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

by Tim Ellis

  He slid on an internal headset with integral microphone to enable him to communicate with the pilot and Inspector Steve West from CO19.

  ‘What happened?’ West said over the noise of the rotor blades as they picked up speed and the chopper lifted off.

  ‘Nothing happened at the clinic, which is what I expected, but I had someone examine the CCTV footage in the area. A container truck collected five body bags from the clinic early this morning and transported them to Tilbury docks.’

  ‘Do you know where in the docks?’

  ‘No.’

  West shook his head. ‘Tilbury’s a big place.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘You’d better contact Tilbury Police Station and let them know we’re coming.’

  He nodded, connected his mobile phone to the chopper’s Bluetooth wifi system, found the number from a directory app and called it.

  ‘Port of Tilbury Police Station?’ a female voice said. ‘Constable Tuppence Monfils speaking.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon Police Station. Who’s in charge there, Constable Monfils?’

  ‘Inspector Jason Gill, Sir.’

  ‘Is he available?’

  ‘Just one moment.’

  The line went quiet for a handful of seconds.

  ‘Hello, Inspector Gill. How can I help?’

  ‘I’ll be landing by helicopter in about thirty minutes with a team of men from CO19 . . .’ He told Gill most of what he knew. He didn’t mention that his wife might be inside one of the body bags. He also said nothing about Bronwyn or Jerry’s two toy boys.’

  ‘. . . And you think this truck delivered a container with five body bags inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure the container was actually being delivered and taken off the truck?’

  ‘Why are you asking? Is it important?’

  ‘A container would be delivered to the container terminal, whereas five body bags might very well be delivered to a warehouse, or possibly directly to a ship elsewhere in the docks. Tilbury’s a big place, you know, Sir.’

  ‘I’ve heard that. No, I don’t know whether it’s the container or the contents that are being delivered.’

  ‘Then you could be here for some time. I don’t suppose you’ve got a Search Warrant, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s not insurmountable. We tend to have our own rules here. However, if the ship has already sailed and left territorial waters – that’s only twelve nautical miles out to sea – then you won’t be able to board the ship anyway. Not unless you have authority to create an international incident.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You’ll need to talk to the Harbour Master – Colin Matlock . . . Here, let me put you on hold for a short while, Sir. I’ll contact him, let him know what’s going on and then he’ll advise you accordingly.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Gill.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sir.’

  He waited until he thought the battery had died. Was Jerry in one of those body bags? Was she dead or alive? Was he chasing shadows?

  ‘Hello?’ seeped out of his phone.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Colin Matlock the Harbour Master. Let’s work on the assumption that a container was delivered, because otherwise you could be here for the next three months.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Even now – I’m not overflowing with optimism. I expect you’ve heard that Tilbury docks is a big place?’

  ‘Someone did mention it.’

  ‘Well, the container terminal is a large chunk of that. So, a truck brought a container into Tilbury docks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got a registration number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Colour of the truck?’

  ‘White . . . and the container was dark orange.’

  ‘Uh huh! White seems to be the new black this year. And orange seems to be a popular colour for containers. What about the name of the ship it was taking the container to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can imagine that there are ships arriving and departing here on an ongoing basis?’

  ‘That’s why it’s called a docks, I suppose.’

  ‘Got it in one. Any writing on the truck or the container?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re not giving me much to go on, Chief Inspector. Any clues?’

  He recalled what Toady had told him about Ibrahim Drago. ‘Kosovo.’

  ‘Not much help – that’s a landlocked country.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Hang on a minute – let me check something . . .’

  He looked out of the Perspex window. The pilot seemed to be following the line of the Thames to Tilbury docks. He could see boats and ships as dark specks on the water and wondered where they were going.

  ‘Hello, you still there, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Still here.’

  ‘The Marguerite – flying a Columbian flag – departed at four-thirty. Its first port of call was Durrës in Albania. If you were sending goods by sea to Kosovo, you’d have to deliver them to either an Albanian or Montenegrin port.’

  Kowalski checked his watch – it was quarter to six. How long did it take to travel twelve nautical miles?

  Chapter Seventeen

  The puma landed with a bump on the heliport of the Echo74 wellhead platform at six-fifteen.

  Outside it was dark. The wind was picking up and the waves were crashing against the stanchions of the platform.

  As everyone collected their luggage and put their coats, hats and scarves back on, the pilot switched the engine off and they waited until the rotor blades had come to a standstill.

  All the other passengers alighted. They seemed to know where they were going and headed towards a metal door beyond the helipad.

  Richards was still sleeping, so Parish left her snoring on the seat.

  ‘Aren’t you going to wake her up?’ Jill Butler said.

  ‘She told me not to.’

  She grinned ‘I’m glad you’re not my partner.’

  ‘It’ll teach her to make herself clearer in future. Ready?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He let Butler go first and followed her down the chopper steps onto the helipad. She headed towards the metal door where a man was waiting for them.

  Butler shook his hand.

  The man introduced himself. ‘Colm Rains – Rig Supervisor. I thought there were three of you?’

  Parish nodded. ‘We left her sleeping . . .’

  Rains nodded his head in the direction of the chopper. ‘Is this her now?’

  He turned his head.

  Richards was hurrying across the helipad with her jacket half on carrying her bags. ‘You left me.’

  ‘You were sleeping.’

  ‘You should have woken me up.’

  ‘You said not to.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you shouldn’t wake me up when we arrived.’

  ‘Ah! If only you’d have been a bit more clearer about what you did mean. I understood you didn’t want waking up under any circumstances.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything. Anyway, this is the Rig Supervisor – Colm Rains.’

  Richards shook hands with Rains.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said, and led them through the metal door that the other passengers had gone through, down a narrow set of metal steps and along a corridor to what looked like a cafeteria.

  There was a food counter with an attractive middle-aged woman standing behind it. She wore a knotted olive-green headscarf, a dark-blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows and a white waist apron. She reminded Parish of the woman on an old World War II poster with the words: We Can Do It written on it.

  There were two groups of men sitting at two
other tables. One had three men in the group, the other five. They turned to stare at the new arrivals – especially Butler and Richards.

  Rains indicated a table for them to sit at. ‘Let’s have some refreshments while I tell you about our safety regulations.’

  He waved at the woman behind the counter.

  She smiled and brought over a tray of refreshments.

  ‘This is Magda,’ Rains said. ‘She’s German, but speaks pretty good English. She’ll show you two ladies to your quarters once we’ve finished our little chat. Magda likes to arm wrestle, but don’t take her up on her offer of a friendly contest. If you do, she’ll break your arm. I’ve already lost an engineer and a ballast control man in the past month because they thought there was no way a woman could beat them.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Magda said with a heavy German accent and headed back to the food counter.

  ‘And don’t think that because she likes to arm wrestle she’s a lesbian – she’s definitely not a lesbian. Her boyfriend – a giant of a Norwegian – is one of my underwater welders.’

  Butler played mother and poured coffee or tea as requested. They helped themselves to chunky chocolate chip biscuits.

  ‘Okay. I know you’ve just endured a long flight, but an oil rig is a high risk environment, and it’s my duty to keep you safe while you’re here. You’re restricted to inside the living accommodation. If you need to go outside you’re to wear a hardhat and be accompanied by a member of the crew, but you won’t need to go outside until you leave. All your interviews will be conducted in here. There are only seven people here now who were here when Frank Cabot had his accident. I’ve arranged three interviews for tonight, and four for tomorrow morning before your flight back to Aberdeen at one-thirty . . .’

  Parish interrupted him. ‘Were you here then, Mr Rains?’

  ‘I’d been here for three months. It was my first appointment as Rig Supervisor, and my first fatality. I hadn’t had one before, and I haven’t had one since. I’m not counting the suicides, of course. We get a few of those for whatever reason.’

  ‘So you’re one of the seven we’re interviewing?’

  ‘I know you’ll want to see where Frank had his accident and find out how it happened, so I’ll show you and take you through that once you’ve put your bags in your quarters. I’ll be your last interview tomorrow morning, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’ He wondered whether to tell Rains about the body that had been sent back for burial not being Frank Cabot’s remains, but decided to wait until he knew all the facts.

  Rains finished the safety talk while they drank the tea and coffee provided, and consumed the cookies. Magda then came over and led Butler and Richards away to their quarters.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be all right. The female quarters has a security key pad on the access door.’

  ‘And all the men know the code off by heart?’

  ‘Of course, but they only venture in there when they’ve been invited.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Rains smiled. ‘I can vouch for my men. There are no perverts here.’

  ‘I have bad news for you, Mr Rains . . .’

  ‘Call me Colm.’

  ‘. . . There are perverts everywhere.’

  ‘Well, if there are any here, I don’t know about them.’

  ‘Which doesn’t surprise me. The large number of perverts I’ve come across know how to hide in plain sight.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a jaundiced view of the world, if you don’t mind me saying so, Inspector.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  They reached a small room boasting a bed, a toilet and a washbasin. Parish had to leave the door open to talk to Rains while he put his bag down on the bed because there wasn’t enough room for both of them inside the room.

  ‘It’s not much, I know. This is one of the older platforms. Living accommodation on most of the rigs these days is separate from the main wellheads due to safety considerations and they have all the modern conveniences of home as well.’

  ‘It’ll be fine for one night.’

  ‘It’ll have to be. There’s a TV room, if you have a mind, but reception is hit-and-miss. Next door to that is a room with a couple of steam-driven computers in it – sometimes there’s a connection, but mostly there isn’t. The North Sea isn’t a hospitable place for satellite signals.’

  Parish locked the door to his room and put the key in his jacket pocket. ‘Or humans, I suppose.’

  ‘Some days are better than others, but yeah . . . being out here is like living and working on the edge.’

  They all met up again at the cafeteria.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he said to Butler and Richards.

  Butler’s lip curled upwards. ‘It’s not the Ritz.’

  ‘We’re in a room with bunk beds,’ Richards said.

  ‘That’s all you need, isn’t it?’ he suggested.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Keep your door locked.’

  ‘Why? There’s a security key pad . . .’

  ‘All the men know the code.’

  ‘Really? Maybe I should leave it open.’

  ‘You do that and see how far it gets you.’

  ‘Ready?’ Rains said.

  Parish nodded. ‘Lead the way, Colm.’

  ***

  Stick came back with the junior from the administrative office downstairs. ‘DI Blake, this is Arwen Kindleysides.’

  ‘How old are you, Arwen?’

  ‘Seventeen, Ma’am.’

  ‘Is Kindleysides a stage name or something?’

  ‘DS Gilbert said you’d pick on me.’

  ‘Did he now? DS Gilbert wants to wash his mouth out with carbolic soap. Did DS Gilbert also tell you why I wanted him to bring you up here?’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’ She indicated her coat. ‘I was just about to leave and go home.’

  ‘We won’t keep you long. Take a look at those six photographs on the whiteboard and tell me if they remind you of anyone.’

  Arwen smiled. ‘Slinky.’

  ‘That’s a toy, isn’t it?’ Stick said, putting his open hands palm up in front of him and moving them alternately up and down. ‘You know, those metal accordion-type coiled springy things that go down the stairs one at a time on their own?’

  ‘He babbles like this all the time,’ Xena directed at the office junior. She looked at Stick. ‘Tell me “Brain of Britain” how is a coiled slinky toy related to our six victims?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Tell numpty what you mean, Arwen.’

  ‘Slinky is a singer-songwriter from the Channel Islands. She’s nineteen years old and has sold over fifty million records worldwide.’

  ‘And these girls look like this Slinky?’ Stick said.

  ‘Yes. They’re not as pretty as the real Slinky, but they’ve copied her look.’

  Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is Slinky her stage name like yours is Kindleysides?’

  ‘That’s right, Ma’am. Her real name is Tarah Puxty.’

  Xena screwed up her face. ‘Mmmm! I can understand why she’d want to call herself Slinky. Okay, thanks for your time, Arwen. You can go home now.’

  Arwen smiled. ‘Goodnight, Ma’am.’

  Once Arwen had left Stick said, ‘Did you know they looked like this singer Slinky?’

  ‘No, but it came to me in a flash of brilliance that if they’re not sextuplets then they must have made themselves look like each other for some reason, and I had the idea that they were probably copying a celebrity, because that’s what young girls do these days.’

  ‘Okay, but I don’t see how knowing that helps us.’

  ‘It narrows our focus.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We now know it’s something to do with Slinky. Why else would the girls make themselves look like her? Why would he target four girls who had made themselves look like her? Remember we hypothesised that the killer was choosing them for the way they looked – w
e were right. We also thought that the victims might represent his own daughter; that he was probably sexually abusing her and she’d run away; and that raping, beating and strangling these girls was his revenge on her for choosing to become a prostitute rather than be with him – her own father.’

  ‘We need to find out about Slinky, don’t we?’

  ‘I’d say so, but let’s not put all our eggs all in one basket.’ She threw a marker pen at him. ‘Write.’

  He stood up and faced the whiteboard. ‘Okay?’

  ‘We have four victims, but there are two other Slinky look-a-likes who are still alive – we need to focus on them . . .’

  Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘If we knew who they were.’

  ‘You need to contact the parents of all six girls and find out everything you can about them. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

  Stick began the list.

  ‘We also need to find out everything we can about Slinky – Tarah Puxty. Probably get her in here so that we can interview her . . .’

  ‘She might be out of the country, on tour or something like that.’

  ‘She might also be planting carrots at the bottom of her garden.’

  ‘I don’t think people plant carrots in February . . .’

  ‘Write, numpty. We start with Slinky . . .’

  ‘I thought we were starting with the parents of the six girls.’

  ‘We start with them as well.’

  ‘Okay. Do you think Slinky might be in danger from the killer?’

  ‘Good point, Stick. Christ! That’s all we need! A famous singer getting murdered on our watch . . .’

  ‘Especially when we could have prevented it.’

  ‘Okay, a couple of minutes isn’t going to make much difference, but straight after this you can find out where she is and arrange protective custody for her.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You say that as if I should do all the work while you sit there with your feet up on the desk puffing Cuban cigars.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. Let me remind you that I’m the DI, the senior investigating officer, the commander, the director of operations, the head honcho, Beelzebub and all his fucking demons . . . .’

  ‘I think I’m familiar with your position in the scheme of things.’

  ‘Well, let me also remind you of your position in the scheme of things as well, dodo. You’re an assistant, a functionary, a factotum, a worker . . . that means that you do all the work, and I direct that work. So, to get back to my original point, after we’ve finished here, you can get on the phone and put Slinky in an impenetrable ring of protective custody so that we still have jobs tomorrow morning – capisce?’