by Tim Ellis
‘No – Slinky called me. The singer actually called me.’
‘You’re a pervert.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Twenty-two?’
‘A hundred and twenty-two, more like. You’re older than Tutankhamen’s mummified remains. There’s an eleven year difference between you and her. It’s bordering on . . .’
‘. . . No it’s not.’
‘Why are you being defensive then?’
‘I’m not.’
‘So, this Slinky – who’s young enough to be your great grandchild – phoned you personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She’ll be here at ten o’clock.’
‘That’s something at least. Did she say anything else?’
‘She’s bringing all the weird mail she’s received with her.’
‘Okay. Did you ask her if there was anyone who particularly stood out from this weird mail?’
‘No.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Hang on! Wind the story back to the part where she’s “staying with her family”.’
‘Her mother and two younger sisters.’
‘No father? Because, if you recall we hypothesised that the killer might be her father . . .’
‘No. No father. He died of a heart attack five years ago. And anyway, it wasn’t necessarily her father we were hypothesising about, but a father.’
‘That’s seriously compromised our hypothesis, Stick. Definitely no father?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, carry on. We’ll come back to that later.’
‘Well, as I said, she’s landing at Barclay Park at ten o’clock. I’ve said I’ll meet her and . . .’
‘Landing at Barclay Park! Is she skydiving in?’
‘Helicopter.’
‘I hope it’s not one of ours?’
‘We haven’t got any.’
‘Good job as well.’
‘No, she has her own helicopter.’
‘We’re obviously in the wrong job. And you’re going to meet her?’
‘I’m picking her up and bringing her here.’
‘Like her personal slave?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You’re a sleazy pervert. I bet Jenifer doesn’t know you’re slavering over Slinky, does she?’
‘There’s nothing to know. I’m merely representing Hoddesdon Police Station and doing what I’d do for any witness kind enough to help us with our enquiries.’
‘You must think I’m visiting from another dimension. What about the protective custody?’
‘She employs two bodyguards.’
‘Who are with her twenty-four-seven?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. We’ll see what she has to say for herself. What else have you got for me?’
‘I decided not to ring the parents of each of the girls.’
‘And you have a good explanation for that dereliction of duty?’
‘I contacted Vice in each area . . .’
‘Which you were told to do anyway.’
‘I decided that a visit from a police officer was a lot better than a phone call from me.’
‘Comparable to: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?’
‘My thinking exactly.’
‘The hanging judge is mulling it over. What did you find out?’
‘Well, nothing yet. I emailed each Vice Squad a copy of the photograph of the runaway from their area; the Missing Person Report – even though each report had actually been generated by their station; a brief outline of our case so far . . .’ He put a copy of what he’d written on the table in front of Xena. ‘. . . and I asked them if they’d be so kind as to go round to the address identified and speak to each girl’s parents. I also provided them with a list of questions we needed answers to.’ He passed her the list:
Are the parents in contact with the girl?
Did the girl use a computer?
If so, was it checked by a forensic specialist for evidence of grooming?
Was it checked for membership of fan and chat sites?
Can you collect a DNA sample and send it to me?
The girl altered her appearance prior to going missing – please obtain a photograph of what the girl looked like before.
Is (or has) the girl operat(ed)ing as a prostitute in your area? Please show the photographs to other working girls and ask them if they’ve seen her.
‘This is good work, Stick.’
‘Very kind.’
‘And when are we expecting to hear from these Vice people?’
‘I asked them to come back to me by midday if possible.’
‘That fits in nicely with what we have planned for the day. What about Doc Paine?’
‘Yes, I called her.’
‘And?’
‘She was very understanding.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I passed on your comments about the concept of time, and she responded with her own theory.’
‘And what theory would that be?’
‘That time is relative.’
‘That’s Einstein’s theory, not hers.’
‘I did mention that to her. She said to tell you that moving clocks tick slower than static clocks.’
‘Is she saying what I think she’s saying?’
‘I’m sure she’s not saying anything that you don’t already know.’
‘You’re flying a bit too close to the sun, Icarus.’
‘Am I? Maybe I’m a bit confused.’
‘A bit?’
‘A lot?’
‘That’s more like it. So, she thinks I sit here doing nothing while she does all the work?’
‘Is that what she’s implying?’
‘Pretending to be stupid will only get you so far, numpty.’
‘I never would.’
‘So, she wouldn’t move on her previous deadline?’
‘No. She said she was going out last night.’
‘Did she? Well, we’ll have to see if we can’t get ourselves a decent forensic pathologist for future investigations.’
‘You’re not going to cause trouble for her, are you?’
‘Trouble! Me! I don’t know how you have the gall to utter that word when you refer to me.’
‘Sorry. How did it go in forensics last night?’
‘Those lazy bastards had all gone home. It’s no wonder we get fuck-all from them. If the Chief Constable wants to save money, he needs to look no further than forensics. He could save the police force a packet by plugging that sinkhole.’
‘You said you were going to drag them back in.’
‘That would have meant waiting for them to return, and they would have dragged their heels just to keep me hanging around. In the end, I decided I had better things to do with my evening.’
‘Thinking?’
‘Exactly. So, after you’ve finished telling me what you did before you went home yesterday afternoon, we’ll both go up to forensics and stir up a hornet’s nest.’
‘I organised a stake-out at the industrial unit.’
‘Done that, got the t-shirt and seen the video.’
‘Let’s hope these officers follow orders and stay where they’ve been positioned.’
‘Are you implying something?’
‘I never would. I checked into the ownership of the farm and the industrial unit. Strangely enough, Mr Arthur W Millbank – who owns the farm – sold the three industrial units, and the land that they’re on, to a holding company called Koenig Venture Securities. It’s registered in Hobbs, New Mexico. I rang Mr Millbank, and he said that a Mr Stanley Davis promised to pay him double what the land and the units were worth as long as he didn’t ask any questions.’
‘So he kept his mouth shut?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Right now, I’d sell you for half of
what you were worth.’
‘That wouldn’t amount to very much.’
‘Tell me about it.’
***
He stood outside in the bracing wind and rang Anne Pollard again – this time it connected.
He’d slept like the proverbial Christmas log. The wind, rain and lashing sea had hypnotised him into a deep sleep. And even though it was disconcerting that the bunk-bed moved like the shifting sands of the Sahara, it hadn’t prevented him from drifting off to a magical underwater world of caves, cartoon-like fish, mermaids and treasure chests.
By seven o’clock he was showered, shaved and dressed, so he made his way to the cafeteria. Hadn’t Colm Rains said that it was open twenty-four-seven? If there were round-the-clock shifts, he supposed it had to be.
Jill Butler was nowhere in sight, but Richards – fresh as a daisy and twice as lovely – was sitting at a table surrounded by a mishmash of men.
‘Good morning, Sir.’
‘Good morning, Richards. Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a moss-covered rock on a beach.’
He smiled and nodded at the group of men sitting around the table. ‘I see you’ve made some new friends.’
She was handing out scraps of paper with her email address and telephone number on them. ‘They're lonely.’
‘Only because their wives aren’t here.’
At the mention of spouses, the men started drifting off.
‘When they have a gold wedding band on their ring finger – it means they’re married.’
‘I know.’
‘And if they’re cosying up to you – it means they’re cheaters. And once a cheater, always a cheater.’
‘Maybe they’re cosying up to me because I’m an attractive young woman.’
‘That goes without saying. As I’ve said many times, the man who wins your heart will be the second luckiest man alive.’
‘After you?’
‘Yes, after me. And you’re worth much more than being a bit on the side.’
‘I’m desperate, aren’t I?’
‘You’re certainly giving people that impression, but you’re young. You think that if you don’t get a man soon, it’ll be too late.’
‘I’m not getting any younger.’
‘You’re twenty-two. Some women don’t get married until they’re past thirty.’
‘I don’t want to be a wrinkled old crone on my wedding night.’
He laughed. ‘You’re crazy. Let’s get some breakfast.’
There was plenty of choice at the counter.
Magda was on serving duties. ‘You look like a man with strong arms,’ she appraised his physique. ‘I’ll cook you a mushroom and chopped tomato omelette if you arm wrestle me?’
‘I don’t think so. Have you run out of opponents?’
‘You might call them opponents – I call them pussies.’
‘Very sportsmanlike.’ He helped himself to a full English with crispy fried bread and brown sauce. ‘Ambrosia of the Gods, Richards. You should have some.’
‘The food of heart attack patients, you mean. And I should carry on eating my muesli.’
‘I was told once that if there were cockroaches and maggots in your muesli, you wouldn’t be able to spot them.’
‘Yummy! Cockroaches and maggots are my favourites.’
Anne Pollard’s voice came over the line. ‘Hello, Jed. I’m just about to go into a review.’
‘A straw to take in with you,’ he said. He knew she needed all the help she could get. A senior reviewing officer would examine whether the investigation had been conducted in line with the National Intelligence Model; the level of resources and supervision utilised during the investigation; the degree of risk applied; whether there were any outstanding or incomplete actions; carry out a quality assurance of all the actions that had been taken; set new actions and make any recommendations.
‘Oh?’
‘As well as one person dying in the Echo74 platform accident, there were three that were reported missing . . .’
‘Missing! Did we know about them?’
‘I certainly didn’t until the Rig Supervisor informed me. They were blown overboard by the force of the explosion apparently – their bodies were never recovered.’
‘Frank Cabot is still alive, isn’t he?’
‘That’s my guess.’
‘Who were the other three men?’
‘There was an electrician called Vic Noakes, Jimmy Landy who was a driller, and a crane operator by the name of Kevin Parnov. One of those three must be the dead man.’
‘Any idea what it’s all about?’
‘Not yet, but I’ve got another four people to interview this morning before we begin the journey back. Also, and I hope I’m not telling you how to suck eggs, but you might want to run those three names through CrimInt, and obtain their personnel files from Caledonian Energy or the Coroner’s Court. Normally, missing people aren’t declared dead for seven years, but application was made to the Corner’s Court for a Death Certificate for each of the three after only eight months, which were granted. It makes me wonder if the families were involved.’
‘A conspiracy?’
‘Yes, and a third party must have helped them escape.’
‘Thanks, Jed.’
‘My pleasure. One other thing, Anne. I suggest you ask Doc Riley to carry out a second post mortem of the body. It’s my guess she’ll find that he was murdered. They wouldn’t have been looking for anything like that during the first PM.’
‘Okay. I’ll do that. But I don’t see how any of it is connected to Lisa Cabot’s disappearance.’
‘Until we know the why of what happened here, we won’t know if it has any bearing on Lisa Cabot’s disappearance.’
‘Keep me informed, Jed.’
‘Will do, and . . . good luck at the review.’
‘Thanks. I think I’ll need it. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
The line went dead.
He went back inside.
Jill Butler had appeared.
‘Good sleep?’ he said.
‘Too good. Couldn’t drag my lazy arse out of the bed.’
‘Well, you’ve got the whole morning to recuperate. Richards and I will interview the last four witnesses, and then we’ll be ready for going back to sunny Aberdeen.’
‘Yeah, very funny. It’s meant to be the UK’s sunniest city, but I haven’t seen any sun in Aberdeen since Dracula took up residence at Slains Castle in Cruden Bay.’
‘Oh well, at least you’ll be home for your two daughters.’
‘Great! Can’t wait.’
He decided to stop digging. ‘Are you ready, Richards?’
‘Uh huh!’
***
He knew that if he opened his eyes his head would explode. There was no way he was going to open his eyes – no way, Jose. He’d seen enough splattered brain matter to last him two lifetimes, thank you very much. His mouth had obviously been sealed up as a practical joke by his new good friend Nils to stop him drinking all the whisky. The Norwegian Captain of the container ship Marguerite must have used super glue to stick his tongue to the roof of his mouth and his lips together. He’d probably have to eat pureed soup through a tube inserted into his stomach via his nose for the rest of his life, but he didn’t mind. No, he didn’t mind one little bit. He was comfortable – very comfortable in fact. Maybe Nils had super-glued his face to the table as well. That would be a fine joke. Maybe that was the reason he couldn’t lift his head up. There were a variety of noises – some were close, but others were further away.
‘You took your time finding us, Kowalski.’
He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it. The voice recognition software in his brain had obviously been corrupted by a malicious virus. Probably the Russians – they were usually responsible for viruses, and there were Russians onboard the ship. Sometimes, two and two did make five.
‘I know you’re awake, Kowalski.’
Awake
! That seemed unlikely. He was dreaming – that was the only rational explanation. But if he was dreaming, why wasn’t he dreaming of a sun-drenched beach? Of Jerry in the skimpiest of bikinis? Of . . .
Someone was nudging him. He was a Detective Chief Inspector for God’s sake. Who would have the audacity to nudge a DCI?
‘Kowalski! Wake up.’
His eyes opened involuntarily. He jerked upwards, and his eyes began rolling round and round and round like the reels on a slot machine. ‘I’m dying. Call a doctor.’
‘Death is certainly a possibility after you drank all the whisky, but the doctor isn’t making house calls.’
Bronwyn was sitting at the table opposite him where he recalled Nils had been sitting only a few hours previously. She was dressed in an oversized blue boiler suit with the cuffs rolled up and had her chin resting on her hands.
‘Where’s Jerry? Is she . . . ?’
‘She’s fine. At the moment she’s showing her gratitude to the crew – one dick at a time. There’s a long twisting queue. She could be gone for some time.’
‘I thought that would have been you.’
‘It did cross my mind, but your wife insisted. What could I do? She’s very forceful.’
‘That’s true. Where are we?’
‘I heard someone mumble Gibraltar.’
‘Oh God! Where’s Nils?’
‘Somewhere about. He doesn’t look half as bad as you though. In fact, I think I might be talking to a corpse.’
He tried to stand, but fell back when the bridge began moving of its own volition. He wondered if he was going to be sick, and swallowed back the acidic bile that had flooded into his mouth.
Bronwyn threw herself backwards. ‘I’ll go and get the Captain.’
Jerry came in then. ‘Look at the state of you, Raymond Kowalski.’
‘You’re welcome, darling.’
She kissed him. ‘This is the first holiday we’ve been on together for absolutely ages.’
‘You do realise I probably haven’t got a job now.’
‘No, but you’ve still got a wife with all her organs.’
‘Tell me what happened?’ He listened as she described the events of the past thirty-six hours.
‘And there’s a dead body in the container.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘A dead body! Who?’