by Ellis, Tim
‘It’s you who won’t get away with perverting the course of justice, Mr Swash.’ She walked out of the cell. ‘Lock the door, Sergeant.’
‘I want my phone call, and I want to speak to a solicitor,’ Swash shouted through the metal door.
‘You’re sure he’s had his phone call, Ma’am?’
‘I’m sure.’
After signing the custody book, she walked back up the stairs to the incident room.
‘Hello, Gov,’ Tony said when he saw her. ‘I was beginning to think you’d stayed in bed.’
‘Everything’s about bed with you, isn’t it? Talking of which, how did your date with Constable Ross go?’
He grinned. ‘Another notch on the bedpost.’
‘There’s a name for people like you.’
‘Is there?’
‘Lothario.’
‘Lothario Read – No, I don’t think my mum would like me to change my name to that.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘They were here, but now they’re out chasing leads. They all said hello and then waved goodbye.’
‘What time is Father Grove’s post mortem?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘I’d love a coffee.’
‘Coming right up.’
He wandered off to the kitchen.
The fallout from the fiasco at Margravine Gardens had subsumed the murder case she was meant to be working on. She needed to forget about Haig now and concentrate on solving Father Grove’s murder.
There were a few files and messages that people had left on her desk, but they could wait. No doubt her email account would be overflowing – she’d check it later if there was time.
Tony had brought the incident board up to date with what they knew about Father Grove, which wasn’t very much. He’d been the parish priest at St Peter-in-Chains church on Hegel Road in Hammersmith for eighteen months. In the early hours of yesterday he’d been stripped naked – except for his clerical collar and a barbed wire crown – and crucified using authentic Roman nails and a spear. Why not a crown of thorns? Tony had stuck a selection of photographs up. Why was the priest naked? Even Christ wore a loin cloth – didn’t he? Maybe Christ had been naked and the loin cloth was added by artists to protect his modesty when they depicted him on the cross. She’d have to ask someone about that. And what about ATHEOS? Why had someone called a priest Godless? And why use Greek instead of English?
Then there was Archbishop Henry Godfrey. What did he really know? Why was he refusing to cooperate by hiding behind the seal of the confessional? Why had he made it personal by mentioning her father and Jacob? And why had he gone into hiding?
Why had Father Fleming been willing to talk to her? What had happened to him? Had he really been called to the Vatican?
Was Father Grove a homosexual? Did it have any bearing on his murder? Who was Marshall Grant? How and why had he come back from the dead?
There were too many questions. She needed some answers, and she needed them quickly.
She picked up the phone and rang Perkins.
‘Yes?’
‘Me again.’
‘You’re not . . . ?’
‘Stop having panic attacks every time I ring you . . .’
‘You can understand . . .’
‘And while we’re on the subject and I’m sitting here on my own, Inspector Strebler is going to liaise with you directly about the partial print and the replacement DNA.’
‘Oh God!’
‘I’m calling about the fingerprints found at the house and . . .’
‘You must be psychic. The results have just come in.’
Tony returned with two mugs of coffee and placed one of them in front of her. He sat at his own desk waiting for her, so she put the call on loudspeaker.
‘You’re on loudspeaker,’ She warned Perkins. ‘DC Read is here listening in.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘If I were a psychic you wouldn’t want to know me. You know the police don’t get involved with psychics.’
‘You’re probably right. Well, at least we now know who the priest was.’
‘Go on?’
‘Marshall Grant.’
She saw Tony nearly choke on his coffee. Neither of them had expected that answer.
‘Crap.’
‘Oh! I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘If you recall, Marshall Grant died in a hit-and-run accident in Salisbury in 2012, so how can he possibly be a crucified priest now?’
‘Good point.’
‘It also raises a multitude of questions about how a dead petty criminal from Salisbury can come back from the dead, and then appear in a Catholic Church in Hammersmith as a parish priest.’
‘Somebody must have altered the records.’
‘Which generates another snake-pit of questions. Obviously, Marshall Grant never died in a hit-and-run accident in 2012, or did he? The person stored on the database is either Marshall Grant, or he’s somebody else entirely. We need to go back to the source. It’s the only way we’ll find out who Father Nathan Grove was. Get Red Rum to look into it.’
‘Okay.’
Tony stood up, wandered over to the incident board and began making notes of what Perkins had told them.
‘So, either Marshall Grant became Nathan Grove, or somebody who is unknown to us became Marshall Grant and then Nathan Grove?’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Perkins.’
‘Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide who Father Grove used to be.’
‘It didn’t do him much good,’ Tony mumbled.
Molly waved him to be quiet. She hated people talking to her when she was on the phone. Even though she had two ears she could still only hear one person speaking at a time. ‘We’ve also got the problem of identifying who the second set of prints belong to.’
‘Yes. Unless we get a match, there’s not much we can do with them.’
‘You’re meant to be telling me things I don’t know, Perkins.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, thanks for ruining my day.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She banged the phone down.
Tony scratched his head. ‘Is Perkins saying that Father Nathan Grove could be an alias on top of an alias?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘That’s certainly one way to disappear.’
She took a sip of her coffee. ‘There’s also another possibility.’
‘I’m struggling to wrap my head around the one we’ve got already.’
‘What if Father Nathan Grove was a real person, and Marshall Gant – or whoever the original person is – murdered him and stole his identity.’
‘We found nothing at all on Nathan Grove.’
‘No. Maybe we need to have another look at that. The Archbishop is hiding something. At least now we know that the priest isn’t Nathan Grove, and I’m beginning to think that it’s about a lot more than someone stealing a priest’s identity.’
She picked up Father Grove’s desk mat, blotter sheets and the two diaries for 2011 and 2012. ‘We have a bit of time before . . .’
‘Don’t forget about lunch.’
‘Everything’s about food with you . . .’
‘I thought everything was about bed.’
‘Bed and food.’
Tony grinned. ‘Yeah, that sounds about right.’
Molly passed him two of the blotter sheets and the 2011 diary. ‘See what you can find.’
She examined the desk mat, the top blotter sheet and the 2012 diary.
When they came across a telephone number they would ring it to verify who it belonged to. Names were fed into the database to find out who they were and whether there was any criminals lurking between the doodles and scribbles..
Afterwards, the only thing that they hadn’t crossed off was a set of numbers that didn’t appear to be a telephone number: 0531080870418.
‘Maybe the first four digits are the international code,’
Tony suggested.
After a bit of research he discovered that 0531 was the old code for Konongo in the Ashanti region of Ghana. He tried ringing the number but all he got was the “unobtainable” tone.
Molly stood up. ‘You said you wanted lunch?’
He grinned. ‘I definitely recall saying something along those lines.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
After re-surfacing at Upminster mainline station he discovered that he needed to catch the No. 370 bus to South Ockendon due to repair work being carried out on the tracks. He hated buses. They always made him feel sick. Maybe it was time to get a car again. He used to have a car – a red Volkswagon Sirocco with go-faster rust on the sills – before they’d committed him to Springfield Asylum. Each year the MOT test had been touch and go while he paced outside the garage like an expectant father.
There was a text message on his phone from Salih Reis telling him that Molly and Read were on the move, and the hooded man was still following him.
Again, the travel conditions for reading were far from ideal, but he made the effort to examine the rest of Ruby’s reports anyway. He selected the bulky report on the owners of the cars entering and leaving the Blackwall Tunnel first. There were a hundred and seventy-three cars. Five of them didn’t have insurance. Did the police pick that up? Twelve weren’t displaying tax discs. An anonymous report to the police crossed his mind – once a copper always a copper. With the exception of five cars clumped together around the time the O’Connors disappeared, the time taken by each car to travel through the tunnel was around three minutes thirty. Of the five cars, four had taken between three minutes thirty and six minutes thirty, which suggested that they had slowed down to look at something. The fifth car had taken eight minutes forty. Each of the five vehicle owners deserved a visit and that was probably what he’d be doing tomorrow.
Next, he looked at the reports for George Swash’s mobile number, home number, bank account, credit card account and online activity – the last seven pages of which were missing.
As it turned out, he didn’t need the missing pages to discover what George Swash was up to – he was a paedophile. The clues – like fingerprints – were all over his financial records and online activity. Ruby had made copious annotations, tracking online payments and websites to their sources. He’d tried to cover his tracks by using military software that cloaked his identity via an encrypted tunnel and a proxy server, but Ruby had obviously found a way in.
He wondered how Kelly Upshaw and David Haig had found out about George Swash’s predilection for young boys. Maybe there was someone else involved in helping Haig to get out of prison. He looked again at Kelly Upshaw’s records and found who he was searching for – Bruce Underwood. He advertised himself as a computer specialist, but Ruby had written a nearly-illegible expletive next to his name.
It had been hours since he’d eaten breakfast. Lotus Systems was located on Bonnygate Wood industrial estate on the edge of the town. He guessed there’d be no food outlets there, so when he saw the Royal Oak pub overlooking the village green he jumped off the bus. The hooded man took up an observer’s position outside.
Inside, he ordered half a lager and lime to drink, and a brie and caramelised onion panini with fries and salad to eat. It was dark inside with a brick fireplace. The beams and wooden stanchions had been painted black, the carpet was a mixture of deep blue and red and the lights were on. He found a table by a window that looked out over the green and he spotted the hooded man leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette. There was a pond and ducks were waddling about.
He took a swallow of his drink and phoned Molly.
‘Hello?’
‘Can you speak?’
‘I can listen.’
‘That’ll make a change.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘Swash is a paedophile – he likes young boys.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘Haig and Upshaw are blackmailing him.’
‘Seems likely.’
‘Also . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Bruce Underwood – a computer specialist – is helping them.’
‘Okay.’
‘What about the DNA?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘You’ll ring me as soon as you know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
The call ended.
He smiled. Of course she’d ring him. It was a stupid question.
A plump young woman with a ring in her top lip and large black discs in her earlobes brought his food.
‘Thanks,’ he said and wondered if the whole of humanity was devolving back to prehistoric times, or whether it was just the youth of South Ockendon.
‘Would you like anything else, Sir?’
Proffering his glass he said, ‘Another lager and lime would be good, thanks.’ He was starving and began devouring the panini and chips like a gannet.
The waitress returned with his lager.
He gave her a ten pound note and told her to keep the change. She didn’t seem to be impressed by his generosity, and – not for the first time – he wondered whether euthanasia should be introduced for the young not the old.
After obtaining directions to the industrial estate from the barmaid he decided to walk because he was feeling sleepy and the exercise would do him good as well.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the Bonnygate Wood industrial estate, and another five minutes to locate Lotus Systems, which had set up shop in a two-storey office block with mirrored windows. Further along the road he could see buildings that were more like the industrial units he was used to.
He pushed open the main door and walked in.
‘Yeah?’ asked a pretty young woman sitting behind a desk, chewing gum. Her hair was tied back in an attempt at a ponytail with the exception of two rats tails hanging down on either side of her face. She wore a leather jacket and a red and white striped top stretched tight over an extended stomach.
Lights were flashing on a telephone system, which she ignored.
‘Good afternoon.’ He smiled like a uPVC window and cladding salesman. ‘Would it be possible to talk to someone about Jim O’Connor.’
‘Fucking bastard.’
‘I’m sorry?’ He didn’t know whether she was referring to him or Jim.
‘You think I got myself like this?’ she asked pointing at her stomach.
He could see the outline of her navel through the taut material. ‘Are you saying Jim O’Connor got you pregnant?’ She was barely out of her teens, and Jim O’Connor was twenty-nine.
‘Fucking right that’s what I’m saying.’
‘But he’s married.’ After he said it, he realised how stupid it sounded.
‘He said he was gonna leave her for me.’
‘I see.’
Her face contorted into something that didn’t look pretty anymore. ‘So, where is he?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘Well, when you do find him, tell him . . .’
‘Ginny!’
A man had entered through one of the three doors to the right. He was in his early forties with a receding hairline, wore an open-necked blue and white shirt, and around his neck a memory stick dangled from the end of a blue cord.
Ginny stuck her bottom lip out.
‘And you are?’
‘Cole Randall from AI Investigations. I’m here about Jim O’Connor.’
‘Gary McCann, the owner and CEO of Lotus Systems.’ He stuck his hand out.
Randall shook the proffered hand.
‘Take no notice of Ginny,’ McCann said. ‘Hormones are playing up.’
‘Huh! Ginny muttered.
‘I’m sure Mr Randall would like a coffee . .. .’
He held up his hand. ‘No thanks, I’m fine. I’ve just had my lunch. If you could point me in the direction of the bathroom though . . . ?’
‘Of course.’ He indicated a door in the corner behind Ginny. ‘Over there.�
��
As he walked towards the toilet he heard McCann berating the young woman. He shouldn’t have had that extra glass of lager and lime. He’d heard that the older men became the more they needed to urinate, and the more their penis dripped. Maybe he should see the doctor about getting a catheter inserted, so that he wasn’t walking round with a permanent wet patch on the front of his trousers.
When he’d finished wringing every drop of urine from his penis he returned to the reception and could see that Ginny had been crying.
McCann was waiting for him. ‘Please, come through.’
He followed him into an office.
‘So, you’re here about Jim?’
‘Yes. I’ve been asked by his and Colleen’s parents to investigate their disappearance.’
‘Hell of a thing.’
He sat down in the easy chair opposite McCann. ‘You have no ideas?’
‘Not unless you count Ginny’s father and two brothers.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, you can imagine that getting pregnant to a married man was not really what the Moran’s had in mind for her.’
‘Are they likely to have done something stupid?’
‘Oh yes, but you’d have heard about it by now. There would be blood all over London. They’re not the type of people to do things quietly.’
‘You don’t think they kidnapped the O’Connors then?’
‘No. They’d have beaten Jim to a pulp there and then, but they wouldn’t have touched Colleen. Also, he’s the father of Ginny’s baby. She wouldn’t have let them kill him.’
‘They sound like the ideal neighbours.’
‘Only if you want to be terrorised in your own home. Ginny would never have got the job if I’d known what her family were like, but questions about one’s family aren’t covered in an interview. I’ve had to call the police out to them twice.’
‘What – they come here?’
‘Only when Ginny gets upset. If I ever sack her I know what will happen.’
‘How did she get pregnant?’
‘I think it’s fairly obvious how that happened, don’t you?’
He smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘We won an award. To celebrate we all went to the pub for a few drinks. I left. Jim stayed. As you’ve seen, Ginny’s very attractive. She led him a merry dance round the back of the pub and . . . I think you can guess the rest. In this day and age I can’t imagine why a young woman wouldn’t be taking the pill.’