by Tim Ellis
Jerry glanced at Bronwyn. ‘Is it possible that you can hack into Crimint and make these five cases visible?’
Ray’s eyes opened wide. ‘That’s totally illegal. I couldn’t be party to something like that.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Jerry,’ Bronwyn said. ‘We’re on our way to break into a new Mercedes and hack into the satnav. In the space of a month, your husband has risen to the top of the FBI’s most wanted list. If it wasn’t for me keeping him out of trouble, he’d be doing a ten-year stretch in the Belmarsh Prison.’
‘Is this true, Ray?’
‘She’s pulling your leg, darling.’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
‘I’m shocked you think I could possibly lie to you.’
‘He’s shocked and stunned, Mrs K,’ Joe echoed.
‘Well?’ Jerry said.
‘I suppose I could . . .’
‘Forget Jed and Mary. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but they’re investigating the case of a murdered woman . . .’
‘So what’s new? They’re always investigating someone’s murder. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
‘We’re all going to hell in a handcart, Mr K,’ Joe said.
Bronwyn kicked Joe’s chair. ‘Is there something medically wrong with you?’
Joe licked his lips.
‘I hope you’re not licking your lips and staring at my breasts at the same time?’
‘Mmmm! Did you say something?’
Ray pulled out his phone and stood up. ‘I have an idea.’ He walked out onto the concourse and made a call.
‘Who’s he calling, Mrs K?’ Shakin’ said.
‘Do you have your binoculars on you?’
‘I don’t have . . . Yeah, okay. You got me, Mrs K.’
Ray came back in. ‘If the masons are involved then I needed someone who wasn’t one, and because I’m not a mason I haven’t got a clue who is, and who isn’t.’
‘So who did you call?’
‘DI Esme Bolton at Romford. I worked with her on Dan’s murder. I recommended her for DI.’
‘She’s the one with eyes like piss holes in the snow, isn’t she?’ Bronwyn said.
Ray nodded. ‘That’s her.’
Jerry took a swallow of water. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said she hates Freemasons, because they exclude women.’
‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I said I’d give her a call when I knew where Lannister had hidden the other four murders.’
Bronwyn took out her laptop and logged into the free wifi. ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’
It took her five minutes to hack into Crimint and locate all the files relating to the murders of Helen Veldkamp, Beverley Manning, Charmaine Muldoon, Claire Saxby and Emily Hobson. She connected a gizmo to her USB port and after a few minutes said, ‘Bastards! The files were protected with encrypted passwords, but my cracker gizmo took care of those.’ She stared at Ray. ‘If your little playmate logs into Crimint and looks at the files they’ll know it was her, so I’ve created a dummy account called GOLLUM with the password BIRTHDAY.’ She wrote it on a slip of paper and passed it to Ray. ‘Also, if she logs into Crimint at her workstation, they’ll be able to trace that as well. Tell her to find an internet café somewhere and access the files from there.’
‘You’re a genius, Bronwyn,’ Jerry said.
‘It’s been said many times. But it doesn’t take a genius to realise that these people will probably do anything to stop the truth getting out, so tell her to be careful.’
Ray went out onto the concourse again and phoned Bolton. When he came back he said, ‘She’s going to take a look tonight and give me a call back tomorrow.’
‘Our work here is done then,’ Jerry said. ‘I’m going home, you two boys are going back to the Halls of Residence, and . . . My husband and his beautiful partner are going somewhere to break into a new Mercedes. All’s right with the world.’
‘Beautiful!’ Joe said, staring at Bronwyn’s breasts.
***
On the way to Barley Print in Cheshunt to question Summer Trent’s three friends: Lola Robinson, Cathy Hewitt and Alisha Bennett, they called in at the Plough in Flamstead End.
Parish ordered drinks at the bar, and then followed Richards to a table and sat down while they decided on the food.
Inside, the Plough was light, airy and friendly with red carpets, red brick pillars, and dark-wood furniture with chairs that had red cushioned seats.
With the table number memorised, he went back to the bar and ordered the food. He had the ten-ounce ribeye steak with triple cooked chips, mushrooms and peppercorn sauce. Richards chose the quinoa, edamame bean and brown rice salad.
‘That’s hardly training food,’ Richards chastised him when he returned to the table.
‘Men and women are different.’
‘I never would have guessed that. Are you sure?’
‘I have it on good authority. If I ate that bean salad I’d be sprinting to the toilets, not running the London Marathon. There’s significant differences in the male and female digestive tracts.’
‘Such as?’
‘Hormones and enzymes.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Most men can eat anything you throw at them. Women, on the other hand, are much more sensitive.’
‘It’s because of the babies, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Your body doesn’t belong to you, it’s merely a host whose primary purpose is to propagate the species.’
‘So, I’m just a host?’
‘And children are parasites, who are not too dissimilar from the alien that burst from John Hurt’s chest in the film Alien.’
‘I love that film.’
‘You just like the gore.’
‘What’s wrong with that? I had a teacher at school – Mrs Humphreys – who was much better than you at describing the human reproductive cycle.’
‘Human reproduction is just a trick nature plays on you. Why do you think you enjoy sex so much?’
‘Who says I do?’
‘Everybody does, not just you. It’s a ploy, a subterfuge, a ruse to get you to have a lot of sex and propagate the species. There’s no other reason to enjoy it so much. It’s simply a biological sleight of hand. Nothing more, nothing less, which is why women are different to men.’
‘We’ve got the last laugh though, haven’t we?’
‘Do you think?’
‘Yes, because we’ve invented contraception, men and women can enjoy sex without getting pregnant.’
‘That might seem hunky-dory to you, but it’s not. Our birth-rate has declined from an average of 2.4 children per female to 1.62 in twenty years. It’s called sub-replacement fertility. Each generation will be less populous than the previous generation, because you’re not replacing your mother and me. Humanity is dying out, Richards. If you don’t get your act together it’ll be bye, bye baby and thanks for all the fish. Just think of it, you could be the saviour of humanity.’
She laughed. ‘All on my own?’
‘The marathon training will help.’
‘Time is running out. My biological clock is ticking away. If I could just get a man, I might . . .’
‘You don’t fancy any of the male members of SCIT?’
‘Have you seen them?’
‘You’re not having much luck, are you?’
‘No luck at all, I’d say.’
‘When this is all over, we’ll have to find that relationship guru we were talking about. We’ll get you a man, don’t you worry. I have a picture of a poster in my head: A man with a handlebar moustache pointing at the person reading the poster, and a slogan in bold letters underneath:
Your country needs you
Mary Richards needs you
God Save the Queen
Queue here now
‘Yes, that could work.’
Richards laughed. ‘You’re crazy.’
‘Maybe only a cra
zy person can change the fate of humanity.’
The waitress brought their food. ‘Bon appetit.’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
They made quick work of the food and made their way to Cheshunt. Barley Print was just off Crossbrook Street in a factory unit on Montayne Road.
Inside the Reception, Parish showed his Warrant Card to the middle-aged woman. ‘DI Parish and DC Richards to see Lola Robinson, Cathy Hewitt and Alisha Bennett.’
‘Are you going to arrest them?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want to see them individually, or all at once?’
‘All at once?’
‘Is it anything to do with Summer Trent?’
Parish stared at the receptionist. ‘Should I have brought my solicitor with me?’
The woman smiled. ‘Sorry. My husband calls me the Inquisitor General.’
‘You’re husband’s a good judge of character.’
‘Would you like a room for privacy?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Coffee or tea?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘How long . . .?’
‘If you could just show us to the room and ask the women to join us?’
‘Of course – sorry. Please follow me.’
They followed the woman to a room that appeared to be a staff room. It had glass windows to three sides, a carpet, easy chairs and a small kitchen.
‘I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.’ She left to find the three women.
After about five minutes the three women appeared.
‘You’re here about Summer?’ one said.
‘Yes,’ Richards said. ‘Please, sit down.’ She indicated Parish. ‘This is my boss – DI Parish.’
They sat down. ‘Is Summer all right? We’ve been trying to call her, but there’s only her voicemail.’
‘She’s been kidnapped.’
‘Oh God!’ The three looked at each other.
‘As far as we know she’s all right at the moment, but we desperately need to find her. Can you tell us what happened last night?’
‘We can’t tell you much . . .’
Richards took out her notebook. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Lola.’
‘Okay. Carry on, Lola.’
‘We weren’t in there long, maybe half-an-hour, when Summer came up to us and said she was going.’
‘Going where?’
‘She said she’d found a man and he’d invited her to a party that would be full of celebrities. I told her not to go, but she wasn’t going to listen to me. Shit! She’d only just met the guy. We should have stopped her.’
One of the other women said, ‘You know what Summer was like. Once she’d made her mind up that was it. She was going to do what she was going to do, and no one was ever gonna stop her.’
Lola nodded. ‘I suppose.’
‘And did she introduce any of you to this man?’
‘No. She pointed him out, but the club was dark and there must have been a million people there. The music was really loud, and we could hardly hear what she was saying.’
‘Did she tell you his name?’
‘I thought she said Juan, but he didn’t look Spanish. Maybe she said John and I just didn’t hear her properly.’
‘Was there anything else?’
Lola looked at the others.
They shrugged.
‘She’ll be all right, won’t she?’
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Lola,’ Richards said. ‘We just don’t know.’
‘Good job, Richards,’ Parish said.
‘You don’t think I told them too much?’
‘No. You didn’t give them any specific information.’
‘Juan is Don Juan, isn’t it?’
‘I would say so. He’s playing games with us now. He thinks we’re never going to catch him.’
‘He’s probably right, isn’t he?’
‘Let’s wait and see, shall we? You never know, your criminal profiler might produce the goods.’
‘I hope so. Where to now?’
‘Back to the station. Five o’clock is fast approaching.’
***
After checking that Travis Farrow was still on his stake out at the address they’d been given: 31 Trinity Lane in Waltham Cross, they made their way there and pulled up behind him. A chain-smoking man in a rusty old Ford Fiesta with a crumpled right-hand front wing, wasn’t hard to spot.
Xena banged on the driver’s window.
‘Jesus! I thought my heart had stopped for a minute then,’ the man said.
‘Travis Farrow?’
‘I’m not signing any autographs at the moment.’
‘Who the fuck would want the autograph of a scruffy, unshaven overweight, chain-smoking man in a stained and creased suit?’
‘I have fans.’
‘Well, I’m not one of them.’ She showed him her Warrant Card. ‘DI Xena Blake and the stick is DS Gilbert.’
They climbed into the back of the Fiesta.
‘It stinks in here,’ she said.
‘Well, it’s not me. I had an extra-long shower this morning.’
‘Who are you trying to kid? You haven’t had a shower for at least a week. You stink of urine and rotting compost.’
‘It’s the car. I had it stolen by joyriders a few months back and they did things in it.’
‘There are such things as air fresheners and valets, you know?’
‘I keep meaning to, but you know how it is.’
‘Anyway, we’re not here to discuss your personal habits. Tell us about Melissa Boyd.’
‘A lovely woman. I found it hard to believe she’d had two children. She’d kept her figure well. I liked her blonde hair, and she had a nice smile. I remember she wore a low-cut patterned blue dress that revealed a cleavage a man could . . .’
‘Do you want me to arrest you?’
‘You personally? Or would it be someone else?’
‘Someone else?’
‘No thanks. If it had been you, I might have been persuaded. You do realise there are issues about client confidentiality, don’t you?’
‘Bollocks! Just tell us what you know?’
‘Okay. She came to see me about a month ago, wanted me to follow her husband. I told her it would cost her three hundred pounds a day plus expenses . . .’
‘Daylight fucking robbery.’
‘I work hard for my money.’
‘You call this working hard?’
‘I bet you’ve been on stake outs – this is hard work.’
‘Never mind what I have or haven’t been on, you just spill your guts, so that we can get the hell out of this festering cesspit.’
‘Anyway, she accepted my very reasonable terms and conditions and I began following her husband.’
‘And?’
‘He was having an affair with a woman called Alicia Collins who lived at . . .’
‘We know where she lives.’
‘Well, she was also a very handsome woman. Not that I’m any expert on the female form, but . . .’
‘Keep to the fucking point.’
‘I thought I was. So, I reported my findings back to Mrs Boyd, and handed over the compromising photographs I’d taken of her husband and Miss Collins having sex in the kitchen of . . .’
‘I bet you love peeping in through other people’s windows, don’t you?’
‘It’s the best part of the job. Plus, I get to keep copies of the photographs I’ve taken.’
‘Are you on the Sex Offenders Register?’
‘No, but I’m sure I should be.’
‘I’m sure you should be as well. So, anything else?’
‘Not unless you’d like to accompany me for dinner sometime?’
‘With you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘Keep dreaming, weirdo.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, here’s my card.’ He passed her a gru
bby business card.
‘I have just the place for this.’
‘I’ll wait for your call then.’
‘Forever is a long time, Marrow.’
‘As you can see – I’m a patient man.’
They climbed out of the car.
‘Let’s go to lunch, numpty.’
‘You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?’
‘You should be in an asylum. In a cage in the basement with a plastic mask covering your face.’
‘Like Hannibal Lector, you mean?’
‘Not exactly like him, but it would stop you talking rubbish, and if you did utter a few syllables – nobody would ever hear you.’
‘Am I paying for lunch?’
‘Is the Pope an infidel?’
‘It depends which side of the fence you’re on.’
They called in at the Green Dragon on Churchgate and were just finishing off their meals when Xena’s phone vibrated.
‘It’s me, Inspector.’
‘The only “me” I know is sitting across the table from me, so who are you?’
‘Mr Peckham.’
‘Pecker! Why didn’t you say so?’
‘I thought you’d recognise my voice, or at least have my name in your phonebook.’
‘So you expect me to do all the heavy lifting?’
‘I’ll say who I am next time, shall I?’
‘That would be good. So, did you just call to check whether I’d recognise your voice, if you were in my phonebook, or was there something else?’
‘We’ve found something.’
‘Something! You’ve already found Martin Boyd’s body, is this something you’ve now found, something else?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to say over the phone. You need to see for yourself.’
‘It would be helpful if you could find these somethings all at the same time in future, Pecker. Do you think we have oodles of time to keep driving back and forth to the crime scene? It’s getting like one of those poor-quality police dramas on the television where the detectives need to keep returning to the scene of the crime, because the forensic people didn’t do their jobs right in the first place. Or, they need to interview the witnesses half-a-dozen times, because they suddenly remember questions they should have asked during the first interview.’