’

  ‘To wrap round my nose and mouth. Now that we’ve established I’m a lady, do you think I should have to be subjected to this smell without nose and mouth protection?’

  ‘I might smell.’

  ‘You do, but it’s marginally better than the stench of vomit and decomposing corpses we have in this room.’

  Stick took his jacket, jumper and shirt off, and then wriggled out of the thermal vest and passed it to Xena. ‘There, and don’t make any comments.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Stinky.’ She wrapped the long sleeves around her head and tied them at the back. The vest smelled of men’s cologne, but she couldn’t identify the make. Knowing Stick, it was probably an expensive cologne. ‘Well? Are you waiting for a drum roll?’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I don’t see any forward movement.’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘You keep saying that.’

  ‘What if . . . ?’

  ‘Have you thought of a hundred questions to put off the inevitable?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Get in there.’ She pushed him towards the open sliding door. The smell of death, the rotting corpses and the dozens of buzzing blow flies were certainly reason enough not to venture into the room, but if Stick didn’t try to get them out they’d have to put up with the stench for some time. And one thing was for sure, it would only get worse.

  ‘What if the door is open?’

  ‘Then you call me. I’ll come in the room, take a look at what’s outside and make an executive decision.’

  ‘Okay. Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘What I think is that if you don’t put one foot in front of the other, I’m going to start using my swine prod.’

  ‘You haven’t got a swine prod.’

  ‘Maybe that’s true, but then maybe it’s not. Maybe I have a prod that produces 5,000 volts, and maybe you’re going to find out what that feels like sooner than you think. ‘Are you moving yet?’

  ‘I’m moving.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘You’re either there or you’re not, there’s no nearly.’

  ‘That reminds me of . . .’

  ‘Try to open the door.’

  ‘It’s open.’

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘People.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Moving.’

  ‘Moving what?’

  ‘Packages.’

  ‘I’m seriously thinking about coming in there and cutting out your tongue, because it’s obviously of no use to you for telling me what the fuck’s going on.’

  ‘Sorry. They’re moving packages from the back of the trucks that have been reversed in through the open vehicle entrance, and they’re stacking the packages into piles on the floor of the unit. Each package is wrapped in plastic; about eighteen inches long, twelve inches wide and three inches deep; and tied up with string. I’m no expert, but I’d say the packages contained drugs.’

  ‘Which is exactly why we’re here. So, can you reach the phones?’

  ‘No, but our possessions aren’t there anymore.’

  ‘Crap! What have they done with those? Can we get out?’

  Stick shook his head. ‘Not a chance. There’s people everywhere.’

  ‘So we’re stuck in here?’

  ‘For the time being.’

  ‘Okay – come back. At least the door is open and we have an escape route.’

  ‘On my way.’

  When Stick was back in the storeroom Xena said, ‘We’ll wait until they go and then . . .’

  ‘You want to get out of here, don’t you?’

  She held Stick’s thermal vest against her nose and mouth. ‘Damn right I do. Don’t you?’

  ‘Well yes, but I’d like you to think about a couple of things.’

  ‘Go on then, numpty.’

  Stick sat down with his back against the wall opposite to the one he’d vomited down. ‘If the smugglers come back to check on us . . .’ He licked his lips. ‘. . . Or bring us dinner.’

  ‘Steak and chips with peppercorn sauce, and maybe a bottle of fragrant Beaujolais?’

  ‘Mmmm! Well, they’ll see that we’ve forced open the sliding door.’

  ‘They can hardly blame us for trying to escape.’

  ‘They’ll also see the bodies.’

  ‘Which are nothing to do with us.’

  ‘But those bodies might be something to do with them. I know you think they could be the work of a serial killer, but what if said serial killer is one of them?’

  ‘I doubt that, but I can see where you’re coming from.’

  ‘Also, what if the bodies are the work of a serial killer and nothing to do with them? They know that if they let us go we’ll run straight to the police . . .’

  ‘We are the police.’

  ‘Except that they think we’re ramblers.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, they’re not going to let us go anytime soon, because they have an industrial unit full of illegal drugs worth . . . I don’t know – let’s say ten million pounds, which is a good reason to keep us locked up, or kill us and dispose of the evidence, or any number of other unpleasant scenarios. One thing they’re not going to do is let us go.’

  ‘Maybe the undercover cop . . .’

  ‘We shouldn’t rely on him. If they’d let us go when they first caught us, everything might have worked out just fine, but now we know too much. As soon as they locked us up we became witnesses . . .’

  ‘Witnesses to what?’

  ‘False imprisonment, serial murder and now drug smuggling. I can’t see this ending well at all.’

  Xena screwed up her face. ‘People know we’re here.’

  Stick shrugged. ‘Where are they? Is there any sign that they’re coming to get us? DCI Ridge will have discussed it wit
h his superiors over a glass or two of malt whiskey and together they would have concluded that we’re dead already. In which case – no further action. Or, we’re still alive, but safely locked up. In which case – no further action.’

  ‘I hate it when you’re right.’

  ‘I know you do. They can’t come and release us without showing their hand.’

  ‘But it doesn’t matter now – the drugs are here.’

  ‘We know that, but the other teams on stake-out don’t know that. Also, were they simply waiting for the drugs to arrive before they swooped down and arrested everybody? I don’t think so, otherwise they would have done it already. Maybe they want to identify and arrest all the links in the chain. There’s a lot of drugs out there. Where are the drugs going to end up? Who are they selling them to? Maybe these people are simply middle-men, and they want the kingpins . . .’

  ‘You think it’s my fault, don’t you?’

  ‘Pointing fingers of blame isn’t helpful. I think the only way we’re going to get out of this with our careers intact, is if we solve the murders of those three women in the next room.’

  ‘You’re crazy! We can’t leave this room. We have no forensic support . . . In fact, no support at all. We can’t leave to question anybody. We can’t interrogate CrimInt for similar murders. We . . . It would be a lot simpler to stick our heads between our legs and kiss our careers goodbye.’

  ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’

  The light bulb in the next room buzzed and they were plunged into darkness again.

  ‘Great!’ Xena said.

  Chapter Six

  She’d logged into the free wifi that the clinic offered and was on the internet. At first glance there appeared to be no network connected to the wifi hub, which couldn’t be right. She’d seen a computer on the front desk herself, and a clinic of this size wouldn’t simply have one standalone computer. And even if they did it would have been connected to the wifi, which she’d be able to see, but there was nothing there.

  Using her NetStumbler software, she soon found the “hidden” network name: BYCSC. Why would the clinic cloak their network? Maybe to stop nosy hackers such as herself from compromising their security. Okay, she could live with that. It showed her that they were serious about the security of patient details, which was a good thing.

  She launched The Onion Router (Tor) anonymity network browser on her laptop, which encrypted her signal and made it look like normal HTTPS traffic and bounced it all around the internet so that she couldn’t be identified.

  Oh, there were people and organisations – such as GCHQ and the National Security Agency (NSA) – who had a good chance of decrypting her signal and finding out who and where she was, but they wouldn’t be looking for little ole Bronwyn inside the Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic. She was sure, after Edward Snowden had leaked all their secrets, that they had bigger fish to fry. And not only that – she smiled – they already knew she was beautiful.

  It wasn’t a large network. There were only three wards named after ancient Greek healers: Asclepius, Hippocrates and Galen. She was on Galen Ward, or . . . she was meant to be. Maybe they hadn’t had time to enter her details into the system yet – they’d only had all day to do it, and she was sure that Nurse Dimbleby had a lot of nursing chores to do as well.

  Asclepius and Hippocrates Wards appeared to be stuffed to the gunnels with mostly female patients, but there a few men as well. It seemed like the clinic was doing a roaring trade and earning lots of money for its owners. She picked a patient on Hippocrates Ward at random – Lynne Donehoo – and went into her file. She was thirty-seven years old, divorced and lived alone in Borehamwood. It looked as though she’d been admitted for a tummy-tuck and liposuction of her buttocks three weeks ago. There was also a list of completed medical tests underneath the main notes that she didn’t understand, but it appeared as though the doctors were extremely thorough and weren’t penny-pinching like NHS hospitals:

  Tissue (HLA) typing – compatible;

  Blood type – AB negative;

  Cross-Match – negative;

  Immune status – natural;

  Antibody screen – no reaction;

  Urine tests – clear;

  X-rays – clear;

  Arteriogram – clear;

  Gynaecological examination – clear;

  Mammogram – clear.

  The woman’s blood type was the same as hers – AB negative. She’d only found out her blood type recently when she was in the hospital after being shot. One of the nurses had told her that it was the rarest blood group across all ethnic groups, and that only one percent of white people were AB negative. Still, she imagined that one percent was still a lot of people.

  She heard a noise outside in the corridor, closed her laptop on the page it was on and slipped it back into her rucksack.

  Doctor Mark Thompson appeared. ‘Miss Gibbs, how lovely to see you again.’

  He had the bedside manner of a snake-charmer.

  Nurse Dimbleby was milling about behind him looking like a zoo keepers’ assistant.

  ‘Are you settling in all right?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Excellent. I need to examine you.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘To make sure you’re in tip-top condition for your surgery in the morning.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t take your word for it.’

  ‘I’ve met people like you before.’

  ‘There are lots of cosmetic surgeons in London.’

  She screwed up her face. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  His lip curled upwards. ‘I know. Can you remove all your clothes and put the patient gown on, please?’

  ‘Including my underwear?’

  ‘Everything. I need to look at your buttocks.’

  ‘You’re a pervert.’

  ‘I’ve been called worse. That’s why Nurse Dimbleby is here, to make sure we’re both protected.’

  She was about to take off her bra, but stopped. ‘Are you going to stand there watching?’

  ‘I’ve seen it all before. And I’m about to see it all again.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. Turn round.’

  He turned round.

  Nurse Dimbleby didn’t bother turning round. The miserable old bitch’s face was inscrutable as she stared at her scrawny scarred body.

  Bronwyn had dyed her short spiky hair black and spent hours plaiting it and tying the ends off with different coloured wools for the trip here. The last thing she needed was for her lip, belly-button and nipple rings to be stolen, so she’d hidden them under a floorboard at the squat. While she’d been shaving her armpits and legs in the shower earlier, she thought she’d shave her pubic hair as well. She didn’t want the heavy-handed nurses butchering her down there. Make-up had been discarded also. In fact, when she stared at her naked self in the mirror, she thought she looked reasonably good considering the shit life she’d had.

  ‘Okay – you can turn round now.’

  ‘Please lie on the bed,’ the Doctor said, putting on plastic gloves.

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ she said as she hopped onto the bed. ‘Front or back?’

  ‘I’ll examine your front first.’ He lifted the gown up to just below her neck and put the stethoscope in his ears.

  ‘It was hardly worth putting the gown on, was it?’

  ‘Breathe in.’

  She breathed in.

  As he listened to her breathing and her heart, he moved the stethoscope round her chest. His finger brushed her nipple, and she wondered if he’d done it on purpose. She stared at him. He wasn’t bad looking in a mummy’s-boy type of way with his dark curly hair and red lips that looked as though he was wearing lipstick, but she wouldn’t have given him a second glance out on the street. She was a bit desperate though. In fact, that wasn’t the truth at all – she was a lot desperate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex, and it would probably be a lot l
onger now that she was having skin grafts transplanted from her arse to her back. God! She must be desperate if she was thinking of sex at the same time as looking at the dork standing over her.

  ‘Breathe out.’

  ‘I was having hallucinations then.’

  ‘Turn over.’

  She scrambled over onto her front. Even though it had hurt, she’d twisted round and stared at the mess of her back in the mirror this morning. Her arse was still firm and, with the exception of the scars, she’d look good having sex doggy-style – her favourite position. Yes, she’d made the right decision to have the skin graft and the scars on her back sorted out. It had been forever since she’d allowed a man to screw her doggy-style. The last thing she wanted or needed was someone feeling sorry for her, or recoiling in disgust at the way she looked. As far as she was concerned, she was a Ming vase with minor imperfections. And it was up to Doctor Mark Thompson to correct those minor imperfections and make the Ming vase whole again.

  ‘Nasty,’ Nurse fat-cow Dimbleby said.

  ‘Mmmm,’ the doctor agreed. He drew arrows with a black marker pen on Bronwyn’s back, and then squeezed her buttocks.

  ‘Hey!’ she said.

  ‘Checking for elasticity.’

  ‘Is that the best line you can come up with?’

  ‘I’ve had no complaints so far.’

  ‘I bet.’

  Just then, a man she’d never seen came into the room and whispered something in the doctor’s ear.

  ‘Is somebody selling tickets out there?’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘I’m lying here showing my arse to the world.’

  ‘Just one moment, Miss Gibbs,’ he said, and left the room with the man.

  She closed her eyes and thought of Shakin’. He definitely wasn’t her type – too young, too childish, too much of a gobshite. It didn’t stop her thinking about his abilities in bed though. Yes, she was a desperate case from which there was probably no way back if she was contemplating getting Shakin’ into bed.

  Doctor Thompson returned and carried on with his examination. ‘Sorry about that, Miss Gibbs.’

  ‘Nothing too easy, I hope?’

  ‘A patient doing something they shouldn’t have been doing, I’m afraid.’ He drew an arrow on her left thigh pointing up to her buttock. ‘You can cover yourself up now.’