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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Oh God!’ Stick said.

  ‘What now, numpty?’

  ‘You’re right . . .’

  ‘How long has it taken you to work that out?’

  ‘No . . . The replicas are not who he really wants – he wants Slinky. His revenge on the fifteen year-old girl who preferred to become a prostitute rather than be with him won’t be complete until he’s destroyed Slinky – her mother’s daughter.’

  ‘Sit,’ Xena said to Slinky. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

  Just then, the door opened and Toadstone appeared. ‘We’ve got something.’

  ‘I hope it’s not contagious?’

  Toadstone sidled into the room. ‘Hello,’ he directed at Slinky. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

  ‘Are you crazy, Mr Toad?’

  Slinky smiled. ‘Of course. Shall I write it for Mr Toad?’

  ‘No, that’s not my name. Put: To Paul Toadstone, Lot’s of Love, Slinky.’

  She wrote what he said on a piece of A4 paper and passed it to him. ‘That’s an unusual name.’

  ‘It comes from . . .’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Xena said. ‘You’re in danger of being arrested and thrown in a cell forever, Mr Toad.’

  Toadstone shook his head and knuckled his eyes. ‘Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Well – what have you got?’

  ‘The chat room where your killer found his victims.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘It was beneath layers and layers of other conversations, but my people tunnelled down and found it. The six girls were there, and so was he. He calls himself: Salamander . . .’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Slinky. ‘It’s another name for Slinky,’ she said. ‘I have . . .’

  ‘Yes, we know about the nipple piercing,’ Xena said. ‘You don’t need to get it out and show us.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got for us, Mr Toad?’

  ‘No, no. We know where he is.’

  Xena stood up. ‘For fuck’s sake! Why the hell didn’t you say so?’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Waltham Cross. Number 95 Abbey Road.’

  ‘He never left Waltham Cross,’ Stick said. ‘That’s where he’s lived all this time.’

  ‘Contact that bitch Threadneedle in Operations and get some people round there.’

  ‘Armed officers?’

  ‘Can’t do any harm.’

  Xena could have run along the corridor to see if the Chief had arrived yet, but she decided to phone instead.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lydia, it’s DI Blake. Is the Chief there?’

  ‘No, and I have no idea where he is. Everybody’s asking . . .’

  ‘Okay.’ She didn’t have time to listen to a blow-by-blow account of her efforts to find and cover for the Chief.

  She called the Chief Constable.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry to call you direct Sir, but I need a helicopter.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Oh sorry. It’s DI Blake from Hoddesdon.’

  The Chief Constable laughed.

  ‘Did I say something funny, Sir?’

  ‘Your boss has already destroyed my helicopter.’

  ‘Oh! . . . Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes. He’s fine, but a three million pound helicopter isn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Sir. You have my condolences.’

  She ended the call. They didn’t make senior officers like they used to.

  ‘It looks like we’re on our own, Stick.’

  ‘Do you think it’s something to do with the cut-backs?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we have even less now than we did yesterday. The Chief has totalled a three million pound helicopter.’ She looked at Slinky. ‘Does the helicopter you came in belong to you?’

  ‘We call it the slinkycopter. Yes, it’s mine. It makes travelling to gigs so much easier.’

  ‘Can we borrow it? We have a gig of our own to go to.’

  ‘You’ll bring it back?’

  ‘That’s definitely my plan.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She pushed herself up. ‘I’ll come . . .’

  ‘You will not. You’ll be staying here.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Stick’s phone vibrated.

  ‘Hello? . . . Uh huh! . . . That’s great. We know who the killer is and we’re just about to go and arrest him. I’ll call you when it’s safe.’ He ended the call.

  Xena stared at him. ‘And?’

  ‘Oh yeah! That was DS Mukherjee from the Vice Squad at Stratford Police Station in London . . .’

  ‘That’s not one of the stations you emailed, is it?’

  ‘I emailed every station in the UK. It occurred to me that the girls might have gone somewhere else. Did I not tell you that?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So, what did he say?’

  ‘Oh yeah! He said that they’ve found Shirley Reid from Bath and taken her into protective custody.’

  ‘It’s about time we got some good news. Now, all we have to do is save Paula Scott. Come on, let’s go.’ She looked at Slinky. ‘You stay here and write a song or something.’

  On the way out she said to the bodyguards. ‘You two can go in there and keep Slinky company. She stays here – understood?’

  The one who wanted to frisk her said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m ex-job. She’ll still be here when you get back – as I will.’

  When the bodyguard had said what he’d said, she didn’t give it much thought. But as she hurried along the corridor and down the stairs to the car park, she realised that she’d just been propositioned. She smiled. There was nothing she could do with it now, but later . . . maybe there was something she could do with it later.

  Stick drove like Dick Dastardly to Barclay Park.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said to the pilot when they got there.

  ‘Go! Go where?’

  ‘Waltham Cross. Show me a map.’

  The pilot grabbed a map from the cockpit and passed it to her.

  She located Waltham Cross and pointed. ‘There’s some spare ground to land on right next to Abbey Road.’

  ‘Do you have permission to commandeer this chopper?’

  ‘I don’t need permission, but yes – Slinky has said she’s fed up with the old jalopy, especially the pilot, and I can ditch it into the sea if I want to.’

  He gave a hesitant laugh. ‘She didn’t say that.’

  ‘Wind this fucking thing up and let’s get going will you? Or I’ll fly it myself.’

  ‘Are you a qualified pilot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’ He climbed into the cockpit and started up the slinkycopter.

  They scrambled into the seats behind the pilot.

  It took seven and a half minutes to reach the waste ground.

  ‘Wait for us,’ Xena shouted at him over the noise from the engine.

  He nodded.

  They ran across the busy A1010.

  Xena nearly split herself in two when she tried to step over the central steel barrier. Her legs were too short and Stick had to help her over it.

  ‘My front hole was nearly connected to my back hole then.’

  Stick screwed up his face. ‘Too much information.’

  They reached Number 95 Abbey Road – a three-bedroom semi-detached house, but there were no uniforms there.

  ‘We should wait for back-up,’ Stick said.

  ‘He could be strangling her now.’

  ‘We should call in and ask for permission to . . .’

  Xena picked up a rock and smashed the glass in the wooden front door.’

  ‘Or we could just break in and not bother about the consequences.’

  ‘I like that idea better.’

  She kept hold of the rock.

  Stick pulled a telescopic steel baton out of his jacket pocket and fully extended it.

  Xena’s brow furrowed. �
�They’re illegal.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You and I will have to have words after this.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They made their way slowly into the house, the dining room, the living room, the kitchen – all clear.

  Stick went upstairs. ‘Clear,’ he shouted down.

  ‘Take a proper look up there,’ Xena called back to him. ‘I’ll search down here. We’re looking for where he might have taken her.’

  ‘I know.’

  Even though she didn’t have a Search Warrant, she had justifiable cause. And if she saved Paula Scott, everything would be forgiven anyway. She started in the dining room rummaging through drawers and cupboards; pulling out books from shelves, unzipping cushions, emptying ornaments and boxes – God only knew what she was looking for. She moved to the living room, but found nothing there either . . .

  As she turned, a beast of a man came at her with clenched fists like sledgehammers.

  She’d put the rock down somewhere.

  Jesus! He was going to kill her.

  His eyes were burning red, his lips chiselled into a snarl, and if she hadn’t known better she might have thought he was the Devil incarnate.

  He swiped the back of his hand across her face and sent her flying over the sofa that she’d just pulled all the cushions out of.

  Blood filled her mouth, and she banged her head on the side of the upturned coffee table.

  ‘Fucking whoring bitch.’ He came towards her again.

  Behind him, she saw Stick come into the room. Thank God! She thought.

  Stick hit him with the baton across the back of the head.

  It barely made him blink.

  He turned.

  Stick went to hit him again, but the man grabbed his wrist, squeezed and made him drop the baton.

  Xena pushed herself up and kicked him between the legs.

  He threw Stick out through the door like a piece of discarded rubbish, turned and came at her again.

  Fucking hell! She dived behind the sofa.

  Stick came back into the room with the hall table and smashed it over his head.

  He ignored the splintering wood, and continued towards her.

  ‘Kill him, Stick,’ she shouted. ‘Before he kills the two of us.’

  ‘Kill him! Kill him with what? The baton was all I had.’

  ‘Then we’re dead meat.’

  ‘Wait!’ Stick jumped on the man’s back and rammed the splintered end of the hall table leg into his neck.

  The man’s knees buckled.

  ‘That got the bastard’s attention,’ Xena said.

  Stick picked up his baton and smashed it on top of the man’s skull three times with all his strength before he collapsed face down.

  ‘Armed police!’ someone shouted from the front door.

  ‘You fucking useless bastards,’ Xena shouted. ‘Late to the party as usual.’

  Half a dozen uniformed officers carrying Heckler & Koch carbines crowded into the room.

  ‘Get rid of this piece of shit,’ she said, aiming a kick at the prone body bleeding on the green-patterned carpet. ‘And the rest of you can get the fuck out. You’re about as much use as a packet of rubber nails.

  ‘Is he still alive?’ one of the uniforms asked.

  ‘Do I look like a fucking nurse?’

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’

  ‘Just drag him out and kick him in the balls a few times as you do it.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thanks, Stick. I thought my number was up then.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘Or I missed something down here.’

  They found a hidden trapdoor beneath a Mexican rug stuck on top of it half-way up the stairs with steps leading down to a cellar. The half-naked Paula Scott was strapped to a table. She’d obviously been raped and tortured. She was in a bad way, but at least she was still alive.

  ‘Get an ambulance, Stick.’

  ***

  ‘We know you forged the Death Certificate for Frank Cabot three years ago Dr Lewis, and we know why.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Jill Butler had driven them directly to Grampian Police Headquarters on Queen Street, and after meeting people and shaking a few hands, they were escorted straight down to the interview suite. Parish went in alone, so as not to provide Lewis any distractions.

  ‘Forensics are searching your house and the mortuary at the infirmary as we speak.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Oh, they have a Search Warrant. You see, Bruce Hogan has dropped you right in the proverbial. He knew that Frank Cabot and the others were blackmailing you because of your fondness for young boys. So, “No Comment” won’t save you, Lewis. I’m not concerned with your paedophilia. I’m sure the extent of your predilection will reveal itself through the hard disk on your computers and your online activity. What I’m more concerned about is what you know about Frank Cabot, and whether you have any information that can help find a little girl.’

  ‘His daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve seen the news.’

  ‘Although DNA tests have revealed that she’s not his daughter.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Who was the corpse you signed the Death Certificate for?’

  ‘Kevin Parnov.’

  ‘We exhumed the body and conducted a second post mortem. As well as the body not being Frank Cabot, we also discovered that he’d been murdered. Do you know why?’

  ‘He was blackmailing the other three, had been for at least a year. Frank and the others were a key link in a drug-smuggling operation from Eastern Europe, through Austria, Germany and into Denmark . . . The Schengen-free borderless zone is a boon for drug-smugglers. Anyway, from a small fishing village called Ferring in Denmark, a boat transported the drugs to a place just out of sight of the Echo74 platform and dropped drugs overboard. Frank, Vic and Jimmy weren’t divers on the rig, but they soon learnt and had their own equipment. They retrieved the drugs underwater and took them back to the rig. I don’t know how it happened, but Kevin Parnov discovered what they were doing and threatened to turn them in unless they gave him a thirty percent cut of the profits.’

  ‘So they murdered him?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. I heard he got greedy and wanted fifty percent of the proceeds. He was stupid. They were never going to agree to that.’

  ‘What happened to the drugs once they were on the rig?’

  ‘The reason why they were smuggling drugs via the rig in the first place was that the supply route already existed. Also, at Dyce heliport there’s no customs. Nobody checks your baggage or your person when you fly in there. They walked straight out to their parked cars and drove to the rendezvous point . . .’

  ‘. . . With the drug gang?’

  ‘Yes and no. There was a local drug gang, but they were working for a drug cartel based in Essex. They ran the whole operation. That’s how it started. Frank came from Essex, and he was forced to go along with the plan by the cartel. Don’t ask me how he got involved with them, but they threatened to hurt his daughter if he didn’t do as he was told.’

  ‘So why did they stop? With you and Hogan on board, they could have simply murdered Parnov and carried on.’

  ‘No, they’d decided to get out and take the final haul of drugs with them.’

  ‘And they needed you two to make it look as though they’d died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about Lisa Cabot?’

  ‘It’s my guess that the drug cartel have her, but why after all this time I have no idea. Unless, they’ve found out Frank’s alive, and they’re trying to draw him out into the open.’

  ‘What about this drug cartel?

  ‘I have one name, or more like a nickname – Peanut.’

  ‘Anything else you can think of that might help us?’

  Lewis shook his head. ‘You’ll speak to
them here? Tell them I helped you?’

  ‘Of course, but I don’t know how much help it’ll be with your other charges.’

  ‘No.’

  Parish left the interview room, called Anne Pollard and told her what he’d found out.

  ‘Thanks, Jed.’

  ‘You’re welcome. See you in the morning.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Come on, Richards. Let’s go home.’

  ‘Can I drive the car on a blue light again when we reach Gatwick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!

  Aftermath

  Friday, February 5

  ‘Thanks, Jed,’ Anne Pollard said. ‘You saved my career.’

  ‘Hardly. You had the foresight to send us up there.’

  ‘I was there as well, Ma’am,’ Richards said.

  ‘I apologise. Thank you, as well, DC Richards.’

  ‘No thanks are necessary.’

  Essex Vice knew Peanut very well. His real name was Oskan Peker and he was a hitman for the Turkish Catli cartel based in Chelmsford.

  A taskforce was put together and all known premises that the Catli cartel owned, rented or drank Turkish coffee in were raided. A hundred and fifty arrests were made, and they found Lisa Cabot unharmed in a warehouse on the Chelmer Village industrial estate.

  Frank Cabot was another matter entirely. There was more of him on the floor than there was on his body. He had about five minutes of life left in him when they reached him – enough to make a dying video statement and put the Catli cartel in prison for a long, long time.

  ***

  God knows what those bastards at the clinic had done with her rucksack containing all her stuff – the laptop, tablet, Smartphone and all her documents. It was a fucking inconvenience – that’s what it was. Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to make copies of all her documents, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, it was a fucking inconvenience. Not only that, they’d been planning to harvest her organs for some rich bastard and then kill her.