by Tim Ellis
Marielle Arkell
97 Colehill Lane
London
SW6 5EG
DOB: 11/01/2000
Reported Missing: 19/01/2014
Jean Wells
116 Solent Road
Portsmouth
DOB: 11/01/2000
Reported Missing: 17/12/2012
Shirley Reid
8 Third Avenue
Bath
DOB: 11/01/2000
Reported Missing: 02/03/2013
Elizabeth Vincent
19A Carlton Terrace
Swansea
DOB: 11/01/2000
Reported Missing: 23/11/2013
Paula Scott
58 Whitchurch Close
Warrington
DOB: 11/01/2000
Reported Missing: 27/05/2014
Lolita Murray
23 Lister Street
Hartlepool
DOB: 11/01/2000
Reported Missing: 10/08/2013
‘Fuck! Are you telling us they’re all related, Constable?’
‘It’s not my place to tell you anything, Ma’am.’
‘That’s true.’
Stick chipped in. ‘It can’t be a coincidence they were all born on the same date.’
‘That’s also true,’ Xena agreed. ‘But how is it possible that a woman could give birth to sextuplets and . . . and what? Not notice they were missing? Sell them on eBay? There must have been a husband, grandparents, doctors other people hanging around – what happened to them? Six babies going missing from one family would have raised a few eyebrows. Why hasn’t it been in the papers? On the television? Why isn’t there a Facebook page? Why isn’t it trending on Twitter?’
‘Maybe it was all legal and social workers took the children away from the family,’ Stick suggested.
‘And then split them up? Sent them all over the country to be adopted? Talk sense, Stick. Not only that, the media would have got hold of it and raised a hue and cry.’
‘Well, surely there can’t be that many sextuplets born in the UK each year.’
‘That’s a more sensible comment.’ She looked at Grammatke. ‘I know you work for that bitch Inspector Maureen Threadneedle, but is that something I can ask you to follow up on, Constable?’
‘You won’t tell her I did it?’
‘Our lips are sealed, aren’t they Stick?’
‘Glued with superglue.’
‘All right, I’ll check for you, Ma’am.’
‘Excellent.’
Constable Grammatke left.
‘You were unusually nice to her.’
‘I’m turning over a new leaf.’
Stick made an involuntary sound with his lips.
‘Did you say something?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘It’s a bit strange that all six children ran away from home and four of them were then abducted, beaten, raped and murdered by a serial killer.’
‘A bit strange! I’d say that was a lot strange. I think there’s more to this story than what we’ve got here. What are the odds of a serial killer picking four victims at random who are biologically related unless he knew they were all sisters?’
Stick rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Mmmm!’
‘Not only that, there are still two of the girls out there.’
‘He’s not finished, is he?’
‘Not by any stretch of the imagination.’ Xena screwed up her face. ‘We need to find those two girls and find them fast.’
‘But which two? He’s killed four of them, but which four? Which are the two who are left?’
Xena pursed her lips. ‘I see what you’re saying.’
‘Because they’re all over the country, where do the two who are still alive live?’
‘We’ll have to run a media campaign and notify all police forces to be on the lookout for them.’
‘He’ll go underground,’ Stick said.
‘We’ll have to take that risk. We couldn’t use the remaining two girls as bait anyway, because we have no idea which two they are, or where they are.’
Stick’s phone vibrated on the table.
‘DS Gilbert?’
‘Uh huh! . . . None? Okay, thank Jodi.’
‘What?’
‘Sextuplets occur naturally in one out of 4.5 million pregnancies, but fertility treatment has led to a rise in multiple births.’
‘You sound like the talking clock. What about the sextuplets?’
‘None.’
‘None? If you want something doing right . . .’
‘There were sextuplets born in Northern Ireland in 2009 – four girls and two boys. None since. The last sextuplets born in the UK prior to that were born thirty-two years ago.’
‘That can’t be right. What about the rise in multiple births?’
‘Smaller numbers, but not sextuplets. Apparently, they’re very rare, usually born prematurely and all six don’t usually survive.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Where the hell did these six girls come from then?’
***
‘Nice jacket,’ he said to Richards as they followed DS Jill Butler out of Aberdeen Airport..
‘Thanks. Yours isn’t too shoddy either.’
‘You could set up house in that.’
‘And I might just do that as well.’
‘What else did you buy?’ he said, nodding at the shopping bags she was carrying.
‘Things.’
‘Let’s see then.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I hope you haven’t bought a pair of those . . .’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
They reached DS Butler’s rusty red and silver Suzuki Vitara and climbed inside. ‘I don’t bother locking it. I keep hoping someone will take it and set fire to it, so that I can get a newer one with the insurance payout.’
As Butler had said, it took her five minutes to drive the short distance to the Dyce heliport where she parked next to a red, white and dark-grey hangar with BRISTOW on the side. ‘It’s a hundred and twenty-four miles from here to the Echo74 platform and will take us about three hours to get there.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘Looks like we’re going to be sleeping on the oilrig tonight, doesn’t it?’ Richards aimed at Parish.
‘I can’t see that we’d have had time to question the people we need to question and then fly back to Aberdeen.’
‘I’ll be sleeping with all those men?’
‘I don’t think you’ll be sleeping with all of them – maybe one or two. I expect it’ll be a bit like a submarine with bunk beds and not much space. You’ll probably have to share a room with a couple of hairy drillers.’
‘Do you think?’
‘Seems logical. Although they might consider women on oilrigs to be bad luck.’
‘As if.’
‘You can scoff, but according to superstition women on board a ship would anger the sea gods, bringing on horrible weather and rough water. Some women were even tossed overboard to appease the gods.’
‘An oilrig isn’t a ship.’
‘Not far off.’
‘And there are no such things as sea gods.’
‘Says you. But superstition is superstition. If I were you, I’d wear a life jacket at all times.’
Butler said over her shoulder, ‘Take no notice of him, Mary. I checked. There are three women working on the oilrig already, so we won’t have to bunk in with the men, or get thrown overboard.’
They climbed out of the Vitara.
DS Butler grabbed a holdall out of the boot.
‘Are you staying on the oilrig as well?’
‘Sure,’ she said, heading towards the hangar. ‘You don’t think I’d abandon you in your hour of need, do you? Having said that, I don’t think I’ll get as much attention as you. I’m frumpy, losing my hair and have two teenage daughters that nightmares are made of. You, on the other hand, are just what they’d like for their after-hour
s entertainment.’
‘Yeah well, what they’d like and what they get are two very different things, because I’m nobody’s after-hours entertainment.’
Parish grunted. ‘Isn’t that the problem?’
‘What’s that?’ Butler asked.
‘I’m having trouble finding Mr Right,’ Richards said.
‘I know that feeling all too well. I’m a single mum, have been for five years now. Most men are not worth scraping off the bottom of your shoe.’
Richards grinned. ‘I’ll agree with that.’
‘Oh, they like the sex all right, but when it comes to any kind of responsibility or commitment . . .’ She blew a raspberry. ‘I’d rather have a dog.’
‘Have you got a dog?’ Parish asked her.
‘Rescue greyhound – sleeps with me every night and doesn’t steal the quilt. She’s called Fizz.’
‘I’ve got a Schnauzer called Digby.’
‘What about you, Mary?’
‘I live with him,’ she said, pointing to Parish. ‘He’s married to my mum, and out of the kindness of my heart I let him adopt me.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. It just goes to show what they say about family life: It’s a bit like a runny peach pie . . . not perfect, but who’s complaining.’
Richards laughed. ‘That’s true. ’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I resemble a runny peach pie,’ Parish said.
‘Runny peach pies are nice – you’re not.’
‘I see.’
Jill Butler showed her Warrant Card to a man in the hangar with a straggly grey beard and a fisherman’s hat. ‘Three passengers for the Echo74 platform.’
The man directed them outside towards a red, white and blue Puma helicopter that had its passenger door open and a set of three metal steps hanging down.
Even though the rotors were lying idle, they bent over as they hurried across the tarmac.
It was slightly crowded with at least another ten passengers inside. They found three empty seats and settled down for the long journey.
‘I’m going to sleep,’ Richards said. ‘Don’t wake me up.’
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘When you say, “Don’t wake me up,” are there any situations you can envisage where you’d like me to wake you up?’
‘I can’t think of any.’
‘So, if the helicopter begins to plummet into the sea . . .’
‘Why would it do that?’
‘Human error, engine failure, the pilot having a heart attack, a terrorist firing a surface-to-air missile and destroying the engine, the electro-magnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion that wipes out the electronics, an asteroid . . .’
‘Are any of those likely to happen?’
‘It depends on how you define “likely”.’
‘No, don’t wake me up.’
‘Have a good sleep then.’
***
He ran past Marble Arch tube station, down Oxford Street, up Marylebone Lane and hung a right at Henrietta Plaza to Lower Wimpole Street where he banged on the door of the Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic.
‘Yes, Sir?’ a whiny female voice emanated from the speaker in the door intercom system.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station.’ He held up his Warrant Card to the CCTV camera above and to the left of the door. ‘I’d like to speak to the person in charge.’
‘Well, that would be me at the moment.’
‘Where’s Dr Mark Thompson?’
‘I’m afraid he’s unavailable.’
‘Dr Ibrahim Drago?’
‘There’s no one here by that name, Chief Inspector.’
‘Open the door, please.’
‘Do you have a Search Warrant?’
‘If you don’t open the door I’m going to smash it down.’
It was silent for a handful of seconds and then the door clicked open.
He ran up the three steps and into reception. An old nurse with a double chin, a uniform that appeared to be at least two sizes too small for her lumpy body and bright red lipstick was standing behind the desk looking like a bulldog straining at the leash. ‘What is it you want, Chief Inspector?’
He glanced at the woman’s name badge. ‘I’d like to know where my wife is, Nurse Dimbleby?’
Just then, two tall bulky men appeared and stood behind Nurse Dimbleby with crossed arms. They were dressed all in black – trousers, t-shirt, jacket and boots – looking like members of the Special Forces ready for a covert mission.
‘Two of our security staff are here to ensure you don’t break any doors down, Chief Inspector,’ Nurse Dimbleby said. ‘Now, if you were to come back with a Search Warrant . . .’
He looked at the two men and thought he could more than likely take both of them, but probably wouldn’t be much use to Jerry afterwards. ‘My wife and two companions came here last night looking for a female patient called Bron . . . Jessie Gibbs.’
‘Ah yes, I recall the young lady . . .’
‘And don’t tell me that Miss Gibbs signed herself out, and my wife and her two companions left of their own free will.’
‘That’s exactly what did happen. I don’t understand why you would believe otherwise.’
‘Because I know that my wife entered the clinic illegally after you turned her away. Since then, she appears to have disappeared and I’ve been unable to contact her on her mobile phone.’
‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I don’t know what else to tell you.’
‘And you’ve never heard of Dr Ibrahim Drago?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Even though he’s the main shareholder of the clinic?’
‘I’m afraid that the shareholders and I move in entirely different circles.’
There wasn’t much more he could say or do. Nurse Dimbleby was stonewalling him. There was no way that he’d get a Search Warrant. If he attempted to, he’d have to reveal that Jerry had broken into the clinic illegally, which would derail her degree. Also, they’d want to know how he’d obtained his information.
‘You can tell Dr Thompson and Dr Drago that this isn’t over. If I don’t find my wife and her companions – I’ll be back.’
Nurse Dimbleby’s face remained inscrutable.
Just then, a tall uniformed officer with a bushy moustache walked in through the front door.
‘You must be Inspector Richard Cornwall from Marylebone Police Station?’ he said to the officer.
‘Yes. And who are you?’
He produced his Warrant Card. ‘I’m DCI Ray Kowalski. Thanks for coming all this way, but there’s nothing we can do here. Tell ACC Lister I was never any good at waiting – she’ll understand.’
Cornwall looked confused. ‘Will do, Sir.’
He turned on his heel and made his way out of the clinic. As he stepped on the pavement of Henrietta Plaza his mobile vibrated. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Dr . . .’
‘What is it, Toady?’ He began walking back the way he’d come, the frustration and anger he felt squirming like a twisted parasite in his gut.
‘We think we might have found something on the CCTV footage, Sir.’
‘Go on?’
‘There’s a side door on Lower Wimpole Street. The clinic doesn’t normally take emergencies, but if they’re required to then the patients are delivered there. Also, patients sometimes die in the clinic – for whatever reason – and because they don’t have a mortuary themselves the bodies are removed from the premises through the side door, which is away from prying eyes. Obviously, they don’t want people to know . . .’
‘Is this going somewhere, Toady?’
‘Sorry, Sir. Earlier this morning a white container truck with a dark orange container arrived and it looked as though five body bags were moved out of the clinic and into the back of the container.’
‘Five body bags? That’s a lot of bodies, Toady.’
‘I know, Sir. But it doesn’t necessarily mean the people
inside them are dead.’
‘Why five? We’re only looking for four.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay, so five body bags were put into the back of the container – then what?’
‘It drove away.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Oh! I see what you mean. No, that’s not it. We tracked the truck by satellite to its destination . . .’
‘By satellite? I didn’t know we had a satellite at our disposal, Toady.’
‘We’re breaking every rule in the book here, Sir. We hacked into the satellite receiving station at GCHQ Bude in Morwenstow, Cornwall, which I’ll deny of course.’
‘Of course. So, where did the truck go?’
‘Tilbury docks.’
‘They’re putting the bodies on a ship?’
‘That’s our guess. Why else would a cosmetic surgery clinic in London need a container truck to transport anything to Tilbury docks?’
‘Why indeed?’ Then it struck home what Toady was saying. ‘Your guess! Didn’t you see where the truck went inside the docks? Haven’t you got the name of the ship for me? Where it’s going? What time it leaves?’
‘Sorry, Sir. We lost the truck as it entered the docks. Tilbury is a massive place, and there are hundreds of vehicles in and around the docks all the time – it’s very busy. And as luck would have it, the satellite decided to shift its position at that point in time and we lost the connection to GCHQ Bude. By the time we got the connection back . . . Well, we had no chance of finding the truck.’
‘You’ve looked?’
‘Of course. And we’ll continue to look, but there’s a palpable feeling of gloom here at the moment.’
‘Do what you can, Toady. And I hope you’re right about all this.’
‘So do I, Sir.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Give me your jumper, Joe,’ Bronwyn said.
‘It’s a bit cold for taking off my jumper.’
‘You’d rather a lady froze to death while you were keeping your pathetic scrawny body warm?’
‘A lady?’
‘Be careful what comes out of your mouth next, loser.’
‘Of course you can have my jumper. Is there any chance . . . ?’