The Gordian Knot (Stone & Randall 2)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘No.’ She certainly wasn’t going to reveal the ATHEOS message. The police had to keep some secrets from the public.

  ‘Simeon Herbert from the Havering Informer,’ an overweight man with ruddy cheeks said. ‘Do you think that it has anything to do with the recent spate of child sexual abuse cases, Inspector?’

  ‘As I said before, Mr Herbert, we have no idea what the motive for the murder might be.’

  The next woman who stood up had a dark brown hairy wart on her top lip, a bent nose, short red hair, rings through her nose and bottom lip and a half-smoked cigarette behind her left ear.

  ‘Kelly Upshaw from the Hammersmith Herald. Would you care to comment on the David Haig case, which is under review by the Criminal Cases Review Commission?’

  So, that was Kelly Upshaw. Maybe she should lock the ugly bitch up in the cell next to Swash.

  ‘No, Miss Upshaw I wouldn’t. This is a press briefing concerning the murder of a well-respected priest within the parish of Hammersmith, not an opportunity to discuss the spurious claims of innocence of a convicted rapist and murderer.’

  She stood up.

  ‘Thank you all very much for coming. There’ll be a further briefing tomorrow morning at the same time.’

  She wanted to bolt from the room, but she walked slowly instead. In the corridor she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her heart was certainly getting plenty of exercise. Did Cole Randall really have Jacob? God, she hoped so. Her hand felt the envelope in her jacket pocket. Now she needed to go over to forensics to speak to Perkins.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Randall decided that the man following him was a flunky. He was dressed in jeans, a dark grey weatherproof jacket with the hood up, was in his mid-twenties, unshaven and hungry-looking.

  The question whooshing through the ventricles of his brain was: Why was he being followed? At first he thought of Jacob Hansen, but as he’d picked up the tail at the O’Connor residence it was a safe bet that the two things were related, which raised even more questions. Was someone looking for the O’Connors? Were they in hiding? Could someone have kidnapped them, but not found what they were looking for? Were Jim and Colleen still alive? There were a myriad other questions, but the more questions he posed the more complicated it became. He tried not to think too much.

  He phoned Athena as he walked along Bollo Road back to the station.

  ‘Hello again, Mr Randall. I’m beginning to feel like your secretary.’

  ‘I’m sure you’d make a very good secretary, but I’d have to interview you first before I can say yes or no.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that. What can I do for you now?’

  ‘I’m being followed.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘In a way it’s good, but I need two people to follow him.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ He was going to reach the station before he’d finished the conversation, and he didn’t want to lose the signal as he descended into the bowels of the earth, so he stopped and sat on a wall.

  The man carried on walking, but also stopped and loitered outside the station at a stall that sold bags, umbrellas, newspapers, magazines, drinks and sweets.

  ‘It means that your investigation has taken on a life of its own.’

  ‘Investigations have a way of doing that.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but as you know yourself the investigation side of the business is in its infancy and we don’t have enough people who have been trained to follow people. You’re already using the four I hired.’

  ‘I have an idea that we can discuss at our next board meeting. In the meantime, what about loaning two people from another agency? We might be able to poach them in the future if they’re any good.’

  ‘That would be unethical, Mr Randall.’

  ‘Which part – loaning them or poaching them?’

  ‘Both probably.’

  ‘Listen, I’m going to the City of London and then on to South Ockendon in Essex, so I’m happy for him to follow me for the rest of the day. What I’m particularly interested in is where he goes once I go home.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, Athena. And if you need a reference anytime – just let me know.’

  ‘Or, I could do some research on how to dissolve a partnership.’

  The call ended.

  Yes, he was right, he did need back up. Not just technical back up, but back up in other areas as well. He couldn’t be out in the field and back at the office organising things as well. If they were going to run a investigative agency then they ought to do it properly. They needed to sort things out and he had an idea about how to do that.

  In the tube station he bought a ticket to Monument. It was a straight-forward run on the District Line again. The journey time was twenty-six minutes, which gave him a bit of time to look at some of the reports in his bag. Also, it wasn’t rush hour anymore. It was still busy, but he found a seat and began reading. He had time to examine the reports relating to Jim and Colleen’s joint bank account, joint credit card account, their mobile telephones and their home phone number.

  As usual Ruby had annotated the reports. For example, where income and expenditure on the bank and credit card reports wasn’t completely obvious, she had drilled down into each system to find out. As a result, he was able to read through and understand each line entry without having to annotate them himself with a highlighter pen or write question marks next to any queries.

  The reports went back three months, and he was able to determine that the couple liked to dine out at a variety of restaurants at least twice a month – their favourite being the Canta Napoli on the High Street; Colleen did the majority of her shopping at a local supermarket; all the utility bills were paid for by direct debits; they had a savings account that contained the grand sum of a hundred and three pounds, which hadn’t shifted up or down during the period; and . . . Everything he discovered about the pair indicated the same thing: Jim and Colleen were Mr & Mrs Average – no more, no less. What had happened to change that?

  Next he waded through their mobile phone reports – nothing out of the ordinary. The last report was for their home phone number. Ruby had highlighted five incoming calls – lasting between three and five minutes – from one number, which no longer had a GPS signal – it was a throw-away phone that had been purchased three weeks ago in a shop called London Souvenirs located on Lovat Lane not far from Oyster Wines & Spirits.

  The train pulled into Monument station. He left the train and made his way to the surface making sure that he didn’t lose his tail.

  Oyster Wines & Spirits was in Pudding Lane. He walked along Eastcheap for a short distance and then turned right. He expected to find a shop front with wines and spirits, glasses, home-brew beer and such like on display similar to an off-licence, but there were two large frosted windows with the name in oyster grey emblazoned across both. Also, people couldn’t walk right in off the street and purchase a magnum of booze to satisfy the discerning palate, they had to press a buzzer – which he did.

  ‘Hello?’ a disconnected voice asked.

  He looked up. As well as a speaker there was also a CCTV camera.

  ‘My name is Cole Randall. I’m from AI Investigations, and I’m looking into the disappearance of Colleen O’Connor.’

  The door clicked open.

  Pushing the door, he edged in.

  He’d obviously got the wrong idea about Oyster Wines & Spirits. He found himself in what looked like a small typing pool. There were seven desks with a computer on each – two of the desks were occupied.

  ‘When you say that Colleen has disappeared,’ a young woman faking an upper-class accent said. ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘It means that she disappeared with her husband in the Blackwall Tunnel on Saturday morning. Nobody has seen them since.’

  She turned to the other woman – who was middle-aged with a strange stacked hair-d
o that boasted a miniature Zulu spear stabbed through it – and said, ‘I think you owe me a bottle of Chateau Margaux 1999, Laveen.’

  The older woman laughed like an elephant giving birth. ‘You don’t know that she didn’t have the flu when she disappeared.’

  ‘One of these days you’re going to pay me what you owe me, Laveen.’

  ‘One of these days, Holly, you’re going to do some work.’ The older woman stood up and walked towards him. ‘Hello. Disregard Holly, she has lack of alcohol issues. My name is Laveen Edminson – the Cocktails and Spirits editor and the assistant editor of Oyster Wines & Spirits.’

  ‘It’s a newspaper?’

  ‘A monthly magazine actually – for trade outlets and connoisseurs of wines and spirits all over the world.’

  ‘I see.’ He smiled. ‘I thought it was a shop.’

  She made a show of looking at the interior of the large room. ‘Hardly. How can we help you?’

  ‘I’ve been employed by Jim and Colleen’s parents to find out what happened to them. I’m just here to ask you a few questions.’

  She winked at him. ‘Always a good strategy to arrive in the morning if you want sensible answers – ask away.’

  He took out his notebook and pencil. ‘Besides Colleen, are you two the only people who work here?’

  ‘Oh no. Wines and spirits is big business. There are new opportunities opening up all the time. We have two part-time staff: Heather Eddington – Food and Travel; and James Montgomery – Collecting and Wine Investment. There are also two members of staff who aren’t here at the moment: James Montgomery writes the Wine Basket. He’s on a jaunt to the vineyards in Lombardy, Puglia, Sicily, Sardinia and Tuscany; and Hilary Hudson who writes the News & Features page. She’s having a baby and working from home – the consequences of liking sex and sparkling wine in equal measure. Then, of course, there’s the managing editor – Eric Crisp – who also covers Events.’ She looked up at a clock on the wall that was all distorted and twisted, and Randall guessed it would probably look normal to these dipsomaniacs by the end of the day. ‘In fact, he’s gone to a wine and cheese matching masterclass at the London Wine Academy today.’

  ‘And what does Colleen do?’

  ‘Oh yes, let’s not forget Colleen. She covers People and Places.’

  ‘In the wines and spirits trade?’

  Laveen rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a bit more involved than that.’

  ‘How involved?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit at Colleen’s desk and look at some back issues of the magazine? That way, you’ll get what you want and I can get on with my work. Colleen has really dropped us in it by disappearing. We’re all doubling up at the moment, and I can tell you that’s no fun.’

  She pointed to Colleen’s desk and brought him a box file with the previous ten issues of Oyster Wines & Spirits inside.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Now he came to the think of it, he was kind of thirsty. He hadn’t had a drink since about seven-thirty. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Red or white? Or would you like something a teeny-weeny bit stronger?’

  He laughed. ‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Any o’clock is wine o’clock. Isn’t that right, Holly?’

  ‘Hic! You bet.’

  ‘Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you I’ll have a coffee.’

  ‘Holly, do you remember how to make coffee?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Can you? If I ever knew, I’m afraid the knowledge has been washed away in a Chianti tsunami.’

  Holly stood up. ‘I’ll try, but no promises.’

  There were saner people incarcerated in Springfield Asylum. He opened up the latest magazine and rifled through it until he came to People and Places by Colleen O’Connor.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Good morning, DI Stone,’ Perkins said when she walked into his laboratory. ‘How are you this fine morning?’

  ‘Fine morning! It’s bloody freezing outside.’ She had a thermal vest on beneath a roll-neck jumper and her leather jacket.

  ‘There’s more to life than the weather.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She passed him the envelope Randall had given her.

  He opened it up as if it might be an improvised explosive device and peered inside. ‘It’s a few strands of hair.’

  ‘I see you’ve not lost your keen powers of observation on this fine morning.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do with them?’

  ‘Compare them against George Hansen’s offspring.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Jacob?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s what I want you to find out.’

  ‘You have permission from the owner of these hairs to carry out a DNA analysis, and the Chief has authorised the expenditure?’

  Turning round, she twisted the lock on the door. She didn’t plan to tell him who had given her the hairs. There was no point in complicating matters any further than they already were.

  He backed up. ‘You’re not going to hit me, are you?’

  ‘You and I have had our differences Perkins, but I like to think we’re on the same side. Are we on the same side?’

  ‘You’re going to ask me to break the law, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to work with me on this, and that relies on you not asking questions you don’t need to know the answers to. For example, you can swallow up the cost of that analysis within the Father Grove case. Also, I’m the only person who requires a report, so you can simply tell me what your findings are. Nothing needs to be written down.’

  ‘And what will happen to the person these hairs belong to if I find that there is a relationship to George Hansen?’

  ‘You see, that’s a question you don’t need to know the answer to.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can . . .’

  She moved towards him. ‘Sit down.’

  He sat on a stool, a worried expression etched on his face.

  ‘Let me tell you what really happened in that abattoir, shall I? Those bastards raped me. Not just once, but dozens of times before I killed them. In the hospital, Jacob came and injected me with more Rohypnol. He said he hadn’t forgotten me. Now, I’m so frightened I can barely get out of bed in the mornings.’ Tears rolled down her face and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t need to know. Just like you don’t need to know what will happen to the person those hairs belong to after you inform me of your findings. You simply forget everything. Are you going to help me, or not?’

  He rubbed the palms of his hands up and down his thighs and bit his bottom lip. ‘This one time . . .’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Look Perkins, things are not black and white anymore. Everything is changing, and we have to change with it. Were you here when Randall put Haig away?’

  ‘No, before my time, but I was going to tell you about that.’

  ‘Tell me about what?’

  ‘The results have just come back. I didn’t find any residual DNA in the storage unit at the ESW. Everything had been wiped clean. Also – and you’re not going to like this – but the DNA inside the evidence bag belongs to a dog – a Boxer as a matter of interest.’

  ‘Somebody’s switched it?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  It wasn’t a complete surprise. ‘What do you think is going to happen now?’

  ‘Well, Haig will be . . . No. You can’t ask me . . .’

  ‘Haig is a rapist and a murderer, Perkins. Do you want to see that sick bastard back on the streets? If nothing else, think of his victim – Chelsea Mey. Christ, it would be a fucking disaster.’

  ‘That would hardly be my fault.’

  ‘How would you feel if he raped and murdered another woman after he was released?’

  ‘It would have nothing to do with me. I’m simply doing my job.’ />
  ‘Will you be able to sleep at night if you tell yourself that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have the opportunity to keep him locked up. If you miss that opportunity then it will have something to do with you, and it will be your fault.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair.’

  ‘Stop being so fucking naive. Life isn’t fair. Someone’s let the jinn out of the bottle. We have to stuff it back in and make sure it stays there for good this time.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘You’ve said that already. Stop sitting on the fence. This is something we have to do, Perkins.’

  ‘There are laws . . .’

  ‘If Haig can get out of jail for free then those laws aren’t worth shit, are they? We have to make some adjustments, compensate for shoddy workmanship until such time as those pathetic politicians can get it right. We have to fight fire with fire.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘Are you going to help me, or not? I’m committed to keeping Haig in prison. Will you help me, or do I have to work around you?’

  ‘What are you planning to do?’

  ‘We have to put everything back as it was.’

  ‘But Haig’s DNA has gone.’

  ‘Then we have to get some more.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘For someone with a PhD you can be really dense sometimes. How did we know the sperm belonged to Haig?’

  ‘Well, we had other . . .’

  ‘Exactly. It wasn’t the only sample of Haig’s DNA that we had in the system. Find one of the other samples, re-label it to match the previous sample in the Chelsea Mey case, slip it into an evidence bag, seal it and put everything back in the storage unit. Nothing happened, and nothing will happen. Haig remains in prison where he belongs, and we can now sleep the sleep of the righteous.’

  ‘We’d never get away with that.’

  ‘Yes we will.’

  ‘You’re forgetting about Sergeant Cooke and . . .’

  ‘If Haig is released, a lot of people will lose their jobs. Sergeant Cooke is one of those people. I rang Inspector Strebler last night. He’s responsible for the ESW and will be the first person in the queue at the Job Centre. Unsurprisingly, he’s agreed that it would be in everybody’s best interests if we put things back as they were and forget it ever happened.’