by Tim Ellis
Yours
Flynn
‘Wouldn’t you like to be an archaeologist’s assistant?’ he said.
‘I like being a DI’s assistant thank you very much. Following the clues to find a murderer is not dissimilar to hunting down lost civilisations and relics. Listen, here’s another one . . .’
They were on their way to the mortuary at King George Hospital. She’d made him drive, so that she could read the messages that she’d received on the StupidCupid dating website. What she didn’t tell him was that she was going to read each of the hundred and thirty-three messages out loud.’
‘Well, what do you think?’ she said as he pulled into a parking space in the hospital car park.
‘I’ve lost the ability to think. My brain has turned to mush.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Yes, seriously.’
‘Tell me what you thought.’
‘About which one?’
‘All of them?’
‘More to the point – what do you think of them?’
‘I’m not surprised they’re on the dating site.’
‘That doesn’t say much for you.’
‘I know.’ She let out a massive sigh. ‘I’m going to die childless and alone, aren’t I?’
‘Probably.’
‘You’re a great help.’
‘I like to sprinkle a little sunshine wherever I go.’
‘No complaints here.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Doc Riley was waiting for them. ‘Brunch?’
‘You know,’ Parish said. ‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Based on yesterday, who knows when we’re going to get time to eat again.’
They made their way up to the cafeteria. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was certainly a lot more convivial than the mortuary.
‘Whose turn is it to pay, Richards?’
‘Yours.’
‘No, that can’t be right. I’m absolutely sure I paid last time. Show me the page in your notebook.’
She took the notebook out of her jacket pocket, opened it up at the relevant page and thrust it at him. ‘Look for yourself.’
He looked and saw that Doc Riley had paid last time. ‘There’s some skulduggery going on here. I’ll pay this time – again, but I’m going to make a mental note that I did.’
‘You do that.’
He had a full English with fried bread; Richards opted for a Greek salad; and Doc Riley chose the scrambled egg on toast.
‘So, what’s the news, Doc?’
‘I can tell you that there was a man in the coffin, but it wasn’t Frank Cabot.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘No idea. I sent a DNA sample and a photograph of the corpse to the Aberdeen police, but they’re dragging their knuckles in the sand.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I keep calling, but nobody phones me back.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘No idea.’
‘Is Frank Cabot Lisa’s father?’
‘No.’
‘Any familial match with her DNA on the database?’
‘No.’
‘So we have no idea who her father is?’
‘Not unless the mother can remember some names and we carry out paternity tests.’
‘They were one-night stands apparently.’
‘Then that’s all I’ve got for you.’
He phoned Anne Pollard and passed on the information.
‘That’s not very encouraging.’
‘No.’
‘Okay, I’ll make a call to Aberdeen and ask them what’s going on. I’ll call you back soon.’
‘Okay.’
It was twenty minutes before DI Pollard called him back. They’d finished brunch and were just about to leave.
‘Hi, Anne. Anything?’
‘You’re going to Aberdeen.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We’ve booked you and Richards onto the next available flight to Aberdeen. You have an hour to get to Gatwick . . .’
‘An hour!’
‘The route planner estimates it’ll take an hour and five minutes to drive there on the M25 from King George Hospital, so you’d better use your blue light. I’ve arranged a parking space at the Airport Police Station. They’re going to rush you through and make sure you get on that flight.’ She gave him the address and post code to input into the satnav.
‘And what are we supposed to be doing in Aberdeen?’
‘You’re flying by helicopter to the Echo74 platform in the Viking Gas Field operated by Caledonian Energy and serviced from Aberdeen. That’s where Frank Cabot is supposed to have died three years ago. You’re going to find out what happened to Frank Cabot and who the man in the coffin is.’
‘Why didn’t the Aberdeen police phone Doc Riley back?’
‘There was no investigation of the man’s death. As far as they were concerned it was an accident, so they had no records of Frank Cabot. There were also no matches for the man’s DNA or Lisa’s.’
‘Okay.’
‘A Detective Sergeant Jill Butler will meet you at Aberdeen airport. She’s been told to escort you and provide you with assistance where necessary.’
‘I could have done with going home first.’
‘Buy what you need.’
‘Okay, we’re on our way.’ He ended the call and said to Doc Riley, ‘Thanks, Doc. Richards and I have to go to Scotland now.’
‘Scotland!’ Richards said. ‘I don’t want to go to Scotland.’
‘Okay, you stay here then.’
‘I don’t want to stay here either.’
‘Then you’re going to Scotland. We have to drive round the M25 on a blue light because we only have forty-five minutes to make a journey that takes over an hour.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll drive. I hardly get the chance to drive on a blue light. On the hard shoulder?’
‘If necessary.’
‘Weaving in and out like a road hog?’
‘If that’s what makes you happy.’
‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go.’ She edged out of the booth and headed for the door. ‘See you, Doc.’
‘Bye.’
He shrugged. ‘Little things amuse little minds,’ he said to Doc Riley and followed Richards out.
***
He’d called the Chief Constable and given him the good news. Although it was good news that left a dirty taste in the mouth, because of Blake’s discovery that DCI Ridge and a group of coppers under his command had gone over to the dark side. The officers were now in custody, although it was unlikely that they’d remain police officers for very long. And the undercover copper DS Harry Sidebottom had been killed in the exchange of gunfire.
The one redeeming factor was that all the officers were from the Kent Police Force and not from Essex. It was small consolation for the Chief Constable though – a dirty copper affected them all.
The drugs were on their way to the evidence warehouse under the watchful eye of CO19. He’d been in touch with Assistant Chief Constable Jason Gill at the Kent and Essex Serious Crime Directorate (SCD) and passed on the news about what had taken place. Gill had only been in the job for three months, but after this embarrassing fiasco it was unlikely he’d remain the head of the SCD for much longer.
His fieldwork was a bit rusty, and drugs wasn’t really his area of expertise, but as far as he was concerned he’d covered all the bases before passing the case over to DCI Charlie Musgrove who’d recently arrived compliments of the Chief Constable.
Now, he was sitting in his car. His plan was to go home, grab a shower and crawl into bed. Staying up all night was for the young and restless, not the old and decrepit. First though, he had to phone Jerry. Why hadn’t she called him? Had something gone wrong?
‘Please leave a message after the beep.’
He left her a message: ‘Where the hell are you this time, Mrs Kowalski?’
&nb
sp; His next call was to Bronwyn, but he was diverted to voicemail again. He left a message for her: ‘What trouble have you sucked my wife into this time, Bronwyn?’
He phoned home and Matilda picked up.
‘No, she’s not been home all night, Ray. You don’t think . . . ?’
‘I don’t think anything, Matilda. And neither should you.’
‘I’ll try, but to use your terminology – she has previous.’
‘My terminology! I don’t think I’ve ever said that. Don’t worry, you know I’ll find her.’
‘I’m not worried.’
‘You’re a terrible liar. Is everything else all right?’
‘Everything is fine here. You just find Jerry.’
He called a contact at the Met – Deputy Assistant Commissioner Honey Lister – who was in charge of Professional Standards. They went back a long way – too long, and it hadn’t ended well. He hoped she wouldn’t slam the phone down on him.
‘Raymond Kowalski! Is that really you?’
‘Hello, Honey. Or, should I call you, Ma’am?’
‘I only like to be called that in bed.’
‘Still the same old Honey.’
‘Only with you, Ray. And not so much of the “old”, thank you.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ If he hadn’t fallen in love with Jerry, he’d have married Honey.
‘My recollections are still as vivid as they used to be, but I’m sure you didn’t call to dredge up my ancient memories.’
‘No.’
‘What can I do for you, Ray?’
He told her as much as he knew, which he realised wasn’t very much when he reeled it off.
‘So, as I understand it: A young woman called Jessie Gibbs – a friend of your wife’s – went into the Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic for cosmetic surgery, but the clinic are now saying that she changed her mind and signed herself out?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But your wife doesn’t believe them?’
‘No.’
‘And with the help of two young male law students she decided to break into the clinic to take a look for herself?’
‘She sounds crazy, doesn’t she?’
‘I take that as a given if she married you, Ray.’
‘Very kind.’
‘And then her parting words to you were that she’d call you when the clinic’s security caught her and threw her out, or she was arrested for breaking and entering, which is still a serious crime in England and Wales as I understand it.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘But she hasn’t called?’
‘No. And her phone keeps diverting to voicemail.’
‘And you think something might have happened to her?’
‘She would have called. And she has previous.’
‘Just think how boring your life might have been if you’d married me instead.’
‘I’m sure life with you would have been anything but boring, Honey.’
‘Well, you’ll never know now, will you?’
‘No.’
‘I’d be well within my rights to sit back and do nothing.’
‘I know, but you won’t.’
‘No – I won’t.’ The line went quiet and he thought maybe she’d gone shopping in Harrods or something. ‘Inspector Richard Cornwall at Marylebone Police Station owes me a favour – it’ll be about an hour. I’ll call you when I know anything.’
‘Thanks, Honey.’
‘For the memories, Ray.’
The call ended.
An hour! What was he meant to do for an hour? Pace up and down? Complete a jigsaw? Paint a masterpiece? He decided that he still needed a shower and a change of clothes even if he couldn’t crawl into bed, and the nearest place to get those things was at home. How many times had he been in this same situation – worrying about Jerry? Going to her rescue? Things would have to change, and change for the better that was for sure.
He reached the end of the path that led to the industrial unit and stopped the car. An hour was no good. What then? Honey would probably relay what the clinic had said to Inspector Cornwall. Yes, they had seen a middle-aged woman with two young men, and they’d explained to her that the lady they were enquiring about – Miss Jessie Gibbs – had decided to cancel the surgery she’d booked in for and then signed herself out of the clinic. Yes, here’s the paperwork, and as you can see the fee that she paid in advance is non-refundable. No, they had not let the woman and her associates into the clinic. No, as far they were aware, the three people had not gained access to the clinic. Of course, they’d conduct a search and the police would be called if Mrs Kowalski and her two stooges were discovered on the premises. Then what would he do? He’d go up to London himself, bang on the clinic door until they let him in. He’d search the whole place – patients’ beds, the operating theatre, the cellar – everywhere.
He wouldn’t find anything. They’d had lots of time to get rid of any evidence that Jerry and her toy boys had ever been there. He phoned the Chief Constable. ‘Not more bad news, Ray?’
‘I need a chopper to fly me to London.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘It’s Jerry.’
‘Of course it is. Why doesn’t that surprise me? Not content with decimating the number of experienced coppers on the force, you now want to ruin a Chief Constable’s career and deny him his well-earned pension and retirement. Sightseeing trips over London in police helicopters is strictly forbidden and would be classified as a misappropriation of public funds.’
‘She’s in trouble again, Sir.’
‘I know you’d like to believe that the manpower and equipment belonging to Essex Police Force is available for rescue missions involving your wife at any given time, but I have some disconcerting news for you . . .’
‘You could authorise a training flight.’
‘What’s going on, Ray?’
He told the Chief Constable what he’d told Honey Lister.
‘Jerry never does anything by halves, does she? Who’s this Jessie Gibbs?’
‘You don’t want to know that, Sir.’
‘No, you’re probably right. The less I know, the less Professional Standards can torture me. CO19 are still in the air. I’ll order them to divert back to you. You do understand that you’re straining our friendship to breaking point, don’t you?’
‘I know, but what would you have me do, Sir? Wouldn’t you do the same for Lilian?’
‘The very last time, Ray.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
The call ended. He reversed back to the industrial unit, parked up and phoned Toadstone.
‘Dr . . . ?’
‘Toady, it’s me.’
‘Hello, Sir. To what . . . ?’
‘I need your help. Jerry’s gone missing again.’
‘Tell me what I can do, Sir.’
‘I’d like one of your technical whiz kids to find out what they can about the Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic on Lower Wimpole Street in Marylebone, London.’
‘That shouldn’t be any trouble.’
‘I’m not talking about what anyone could find out on the internet.’
‘Ah! You’d like a forensic examination?’
‘Yes. And I need it in half an hour.’
‘Leave it with me, Sir.’
The phone went dead.
Now he paced up and down.
***
Doc Paine and Di Heffernan arrived at the same time.
Thankfully, the press had left hot on the heels of the drugs, the dead bodies and those drug smugglers who were still alive but under arrest. They were unaware that a second crime had been camouflaged by a ten million-pound stash of cocaine. They were also unaware that DI Blake and DS Gilbert were skulking in the industrial unit. If they’d known, they might have sensed that another game was afoot. No doubt they’d cotton on soon enough, but hopefully the bodies and all the evidence would have gone by then.
Stick gave Doc Paine a
copy of the notes that he and Xena had made earlier, led her and the team of forensic officers into the industrial unit, and directed her to the murder room.
Xena took Di Heffernan to one side. ‘I’m calling a truce until you’re one hundred percent.’
‘Don’t knock yourself out on my account.’
‘You could at least say thank you.’
‘One hard-luck story and you’re anybody’s. Do your worst, Xena Blake.’
‘I’m trying to be nice here, bitch. Stick said I should try to be nicer to people, but I can see that in your case I’m wasting my time.’
‘Are we done?’
‘We’re done.’
‘Good. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of an outpouring of sympathy from you.’
‘You’d better get to fucking work then. And just so there’s no misunderstanding on your part – I withdraw the offer of a truce. It never existed, it’s in the garbage disposal of history, it’s . . .’
Di began crying again.
‘For fuck’s sake pull yourself together, Hefferbitch.’
‘Sorry.’ She wandered off towards the open door.
Stick came back out. ‘What was that about?’
‘I was trying to be nice.’
‘Is that why she’s crying?’
‘That’s the effect my niceness has on people. Now you understand why I don’t do it.’
‘You weren’t being nice you were . . .’
‘I hope you’re not implying that a Detective Inspector in Her Majesty’s Constabulary would tell porky pies?’
‘Maybe you’re confused by what’s nice and what’s not. Maybe what you think is nice is a long way from being nice. Maybe . . .’
‘Have you finished?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I was being nice because she’s recently had a bereavement, but I got it thrown back in my face.’
‘That’s not like Di.’
‘It’s exactly like Di. How well do you know her? In fact, do you know anything about her?’