by Ellis, Tim
‘Bloody hell,’ she said out loud.
She desperately wanted to go to bed. The Chief expected a briefing at eight thirty, and there was a press conference at nine, but she couldn’t go to bed looking like this.
Stepping into the shower, she wondered if she’d make it through the day. And where were they going with the case? She hoped that Professor Louis could open the mneme. Whatever was inside might give them a clue to what was going on.
Then it hit her.
Her tears mingled with the hot dirty water. She collapsed onto the floor of the shower and cried until there was nothing left inside. She was just a frightened little girl again, but now she had no mum or dad to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. She had no one, and nothing would ever be right again.
Eventually, when she was all washed out and numb, she dried herself and crawled into bed. Sleep came quickly, and she dreamed of a little girl lost in a dark forest.
Chapter Thirty-One
The alarm had woken her at six thirty. She’d had about three hours sleep. At first, she felt reasonably human, but now, sitting at her desk, she was beginning to transmogrify. It would be a miracle of epic proportions if she could get through the day without lying down, closing her eyes and snoring like a grizzly bear.
On the outside she looked as she always looked, but underneath her hair, her clothes and the skilful application of make-up she was a bloody mess. The cuts and bruises were painful to touch, and she felt as though she had premature arthritis in her joints, they were that stiff. Christ, she’d only been back at work for three days and she needed a holiday already.
‘Morning, Gov,’ Tony said flashing a wonderful set of white teeth at her as he came into the squad room.
‘Hi, Tony.’
‘Have you got coffee?’
She looked down at the mug nestling in the palms of her hands. Yes, she’d been planning on making a coffee, but then she’d sat down and her brain had slipped into neutral.
‘Coffee would be good,’ she said. ‘Strong and black, please.’
‘Bad night?’
‘You could say that. Anyway, what happened about your car?’
‘Let me make the coffee first, and then I’ll tell you the whole sordid story.’
He took her mug and headed to the kitchen.
What was she going to tell the Chief? Her head was full of cotton wool. What did they do yesterday? All she could remember was the silver mneme and taking it to Professor Louis at King’s College in the Strand. Did they do anything else? She’d have to ask Tony, he would have made notes.
What was she going to tell the press? Maybe she should have called in sick. Maybe she should go home sick. Maybe she was sick.
Tony put a steaming mug of black coffee in front of her.
‘You look like a zombie.’
She took a sip of the red hot liquid. ‘So kind. It’s a wonder you get any women at all.’
‘Anyway, I got my car back . . . eventually.’
‘Go on?’
‘They wanted me to pay over a thousand pounds to get it back.’
‘I hope you told them . . . ?’
‘Of course. I said I didn’t have that kind of money.’
‘And you threatened . . . ?’
‘They’d heard it all before. I showed the woman my warrant card, told her I was a celebrated detective – she laughed in my face. Said that towing and clamping operations were unregulated and the law couldn’t touch them.’
‘So?’
‘So I had to swallow my pride.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘What else could I do? It was the only way I was ever going to get my car back before it became a classic.’
‘Tell me she was young and attractive.’
‘I could tell you that, but it would be a complete lie. Early forties, overweight by at least three stone, missing teeth and a heavy smoker, blonde with black roots . . . Needless to say, she wasn’t really my type.’
‘And you had sex with her?’
‘I was between a rock and a hard place, Gov.’
‘So, you got your car back?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’ve only paid one instalment.’
Molly laughed. She could always rely on Tony Read to make her laugh. ‘Instalment?’
‘There are five instalments.’
‘You have to have sex with her another four times?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a crazy bastard, Tony.’
‘If there’d been another way . . .’
She checked her watch – five minutes. ‘Get your notebook out and remind me what we did yesterday.’
‘Apart from me having sex you mean?’
‘I don’t even want to think about that. Just tell me what we did before you prostituted yourself for a piece of metal.’
He took longer than she expected, and she was running down the corridor to the Chief’s office again. Why couldn’t she be on time? Maybe it was psychological . . .
‘Come in, DI Stone.’
She stood in front of the Chief’s desk puffing and panting like a contestant on the Biggest Loser.
‘Been running?’
‘I didn’t want to be late.’
The Chief glanced at the clock on the wall.
‘Maybe you’ll have better luck tomorrow.’
‘Right, let’s get to it. I have to be at New Scotland Yard by ten.’
She eased herself into one of the chairs. ‘George Swash has been charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and I’m hoping today to charge the other people involved.’
‘David Haig and Kelly Upshaw?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Good work, Stone. And it’ll stand up in court?’
‘Swash gave a full confession last night.’
‘What prompted him to do that?’
‘He’d rather be charged with that than be known as a paedophile.’
‘I see.’
‘And you’re not going to pursue . . .’
‘It’s been passed to DI Waters in Vice. I’m of a similar mind to the government – I don’t negotiate with criminals.’
‘Excellent. I’ll let the Deputy Police Commissioner know that Haig isn’t going anywhere. Now, what about Father Grove?’
‘The victim isn’t actually Father Grove.’
‘Oh?’
‘His fingerprints belong to Marshall Grant . . .’
‘The hit-and-run victim?’
‘Yes. DC Read and I think he might have murdered the original Father Nathan Grove and stolen his identity, but there’s a twist – we also think Marshall Grant wasn’t Marshall Grant.’
‘Someone tried to bury themselves?’
‘Yes, but that’s what we’ll be working on today. Also, we attended the post mortem and Doc Firestone found two interesting things. First, a silver engraved mneme – which is a lockable cylinder – hidden in the victim’s rectal passage . . .’ Molly showed the Chief a photograph of the mneme that she’d taken with her phone.
‘I presume he put it there for safekeeping?’
‘One would hope so. Anyway, although we discovered a number at the church that might be connected we couldn’t open it, so I took it to a Professor of Informatics at King’s College in the Strand called Nicholas Louis who is a collector and knows how to open them.’
‘How long?’
‘He said he’d call me today.’
‘What was the second thing?’
Molly’s brain came to an abrupt halt. She had no idea what she was meant to be talking about. ‘Second thing?’
‘The post mortem? You said Doc Firestone found two things?’
‘Two things! Oh yes – the bug. There was a parasitic bug that had burrowed into the man’s back and been there for at least eighteen months. The bug only lives in the Americas, so we think that’s where Marshall Grant – or whoever he was – was living before he became th
e parish priest at St Peter-in-Chains church. It’s also a possibility that he stole Father Nathan Grove’s identity there. We have no record of a Nathan Grove on any database, which might be because he was born overseas.’
‘Where does the Catholic Church fit into all this?’
‘I don’t think they knew that Father Grove wasn’t the original Father Grove. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of their own papal investigators is trying to find out what it’s all about.’
‘If they do, they won’t tell us.’
‘I shouldn’t imagine so, Ma’am.’
‘A bit of a dog’s dinner.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘And the press?’
‘We’re still pursuing leads.’
‘Probably the path of least resistance.’ The Chief stood up and began packing her briefcase. ‘How are you, Molly?’
The Chief never called her Molly. ‘I’m okay, Ma’am.’
‘You look tired.’
‘Last night wasn’t one of my best nights.’ God, if the Chief only knew.
‘Do you think you need more time off? I can authorise . . .’
‘No, I’m over the worst of it.’
‘If you’re sure. I don’t want you coming down with a bout of PTSD. A couple more weeks wouldn’t hurt, maybe lying on a beach in your bikini somewhere hot . . . ?’
What the hell was the Chief going on about? ‘I’m fine, Chief.’
‘Okay. Thanks for coming in, Stone. And good work – especially nailing Swash and his accomplices.’
‘Thanks, Ma’am.’
She made her way to the toilet.
Five minutes before she had to face the press. She had a pee, and would liked to have swilled her face with cold water, but if she did, she’d wash off the make-up that was concealing last night’s fight to the death. Instead, she dabbed cold water on her eyelids with her finger and took a mouthful of running water.
She was on her own with a heaving mass of reporters and the like again. Maybe she’d go up to the press office when she wasn’t up to her neck in alligators and find out what they were playing at. If the person wasn’t doing their fucking job, then maybe she could save the Chief some money from the budget. She always liked to help out where she could.
She poured herself a glass of water and took a sip. ‘If I may?’
The noise stopped.
‘All I can tell you is that we continue to pursue leads.’
‘Alexandria Knight from the Shepherd’s Bush Camera. Does the church have any ideas why Father Grove was murdered?’
‘Have you asked someone from the church?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone available for comment.’
‘There’s your answer then, Ms Marriott. The Archbishop has been less than forthcoming with information about Father Grove.’
‘Jimmy McNicol from the Barking & Dagenham Chronicle. Are you any closer to identifying a suspect, Inspector?’
‘No, but as I said earlier – leads are being pursued.’
‘Siobhan Jones from the Knightsbridge News. Are you able to provide us with any background on Father Grove?’
‘I suggest you contact the Archbishop.’
‘I’ve tried, but he’s unavailable for comment.’
She looked at the sea of heads. ‘Has anybody else found out anything about Father Grove?’
There was a lot of head shaking.
‘I can tell you that it’s one of the active leads we’re pursuing.’
‘Sue Mulley from the Greenwich Times. What exactly does that mean, Inspector?’
Some of the others quickly jumped on the dangling thread.
‘Jon Donaldson from the Havering Informer. Are you saying you don’t know who Father Grove was?’
‘What I’m saying is that the lack of available information about Father Grove is an active lead we’re pursuing.’
‘Kelly Upshaw from the Hammersmith Herald. Can you explain what’s happening about the review of David Haig’s case?’
‘I certainly can, Miss Upshaw. As you all know, David Haig is a convicted rapist and murderer, but we have uncovered a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and engineer his release. As a result, we have arrested one person to date, but other arrests will follow – one of which will be you, Miss Upshaw. I suggest you hand yourself in at the front desk to save us coming to get you.’
Attention was now focused on Kelly Upshaw and they ignored Molly’s departure.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was ten o’clock when he woke up. He vaguely recalled turning over when Kiri got out of bed. What the hell? He wasn’t on the clock. No one was checking up on him, or waiting for the opportunity to sack him if he turned up late. He was his own boss, and if he wanted a lie in he’d damn well have one. He had anyway.
The trouble was, he felt guilty as if he’d stolen something. And in a way he had. He’d stolen about four hours of his own time.
Getting up late was a heinous crime. Now, he had to play catch-up all day to try and recover that stolen time. He went straight into the shower and washed the filth off his body.
It had been a hell of a night. At one point he didn’t think any of them would get out of Shoreditch Police Station alive. If it hadn’t been for Crabbe, Jacob would have succeeded. Well, at least that was it now – Jacob was dead. It was over. Molly could live her life without the fear of that perverted bastard stalking her from the shadows.
There were just two questions that he would have liked answers to: How had Jacob got out of that cell? And, if Jacob knew about the CCTV in Molly’s flat, why didn’t he wear a disguise, disable the cameras or get the hell out before they got there? He thought Jacob had been waiting for Molly to get home, but was he waiting for them instead? If so, why?
He shrugged. Questions he would never know the answers to now. The DNA proved the man was Jacob, so he should just forget last night ever happened. A grotesque monster had been stopped in its tracks, and no remorse was necessary.
Kiri had left him a message: Breakfast in the microwave. He opened the door and licked his lips – a full English. Now that’s what he called service with a smile. While the microwave was rubbing molecules together, he made himself a coffee.
As he ate, Cole Randall slowly began to re-emerge into the domain of the living. He washed up, made himself another coffee and opened up his laptop.
He had mail.
There was a half-price offer from – delete; several women on MakeMeHappy looking for – delete; the latest model from Hyundai – delete; your account will be deleted unless you – delete; a message from Ruby entitled: Uh oh!
What the hell did “Uh oh!” mean? He opened the message:
Hey Cole Randall,
Something kept nagging at my brain. Ya know how things do. Well, I looked at that boring film you gave me again, and I hate to admit it but I missed something. Take a look at the O’Connors going into the tunnel for yourself. I’ll give you a clue – there ain’t no sunshine when you’re gone.
From your greatest fan,
Ruby
He brought up the video in Windows Media Player and fast forwarded it to the O’Connors’ car. It took him four re-runs to spot what she was talking about, but then he saw it. The sun was shining from the right into the O’Connors’ car, but from the left into the other cars. He checked the weather on that day – there were patches of bright sunshine and it would have been shining into cars entering the Blackwell Tunnel from the east – which was the left on the video.
How had they done it? He stared at Jim and Colleen sitting in the car. Colleen was driving, or was she? His brain was running at half-speed this morning. It was a photograph, and there was someone behind the photograph driving the car. The hands on the steering wheel belonged to a man – they definitely weren’t Colleen’s hands.
He slurped his coffee and thought about the implications. Jim and Colleen had set up an elaborate ruse to disappear, but why? Were their lives in danger?
The
n he remembered the man who’d been following him yesterday. He’d left his phone in the bedroom. Athena hadn’t rung him, which was probably because he’d switched the phone off when they were hunting for Jacob. He reclaimed his phone from the bedroom and switched it back on. It needed charging, but there was enough power to listen to his messages:
#1: It’s Ruby. You’ve got mail.’
#2: It’s Athena. I have news about where your follower went. Ring me.
#3: Athena again. Are you all right? Ring me.
He put his phone on charge and rang Athena on the landline.
‘It’s me.’
‘Hello, Mr Randall. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. I was taking care of something last night and had to switch my phone off.’
‘Okay. Well, once you reached home the person who was following you met up with a woman at the tube station. Then they split up. One operative followed the man back to a high rise in Woolwich. His name is Terry Mabry, and he works for Almeda Private Investigations.
‘And the woman?’
‘She’s staying at the Rochester Hotel on Vincent Square in Victoria, and her name is Nicky Mayell. Apparently, she’s an American.’
‘Thanks for your help, Athena.’
‘You’re welcome.’
The call ended.
So, his shadow yesterday had been working for an American woman. How did that help him? He had no idea.
The new information on the car meant that Jim and Colleen had never entered the Blackwall Tunnel, but somebody must have been driving their car, and someone must have stopped and picked that person up.