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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Fit as a butcher’s dog?’

  ‘Most definitely. Have a good night’s sleep and we’ll take good care of you tomorrow morning.’

  ***

  Once they were sitting in the car with the heater going, Parish called DI Anne Pollard and told her what they’d discovered.

  ‘So the father could be anybody?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll run her DNA through the National DNA Database and see if we can get a familial match.’

  ‘What about the exhumation?’

  ‘They’re digging the coffin up at six tonight, but then it has to be taken to the mortuary at King George Hospital . . . We won’t know anything until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Nothing from the other teams going house-to-house?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Well, Richards and I are free now. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Go home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. I have enough people running round like headless chickens trying to look busy. There are volunteers under the organisation and control of experienced officers still searching Rye Meads, Roydon Mill and the Sewage Works, but that will have to end for the day soon. The police helicopters have been up all day, but are now grounded due to poor light. We have an incident trailer set up in Lyttons Way to catch people coming home from work. The child’s photograph has been plastered all over local and national television, newspapers and the internet. Posters and flyers have been displayed and distributed. The National Ports Office are on the lookout for her. We’re taking and assessing hundreds of calls from the public, but nothing useful yet. As far as we know she wasn’t being bullied in or outside of school, and there was no other reason for her to run away from home – it’s out of character. There have been no events that could have caused – or be linked to – her disappearance. She has no medical conditions that would cause her to go missing. Everywhere she might have gone has been checked. Everything that can be done is being, or has been done. The only lead we have is what you found out about her plans to meet her father.’

  ‘And from what little we know, it doesn’t appear as if Lisa was planning to run away with whoever she met . . .’

  ‘If she met anyone. We have no confirmation that’s what actually happened.’

  ‘I know, but if it’s not what happened – where is she?’

  ‘In the absence of any other information, we’re obviously leaning towards a worst-case scenario – that she was persuaded to go with the person, or she was abducted against her will.’

  ‘What about the local paedophiles?’

  ‘They’re all being questioned, and alibis established and verified.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing Richards and I can do?’

  ‘Yes, you can both go home. I’m appearing on Crimestoppers shortly, and them I’m making an appeal for information at Hoddesdon Town’s home game against Biggleswade United before the kick-off tonight. I’ll see you at the Daily Management Meeting at nine in the morning. By then, we should have significantly more information to work with . . . We might even have found her.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Goodnight, Anne.’

  ‘Goodnight, Jed . . . And thanks for today.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘You fancy her, don’t you?’

  ‘What I fancy is something to eat. What did we have for lunch?’

  ‘Nothing, but mum will have cooked the dinner.’

  He took out his phone and called Angie.

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘You haven’t cooked the evening meal yet, have you?’

  ‘Do you think I sit around all day reading and watching television?’

  ‘You’ve never said you don’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now that I don’t.’

  ‘Okay, so what’s the answer to the question?’

  ‘No, I haven’t cooked the dinner. Why?’

  ‘What time do you have to leave for work?’

  ‘Quarter past seven at the latest.’

  ‘What about meeting at a strategically central family pub? We can eat, handover the children, you can go to work, and your eldest daughter and I can go home with the children.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan I might be interested in. Where?’

  ‘What about Ye Olde King’s Head on High Road?’

  ‘I seem to remember that they serve good food.’

  ‘Richards and I are starving. We’ve been helping with the search for that missing girl . . .’

  ‘Lisa Cabot?’

  ‘Yes. And we missed lunch.’

  ‘Not cooking suits me fine.’

  ‘We’ll see you in the pub car park in thirty minutes?’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Not as much as I love you, Angela Parish.’

  He ended the call.

  Richards began gagging. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Stick your head out of the window then.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find her?’

  ‘Your mother’s a distinctive and attractive looking woman. I think we’ll have no problem spotting her in the car park.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know. Drive.’

  Richards started the car, pulled out of Hailey Avenue and headed towards the A10 . . .

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Down the A10.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘I work with you, so that’s a stupid question.’

  ‘The A10 leads to the M25. What time of day is it?’

  ‘Going-home time?’

  ‘Exactly – the M25 will be like a car park. Follow the B181 through Roydon, Nazeing and Epping Green. It’s slightly longer, but we’ll get there quicker.’

  ‘You’ve upset the satnav now.’

  ‘The satnav will eventually come to terms with its rejection. Which reminds me, when we get home and you’ve put the children to bed, we have to find you a man.’

  ‘I can find my own man, thank you.’

  ‘There’s a mountain of evidence to the contrary.’

  ***

  In the darkness Stick had manhandled the aluminium sliding door back into place as best he could under the circumstances. It wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny, but then Xena had the feeling that whoever came into the room next wasn’t really going to be interested in carrying out a snap sliding door inspection.

  She was pissed off. Not with Stick, but with herself. When would she ever learn? Never – that’s when. The only reason they were locked in a stinking dark storeroom next to another room containing three decomposing female bodies that they couldn’t investigate was because of her. If that was all there was to it, then there might have been reasons to be cheerful, but it wasn’t. She would definitely lose her job. Maybe the Chief would take pity on her, demote her to second fiddle to a minion and put her back on the streets under the supervision of a psychiatric support worker. Stick would probably lose his job as well. They’d realise that no one in their right mind would follow Xena Blake, and as he’d followed her into the rubber room and beyond, they wouldn’t want someone who was a few clowns short of a circus working as a police officer anymore.

  The whole thing was a mess. It was a mess because she couldn’t follow simple instructions. She always thought she knew better than everyone else. Well, this is where it had got her. And, of course, long-suffering Stick. He deserved better than her. Why did he put up with all the shit she threw at him? She didn’t deserve him, and he didn’t deserve her.

  ‘Go and check if they’ve gone yet,’ she said, probably a bit too harshly.

  But as Stick was about to get up, there was a rattling of keys at the door.

  Jack came in and threw a small bottle of water at Stick. ‘Jesus!’ he said, backing out as he covered his nose and mouth. ‘It fucking stinks in here.’

  ‘I was sick,’ Stick said, as if that explained the stench. He passed the water b
ottle to Xena.

  Xena unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of the water. Her throat was as parched as the Gobi Desert. ‘Is there any chance you’re going to let us carry on with our rambling?’

  He hawked and spat in her direction. ‘If you were really ramblers as you said you were that might have been a possibility, but seeing as you’re fucking coppers there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of that ever happening.’

  Stick and Xena glanced at each other.

  A smirk appeared on Jack’s face. ‘Yeah, we know you’re the fucking filth. If it was up to me I’d put you up against a wall and shoot you here and now, but you’re lucky – it’s not up to me. Instead, we’re gonna leave you in here to die. Make the most of that water, it’s all you’re gonna get.’

  He slammed the door shut, and they heard the key being turned in the lock.

  Stick laughed. ‘He doesn’t know that the other door is open.’

  ‘And that’s funny how?’

  ‘Well, it’s not really.’

  ‘Make yourself useful. Go and see if they’ve gone yet.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Xena heard him stand up, slide the door open and step through into the murder room. There was no light now, and he would have to make his way round the wall to the door by touch as he had before.

  ‘Pssst?’

  ‘I hope that’s not you trying to get my attention, numpty?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It looks like they’re going.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘They’re driving the last truck out and rolling down the vehicle door.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now they’ve switched the main lights off and are leaving through the pedestrian door. It’s completely dark out there now.’

  ‘Come back.’

  ‘On my way.’

  Once he was inside the storeroom again he slid the door to its closed position. ‘Now what?’

  ‘We wait until we’re sure they’ve gone.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then we sort this fucking mess out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, first we contact DCI Ridge and tell him the drugs are sitting here waiting for him if he’d care to get off his fat arse to come and get them.’

  ‘He’ll appreciate that.’

  ‘Don’t think I can’t see you smirking.’

  ‘I never would.’

  ‘I’m sure. So, after Ridge and his cronies have arrived to collect the drugs, we call in the bitch from forensics . . . What’s her name?’

  ‘You know very well what her name is.’

  ‘Do I? It must have slipped my mind for the moment. Anyway, we’ll get that bitch in and start our investigation.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not our investigation. Are we still in Essex?’

  ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘Oh! . . . Shush.’

  ‘Don’t you . . .’ She felt Stick squeeze her thigh and hoped he wasn’t getting desperate already. Not that she was anybody’s idea of desperate, but . . .

  ‘I can hear something next door,’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look . . .’ He pushed her head to a one-inch gap between the sliding door and the wall.

  She could feel Stick standing above her with his eye looking through the gap as well.

  A tall wiry man entered the room with something slung over his shoulder. He was dressed in black, with a hood covering the majority of his face. Strapped to his head and peeking out from beneath the hood was a small light, which threw his whole face into shadow. He let what he had over his shoulder slide down his body and flop onto the floor – it was another female body.

  Chapter Seven

  When Doctor Thompson and Nurse Dimbleby had gone, she picked up the phone, dialled “0” and ordered her last meal. The menu wasn’t that adventurous or lip-smackingly enticing, but it would have to do. She’d have preferred a delivery of a double cheeseburger with fries, onion rings, dips and a banana milk shake. Instead, she said to the chef: ‘Breaded chicken, cauliflower cheese and new potatoes with a couple of slices of white bread.’

  ‘Bread?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Not at all. And for dessert?’

  ‘No, I don’t want bread for dessert. I’ll have the ice cream – strawberry, three scoops.’

  ‘Certainly, Miss Gibbs.’

  She put the phone down and grabbed the laptop from her rucksack again. Now, where was she?

  After typing in her password, she found that the page had timed-out. No problem – she right-clicked and refreshed the page: ACCESS DENIED.

  Uh oh! They’d obviously found the lid of the cookie jar forced open, the cookies inside all jumbled up, a trail of crumbs lying about the worktop and slammed the lid back on again. Well, they clearly had no idea who they were dealing with. She started Medusa – her password-cracking software. It took less than a minute for the software to get her back into the BYCSC network.

  Now, where was she before she was so rudely interrupted?

  She’d been checking out patient records and found a whole list of tests performed on a Lynne Donehoo, and that she’d been the same AB blood group as her. She examined more patient records and discovered that the same medical had been carried out on every patient, which was hardly surprising she supposed. The clinic probably had standard procedures for admissions that had to be followed by the doctors and nurses. She noted also that each patient she’d looked at was an organ donor. She was an organ donor as well. She’d picked up a leaflet in a shopping mall once and thought – what the hell? If she was dead they could take whatever they wanted if it would save or improve the quality of someone else’s life – although she was getting a bit ragged round the edges now.

  There was hardly anything worthwhile on the clinic’s server, and nothing much on the hard drives of the computers attached to the network. Where was all the juicy stuff? The incriminating documents? The budgets? The minutes of meetings? The staff evaluations? The complaints and legal defences? It was too perfect – like window dressing, a facade, an illusion.

  Augustus brought her meal.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Welcome.’

  ‘You talk a lot.’

  ‘Uh!’

  She picked at half of the meal and then forgot about the rest – even the ice cream.

  She tunnelled deeper into the network and found an encrypted email. An encrypted email! In a cosmetic surgery clinic! That’s interesting, she thought. She opened up her Edgehill encryption/decryption software – the same software used by GCHQ – which incorporated Caesar shifts, frequency analysis, letter substitution, Affine shift ciphers, Vignére encryption and transposition ciphers, and then copied and pasted the email text into the dialogue box. It took half-an-hour for the text to appear in clear:

  Shote,

  I can confirm that the donor organ is healthy, that the tissue typing is compatible with the recipient’s tissue sample you sent to us, and that the blood type is AB negative. We have scheduled the transplant operation for 2330 hours on Saturday, February 6. As discussed previously, the cost for this service is £500,000. Please arrange for the funds to be transferred to our offshore account: Number: 6785CDBH679 at Shamrock.com. Also, your client should arrive at the clinic at least two hours before the scheduled operation.

  Ibrahim

  Jesus!

  Who the hell was Shote? Who was Ibrahim? Why were they foreign names? Is that what all the medical tests were for – to see if they were compatible with tissue samples taken from potential recipients? Who was providing the donor organ? Surely all the patients in the clinic couldn’t be donors – could they? Half a million pounds for an organ! That was a hell of a lot of money. Which organ? Did it fucking matter? Had she stumbled onto a black-market business in human organs? Oh God! Was she going to be an organ donor as well? Hadn’t the nurse at the consultation a month ago taken bloo
d from her? Yes, but not a tissue sample . . .

  She checked on the internet. A tissue sample was a biopsy. A biopsy from where? She hadn’t given consent for anyone to take a biopsy from her – had she? Bastards! She bet it was covered in the catch-all consent form nobody ever read. But she certainly hadn’t given consent for anyone to take one of her organs – had she?

  Is that why the door to the stairs was locked? And why a key was needed to access the lift? It was time she took a look around. Maybe she needed to talk to a few of the patients on the other wards and find out what . . .

  Augustus came in to collect her half-finished meal . . .

  Or at least that’s what she thought. Instead, she felt a sharp stab in her neck. ‘What the . . . ?’ She felt all floppy and woozy. Shit! She’d been caught with her hands in the cookie jar this time.

  Through a darkening haze she saw a man in a suit enter the room. ‘Take her down to the cellar, throw her into one of the rooms and lock the door,’ he said.

  ‘Boss,’ Augustus replied in his talkative way. He picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and headed for the corridor.

  And then everything went black.

  ***

  ‘I have to pay?’

  ‘A joining fee.’

  They were sitting at the kitchen table in front of Richards’ laptop. They’d been to Ye Olde King’s Head and had dinner, driven home and put Jack and Melody to bed. Angie was on night duty on the Intensive Care Unit at King George Hospital again. He’d taken Digby for a walk while Richards had gone for a shower and put on her Tabitha Pig onesie.

  Now, they were on the StupidCupid website.

  ‘What am I paying for?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Probably not, but lots of women are doing it, so go with the flow.’

  ‘They’ll know who I am if I use my credit card.’

  ‘That’s the idea. They’ll need to know who you are, so that they can find Mr Right for you.’