Dominion of Darkness: (Parish & Richards #19)

by Tim Ellis

  Jerry shook her head in disgust. ‘According to the criminal database, there was no murder at 28 Lyme Street – the case has been deleted.’

  ‘The murder never happened. Rebecca has already been given a new name and re-located to a different part of the country . . .’

  ‘Some place that doesn’t have a nuclear power plant, I expect,’ Shakin’ said.

  Veronica stood up. ‘And that’s it. The terrorist cells are being shut down as we speak. Security at all the power plants has been increased and any lessons learned. Of course, I’ll write a glowing report to say what wonderful students you were. Thanks very much for all your hindrance, and I hope we never meet again.’

  ‘Come on, boys,’ Jerry said. ‘Let’s go back to the university.’

  ‘Don’t forget to call me, Joe,’ Veronica said.

  Joe gave her a weak smile.

  Outside Shakin’ said, ‘You’re not going to call her, are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so! You crazy bastard. You were nearly burnt to a crisp by a million volts of electricity.’

  ‘Maybe I like living on the edge.’

  ‘That’s not the edge, Joe,’ Jerry said. ‘That’s over the edge and half-way down the precipice.’

  ‘Where to now, Mrs K?’ Joe said, changing the subject.

  ‘Lunch, I suppose.’

  Shakin’ grimaced. ‘I could eat a scabby donkey . . . Well, as long as you’re paying, Mrs K?’

  ‘I’m paying.’

  ‘In which case, make that two scabby donkeys in a bun and a giant chocolate milkshake.’

  ***

  ‘Where the fuck have you been, Kowalski?’

  ‘I was skiing down the east face of the Matterhorn. An elephant blew its trumpet and started an avalanche’ He held his coat out towards her. ‘Here, feel how wet I am. It was touch-and-go for a time – I barely escaped with my life.’

  ‘But unfortunately you did.’

  They were sitting in the King Charles public house. He’d been two minutes late because he sheltered in a doorway when the rain got heavy.

  ‘What are you having?’ he asked her, as they looked through the menu.

  ‘You’re paying?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll charge it to the business.’

  ‘So, you’re not really paying – I’m paying?’

  ‘We’re both paying.’

  ‘I thought you were paying with your money.’

  ‘I could do that, but why would I? This is a business lunch, isn’t it? We’re not here on a sightseeing trip. We’re here to talk to the detective who was in charge of the case that we’re investigating, to take a look at the crime scene and to re-trace the killer’s steps back to West India Docks – if, of course, that’s where our killer came from.’

  ‘You’re still not convinced?’

  ‘We’ll see. So, what are you having? The waiter will be here in a minute to take our order.’

  ‘Black and blue burger with chunky chips and coleslaw.’

  ‘Just thinking about eating that gives me chest pains.’

  Bronwyn screwed up her face. ‘I hope you’re not going to keel over clutching your chest and embarrass me?’

  ‘I’m touched by your concern for my health and wellbeing.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll be good and have this Philadelphia steak sandwich.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You have a weird idea about the health benefits of food.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  The waiter appeared and took their order. He would have liked a pint or two of beer, but he ordered an orange juice instead. Since the heart attacks he had no idea what he was meant to eat or drink. Oh, he’d been told. The hospital had given him lists, booklets, pamphlets and recipes, but he still had no idea. Most of what they said he could eat he didn’t like. Most of what he liked he couldn’t eat. So, in the end, he was stuck in no-man’s land trying to mix-and-match good and bad cholesterol. He was still alive, so maybe he was doing something right. Or, maybe it was the calm before the storm and one day, his heart would explode in his chest like a grenade.

  ‘I spoke to DI Carlyle – he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘As I expected. What’s one prostitute more or less?’

  ‘You were right. Or, should I say, the research you were reading was right.’

  ‘I was right.’

  ‘Anyway, I was hoping he’d take the case off our hands . . .’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘A long drawn-out investigation for which we’re not getting paid, and swallows up thousands of pounds of limited company funds is not really the type of case we want.’

  ‘Go on – I’m listening.’

  ‘Well, that’s it really. He wasn’t interested in the new information we had for him. Solving the five year-old murder of a prostitute was not on his or his boss’s priority list. So, we have to decide whether we’re going to continue investigating Jodie Wilkins’ murder, or walk away, put it down to experience and recruit some fee-paying clients.’

  ‘It’s not just about Jodie Wilkins though, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I know I’m back in the police force for a short period of time, and I know I said I’d utilise police resources to obtain the murder reports from the various countries – if they even exist, and I said I’d get them translated, but you have to remember that I was forced to retire because I was misappropriating public funds – a three million pound helicopter – to save you and Jerry from having your organs harvested in Albania. A different Chief Constable would have put me in jail. So, I only have a limited length of rope with which to hang myself. And this time, as well as years in prison, I could lose my pension.’

  ‘You’re making me fill up.’

  The waiter brought their food. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Have you heard from Perry yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know we’re doing this because of Perry . . .’

  ‘That might have been how it all started, but Jodie Wilkins was murdered. And I got really angry after reading that report, and how nobody seems to give two shits about those poor women who probably became prostitutes simply to survive in a cruel and uncaring world . . .’

  ‘I think I’m filling up now.’

  ‘It’s not right, Kowalski. Not fucking right at all. And then there’s all the foreign prostitutes being murdered by someone from this country . . .’

  ‘Okay. How does this sound? I go back and do a background check on Lieutenant Geoffrey Orwell. We meet here tomorrow when the ship is due to dock. Perry walks down the gangplank on shoreleave, you hug and kiss like . . .’

  ‘Get on with it, Kowalski. There’ll be no hugging and kissing.’

  ‘. . . And he points out his boss, so we know what Lieutenant Geoffrey Orwell looks like. We follow him as he prowls the city, catch him in the act of strangling another prostitute, call the police, give them the information we’ve accumulated about the murders in other ports – case closed.’

  ‘That sounds more like it.’

  ‘If, of course, Perry walks down that gangplank.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You think something’s happened to him, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Why hasn’t he been in contact with you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone off you?’

  ‘If you hadn’t lost all your libido through old age, alcohol and drugs, you’d realise by looking at how hot I am that you’re talking out of your arse.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t he contacted you?’

  ‘If I knew I’d kill him.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll just have to play it by ear. You keep trying to contact him via email and Skype, I’ll find out what I can about Lieutenant Geoffrey Orwell . . . Maybe I can get a recent photograph of him
, then we won’t need Perry to get off the ship.’

  ‘I need him to get off the ship.’

  ‘Of course you do. Are you bringing him to lunch on Sunday?’

  ‘That was the plan.’

  ‘Good.’

  After they’d eaten and Kowalski had paid, they went round the back of the King Charles pub to take a look at the place where Jodie Wilkins had been murdered. As expected, there was nothing to see, but it put some meat on bones so to speak. They then walked along West India Docks, and apart from the tall glass skyscrapers reflecting the heavy grey afternoon clouds, there was nothing to see there either.

  Kowalski brandished his Warrant Card at a Port Officer and found out that HMS Westminster was due to dock at seven o’clock the following evening – Thursday.

  ‘Okay, we have a plan,’ he said. ‘I expect there’ll be lots of people here to welcome their loved ones back tomorrow evening, so we’d probably be better meeting in the King Charles at six.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Good.’

  They would have said goodbye until they realised that they were both going to the Westferry tube station.

  ***

  They wandered up to Forensics to see Peter Peckham. There was a new Receptionist behind the desk.

  Parish approached and offered his hand. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ the woman said, shaking his hand and smiling. She was probably twenty, with thick wavy blonde hair to her shoulders, thin and attractive.

  ‘Are you new?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What happened to the last Receptionist?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jed Parish and this is Detective Constable Mary Richards.’

  ‘Nice to meet you both. I’m Delaney Frost.’

  ‘Welcome to Hoddesdon Police Station, Delaney.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. Although I’ve been here nine months now – in the typing pool.’

  ‘Is that so? I didn’t know we had a typing pool. Did you know there was a typing pool, Richards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re here to see Mr Peckham.’

  ‘He’s in his laboratory. Would you like me to call him?’

  ‘No, that’s fine. We’ll just wander down there. He’s expecting us.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  When they were walking down the corridor to Peckham’s laboratory Richards said, ‘You fancy her, don’t you?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Any port in a storm. Your mother and I are getting a divorce.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘We are. The divorce lawyers have decided that she’s keeping Jack, Melody and nine-tenths of my police pension. All I get is you and Digby. I don’t mind the dog, because I can have an intelligent conversation with him, but you’re a pain in the backside.’

  ‘I should report you to Social Services.’

  ‘They’d take you into care, and once prospective parents knew what you were like I think you’d struggle to get adopted.’

  ‘I’m a lovable happy child.’

  ‘The proof is in the pudding.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Parish opened the door of Peckham’s lab. ‘This had better be worth the wait, Peckham.’

  ‘It is, Sir.’

  ‘Go on then – astound us with science.’

  ‘As I said to DC Richards, we were able to recover the deleted files on the victim’s computer hard disk drive.’

  ‘That’s one thing at least.’

  ‘We checked her online activities, but found nothing unusual, because she was using the Tor Browser . . .’

  ‘Remind me what that does.’

  ‘It lets people communicate anonymously on the internet.’

  ‘Okay, but anonymity doesn’t apply when you have the person’s computer, does it?’

  ‘No. We discovered that the only website she visited was called: Don’tDieAlone.com – it’s a suicide pact site on the Dark Net. The first known internet suicide pact was in Japan in 2000. Since then, there’s been a hundred and forty-two cases reported, and it’s a growing phenomenon – not just in Japan, but across the world. There are also sites that cater for group suicides.’

  ‘Aren’t these sites illegal?’ Richards asked.

  ‘Yes, indirectly through the Suicide Act of 1961, but the people responsible for these sites can circumvent the law by posting a disclaimer.’

  ‘So, you were partially right, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘Hayley did want to commit suicide.’

  ‘Yes, but she didn’t, did she? She was tortured and murdered.’

  ‘She wasn’t the first though,’ Peckham said.

  Parish’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘A man in Japan arranged suicide pacts with three people, but when they arrived he bound them with ropes and strangled them – the Japanese authorities hanged him in 2007.’

  ‘So, what about this Don’tDieAlone.com site?’

  ‘She was communicating in a chat room on the site with a person called Winston, and according to their month-long conversation that’s where she was going on the night she was murdered – to fulfil their suicide pact.’

  ‘What about the male victim?’

  ‘His name is Jean-Christophe Bouvet. He was a French student who had been studying art at the University of West London. Yes, Winston was communicating with him also. There’s a problem as well . . .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s arranged to meet a thirteen year-old girl called Abigail tonight. She’s running away from home to die with him.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Richards said.

  ‘Tell me you’ve got an address or a meeting place, Peckham.’

  ‘I wish I could, Sir. We’ve found no reference to any meeting place on the website chat room, or in her diary and other papers that were shredded but put back together. There’s no address in her mobile phone conversations or texts, or her emails.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, Peckham. There must be an address somewhere – you just haven’t found it yet. How did the two previous victims know where to go? How does this thirteen year-old Abigail know where to go?’

  ‘Maybe they phoned him from a call box?’

  ‘Then you’d have the telephone number they used to call him.’

  ‘Very true. Maybe he . . .’

  ‘Stop speculating, man. I want an address, and I want it by five o’clock. Get your best people on it.’

  ‘I am my best people.’

  ‘Prove it, Peckham. Get me that address.’

  ‘I’ll try, Sir.’

  ‘You’ll succeed. And when you’ve found the address – call me. Come on, Richards. We have a sightseeing tour of Canary Wharf booked.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Where to?’

  Xena took the photograph out of her pocket. ‘That’s a good question, Stickamundo.’

  ‘You’re thinking Billy is Roland Beagrie, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘You said I wasn’t allowed to think.’

  ‘That’s true. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.’

  ‘And you’re probably thinking that . . .’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes?’

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

  ‘I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘You’re thinking vicariously.’

  ‘I don’t even know what that word means.’

  Xena pulled a face. ‘She must have known Beagrie was her half-brother, that he took Libby Stone and she fucking well covered it up, didn’t she?’

  ‘I guessed you might be thinking that.’

  ‘I’m going to arrest and charge her.’

  ‘If I were you, which I’m not, I’d err on the side of caution. For one thing, you have no evidence that she’s done anything wrong. For another thing, she’s a
n Assistant Commissioner in the Met. If you make a mistake . . . Well, I think the police force would probably lose it’s most brilliant detective.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Definitely. And, of course, without you I’d be nothing.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask the Chief to contact her and request that she comes in for an interrogation.’

  ‘Interview?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  She pulled out her phone.

  ‘You again, Blake?’ the Chief said.

  ‘Me again. Thanks for the password, by the way.’

  ‘I’m hoping it wasn’t helpful.’

  ‘Hope away, Chief. I’ve been persuaded to take the diplomatic route . . .’

  ‘Always a wise option.’

  ‘Can you give AC Nunn a call and ask her to get her arse down to Hoddesdon for an interview?’

  ‘Oh God! I feel like lying down in a darkened room again.’

  ‘Do that after you’ve called the bitch, Sir. If she refuses to come tell her, I’m going to send people to arrest her at New Scotland Yard and notify the press a senior Met officer is implicated in a murder.’

  ‘You will not.’

  ‘Did you know she was born and brought up in Roydon?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Gilbert and I discovered that her mother was residing in Burnt Mill Residential Care Home, so we went over there to talk to her. Unfortunately, she died half an hour before we got there.’

  ‘That is unfortunate.’

  ‘But, as luck would have it, not the end of the world. We learnt that AC Nunn rarely visits her mother, and we also discovered that her mother was raped when she was twelve years old, gave birth to a baby boy who was taken from her immediately afterwards . . .’

  ‘And you’re thinking that this . . . man now, I suppose?’

  ‘He’s hardly likely to still be a baby, Chief.’

  ‘No, exactly. So, you’re thinking that he’s Roland Beagrie – AC Nunn’s half-brother?’

  ‘Everybody seems to know what I’m thinking – except me. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.’

  ‘And if you’re thinking that, you must also be thinking . . . Oh God! Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, Blake.’