by Nigel Cooper
He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Call this number, he’ll make the arrangements with you.’
I took the card off him and studied it, no name, no logo, nothing, just a lonely mobile number printed in a small font across the bottom right of the card.
‘Do I tell him Dexter said?’
‘No, just tell him you need his … services, and he’ll make the necessary arrangements with you.’
‘Ok,’ I said. ‘So we’re done here?’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Ok, thank you, thank you very much,’ I said. I turned and started to walk away and after fifty yards I glanced over my shoulder. He just stood there, right where I’d left him, and waved goodbye. When I got back to the elongated ponds I glanced back again and noticed that he was still in the same spot, speaking into his mobile. I’m glad he didn’t walk back to the car park with me, as he would have noticed that I didn’t park in the cemetery car park, not that it mattered. I walked back up the hill to my car, got inside and called the number on the card.
The man I spoke to had an accent, eastern European. Not Russian, he still spoke with hard R’s, but his accent was soft and the focus was coming from the front of the mouth, Polish perhaps. Like the other two men, he didn’t want to discuss any specifics on the phone. He simply told me to get the cash and meet him the next day at noon at the circular green in the dead centre of Mill Road cemetery, and to have the cash with me.
Chapter 18
Helen
I arrived at Mill Road cemetery. There was no sign of anybody as I walked along the path towards the central circular grass opening. I checked my watch, I was five minutes early. I paced around the circular path, constantly glancing up the four pathways that led to the center.
Several ambled laps later and there was still no sign of him, it was now twelve minutes past our agreed meeting time. Maybe he wasn’t coming, or maybe he was watching me, checking me out from behind one of the many trees around the perimeter of the cemetery. Then I saw him, or at least I assumed it was him, a man in his forties, thick set, short black hair under a baseball cap, sunglasses, trainers, jeans, black bomber jacket, walking towards me with purpose.
‘Natalie?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s walk,’ he said, taking the little westbound pathway towards the perimeter of the cemetery.
‘What’s your name?’ I said.
‘David, but names are not important,’ he said, a wry smile on his face as he looked at me through his sunglasses.
I seriously doubted that was his real name, hardly Polish. Mateusz or Bartek would be more fitting with that accent.
‘Did you bring the money?’
‘Yes.’
‘The address and a photograph of the man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me have them.’
I took the photograph of Derek Stanton out of my bag. I’d downloaded it off the Internet from one of the many online news articles and printed it off onto glossy photo paper. I handed it to him before reaching back into my bag for the piece of paper with his name and address typed on it. I’d been very careful about all this, like everything else. I’d purchased a cheap Wi-Fi inkjet printer to allow me to do air-prints from my iPad, along with a pack of gloss photo paper. I wasn’t going to leave any trace, nothing that could possibly come back to me after Stanton had been killed by this man; heaven forbid if the police caught him after the event and found the photo and name and address I’d given him, which is why I also had my thin leather driving gloves on, not only when I handed him the photo, but also while I was unwrapping and loading the paper into the printer to start with, and again while putting them in my bag. I can’t remember quite where I’d read it, probably in one of the hundreds of crime novels I’ve read over the years, but I do remember reading somewhere that a printed piece of paper could be matched to it’s printer, be it inkjet or laser. So I had to assume that this clever paper-to-printer matching process could also be done with glossy photo paper and an inkjet. Anyway, I was not going to take any chances so I’d bought a printer with the intention of destroying it by smashing it up into pieces and tossing it in the river along with my new mobile phone and iPad. Tossing these smashed up electronic products into the river was hardly an environmentally friendly thing to do, but in this instance I had to ignore the consequences on the planet, otherwise the consequences if they were found and traced back to me would be a far sight worse.
This man, who called himself David, had obviously made a little bit of effort to disguise himself; the baseball cap and dark sunglasses.
I was wearing my new black jeans, boots, black jacket, sunglasses and I’d also added a black beret hat to the ensemble too. Beneath my sunglasses I’d also made up my eyes, quite heavily, in that gothic smoky eyes sort of way so when I did have to take my sunglasses off, I’d still have a slightly different appearance and, in fact, the heavy eye make up actually went quite well with my new black hair.
‘I recognise this man,’ he said, studying the print. ‘He’s been on the news.’
‘That’s right. Here’s his name and address,’ I said, handing him another piece of glossy photo paper.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, as if recognising the name, Father Derek Stanton. I suspect he already had some of these details via the man that I’d met in the American cemetery yesterday.
‘Ok, I can do this, which just leaves the little matter of the money,’ he said, stopping on the path under a cluster of trees on the north side of the cemetery and turning to face me.
‘Of course.’ I took out £5,000 cash in a thick manila envelope. I was lucky I didn’t have to give notice to the bank to withdraw that amount of cash, turned out that they had that amount in the safe. I handed it to him. ‘When will you do it?’
‘It will be done within a week,’ he said, putting the money in his inside jacket pocket. He then turned and walked away. It was only when he’d vanished from my sight that I realised that I’d just handed a man, whom I’d never met before in my life, £5,000 cash. I’d been so wrapped up in covering my steps; not leaving any evidence that would connect Stanton’s murder to me that I hadn’t stopped to think about the other part, the part where I could get ripped off. Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. I mean, even if I ran out of the cemetery and chased after him, what would I say exactly? “Hey, how can I trust you, maybe we should draw up a contract or something”. That would be stupid, all things considered. I had no reason to doubt this arrangement, after all, I’d had to go through two other men to get to this one and he certainly looked like the type of man who carries out such grim deeds.
* * *
A week came and went and I’d heard nothing, not from so-called David who I handed my money over to in Mill Road cemetery, and there’d been nothing on the news, not on television or in the papers and I’d also been looking at my Sky news and BBC news apps two or three times a day on my iPad – nothing.
Polish David had my mobile number and it had never left my side, not even for a second. If he’d called, I would have known, the fact was, he hadn’t, and he hadn’t killed Stanton either. It was time to phone him. Great, three short bleeps, then nothing, a dead line, what the hell did that mean? Time to call the American cemetery man. ‘The number you have called is not available”.
Really? … Well what the hell did I expect, and more to the point, what the hell could I do about it. I’d been conned by … fuckers. The three of them were probably sitting in a pub the very evening that I gave Polish Dave the £5,000 cash to kill Derek Stanton, drinking and pissing themselves laughing at how easy it was scamming £5,000 off a gullible woman and more to the point, they’d be right. Not that I was gullible, it was more a case of my mind not being focused on all the angles, I was too busy covering my back regarding the police, I hadn’t stopped to think about the consequences of dealing with criminals. But now it had happened I’d make sure nothing like this ever happened to me again,
I’d learned and now I was totally focused. Being on the receiving end of this little con has sharpened me up; nobody will ever get the better of me like that again. I’m just going to have to write this off, I could hardly go to the police, I can hear it now, “And why exactly did you give this Polish man £5,000 in cash, madam?”. Yeah, right.
As the saying goes, if you want something doing properly, do it yourself.
Chapter 19
The George Hotel was relatively quiet, save a few local businessmen gathered at the bar and a few random people scattered around some of the tables. Although The George was a hotel, coppers from Hinchingbrooke FHQ often used it as their local: a nice bar, loads of comfy chairs and an ok menu.
DS Damon Rhodes, DC Jack “Big Jack” Ruddock, DC Andrew “Rent” Walcott and DC Midori “Samurai Sakki” Sakurai sat around a quiet table in the corner, away from the bar.
‘So, how you finding it, Damon? Different to the Met I expect?’ said Sakki.
‘That it is, but I kind of like it,’ he said, lifting his pint of orange and lemonade to his mouth. Although they were all off duty Rhodes still opted for a non-alcoholic drink.
‘So what made you transfer up here?’ said Jack.
‘I guess there was something I just needed to get away from, a change was needed,’ he said, not wanting to lie to his new colleagues, but not really wanting to get too deep into the discussion either. He took another drink, hoping there would be no follow up questions.
‘That sounds intriguing,’ said Jack.
‘So you got a place sorted yet?’ said Sakki, recognising that Damon didn’t want to be pushed on the subject.
‘Yeah, I’ve moved into a place in Godmanchester.’
‘Nice, it’s a decent area,’ said Sakki.
‘And is there a Mrs Damon Rhodes?’ said Walcott.
‘What? You making a move on our new boy already, Rent?’ joked Ruddock.
They all laughed.
‘No, there’s no Mrs Rhodes, just me…’ he said, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Sakki was the only one who noticed the slight change in Damon’s expression, a hint of melancholy, and Ruddock and Walcott call themselves detectives?
‘Great, we’ll have to go out on the pull, I know some great spots in Cambridge,’ said Jack.
‘Yeah, like that spot on the corner of Histon Road and Warwick Road under the traffic lights at eleven o’clock at night,’ said Walcott.
‘Shut up, Rent,’ said Ruddock. Walcott and Sakki laughed.
‘It’s a well-known area for ladies of the night,’ said Sakki, smiling at Rhodes.
‘I figured,’ said Damon, trying to pull himself out of his personal thoughts.
‘Hey, I don’t need to pay for it, I don’t have any problem with the ladies,’ said Jack.
‘Ladies, I’ve seen some of the women you’ve picked up and I’d hardly call them ladies,’ said Walcott, ‘I mean, look at that woman you were with last week.’
‘Hey, watch it, I’m taking her out again this weekend.’
‘Really, a second date, you mean she actually wants to see you again?’ said Sakki.
‘Ha-bloody-ha,’ said Jack.
‘So, come on, what’s her name?’ said Sakki
‘You know Jack, Sakki, his women are like fairground goldfish, they don’t have names because they don’t last that long,’ said Walcott, laughing and taking another gulp of his pint.
‘You can talk, Rent, I haven’t seen you with a woman in ages,’ said Jack.
‘Well maybe I’m just a bit more choosy about who I date.’
‘Hey, you wanna hear a joke?’ said Ruddock, changing the subject.
‘No!’ said Sakki and Walcott in perfect unison.
‘Ok, for the benefit of our new DS I’ll make this one clean. Ok, this guy goes to see his Doctor and says, “Doctor, I can’t stop singing ‘The Green Green Grass Of Home’. Doctor says, “It sounds like you’ve got a touch of Tom Jones Syndrome.” The guy says, “I’ve never heard of that, is it common?’ Doctor says, “It’s not unusual”.’
‘My god, they just don’t get any better do they, Jack,’ said Sakki.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking about the Kramer twins case,’ said Rhodes, out of the blue.
‘You know, I really don’t want to talk about that case,’ said Ruddock.
‘I’ll second that,’ said Walcott.
‘Well, something doesn’t quite add up,’ said Rhodes.
‘Like what?’ said Walcott.
‘I’m not sure, I read the transcripts of the interviews you guys did with Stanton and he was always a bit cagey regarding the details of the actual abduction from Priory Park.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Jack.
‘I don’t know, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but whenever you asked him for specifics about the abduction from the park his answers were always vague, kind of sketchy, it was like he didn’t have all the details, the specifics.’
‘Damon, that sick fucker took those boys from that park and he kept them locked in that basement for a year. We had a ton of evidence and his confession.’
‘Which got thrown out,’ said Sakki.
‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me, the fact is, he was guilty, he took them, he tortured them and he killed them, everybody knows it,’ said Jack.
‘I know that, but the thing is, because of the overwhelming evidence and his confession the investigation didn’t go very deep, it didn’t have to, all things considered. We all know how this works, if there’s no need to spend loads of money investigating every detail of a crime, why bother?’ said Rhodes. I mean, there was all that evidence, video evidence, and a confession, what else was needed? But, I’m telling you, something isn’t right about this case.’
‘Well, you could always go and talk to Bailey about it, but unless you have something solid, good luck with that one,’ said Jack.
‘What’s bothering you, Damon?’ said Sakki.
‘I don’t think Stanton acted alone, I think there were more people involved,’ said Rhodes.
‘Really? What makes you think that?’ said Walcott.
‘I don’t know, like I said, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the way those interviews went, it doesn’t add up. And then there’s the ransom money, Stanton denied any knowledge of the ransom money,’ said Rhodes.
‘Well of course he would, he’s a fucking sicko, who knows what was going on in his head,’ said Ruddock, ‘Besides, would you want to hand two hundred grand over to the police?’
‘No, I’m not convinced, for Stanton it wouldn’t have been about money, money doesn’t mean a thing to him, he doesn’t care for it. I think there was somebody else involved, and that somebody else took the ransom money.’
‘This isn’t the Met, Damon, not all cases are big elaborate multi-faceted affairs,’ said Jack. For obvious reasons, DC Ruddock wanted to put the Kramer twins case as far behind him as possible, he certainly didn’t want Rhodes digging around and opening up a whole new can of worms for him. Sakki, on the other hand, looked at Rhodes, and thought about what he was saying.
‘Anyway, I’m gonna make a move,’ said Jack, hoping that by leaving it would kill the conversation dead, at the very least he didn’t want to be any part of it.
‘Me too, I’ll see you guys tomorrow,’ said Walcott, grabbing up his coat.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Jack, following Walcott out the door.
‘Well, it’s just me and you,’ said Sakki. ‘You want another drink?’
‘I’m fine with this, thanks,’ he said, looking at his half-full pint of orange and lemonade.
‘Well, I’m gonna grab another. To be continued,’ she said, heading to the bar.
‘So how did you end up on the force?’ said Rhodes, as Sakki returned with a glass of what, Rhodes did not know.
‘You mean a Japanese woman?’ she smiled.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. It’s ok, I get that a lot. My fathe
r was a professor at the University of Cambridge, the Institute of Criminology.’
‘Wow, sounds impressive.’
‘He was a Professor of Criminology and Criminal Justice. He came to live in Cambridge a long time ago, before I was born. I grew up here, surrounded by his work, and I was fascinated by what he did. When I was thirteen, instead of reading typical teen stuff I read my father’s books on homicide investigation, forensic techniques, forensic science and general police procedural stuff. He wouldn’t allow me to read some of his books though because he thought some of the pictures and illustrations might be too shocking, you know, mutilated corpses, murder victims, stuff like that. But sometimes I’d sneak into his study and look at them anyway, the pictures never really bothered me, I just saw it as fascinating work and loved everything about it. I remember going into my father’s study once while he was working and he told me a story, it’s one of my earliest childhood memories from when I was about five, but I’ll never forget it. He told me a story about one of the earliest recorded cases in forensic entomology back in the thirteenth century. He told me the story of a Chinese man who was a death investigator who’d been called in to investigate the murder of man who’d been repeatedly slashed to death and it was thought that the murder weapon could have been a sickle. The killer could have been any one of the village men, they all worked the land and they all owned sickles. So, the investigator ordered all the men to assemble, bringing with them their own sickle. All the men stood in a line and the investigator asked them all to place their sickles at their feet. It was a scorching hot summer day and within a few minutes flies were attracted to one sickle in particular.’
‘Because of the residue of blood and tissue fragments still clinging to the blade and handle?’ said Rhodes.
‘Precisely, anyway, when the investigator confronted the owner of the sickle with this new evidence, the farmer confessed.’
‘That’s one hell of a bedtime story for a five-year-old girl.’ They laughed.