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

by Tim Ellis

‘Well . . .’

  ‘I thought so. All this time we’ve been allowing her to examine our crime scenes when she could really be a serial killer’s assistant.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. The police force carry out vetting . . .’

  ‘But you don’t know, do you? You don’t know for sure. Maybe we need to carry out our own vetting of Di Hefferbitch.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

  ‘You’re no fun today. What did Doc Paine say?’

  ‘Hello . . . Oh, and she thanked me for the notes.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do we know about her?’

  ‘She’s one of the forensic pathologists at King George Hospital.’

  ‘So she says, but what if . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t start that again.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘I should tie you up when you’re bored.’

  ‘You’re a pervert.’

  Doc Paine appeared.

  ‘At last,’ Xena said. ‘We were starting to take root out here. Well, was I right? Or was I right?’

  ‘You were right. It looks as though each of the four victims was severely beaten prior to being raped and strangled, but you missed something.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘And yet it’s true.’

  Xena turned to Stick. ‘See what I mean. Maybe she has her own agenda. Or, maybe . . .’

  ‘Take no notice, Doc. It’s been a long night, and she’s getting trigger happy. So, what did we miss?’

  ‘Bite marks on the breasts.’

  ‘It was dark in there,’ Xena said in their defence.

  ‘Obviously, I’ll know more following the post mortems, which I’ll conduct over the next two days, but if you catch this maniac then his teeth will convict him.’

  ‘That’s good news, isn’t it Stickamundo?’

  His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Is it?’

  ‘My point exactly? Is it? I mean, don’t think we aren’t grateful for your excellent work thus far, Doc. Certainly, convicting him will be a weight off our shoulders – that’s for sure. But what have you found that might help us catch the maniac – as you so quaintly put it – in the first place?’

  ‘Don’t think you can wind me up like you do Di Heffernan, Xena Blake – I’m made of sterner stuff.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes – that’s right.’

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of your working practices, I’d like the post mortems done today.’

  ‘Four post mortems in a day is not possible. And not only that, today is nearly half gone already. Come and see me at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon and I’ll provide you with a verbal summary prior to sending you the written report.’

  ‘No wonder the National Health Service is on its knees.’

  ‘I’m wholly to blame.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘What about facial photographs, Doc?’ Stick said. ‘We could begin work with those who have been reported missing. Also, I think we might have some luck identifying the victims by releasing photographs of the jewellery. Some of it is fairly distinctive – like the gold butterfly ankle chain with diamonds; the nipple ring in the shape of a salamander,; and the heart-shaped pendent with the name “PAUL” engraved on it.’

  ‘I’ll email the photographs to you this afternoon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Xena said, ‘Do you think you’ll be able to tell us whether they were prostitutes or not?’

  ‘I should be able to give you an idea. There are usually physical signs relating to prostitution such as genital warts, rashes, tears to the vulva or anal sphincter. There might also be evidence of a shaved or bejewelled vaginal region, vaginal and/or anal bleaching and handcuff bruises around the wrists. They might also have a “Tramp Stamp”?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s a tattoo of wings on the lower back just above the buttocks. It’s how a prostitute advertises to passing cars that she’s a working girl.’

  ‘And you know this because you have one yourself?’

  ‘Do you want to see it?’

  ‘Ladies!’ Stick said, stepping between them. ‘I’m sure you both have better things to do.’

  ‘Not me,’ Xena said.

  Stick stared at her. ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘I know I do,’ Doc Paine said, and wandered off in the direction of the industrial unit again.

  ‘All right,’ Xena said. ‘I suppose we’d better go back to the car. You can drive me home and wait while I have a soak in the bath and then change my clothes.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you want to get in the bath with me and scrub my back?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘You’re a pervert.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Richards grinned as she skidded to a stop in the Gatwick Police Station car park. ‘I might take up Formula One racing,’ she said. ‘Do you know how many female F1 drivers there are?’

  His knuckles were porcelain white, he thought he’d probably had at least several heart attacks, and the brunch that he’d had earlier was bobbing up and down in his stomach as if it had an important appointment elsewhere.

  ‘If your driving is anything to go by – none?’

  ‘None is right – and it has nothing to do with my driving either, which I’ll have you know is pretty damned good even if I do say so myself. It’s those male chauvinist . . .’

  ‘There was the fox . . .’

  ‘I knew you’d bring that up. I’m sure you recall that he was being chased by a pack of demented bloodhounds. If it hadn’t been for me they’d have got him for sure. In the end, he escaped with minor cuts and bruises, so you could say that I actually saved his life.’

  ‘He’ll no doubt suffer post-traumatic stress disorder for some time to come. And what about the old woman crossing . . . ?’

  ‘Can you believe that? Pedestrians shouldn’t cross until the orange light changes to green.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Change to green. They stay orange. A driver is meant to give way at a zebra crossing with flashing Belisha beacons.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘The Minister of Transport.’

  ‘He doesn’t know what he’s . . .’

  There was a knock on the passenger door window.

  Parish pressed the “down” button. ‘Yes?’ he said through the gap.

  A uniformed officer smiled and said, ‘Inspector Parish?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘The Captain of the plane is waiting.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For you to board.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He turned to Richards. ‘Come on then – let’s go. Our executive jet is taxiing on the runway.’

  They locked the car, followed the officer through to the back of the police station – which meant they were beyond the perimeter fence and inside the airport – and climbed into a police car.

  ‘I’m taking you directly to the plane that’s sitting on the tarmac,’ the officer said and switched on the flashing lights.

  ‘Oh!’ Richards said, and her face dropped.

  Parish turned to stare at her. ‘What?’

  ‘I was hoping to get some duty free.’

  ‘There’s no duty free on an internal flight.’

  ‘Internal flight! What do you mean – Scotland is another country, isn’t it?’

  ‘They’d certainly like to think so, but no – it’s still part of the UK for now anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well, now you do.’

  The car came to a stop at the bottom of the boarding steps. They thanked the police officer, scrambled out of the car and began climbing up towards the open plane door.

  ‘And leave the flight attendant alone this time,’ Parish warned her. />
  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Do they have first class?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We should be entitled to first class.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  There was a smiling flight attendant at the top of the steps, just inside the plane. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Not too long, I hope,’ Parish said.

  ‘No, a couple of minutes only.’

  As they walked onto the plane, the steps were driven away and the door was secured. The flight attendant showed them to two seats half-way along the plane.

  ‘Do you want to sit next to the window?’ he said to Richards.

  ‘Does it open?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No. You sit there.’

  ‘I see.’

  There were two attractive women in the seats on either side of the aisle who appeared to flutter their eyelashes at him.

  The woman at the end of their row of seats moved out so that he and Richards could shuffle in.

  Richards gave each of the women a dirty look, and sat between him and them like a grizzly bear guarding its cub.

  ‘Buckle up,’ he said.

  ‘Buckle up yourself.’

  ‘I can see this is going to be a long flight.’

  ‘Not if you keep looking out of the window it won’t be.’

  Coffee and croissants arrived.

  Richards leaned over and whispered, ‘They’re lesbians.’

  ‘Maybe we ought to swap seats?’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was just a thought. Have you had any more messages?’

  ‘Fifty-three. I’m saving them until later.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll get lucky.’

  ‘I’m not holding my breath.’

  ‘That’s probably a good idea under the circumstances.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find her?’

  Parish shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s been thirty-six hours now. I think it all depends on who took her.’

  ‘You mean her father?’

  ‘Yes. We now know that Frank Cabot is not her father, which means that her real father is out there somewhere. Where has he been for the past eight years? How did he found out he was Lisa’s father? And why has he decided to contact her now? Those are all questions that need answers. One assumes that if her father did abduct her then he’s unlikely to harm her.’

  ‘But it might not be her father.’

  ‘I know. And if that’s the case . . .’

  ‘. . . We’re unlikely to find her alive?’

  ‘Let’s not give up hope just yet.’

  ‘That was worrying about Lisa knowing how to hide her online tracks.’

  ‘Yes. But there might be a simple explanation.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Maybe her father is an IT consultant.’

  Richards screwed up her face. ‘How likely is that?’

  ‘One of these days your face will stay like that.’

  ‘Yours already has.’

  They landed at Aberdeen Airport at twelve-thirty, walked empty-handed straight through Baggage Reclaim and into Arrivals where a middle-aged woman with thinning hair, pasty skin and bags under her eyes gripped a piece of cardboard with JETHRO PARISH written on it in green.

  He smiled. ‘It’d Jed Parish,’ he said to her. ‘And this is DC Mary Richards.’

  ‘Sorry. It was a crackly line. I could hardly hear the person on the other end.’ She held out her hand. ‘DS Jill Butler. I’m your tour guide.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Hardly – orders. No baggage?’

  ‘No time.’

  Butler checked her watch. ‘It’s a five minute drive to the heliport at Dyce, so you’ve got thirty-five minutes to buy what you need. The shops are on the concourse upstairs. They have an outdoor clothing shop up there. My advice to you is to buy some thermal clothes and an arctic jacket – it’s pretty cold on the oil rigs. Follow me.’

  They followed her through the airport to an escalator that led to departures and a vast array of shops. She parked herself at a table outside a cafe on the concourse. ‘I’ll wait here for you. Don’t be late – the chopper won’t wait for us. If we miss it, we’ll have to hang about until tomorrow afternoon for another flight.’

  ‘Okay – thanks.’ As they walked towards the shops he said to Richards, ‘Make sure you keep the receipts. And remember – your underwear should be thermal not sexy.’

  ‘Huh!’

  After he’d finished buying the little he needed, and while he was waiting for Richards, he sat on a wall surrounding a water feature and phoned DI Pollard.

  ‘We’re in Aberdeen and are about to board the helicopter and fly out to the oil rig – how are things with you?’

  ‘It’s like ten-pin bowling.’

  ‘That bad huh?’

  ‘To continue the analogy: Every bowling ball we’ve hurled down the lane has slid into the gutter. Inspector Toby Munro, who was in charge of the wider search areas found nothing of any note; I was hoping that Inspector Paul Lancaster, who was examining the CCTV footage would come back with the bacon, but every little piglet he chased down was bereft of pork; Maureen Threadneedle hauled in every registered sex offender and paedophile within Essex, and you know what she’s like . . . ?’

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘Not one of them knew anything about Lisa Cabot even though DI Threadneedle threatened them with chemical – and in some cases – physical castration. She’s been warned by DCI Pike that brandishing a carving knife when interviewing innocent paedophiles is hardly appropriate behaviour for a senior police officer. Inspector Charlie Mathews has come back empty-handed from the house-to-house questioning and searches. It’s beginning to look like we might have to ask Lisa’s mother to make a television appeal and then run a reconstruction. I also thought we were getting somewhere with the online grooming, but DI Kani Chaudhri tells me that Pete Wharton and the geniuses at CEOPs have been chasing shadows. So . . .’

  ‘. . . Richards and I are all you’ve got left?’

  ‘You two and the Grim Reaper by the name of DCI Olivia Hooker.’

  ‘She’ll replace you if Richards and I don’t hit black gold?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No pressure then.’

  The line went dead.

  Anne Pollard – and Lisa Cabot for that matter – seemed to have a lot riding on their visit to the oil rig, but he wasn’t holding out much hope at all. He wanted to be optimistic, but it had been three years since Frank Cabot’s accident, or whoever the person was who had been sent back in the coffin to his wife. Apparently, there were only seven people still working on the rig who were there at the time of the accident. No, optimism wasn’t a word he would have used.

  ***

  She felt like shit.

  It was pitch black, noisy and she was being shaken about like a dry martini. Where the hell was she? The last thing she remembered was a long fucking needle being pushed into her neck. If she ever got out of this in one piece, she’d never have another injection as long as she lived.

  Where were the others? She wanted to call out, but there was tape over her mouth. When she tried to reach up to remove the tape she realised that her wrists were secured behind her back.

  It sounded and felt like they were in a moving vehicle. They’d obviously been moved out of the clinic. Now, nobody knew where the hell they were. Were the others with her? She stretched out her legs and felt around with her feet, which were also taped together. Yes, there was at least one other person in here with her. Was it Jerry? And what about the two weirdoes?

  First though, she had to get out of the plastic bag they’d put her in. What was it? She felt what appeared to be a zipper with her nose. Had they put them in body bags? If they were moving them out of the clinic, it seemed li
kely they’d disguise what they were doing. And what better way than passing off live bodies as dead bodies?

  It took her an age, or what seemed like it, to contort herself into a position where she could use a finger to open a hole and slide down the zip. One thing she quickly realised was that it wasn’t a double-sided zip – what would be the point?

  Once she was out of the body bag she began snaking across the floor – it was rough on her skin because she was still only wearing the hospital gown. There was a slight echo when her knee knocked the floor. It sounded to her as if they were in a storage container. Where were they being taken? A container park where they’d be left to die? By ship to another country? Or, would this lorry take them to Dover, by ferry to Calais and then through a dozen countries to the Middle East where they’d be sold as sex slaves? She’d seen women and children being sold on the Dark Web, so she knew it happened, and she also knew how easy it was to become one of the people who simply disappeared.

  ‘Uh!’ someone uttered.

  ‘Uh!’ she replied. She slinked over to the sound, undid the zipper, found the person’s face and struggled to remove the tape covering the mouth.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Shakin’ said.

  ‘Uh!’

  ‘Yeah, all right. Do my wrists as well.’

  She slithered downwards until she found his wrists and began picking at the tape to try and free it. Eventually, a bit came away and she was able to pull the tape off.’

  ‘Great.’ A hand began feeling up her body, squeezed a breast . . . ‘Oops, sorry.’ And then found her face and ripped off the tape.

  ‘You did that on purpose. You’re a dead man.’

  ‘You don’t mean that?’

  ‘I do two fucking hundred percent mean it.’

  ‘Oh well, if you’re going to kill me there doesn’t to be much point in removing the tape from your wrists.’

  ‘All right, maybe I’ll just cut off your nuts.’

  ‘That isn’t encouraging me to release you either. Now, if you were to promise me sex twice a week for a year . . . Well, I might see my way clear to taking off the tape.’

  ‘Now I’m going to kill you again. As soon as you set Jerry free she’ll release me, and then . . .’

  ‘Uh!’

  ‘That’s Jerry. So, what are going to do now, loser?’