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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘When you say “they” – who?’

  ‘People.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  ‘Well, I’m not an expert on dating sites.’

  ‘That’s not what you led me to believe.’

  She filled in her details and paid the joining fee of eighty-five pounds. ‘I’d better get a bargain for that price.’

  ‘You’ll be the envy of Chigwell.’

  ‘They want to know about me now.’

  ‘So tell them.’

  ‘There could be a serial killer at the other end looking for his next victim.’

  ‘Only you would think of that. Pretend, just for once, that not all men are serial killers.’

  ‘It’ll be hard.’

  ‘I know, but try anyway.’

  ‘Okay. I have to write a profile.’

  ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that.’

  ‘I bet. What did you write in your profile?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s relevant.’

  ‘Oh! Why’s that?’

  ‘I’m a man, you’re a woman.’

  ‘I’ll have to do some research.’

  ‘Research?’

  ‘I don’t want to write any old rubbish.’

  ‘I’ll be in the living room watching the football. Don’t post it onto the site until I’ve authorised it.’

  ‘Authorised it!’

  ‘You know what you’re like. You’ll do a mountain of research and still end up with a profile like a . . .’

  ‘. . . Like a what?’

  ‘Like a bag of onions. You’ll present yourself as someone who has no idea about forming a relationship.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can possibly say that. There was . . .’

  ‘Is this going to take long – the football has started?’

  She glowered at him. ‘No, you go and watch your stupid football. I’ll show you just what I know about forming a relationship.’

  ‘I look forward to reading your contribution to the literature on loving relationships.’

  ‘Huh!’

  It was a European group-stage match. Chelsea had already clawed their way out of the group and into the last sixteen, so they’d fielded a youth team, or at least that’s what it looked like. When the team sheet appeared, he hadn’t recognised one single player. There were a couple on the bench who sounded familiar, but essentially Chelsea were giving their young guns a run out – the result was irrelevant. Digby was lying next to him, and he scratched behind the dog’s ear.

  ‘Not much of a match, Digby old boy.’

  The dog stared at him and seemed to nod in agreement.

  He thought about the missing Lisa Cabot. Had she been abducted? Who was in Frank Cabot’s coffin? Was it really Frank Cabot? Or could it be someone else? Even if it was someone else, and Frank Cabot had faked his own death – why make contact with his daughter now after all this time? If it wasn’t Frank Cabot – who was calling himself her father? Could Lisa be someone else’s child? If so, how had the person found out that Lisa was his daughter? Maybe the simplest answer was that it was a paedophile, that Lisa had been groomed online and . . .

  ‘Is it half-time yet?’

  ‘It’s been half-time all the time, or at least that’s the way it seems. I think Chelsea have forgotten that the point of the game is to score goals. If it was up to me . . .’

  ‘Is this half-time analysis going to take long?’

  ‘Do you want something?’

  ‘I’ve written my profile.’

  ‘Come on Digby, let’s go and see Little Miss Perfect’s attempt at male entrapment.’ He followed Richards into the kitchen, sat down and read the profile she’d written:

  Online dating seems a bit weird to me and I can’t imagine I’ll find anyone I want to date, but I’m willing to give it a go. I have a list of the type of men I don’t want to message me. If you think you’re on that list – don’t message me. Some women try to accept the things they dislike about men – I don’t, so don’t message me. My name is Mary and I’m a Detective Constable in a Murder Team, so I come into contact with the dregs of humanity on a daily basis. If you’re one of those – don’t message me. My job means everything to me, so don’t think you can come between me and my job – you can’t. I want a strong man, but not one who thinks that strength can be measured in the physical or psychological abuse of women or children. If you’re one of those – don’t message me. In the end, I suppose I want someone who cares about me, and is willing to accept me the way I am. I’m not going to change, so don’t even think about trying to change me. If you don’t like that – don’t message me. If you’re not handsome, funny and ambitious – don’t message me.

  He laughed as if somebody had dropped a coin into the slot of The Laughing Policeman on Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Tears ran from his eyes, his sides hurt and he couldn’t catch his breath. ‘You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?’

  ‘What? There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Not if you never want a man.’

  ‘I’ve written it like it is.’

  ‘That’s not how it is. That’s how you’d like people to think it is.’ He passed her a piece of paper. ‘Delete what you’ve written and type that in:

  Hi! My name is Mary. I’m a Detective Constable who brings murderers to justice, but don’t let that put you off – unless you’re a murderer, of course. Although my friends, family and job are important to me, I’m very outgoing, passionate and I love meeting like-minded people. I’m also exceptionally caring, funny and attractive. I have a lot of energy and am very entertaining and talkative. I love to be spoiled, am a romantic at heart and can’t wait to be swept off my feet. Message me.

  She hugged him. ‘I love the way you tell lies about me.’

  ‘That’s the truth. What you’ve written about yourself is the lie. The man you fall in love with will be the luckiest man alive.’

  ‘What about you and mum?’

  ‘All right, he’ll be the second luckiest man alive. Most men are just like me. They’re regular people – not serial killers, abusers, or paedophiles.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She typed in her new profile and posted it to the site. ‘Look!’ she said, pointing to the screen. ‘There are three serial killers eyeing up my profile already.’

  He grinned. ‘You might be a lost cause, Richards.’

  ***

  Stick tried to stand up, but Xena pushed him back down and put her hand over his mouth.

  The killer in the murder room stood still for a handful of minutes staring at his handiwork on the floor, and then the torchlight on his head darted towards the crack between the sliding door and the wall.

  Xena closed her eye so that the pupil wouldn’t reflect the light, and she hoped Stick was doing the same. The last thing they needed was to confront the killer. There were only the two of them and she’d seen what she thought was a large knife at his waist glinting in the light. They had nothing with which to defend themselves, and they’d be no help to the dead women if they were also murdered.

  Eventually, the man turned, left the room and shut the door.

  Stick removed her hand from his mouth. ‘We should . . .’

  ‘What? Get ourselves killed?’

  ‘There’s two of us.’

  ‘You’re a wimp and I’m a woman. Also, he had a knife.’

  ‘We could have . . .’

  ‘No we couldn’t.’

  ‘Another woman will probably die before we catch him.’

  ‘If we’d have tried to arrest him, he would have killed us. We’d be lying on the floor in that room as well, and he would have carried on killing women. Their only chance for justice is if we escape and raise the alarm. We’re doing the best we can under the circumstances.’

  ‘I feel . . .’

  ‘Well don’t. Right, let’s get out of here and do what we do best.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Catch murderers.’

  ‘Oh
yeah!’ He opened the sliding door again, squeezed through the gap and made his way round the wall to the door. ‘Uh oh!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Stick.’

  ‘It’s not my fault.’

  ‘It feels like it is.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, “What now?”. You tell me what now?’

  ‘I’m only a DS.’

  ‘A DS with a brain.’

  ‘You’ve not said that before.’

  ‘Well, I’m saying it now.’

  She heard a thud.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I tried to shoulder the door open.’

  ‘It didn’t work, did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’ve hurt your shoulder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a brainless numpty. Come back here.’

  He shuffled round the room and eased himself through the gap. ‘Have you got an idea?’

  ‘We need a lever to get the door open. Do you recall if there’s anything that could be used on the sliding door?’

  ‘I see where you’re going,’ Stick said. ‘You’d better move to the other side of the room.’

  She did as he said. ‘Okay.’

  There were tearing, ripping and grunting sounds.

  ‘That should do it.’

  Xena pulled a face in the darkness. ‘That should do what?’

  ‘I’ve ripped the sliding door off its runners. I should be able to . . . Yep! Got a piece of metal here . . .’ There was some knocking, banging and scraping sounds. ‘There, that’ll do.’

  ‘You know you don’t have to go next door, don’t you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The doors are the same. That one was open, but it’s not anymore, so you may as well try and force this one open.’

  ‘Oh yeah! Do you want to hold the handle down while I try to force open the door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘But I don’t want to be accused of not doing my bit, so I will, but only because it’s you.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  Between them they managed to get the door open. As Stick pushed the piece of metal he’d acquired between the door and the jamb, Xena pushed the door with her shoulder. Eventually, the weight and pressure on the locking mechanism was too much, it buckled and the door burst open.

  ‘At last,’ Xena said as she stumbled into the main room of the industrial unit.

  Stick fell backwards on his arse into the room.

  ‘You can thank me later,’ she said to him.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right, let’s get the fuck out of here and find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  It was still pitch black, but they could see shadows and make out shapes.

  ‘Make your way over to the main doors,’ Xena said. ‘Find the light switches. I’m fed up of stumbling about in the dark.’

  ‘Will do . . . Ow!’

  ‘And try to avoid that large stack of drugs.’

  She waited. ‘Are you there yet?’

  The main lights came on. ‘Yes.’

  ‘About time.’ She strode over to where Stick was standing staring at the stacks of drugs on the floor in the middle of the unit. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘You can understand why they do it.’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Supply and demand.’

  ‘That’s your contribution to the peculiarities of human nature, is it?’

  ‘I like to do my bit.’

  ‘And it was a bit. Get the door open and stop waffling, numpty.’

  Stick pulled the chain down on the vehicle roller door. Clattering and crunching ripped through the silence as the metal shutter inched upwards and the chain turned the cogs.

  ‘Do you have to make so much fucking noise?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He stopped pulling on the chain when there was enough room for them to crawl under.

  Outside, they stood up and looked around.

  ‘Now what?’ Stick said.

  ‘Will you stop asking me that?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We could go to the farmhouse and use the phone.’

  ‘Who do you think lives in the farmhouse?’

  ‘People?’

  ‘And do you think those people know what’s stored in their industrial unit?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘We could go back to the car?’

  ‘In the dark across two fields?’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘Is there a phone in the unit?’

  ‘I didn’t see one.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘Should I take a look?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  She waited while Stick crawled back under the shutter. She couldn’t wrap her head round the fact that nobody had come to check on them, free them, or anything. She and Stick were meant to be part of a team – where were the rest of the fucking team? The drug smugglers had gone home to their wives and pit bull terriers for the night, so why hadn’t the other coppers on the stake-out come to find out what had happened to them? Where was DCI Ridge? And what had happened to the undercover cop – Harry? None of it made any sense. Unless . . .

  Stick reappeared.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No phone, but guess what I found.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not really in the mood for guessing games.’

  Her mobile was lying in the palm of his hand. ‘There was another room. It could have been turned into an office. There was a phone in there, but it didn’t have a dialling tone. The phones, keys and my wallet had been thrown in a corner.

  ‘Well done, Stick.’ She turned on her phone and dialled a number.

  ‘Are you calling DCI Ridge?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘How was your day, darling?’ Jerry asked as she put a full bowl of salad in the centre of the table. Her mum had prepared the lasagne and garlic bread, and then she and dad had taken the children to Pizza Hut to give her and Ray some quality time alone.

  Ray’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘It was okay. What makes you ask?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘You’re not normally interested.’

  ‘I’ve always been interested in your work.’ She put warm plates in the settings and then brought the dish of piping hot lasagne.

  ‘Oh, you certainly used to be interested in my work, but that was before you decided to join the enemy and become a barrister. Now, you’re only interested in how you can manipulate me to get what you want.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘Are you involved in the search for the missing child – Lisa Cabot?’

  ‘I’m in charge of a Murder Team not Missing Persons. As far as I’m aware, Lisa Cabot is still alive. Parish and Richards are helping with the search though.’

  ‘No murders?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘What about DI Blake and her partner – DS Gilbert?’

  ‘They’ve been seconded to Kent and Essex Serious Crime Directorate to help with a drugs operation. You’re not writing an article for the Law Review, are you?’

  She laughed. ‘I have enough trouble writing my essays without taking on more literary work.’

  ‘So, now that we’ve got the foreplay out of the way, what do you want?’

  ‘Do you know anything about the Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic on the corner of Lower Wimpole Street and Henrietta Plaza in London?’

  ‘Why would I? You do recall I work in Hoddesdon not London, don’t you? Well?’

  ‘I think Bronwyn might be in trouble.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘We went to visit . . .�
�

  ‘We?’

  ‘Shakin’ and Joe went with me.’

  ‘Your two toy boys?’

  ‘You know very well they’re just fellow students.’

  ‘Who have the hots for you?’

  ‘Which is not reciprocated.’

  ‘And it had better stay that way.’

  ‘They’re just two nice boys full of raging hormones. I’m sure you remember those days, Ray?’

  ‘That’s what worries me. So, you went to visit Bronwyn at a cosmetic surgery clinic in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s there because . . . ?’

  ‘. . . Of the gunshot wound.’

  ‘Getting it tidied up?’

  ‘She’s a woman, Ray.’

  ‘I had noticed. A bit strange, but nice enough I suppose. If she’s there for some corrective plastic surgery, what’s the problem?’

  ‘The door to the stairs was locked.’

  ‘I can understand how that might make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up like porcupine quills.’

  ‘And you couldn’t use the lift unless you had a key.’

  ‘How can they justify that?’

  ‘And she was the only patient on the ground floor.’

  ‘That must be terrible for her.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘Well, what do want me to say?’

  ‘I just have a feeling, Ray.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll call the Police Commissioner and tell him that my wife has had a feeling and he should send a SWAT team over there right now.’

  ‘Now you’re being facetious.’

  His mobile rang. ‘Kowalski? . . . What do you want, Blake? . . . I’ll call DCI Ridge and . . . Don’t be ridiculous . . . So what do you expect me to do? . . . I’m eating my evening meal here . . . Four dead bodies? . . . Okay, I’m on my way, but if this is another one of your . . . Fish and Chips! . . . Ginger beer! . . . You’ve got a nerve, Blake. I should just sack you now and get it over with.’

  He ended the call and stood up. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I thought DI Blake was seconded to . . . ?’

  ‘So did I, but apparently she and Gilbert have found some dead female bodies. What they’re doing finding dead bodies when they’re meant to be on a drugs operation I have no idea, but I’d better go and find out.’