The Gordian Knot (Stone & Randall 2)

by Ellis, Tim

  Chapter Thirteen

  The squad room was like the Marie Celeste. She could hear a cleaner pottering about somewhere, but the rest of her team had knocked off for the day – easy work if you could get it. She couldn’t go home yet, she had things to do.

  At ten to seven she rang the number Father Fleming had given her.

  ‘Deacon Lamont. How can I help?’

  She was thrown for a minute. She expected Father Fleming to answer his own mobile phone. ‘I’d like to speak to Father Fleming please.’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Molly Stone from Hammersmith MIT.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Father Fleming has been unexpectedly called to the Vatican.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I can assure you, Inspector, I’m not in the habit of telling lies.’

  ‘Why are you answering Father Fleming’s phone?’

  ‘It was ringing. He must have forgotten it in his haste to get to the airport.’

  What had happened to Father Fleming? Had he really gone to Vatican City? She doubted it. Just when he was about to tell her what the hell was going on, he gets called to the Vatican. No, it was far too convenient, but how had the Archbishop found out he was planning to talk to her?

  ‘Is the Archbishop there?’

  ‘He’s been called away on church business.’

  ‘To the Vatican as well?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to reveal the Archbishop’s movements.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Deacon Lamont.’

  ‘Is a Deacon higher than a priest?’

  ‘No, lower.’

  ‘What do you know about Father Grove?’

  ‘I know that he’s been murdered.’

  ‘Do you know where he was before he became the parish priest of St Peter-in-Chains church?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to the Archbishop if you want information like that.’

  ‘So he does know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know whether he knows or not. All I know is that I’m not authorised to reveal such information to you.’

  ‘So you do know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. I’m simply filling in for Father Fleming during his absence.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Inspector.’

  Just when she had her hands on the pot of gold it was snatched away. Now what the hell was she going to do? Why couldn’t an investigation be easy for once?

  After finding her own drawers bereft of Form D126A she eventually discovered one lurking in the clerical office and filled it in to request that George Swash be held for ninety-six hours. What was she going to tell the Chief in the morning? She had no choice but to lie. If she told the truth, they’d lock her up and throw away the key. She put the completed form on the desk of the Chief’s PA.

  Next she rang Strebler’s number at New Scotland Yard.

  ‘Yes?’ Someone snapped in her ear.

  ‘Inspector Strebler, please.’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘DI Molly Stone from Hammersmith MIT.’

  ‘You do know it’s . . . quarter past seven?’

  ‘Are you the speaking clock?’

  ‘No. I’m Chief Superintendant Michael Phillips.’

  Why couldn’t it have been a cleaner? Why had she given her real name? And why was a Chief Superintendant answering the damned phones? Maybe she should call it a day and go home. ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I need to speak to Inspector Strebler.’

  She heard him grunt. ‘We keep regular times here, DI Stone. At five thirty each day there’s a re-enactment of the Israelite Exodus from Egypt, or at least that’s how it seems. There’s only a few of us left at five thirty-one, and Inspector Strebler is not one of the few.’

  Regular times! What were those? Maybe she should get a transfer to the easy life. ‘I see. You couldn’t give me his home number . . . ?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to.’

  ‘I’ll give him a call and ask him to ring you back. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘That’d be great. Thanks, Sir.’ She gave the Chief Super her mobile number so that she wasn’t tied to her desk.

  ‘Nice talking to you, Stone.’

  She should have put the phone down then, but it was as if her self-destruct had activated of its own volition. ‘I thought the pay was good at your level, Sir.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘I’m just surprised that you have to take a second job answering the phones after hours.’

  ‘You should stop while you’re ahead, DI Stone.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, Stone.’

  She smiled and put the phone down.

  Now what? It was half past seven. She’d give Strebler five minutes to ring her back and then she’d make tracks for home. Tomorrow was bound to be another long day. First, she had to tell the Chief she was getting nowhere with the case, and then feed her a pile of horse manure about what had happened at Margravine Gardens. Then, she had to entertain the press like a performing seal . . . From there, she expected the day to go downhill like a bobsleigh on the Cresta Run.

  Her mobile activated.

  ‘Stone?’

  ‘Andrew Strebler. You wanted to talk to me urgently.’

  ‘You’re in charge of the ESW at Margravine Gardens?’

  ‘Is that a question or a statement of fact?’

  She already didn’t like the know-it-all bastard. ‘I’m trying to save your career here, so you’d better be nice to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This afternoon I went to hand over evidence to someone from the CCRC. When we opened up the storage unit and began checking that everything was in order we discovered an evidence bag containing a DNA sample had been compromised.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Everyone keeps telling me that it’s impossible, yet the seal on the bag had been torn open.’

  ‘It must have happened before the evidence was signed in . . .’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Strebler. Your people check everything in and out. The alarm would have been raised immediately.’

  ‘We have a state-of-the-art . . .’

  ‘You sound like a condemned man trying to shift the blame onto someone else. You’re in charge at the ESW, it’s down to you.’

  ‘Why are you informing me at this time of night? Why didn’t one of my sergeants call me this afternoon?’

  ‘I stopped them from contacting anybody.’

  ‘You had no authority . . .’

  ‘I don’t think you fully understand the implications of what’s happened at the ESW, Strebler. Somebody accessed a storage unit and broke the chain of evidence in a high-profile rape/murder case on your watch, which means the killer could be released back into the community prematurely. Also, it raises questions about the security system you have installed at the ESW, your procedures and the credibility of all the other evidence secured in there. There’ll be an investigation. The hierarchy will want someone to blame, a scapegoat. That will be you, Strebler. You’ll lose your job for sure, and you can kiss goodbye to your lucrative pension as well. Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m beginning to get the drift of what you’re telling me.’

  ‘I thought you might. Let me tell you exactly what happened this afternoon and what I’ve done so far to stop the wheels coming off the wagon, and then we can discuss what you’re going to do to help me and save your job and your pension in the process.’

  ‘Can I ring you back in half an hour?’

  ‘You . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m on board. I have two kids here who need to go to bed and they won’t sleep until I tell them a horror story.’

  ‘Whatever happened to fairy stories?’

>   ‘Aren’t they the same thing?’

  ‘Make it an hour then. I’ll drive home while I’m waiting for you to ring back.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And . . . don’t tell anyone else. Remember, your head will be the first that drops in the basket.’

  ‘I like my head where it is, thank you.’

  The call ended.

  She hoped he was on board. All she needed was for someone to squeal and the whole stack of bricks would come crashing down around her ears.

  Talking of which, why hadn’t Perkins kept her up to date?

  She phoned him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the bath.’

  ‘I hope that’s an acid bath in your laboratory and not a hot scented bath in the house where you’re going to die a horrible death.’

  ‘What can I do for you, DI Stone?’

  ‘I’d think that was obvious. I left you at the ESW in the expectation that you would keep me informed of progress.’

  ‘I recall saying to you that I’d found no fingerprints because in my humble opinion the storage unit had been wiped clean. I also recall telling you that I was taking swabs for residual DNA . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that it takes at least twenty-four hours to carry out the tests for DNA.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s just because . . .’

  ‘It’s because the tests take twenty-four hours.’

  ‘You could speed them up if you wanted to.’

  ‘Is there anything else, Inspector? The water’s getting cold.’

  ‘What about Red Rum?’

  ‘The people there wanted to go home. She hadn’t finished, so she created a firewall and then set up a remote link that only she can use. Have you checked forensics, she might still be there?’

  ‘What if she’s not?’

  ‘Then it’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Didn’t she tell you what she’d found?’

  ‘Goodnight, Inspector.’

  The line went dead.

  Everybody seemed to be dragging their heels today. Didn’t they realise that the world was coming to an end? Maybe she’d have to explain to them in no uncertain terms what that meant for their career prospects.

  She trudged over to forensics. The doors were locked and the lights were off.

  Shit in a hand basket!

  It was time to go home. She was running on empty.

  After collecting her things from her office she walked down to the car park. She would happily have asked for someone on the night shift to escort her out to her car, but if she did that where would it end? Once she reached her flat she’d need to walk from her car into the building, then catch the lift up to the fourth floor. And what about venturing into her empty flat. No, if she was that frightened she may as well hire a bodyguard, or become a recluse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  John Crabbe picked him up outside the cafe in a black Chevrolet Camaro SS.

  He’d seen the car, but hadn’t been in it.

  ‘Nice,’ he said wriggling into the leather bucket seat.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Randall.’

  Crabbe had tattoos of skulls, devils and naked females on his arms, his neck, his hands and probably some other places Randall had no intention of looking. Below the tattoos he had muscles, and then some more muscles beneath them and a long way under those muscles there were some blood vessels and bones. John Crabbe was built like a brick shithouse and could have crushed Randall with one hand while balancing on a tightrope and drinking a strawberry milkshake through a straw.

  They crossed over the Thames into Castelnau via the Hammersmith bridge and turned off at Riverside Gardens.

  ‘Living here must cost an arm and leg,’ Crabbe said looking up at the converted Harrods Furniture Depository building. It still had the faience warehouse front and the terracotta tiles advertising the name at the top.

  ‘An arm, two legs and half a liver I believe,’ Randall replied.

  In days gone by – when he’d been on the force – people like John Crabbe would have been on the other team. The two of them would have been squaring up to each other – riot gear and tear gas versus baseball bats and Molotov cocktails. Now, Randall was glad that they were both on the same side.

  Crabbe opened the boot, slid a secret panel to the left and passed Randall a sawn-off pump-action shotgun with a shoulder strap.

  ‘There’s ten cartridges in that.’

  He didn’t plan to use the weapon, but he took it anyway. After pumping a cartridge into the chamber he slid the strap onto his shoulder beneath the donkey jacket so that the gun was mostly out of sight except for four inches of the barrel. A shotgun was an effective deterrent, and it gave him something to hold on to when the fear of stepping into the unknown twisted his insides every which way.

  Crabbe – as well as his other interests – was a martial arts nut, and helped himself to a set of chain sticks and three throwing stars that he slipped into the pocket of his leather jacket.

  Randall phoned Reis.

  ‘Any change?’

  ‘No. He seems to be lying on the bed waiting for her to get home.’

  ‘I’m going on silent. I’ll phone you once it’s clear.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll be watching anyway.’

  They walked across the car park and Crabbe keyed in the code to open the lobby door.

  The doors to the lift gaped waiting for its next passengers. They stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  There didn’t appear to be anyone about. This was a respectable neighbourhood. The doors opened. Thankfully there was no bell indicating they had arrived.

  Molly lived at number seven.

  Crabbe opened her front door as if it was unlocked.

  He’d have to speak to her about some proper security. It was, after all, the business he was in.

  He closed the door once they were in.

  They sidled along the hallway and entered the living room.

  There was no one there.

  He switched the lights on and sat down in a chair looking along the corridor that led to the bedroom.

  Crabbe stayed out of sight behind the wall.

  ‘You can come out now,’ Randall called.

  There was no answer and no sounds of movement.

  ‘If I have to come in there and get you, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.’

  Still no response.

  ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned,’ Randall said pushing himself up out of the chair.

  ‘I’m coming out,’ a voice said from the darkness.

  As he sat down again he heard steps coming towards him along the corridor. A man – wearing a gabardine raincoat with the belt pulled tight at the waist - materialised from the darkness. His gloved hands were held up in surrender and on his face he wore a look of surprise.

  Randall pointed the shotgun at him.

  ‘What’s this about?’ the man said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I know exactly why you’re here, Jacob,’ Randall said. ‘I’ve been expecting you to come out of the woodwork.’

  ‘No, you’ve got the wrong man. My name is David Hill.’

  Had he got the wrong man? At the abandoned abattoir in Blood Alley next to Shepherd’s Bush Market he hadn’t actually seen Jacob. In fact, the only person who had seen him was Molly, and she’d been drugged up to the eyeballs. In his gut he knew Jacob was the man standing before him, but he had to be sure. If he was going to kill him, then he’d better be taking his revenge out on the right man. How could he be sure that this man was Jacob? The only way really was to compare his DNA with Pike’s and his other half-brothers. The trouble was, if he did that it would mean involving Molly and Perkins.

  ‘I know who you are Jacob Hansen. You might be calling yourself David Hill, but underneath you’re the man who butchered my wife and two children and tried to frame me for their murders.
’

  He nodded at Crabbe.

  Careful not to step between Jacob and the shotgun Randall was holding, Crabbe came from behind the wall and into the light. He twisted the man’s hands behind his back and looped a restraint around the wrists.

  Randall took his phone off silent and called Reis.

  ‘We have him.’

  ‘So I see. Just in time. She’s on her way home.’

  ‘Give me one ring when she arrives.’

  The call ended.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ Jacob said in a whining voice. ‘I’m just a burglar.’

  ‘I’d advise you to keep quiet, Jacob. If you speak again I’ll cut out your tongue.’ To Crabbe he said, ‘Search him.’

  Crabbe was efficient in his search, but all he found was a wallet that he tossed to Randall.

  He opened up the wallet to find nearly a thousand pounds in fifties, and a credit card and driving licence in the name of David Hill. He slipped the wallet into his own pocket.

  ‘Check the bedroom, especially the bed.’

  ‘Anything in particular I’m looking for?’

  ‘A syringe and needle. Possibly a gun.’

  While Crabbe was conducting his search of the bedroom, Randall stared at Jacob. Not for the first time, he wondered how such a monster could be created. As a murder detective he had seen some horrific sights and hunted down some truly evil psychopaths, and yet in every case he believed that the criminals had made a choice to do what they did.

  In the courts, a person’s childhood, environment, life chances and so forth are submitted as mitigating factors to explain why they did what they did. In his view it was all hogwash. Many people had suffered the most appalling deprivation as children and as adults, yet they chose to live normal lives – or as normal as possible under the circumstances.

  He believed that psychopaths were born without the ability to empathise with other people, feel guilt or remorse. If nurture was the determining factor, then psychopaths could be treated. Yet, in every case, psychopaths didn’t change their spots.

  ‘I’ve searched everywhere – nothing,’ Crabbe said as he came back into the room.