by Ellis, Tim
He had another three emails from Ruby. One was entitled: “Hic!”; the second: “Scary!”; and the third: “Baby!”. He opened “Hic!” up first:
Hey, Cole Randall,
You wanted me to find out about those three wine investment companies – they don’t exist. All three were registered with Companies House in July of this year. There are two directors named: David Todhunter and Glynis Nash – these are aliases.
These names account for two of the pairs of initials you gave me: DT and GN. Which suggests that the other initials are also aliases.
Each company has a registered address in the Isle of Man, which puts it outside the jurisdiction of the UK tax authorities.
From your greatest fan, Ruby
Another dead end. He opened up the “Scary!” email:
Hey, Cole Randall,
If I disappear I’m going to blame you.
I had to back out fast because they were trying to trace me. In the end I pulled the plug on my computer. Scary stuff!
Who are these people? Well, whoever they are, you want to stay away from them, because I’m going to. One thing I can tell you is that they’re not government people.
So, the answer to your question is: No, I didn’t find out anything about Project Salamander, and I don’t intend to either.
From an enemy of the state
Your greatest fan, Ruby
Another dead end, or was it? What did she mean, “They’re not government people”? Gary McCann said they were people from the MoD. Did he check? Did they have IDs? He found the number for Lotus Systems and rang it.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is that Lotus Systems?’
‘Is that what you rung?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that’s what you got.’
‘Ginny?’
‘Yeah . . . who are you?’
‘Mr Randall from yesterday.’
‘The one who’s looking for that fucking bastard Jim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you found him yet?’
‘No. Do you know if the baby is a boy or a girl?’
‘Boy.’
‘What’re you going to call him?’
‘I haven’t spoken to Jim yet, but my dad wants me to call him Bronson after the film guy.’
‘Really? Listen, I’d like to talk to Mr McCann if that’s all right?’
‘Okay by me.’
There was a short ring and then McCann picked up.
‘Gary McCann?’
‘It’s Cole Randall from yesterday.’
‘I remember. What can I do for you?’
‘Did you ring your contact at the MoD?’
‘Not been able to get through yet.’
‘I’ve had people trying to find out about Salamander . . .’
‘I wish I hadn’t told you now.’
‘The only thing they were able to discover was that the people behind it are not government people. Didn’t you verify they were who they said they were?’
‘Well, they weren’t wearing military uniforms, but they did have military ID cards.’
‘Which must have been fake.’
‘But what about the MoD online vault? No, forget I asked that . . . anybody could have set that up.’
‘What about payment?’
‘The money comes into our account each month from a numbered account . . .’
‘Any ideas who you might have been working for?’
‘None, but I’m going to . . .’
‘If I were you I’d leave well alone until we know what’s going on, Mr McCann. It could be that they’re behind Jim and Colleen’s disappearance. Keep trying the number. Act as if you know nothing.’
‘Yes, you may be right. Thanks for letting me know, Mr Randall.’
He ended the call.
Ruby might be wrong. They could very well be government people – just not the average run-of-the-mill government people everybody knew and loved. Whoever they were, they were probably not the type of people you messed with. People who passed themselves off as MoD staff obviously meant business.
He opened the final email entitled: “Baby”:
Hey, Cole Randall,
The woman who wrote to the solicitors – Crippen, Cross & Stain – is called Nicky Mayell. She’s staying at the Rochester Hotel in Victoria. She’s an American.
From your greatest fan, Ruby
That explained a lot. Nicky Mayell must be Jim’s biological mother. She’d obviously employed a detective agency to find the son she abandoned all those years ago.
So, he wasn’t the only one looking for Jim O’Connor. Was she behind Jim and Colleen disappearing? He doubted it, but he’d go and see her this afternoon anyway. If nothing else, he’d be able to close off the lead.
More importantly, he needed to visit Beverley Jenkins – the driver of the car who had taken eight minutes forty to get through the Blackwall Tunnel. If she was the one who had stopped to pick up the driver of Jim and Colleen’s car, then he would have recovered the four hours he’d lost by sleeping in, because he wouldn’t need to visit the other four drivers. Also, she would be able to tell him what the hell was going on.
It was nearly lunch time.
Maybe he’d have a snack in the cafe.
The internal door opened. Kiri came in and began discarding her clothes as she slinked through into the bedroom.
He had no choice but follow her.
Maybe he’d have the snack later – after he’d had the main course.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Molly made a detour to the custody suite and read George Swash’s statement. He confessed to trying to pervert the course of justice, incriminating and naming Kelly Upshaw, David Haig, Bruce Underwood and Constable Hermann Vickers from the ESW in his confession.
She wrote out arrest warrants for all four people. Kelly Upshaw had not handed herself into the front desk, but she had been detained trying to leave the station. She was now warming one of the lidless toilets in a cell.
Tony appeared as she was about to pop in and say hello to Miss Upshaw.
‘You’re not going to like this.’
She felt faint. ‘I already don’t like it. What?’
‘I’ve just had a call from a DC Boris Estes who’s with Belgravia CID. Professor Louis was tortured and murdered in his flat last night. They found the card you gave him.’
She sat down on one of the benches where the criminals being processed usually sat. If tiredness was money she’d be a millionaire. ‘Poor bastard. He was doing us a favour as well.’
‘Are you all right, Gov?’
‘I need a good night’s sleep.’
‘Maybe you ought to see your GP about getting some sleeping tablets.’
‘Thank you, Counsellor Read. Did DC Estes say anything about the mneme?’
‘No, and I forgot to ask.’
‘We need to get over there.’
‘I could go on my own if you want.’
‘I don’t want – there are no beds here. You’ve got the address?’
‘SW1 – 17 Ebury Bridge Road.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to driving after your traumatic experience yesterday?’
He grinned. ‘I think I can manage it, Gov.’
It was a straight-forward run along the A4. Molly wanted to sleep, but she needed to make some calls first.
‘Close your ears, Tony.’
‘Closed.’
She rang Strebler first.
‘Strebler?’
‘It’s DI Stone. George Swash made a full statement and named his co-conspirators – one of which was Constable Hermann Vickers . . .’
‘Vickers! I had a feeling it was that bastard.’
‘I’ve issued a warrant for his arrest.’
‘Thanks for letting me know. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Yes . . . except Vickers is now going to say that he actually switched Haig’s DNA.’
‘Mmmm . . . I could say Sergeant Cooke and I a
lready had him under surveillance, and that we pre-empted the switch by making our own switch?’
‘Yeah. I think it needs some more work, but you know what’s required, so I’ll leave it to you.’
‘Nice working with you, DI Stone.’
‘And you.’
Next, she rang Perkins.
‘Hello?’
‘Don’t say it like that, Perkins.’
‘I’m worried what you’re going to ask me to do next.’
‘The other business is finished. What I want to know now is what Red Rum has found out about Marshall Grant and Nathan Grove.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh? Is that a scientific expression for sitting on your thumb and doing . . . ?’
‘Just one moment . . .’
‘Perkins . . . ? Perkins . . . ?’
The phone went dead.
‘I’m going to fucking kill him,’ she said out loud.
Her phone activated.
‘I’m going to . . .’
‘Sorry about that, I had to take you up to speak to Angela. I’ve put you on loud speaker, so watch your p’s and q’s.’
‘Hello?’ Angela said.
She put her phone on loud speaker as well. ‘I’m trying to run a murder investigation here. What have you got for me Red Rum?’
Tony sniggered.
‘Sir . . . is she allowed to . . . ? Oh, all right, but I’m going to put in a complaint . . . The original database entry for Marshall Grant’s fingerprints was made by Sergeant Gregory Thompson at Tidworth Police Station in Wiltshire on May 27, 2005. Now, I worked on the assumption that if there was a switch it took place at the point of entry. In other words, Marshall Grant has never been Marshall Grant on the database. Either, it was a made up name, or two real people were switched . . .’
‘As riveting as this is . . .’
Perkins interrupted. ‘Ignore DI Stone, Angela. Carry on in your own time.’
‘. . . Around the time of Marshall Grant’s entry there were another three entries . . . it was a busy day at Tidworth . . .’
They heard Red Rum giggle.
‘Anyway, I checked into all three entries, and Karl Lindgren wasn’t Karl Lindgren . . .’
‘So, you’re saying that the real person who’s been passing himself off as Marshall Grant and Father Nathan Grove is really Karl Lindgren?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about the hit and run?’
‘The database shows that it was Marshall Grant, but . . .’
‘. . . We know it wasn’t him because Marshall Grant was still alive.’
‘If you’ll let me finish . . . There was another switch.’
‘Another switch! How is that . . . ? I’m beginning to question the integrity of the police databases. Who the hell can make alterations like that?’
‘Only certain people have the authority and the required database access to alter existing records, but certain other people can put an original entry in, and this was an original entry.’
‘When you say, “Certain other people,” who do you mean?’
‘Do you want to know who recorded the death of Marshall Grant in a hit-and-run . . . ?’
Molly guessed, ‘Sergeant Gregory Thompson at Tidworth Police Station?’
‘The very same.’
‘That’s great . . .’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Sergeant Thompson committed suicide a month after Marshall Grant died in the hit-and-run.’
‘Shit!’ She’d been hoping to interrogate Thompson.
‘Hi Angela, it’s Tony Read.’
‘Hello, Tony. How are you?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Can we go back a bit? What about Karl Lindgren?’
‘Yes, I wondered who he was as well.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Oh yes! His mother was Sonja Lindgren. She came over from Sweden in 1960 when she was eighteen years old to be an au pair. Her son Karl was born six years later.’
Molly said, ‘It may be an obvious question, but why was he using his mother’s last name?’
‘She never married the father,’ Angela replied.
‘Do you know who the father was?’
‘No.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I can try, but . . . won’t I be doing your job?’
‘Perkins?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you tell Red Rum that my job is to utilise the resources available to me to solve murder investigations, and that she’s a resource to be utilised.’
‘Certainly. Angela, DI Stone . . .’
Molly interrupted him. ‘Shut up, Perkins.’
‘Of course.’
‘What did you find out about Father Nathan Grove, Red Rum?’
Tony grinned. ‘She means it in a nice way, Angela.’
‘His parents were missionaries in Ecuador, and his birth was registered at the British Embassy there four years after his birth . . .’
‘Why a four year gap?’ Molly asked.
‘I have no idea. Maybe they were out in the jungle converting the natives.’
‘Why didn’t it show up on our database?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Where are his parents now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Has Nathan Grove or his parents been back to the UK since he was born?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder what we pay you for, Red Rum. Is there anything you do know?’
‘I know that you’re very rude, DI Stone.’
The call ended.
Tony laughed. ‘That’s telling you, Gov.’
They arrived at Ebury Bridge Road within forty-five minutes of leaving the station. It was one of three basement-level flats with access on the outside of the building.
Although it was probably connected to the priest’s crucifixion it wasn’t their crime scene. After donning the hooded paper suit, a mask, plastic boots and gloves, they went inside and shook hands with DS Estes and his partner DC Evan Rice.
Professor Louis was tied to a chair in the kitchen. Beneath the chair was a pool of blood, seven fingers and most of his right ear.
A forensic team were taking photographs, making a video recording of the crime scene, collecting evidence and dusting for fingerprints.
The forensic pathologist was examining the body. ‘I would say cause of death was a massive heart attack.’
‘So he might not have told them?’ Tony said.
Estes stared at him. ‘Told them what?’
Molly shrugged. ‘We don’t know that this murder was related to our investigation.’
‘If you told us how come he had your card, Ma’am,’ Estes said. ‘Then maybe we could ascertain whether it was, or not.’
She knew damn well it was connected. ‘We had an engraved silver cylinder called a mneme that needed opening – he offered to try and open it for us.’
‘This was when?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘And you gave him your card?’
‘Obviously.’
‘I would say the two things were probably related,’ DC Rice said. ‘Wouldn’t you, Ma’am?’
‘Possibly. He said he had a collection of mnemes. Have you searched the flat?’
‘Up to now, we didn’t know what we were looking for.’
‘Should we . . . ?’
Estes shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Ma’am. Too many cooks and all that. If you’d like to wait outside . . .’
‘I’m a DI, Estes,’ she said. ‘If anyone’s waiting . . .’
‘And this is my crime scene.’
‘Which is related to my murder investigation.’
‘We don’t know that for sure. And even if it is, it’s still my crime scene.’
‘Maybe I should phone your boss.’
‘Maybe you should. He’ll say the same thing I’ve said – it’s my crime scene. Now, I’ve sho
wn you some courtesy by ringing you and allowing you to come in here, but as far as I know you could be a suspect . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Estes.’
Tony grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, Gov. We’ll wait outside in the car.’
She leaned towards Estes. ‘I want a complete inventory of this place taken, and if anybody finds an engraved silver cylinder – it’s mine. Don’t think you can keep it as evidence Estes, because you fucking well can’t.’
Estes turned away without answering her.
‘Come on, Gov,’ Tony ushered her out. ‘Let’s go and wait outside.’
‘Fucking amateurs,’ she said loud enough for Estes to hear her.
In the car Tony said, ‘Maybe you should get some shut-eye while we’re waiting.’
‘Maybe . . . you won’t let them run off with our mneme?’
‘Don’t worry, Gov. Nobody’s slipping a mneme past me.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Considering his lack of sleep and weakened condition he had performed valiantly.
Kiri made him scrambled eggs on toast, and then watched him devour the meal as if he’d never consumed food before.
‘Try to come back at a reasonable time tonight,’ were her parting words as she disappeared down the stairs to the cafe.
‘Last night was a one off,’ he called after her. He didn’t anticipate hunting and killing psychopaths in Shoreditch Police Station on a regular basis that was for sure.
He left the flat via the external stairs and made his way to the tube station. There were two people he wanted to see this afternoon – Nicky Mayell at the Rochester Hotel in Victoria and Beverley Jenkins – the driver of the car that took eight minutes forty to drive through the Blackwell Tunnel.