The Gordian Knot (Stone & Randall 2)

by Ellis, Tim

  In the bedroom, she stripped the bed, upended the mattress and checked the drawers built into the base of the bed – nothing. There was also nothing in the ceiling, the walls and the floor.

  ‘Gov?’ Tony called.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Living room.’

  She joined him. ‘Tell me you’ve found the pot of gold?’

  ‘You bet.’

  He was standing in front of a white wood bookcase that had been inset into the middle of the far wall. She looked all round it, but found no indication it was anything other than a what it appeared to be.

  ‘Well? And don’t make me work for it. I’m too tired to start playing guessing games.’

  ‘You’re no fun at all today.’ He slipped his fingers into the end of the bottom shelf and the bookcase swung inwards. ‘It’s a door.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘The whole wall is false. There’s not much room inside, but it was a good place to stash his mneme collection, his books and all his research.’

  She stepped inside. There was a light switch on the wall. She switched it on. The eight mnemes were sitting on a worktop to her right, which also held a six-inch diameter magnifying glass on a stand, a desk light and a notebook and pencil. The professor had recorded some notation on the open page of the notebook, but it seemed to be in an alien language made up of vertical and horizontal lines. He had also written out the number they’d given him, but this time had added spaces: 05 31 08 087 04 18 – she wondered why.

  Behind the door were shelves containing books on the mnemes, cryptography, algorithms, a biography of William Antrobus and his beautiful wife Amaranth, a whole stack of research papers on the mnemes and so on. This was Professor Nicholas Louis’ secret place, where he studied his collection of mnemes and extracted their secrets.

  She picked up the silver mneme, but it hadn’t been opened. ‘Oh shit!’ she said. ‘Shit being the operative word.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I forgot where it was found.’ She put it back on the worktop and backed out of the hidden room. ‘Close it up.’

  ‘Aren’t we . . . ?’

  ‘No. If the killer takes us by surprise we’ll have done his work for him. We know where it is now. We’ll get it when we’ve captured the killer, or we know he’s not coming back here. I also think the professor has cracked the code. The trouble is, now we have to crack his code.’

  Tony closed the bookcase.

  ‘I’m going to wash my hands. Move the sofa and one of the easy chairs together so that they’re facing the front door, and switch all the lights off.’

  She washed her hands in the en suite bathroom, and then helped herself to a blanket from a drawer under the bed. In the living room she said, ‘I’m going to lie down on the sofa and go to sleep now. You can sit on the chair. If you hear anything, wake me up.’

  ‘Okay, Gov.’

  ‘You won’t drop off, will you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I can always get up and walk about, do some press-ups, see what he’s got in the fridge . . . that type of thing.’

  She lay down with her head on a cushion and pulled the blanket up to her chin. ‘Don’t make any noise.’

  ‘I’ll be as quiet as a cockroach.’

  ‘I hate those things.’

  ‘Did you know . . . ?’

  ‘Shut up, Tony.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  During the twenty-minute journey he read a discarded Metro newspaper – the news was mostly depressing. The Seven Sisters station was located in Haringey, North London. Beverley Jenkins lived in a two-bedroom ground-floor flat in Wakefield Road, which was just about within walking distance of the station. He had to cross over the A10 onto Page Green Terrace and walk up Earlsmead Road.

  There was a uniformed copper standing outside number seventy-three.

  He walked up the path. ‘Good afternoon. Can you tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘And you are, Sir?’

  ‘Cole Randall – I’m a private investigator, but I used to be a detective inspector at Hammersmith.’

  ‘This is a crime scene, Sir.’

  ‘I was hoping to see a woman called Beverley Jenkins.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to the senior investigating officer.’

  ‘Who . . . ?’

  He pointed to a skinny man probably in his late twenties and a slightly older but prettier woman walking towards them up the path.

  ‘And you are?’ the man asked.

  ‘Cole Randall, ex-detective inspector from Hammersmith, but now I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘You’re the one . . . ?’ the female started to say. She had shoulder-length light brown hair, a wide mouth and eyes like flanged rivets.

  ‘Yes, I’m that Cole Randall.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your family. If it’s any consolation, quite a few of us never really thought you’d killed them.’

  ‘It’s no consolation, but thanks anyway.’

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’ the man pressed.

  ‘I came to speak to Beverley Jenkins.’

  ‘About what?’

  He half-smiled. ‘You first. What’s happened here?’

  ‘We could take you in for obstructing a police investigation.’

  ‘So this is how you treat old colleagues who have put in more years and investigated more murders than you’ve had hot dinners. You should have more respect, boy.’ His tail had been well and truly yanked. Fucking jumped-up little twat. He brushed past him and began walking down the path.

  The man grabbed Randall’s upper arm.

  He stopped. ‘If you don’t take your fucking hand off me, I’ll break all your fingers and ram them up your arse.’

  The woman stepped between them. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dave,’ she said pushing him away. ‘Take no notice of DC Bray, Mr Randall. He thinks he’s a big-shot because he’s a detective, but he’s a fucking moron.’

  Randall’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Dave Bray. ‘I’ll go along with that.’

  She turned to her partner. ‘Go and wait in the car before I have to take you to the hospital for a finger extraction.’

  ‘I should . . .’

  ‘You should listen to your superior officer, DC Bray.’

  After some hesitation he did as she asked, muttering under his breath as he went.

  ‘I’m sorry about Dave. He’s like a bull in a fucking china shop sometimes.’ She offered her hand. ‘I’m DS Sue Vella from the Major Incident Team at Fishmongers Arms in Wood Green. We’re here because Beverley Jenkins was found dead in her kitchen this morning.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I might be able to point you in the right direction. Was she tortured?’

  DS Vella stared at him. ‘Yes, but how would you know something like that? Two of her fingernails had been pulled out.’

  ‘Because she knew something. If she only lost two of her fingernails I guess she told whoever was asking the questions what they wanted to know. Cause of death?’

  ‘Throat slit from ear to ear – hell of a mess.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Early hours of this morning.’

  His lips tightened and he rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘It means they’ve got at least a half day start on us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Now, he had a dilemma. If he informed the police about the O’Connors they might very well find out about Megan and Marvin’s twenty-nine year old deception, but he didn’t really have a choice – all his leads had just unravelled to nothing and were flapping about in the wind. Whoever was after the O’Connors – and now he suspected it was the people behind Project Salamander – Jim and Colleen were likely to end up dead. Jim must have discovered something that he knew would put his and his wife’s life in danger, so the only safe course of action open to them was to run and hide.

  He told DS Vela about Jim and Colleen disappearing from the Blackwall Tunnel on Saturday, about Jim’s work with Project Sal
amander and Colleen’s £17.5 million wine investment scoop. The fact that Jim was abandoned as a baby, and Ginny’s pregnancy he kept to himself for the time being. He didn’t see any need in complicating matters.

  ‘And you think it’s whoever is behind Project Salamander?’

  ‘That’s my gut feeling.’

  ‘You’d better come to the station and tell us everything you know.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Now, I’m going home. I’ll let you solve the case yourself from here on in. You have a lot more resources than I do.’

  ‘But not the brains. You’ve seen what Dave is like – he’s not the most intelligent partner I’ve ever had.’

  ‘What are you proposing?’

  ‘Work with me.’

  ‘I’m not on active duty anymore. I’m a civilian.’

  ‘But as you said, you’ve got more years in the job and solved more murders than I’ve had hot dinners. And it would give me a chance to work with the famous Cole Randall.’

  ‘Hardly famous, and you’ll be in deep shit if anyone finds out.’

  She moved further along the path away from the uniformed copper at the door, pulled out her phone, dialled a number and put it on loudspeaker at a volume only she and Randall could hear. ‘It’s me, Chief.’

  ‘Oh, hello darling.’

  Randall’s brow furrowed. That was hardly the correct way for a Chief Inspector to talk to a DS.

  ‘I’m at the Jenkins crime scene.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Guess who’s here with me?’

  ‘I think you’d look better in the red one, dear.’

  ‘Cole Randall . . . Yes, that one.’

  ‘My goodness! That’s a bit pricey, dear.’

  ‘I want him to work with me until I solve this case.’

  ‘Jest a minute, dear. I’ll take you somewhere more private, so that we can discuss how much you can spend in more detail.’ There was a short silence and then, ‘Are you fucking mad, Sue?’

  ‘He has information we need.’

  ‘Well, get the information off him and send him on his way. You do know he’s a crazy bastard?’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Harry. He’s here listening, you know.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Sue.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he won’t tell anybody you’re fucking the arse off one of your DS’s if you let him partner me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, he’s a fucking civilian now, isn’t he?’

  ‘A private investigator.’

  ‘It was the worst fucking day of my life when I got involved with you.’

  ‘You can tell me all about it when you come round tonight.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Yes, that’s the general idea.’

  ‘What about Bray?’

  ‘No, don’t bring him. I’m sure you can think of somewhere to send the arsehole until Monday. He’s sitting in the car now waiting for your call.’

  ‘You’re trying to publicly humiliate me, aren’t you?’

  She laughed. ‘Tonight, Harry.’

  ‘Is he still there listening?’

  ‘To every word.’

  She ended the call. ‘There, that’s sorted that.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me if I wanted a new partner.’

  ‘I could always lock you up for obstructing a police investigation.’

  ‘I can see where DC Bray gets his poor man-management skills from.’

  ‘You better believe it, Cole Randall.’

  A grinning DC Bray appeared. ‘I’ve just had a call from the Chief. He says I’ve been transferred to Vice until Monday. Apparently, they’re running a drugs operation in the local brothels and they’ve asked for me specifically. I have to go back for a briefing now.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell the arsehole you were already on a case?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do now?’

  He shrugged.

  Vella held out her hand. ‘Keys.’

  ‘No. What do you expect me to do – walk?’

  ‘I expect you to give me the fucking keys to the car, moron. You think a DS is going to walk back while a DC drives around in comfort? Get a taxi and claim.’

  ‘I’ve got no money.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder why you bother getting up in the morning.’ She passed him a twenty pound note from her coat pocket.

  DC Bray wandered off.

  ‘You should get an Equity Card,’ Randall said.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘I had a hacker looking into Project Salamander, but she didn’t get very far. They were trying to track her, so she ran scared and pulled the plug, but not before she discovered that they weren’t government people. Have you got an IT specialist back at the station?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a geek.’

  ‘Well, I think we need to find out who these people are, and what they’re doing that they’re willing to kill to keep it secret. Also, you might want to pass on the wine investment fraud to someone.’

  ‘Just a minute . . .’ She pulled out her phone and began speaking . . . ‘Yeah Project Salamander . . . If you wanted nine-to-five you should have joined the fucking Girl Guides . . . Well, stop yanking my chain and get onto it then . . . Of course you should ring me . . .’ She ended the call. ‘Another fucking moron. She’s onto it,’ she said.

  ‘She didn’t seem very happy.’

  ‘It was me that wasn’t fucking happy.’

  A taxi pulled up outside.

  DC Bray waved. ‘See you Monday, Sarge.’

  ‘Take notes.’

  He grinned. ‘I will.’

  ‘I’ll contact someone later about the wine fraud.’

  ‘Okay. The other thing we need to do is take a look in that house and see if we can’t find out where the O’Connors have gone to ground.’

  ‘See, that’s why I chose you over that moron. You’re gonna make me look good when we solve this case. He would have just been a dead weight around my neck.’

  ‘You’re all heart.’

  She smiled for the first time. ‘You’ve noticed.’

  ‘I take it forensics have been inside?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, but she passed him a pair of plastic gloves anyway.

  It was dark now and they had to put the lights on.

  ‘So, what are we looking for?’ Vella asked when they were standing in the open plan living room, dining room and kitchen.

  ‘Somewhere else. The O’Connors have got to be living somewhere. I doubt they’re sleeping rough, so it must be a house or a flat. Look for somewhere else – address book, telephone book, photographs, business cards, letters – those type of things. You look in here, I’ll take the other rooms.’

  Leadership came naturally to him. After being in charge for so many years he now slotted easily into the position. Admittedly, he had the advantage of having worked the case. He had an inkling of what was going on. Still, it hadn’t taken him long to throw on the mantle of DI again.

  Starting in the bedrooms, he opened drawers, cupboards, shoe and other boxes. Checked behind pictures, on top of and underneath cupboards. Knocked on the walls, the floors. Examined in and underneath the beds.

  He didn’t know about DS Vella’s partner being a bull in a china shop, but she was making enough noise to break the Decibel Scale.

  Next, he checked the bathroom. He found three odd-shaped dildos, a bottle of Viagra, and a box containing 100 condoms – less those that had been used – but he didn’t bother counting them. What he didn’t find was anything that might tell him where the O’Connors were hiding.

  He returned to the living room.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said when he saw the mess she’d made. ‘Did I miss a tsunami?’

  ‘Tidy places wind me up. And it’s not as if I’m going to get anybody complaining, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing. People don’t have address and telephone bo
oks anymore, they keep everything like that in their mobile phonebook.’

  ‘If you say so.’ It reminded him that he still had to buy a new-fangled phone. ‘You didn’t find her phone, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Coat, handbag, keys?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘These people aren’t amateurs.’

  As they were leaving he saw a photograph on the wall behind the door, which was partially hidden by the door drape. People who didn’t recognise the O’Connors wouldn’t have realised what it was.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, lifting the picture frame off the wall. ‘I think we might have found what we’ve been looking for. It was a photograph of four people – Jim and Colleen O’Connor and another couple standing in a huddle in front of a converted barn in a remote part of the countryside. He pointed at the woman. ‘Is that Beverley Jenkins?’

  Vella nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He turned the frame over. There was nothing scrawled on the back, so he peeled off the tape, removed the backboard and took out the photograph. On the back was written: Bev & Barry and Jim & Colleen at Carreg Cennen Barn in the Black Mountains, 2011.

  ‘What about Barry?’

  ‘Could be an old boyfriend or an ex-husband. I say that, because there was no evidence in the bedrooms or bathroom of a man living here with her. He might also be the person who drove the O’Connors’ car into the Blackwall Tunnel, so he would be someone we’d like to talk to. My guess is he doesn’t know Beverley has been murdered.’

  ‘We need to get to the Black Mountains.’

  ‘If that’s where the O’Connors are hiding out, then we’re never going to get there in time. Have you got a helicopter at your disposal?’

  She gave a laugh. ‘Have you not heard the term “Austerity Measures”? The chopper was the first thing to go. Especially after that one falling out of the sky into a street and killing a couple of innocent bystanders. Now, we’re lucky if we can get a fucking tricycle.’

  ‘Then you need to get the local constabulary to go out to this barn and put Jim and Colleen under protective custody if they’re there.’

  She moved back into the flat and sat on the sofa. ‘Make yourself useful – the coffee’s in the kitchen.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven