Be Not Afraid (9781301650996)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘Don’t thank me, Cookie did most of the work.’

  ‘Well, thank Cookie for me when you see her.’

  ‘I will, but as she said to me this morning – she’s only interested in the money.’

  Jerry took a sip of her very weak black sugarless coffee. ‘Are you getting ready?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Charlie disappeared into his bedroom.

  Everything would go back to normal. Her mum and dad would return home to Lincoln. Ray would come out of hospital and pace around the house like a caged animal until the doctor gave him permission to return to work, and her four children would return to creating lots of noise and havoc until she despaired of ever having any peace and quiet.

  But normal wasn’t what she wanted anymore - she was going to become a barrister, to help the downtrodden, the people who couldn’t fight for themselves, the ones who had been railroaded by the system – and Charlie Baxter was going to help her at the same time she was helping him.

  She’d tell him about her plan later, but first she had to get her children back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Let’s focus on the MAPs’ case first. In twenty minutes, Erin Donnelly is going to give us the location of the website. She’ll also provide us with the location of the gas meter. This coffee is cold, by the way.’

  They were in the incident room. Stick had ordered and paid for the Grolsch beer, and wiped the cartoons off the incident board.

  He ignored the jibe about the coffee. ‘And both locations should be the same, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘Could be, but not necessarily.’

  ‘That would be interesting.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, we’d have to hit both locations at the same time. After we failed to tell her about the photograph...’

  ‘After you failed to tell her, you mean?’

  ‘Yes sorry, me. Well, maybe we should go and warn Inspector Threadneedle that we’ll need more...’

  ‘Let’s not make asses of ourselves just yet. Up to now, this Erin Donnelly woman hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information we can use. We could arrive in forensics to find she’s forgotten her password onto the system, or she could give us some other lame excuse why she hasn’t produced the goods. Best to play the cards as they’re dealt.’

  ‘I didn’t know you played cards.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, numpty?’

  ‘Cards.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You mentioned...’

  ‘Will you shut up?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘If she doesn’t come up with the goods we’ll be back to square one, and my promotion will disappear down the Suwannee River.’

  ‘Is that in England?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. What about the new victim?’

  They’d seen the video of Gareth Bunyan, and she’d had palpitations as she listened to his confession. First, he wasn’t one of the four paedophiles. Second, the MAPs had made the police look pathetically useless – she could hear her promotion galloping off into the distance. How long had five police forces been looking for the train station rapist? Years, that’s how long. And the MAPs had found him within a week. Third, Bunyan wasn’t a paedophile – except with his own daughters, of course. He wasn’t part of the Royston four, because he lived in Hoddesdon. Why had the MAPs chosen him as their next victim when they still had one of the original four paedophiles left? It made no sense, but did any of it?

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, he’s not really a paedophile, is he? And these people are meant to be the Mothers Against Paedophiles.’

  ‘Maybe they’re diversifying.’

  ‘And...’

  ‘Stop asking stupid questions. Do I look like I’ve got the answers to your stupid questions?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Okay, let’s continue, shall we?’

  ‘We haven’t got any more evidence...’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, is it? As a last resort we have the map of the remaining thirty-one churches.’

  ‘Except you won’t get your promotion.’

  ‘Catching murderers is more important than my promotion.’

  Stick laughed. ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘Shall we move on? What about Smith?’

  ‘We have eight people who think they know him, so one of those might be the real deal.’

  ‘Yeah. We can at least hope that’s the case.’

  ‘We’ve also got that bunch of keys. What do you think that rusty old key is for?’

  ‘Another stupid question. Is today national stupid question day, and I missed the press release?’

  Stick rolled his eyes. ‘We still need to ask about the second delivery man called Kev.’

  Xena sighed. ‘What we need is a break. On their own, those keys are useless. Maybe later, after we’ve solved the MAPs’ case, I’ll hold a press conference and bring that second delivery man to their attention. Okay, let’s go and get the good news.’

  They wandered up to forensics, waved at the blonde-haired receptionist as they passed, and strolled along the corridor to Erin’s laboratory.

  ‘Oh crap!’ Xena said, when she opened the door.

  One of the false ceiling panels was missing. A computer cable – the width of a little finger – was dangling through the opening. It had been looped through a metal ring in the original ceiling, and was now wrapped around Erin Donnelly’s neck. Her face was discoloured, her tongue was swollen and black, and her eyes were bug-eyed.

  Stick moved forward to take Erin down, but Xena gripped his arm.

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘It’s a crime scene.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He moved back to the door. ‘You don’t think it’s because you put her under so much pressure, do you?’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. Go and find Toadstone, we need to let people know what’s happened here.’

  ***

  Jerry held up her hands for quiet.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming here to give me your support, and I mean to repay you for that support now.’

  It was twenty past ten. They’d just arrived at the concrete monstrosity that was Redbridge Magistrates Court in Ilford. Charlie had gone inside to see if he could see the Magistrate before the hearing.

  She was standing outside framed by the entrance. Strangers were coming and going, and staring at her as if she was a celebrity.

  ‘You might be interested in two things. First of all, the Chief Constable of Essex is a very naughty boy...’

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  ‘...Who likes to be punished – a lot – by very butch women with whips, but I’ll leave you to make up your own minds about whether his little fetish is acceptable in a public figure. A video of Mr Kennard Barrett-Croft will appear on the Internet at eleven o’clock. The recording is of him enjoying himself at The Dungeon in Colchester, which as you all know is a members-only S&M club.’

  ‘This is better than sex,’ someone shouted from the back, which was followed by hilarious laughter.

  ‘And if you hadn’t already worked it out, that’s why he did nothing about the false accusations against my husband – he was being blackmailed into keeping quiet.’

  ‘You could make a fortune selling this story to the tabloids.’

  She smiled. ‘And here I am giving it to you for free.’

  ‘Do you know who was blackmailing him?’

  ‘The same person who was trying to destroy my husband. A woman who calls herself Erin Donnelly, and works in the forensic department at Hoddesdon Police Station, but that’s not her real name...’

  ‘This is better than being at The Dungeon,’ the same man shouted to more laughter.

  ‘Her real name is Shona Oldfield, and her father – William Oldfield – was arrested by my husband fifteen years ago for rape. While he was in prison he
committed suicide. I guess his daughter blamed Ray for his death.’

  ‘So, she’s planted all the evidence against him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘All of it. My husband and I are definitely not Satanic ritual abusers, and he has never bought, supplied, or otherwise been involved in the trafficking of drugs.’

  ‘This is a turn up for the books,’ another person shouted. ‘A copper being fitted up by a civilian.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s all true.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘Well, hopefully I’ll get my children back. Ray will be cleared of all charges, and those who are really guilty will be brought to justice.’

  ‘Good luck, Mrs Kowalski.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As she turned to enter the building her children burst out through the door, and ran to her calling, “Mummy”.

  The television cameras rolled, flashlights flashed, and the tearful reunion was recorded for posterity.

  ‘You couldn’t write something like this, could you?’ Jerry heard someone say.

  Charlie came out and stood by her. She hugged and kissed him. ‘Thank you, Charlie Baxter.’

  He became all shy and embarrassed. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Today, I’m going to take my children home. Tomorrow is Sunday. On Monday I’m going to come to your office and tell you my plan.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing it. I’ll see you on Monday, Jerry Kowalski.’

  ***

  ‘What do you think they’ll do when we start giving our presentation on The Painter?’

  ‘First of all, it’s you who’ll be doing the presentation. I’m simply going to introduce you, and then adopt an eye candy pose. I’m going to feel like a right lemon though, because I’m the DI, but you’re giving the presentation.’

  ‘You could always wear my itzy-bitzy bikini, and prance about the stage while you’re looking like a lemon and pretending to be eye candy.’

  ‘I just knew you were going to throw that bikini in my face.’

  There was a five-minute comfort break between speakers. The first speaker had touched on a lot of what he’d planned to talk about in his original presentation, so it was probably a good job he wasn’t going to bore them with more of the same.

  Giving a presentation on an active investigation would certainly get people’s attention, especially the members of the BAU – seeing as it was their investigation. He just hoped that Harry – or someone else from the BAU – didn’t walk on the stage and pull the plug on Richards. She deserved some recognition for the help she’d given them – her fifteen minutes in the spotlight – so to speak.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I hope they let you give it.’

  ‘I still need to scan in the photofit of The Painter, but it’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very good. Did you get any sleep last night?’

  ‘A bit.’

  During lunch, Richards scanned in the picture of The Painter. After lunch, they found that the members of the BAU had disappeared, and it wasn’t long before they heard the rumours of another victim.

  ‘It looks like you’ve struck lucky. None of them are here to stop you spilling the beans.’

  ‘I feel as though I’m committing a crime.’

  ‘Well, don’t think you’re taking me down with you. I’ll turn state’s evidence, join the witness protection programme, start a new life in that fishing village where Jessica Fletcher solves all those murders.’

  ‘I bet you would as well.’

  Three o’clock inexorably edged closer. And the closer it got, the more Richards fidgeted.

  ***

  While Stick was out of the room she put on a pair of latex gloves and looked around the laboratory for a suicide note. Surely Erin wouldn’t have killed herself because of a bit of friendly pressure? Stranger things had happened, and she knew of people who had killed themselves for a lot less.

  She didn’t find a note. Next, she looked for anything about the MAPs website, or the location of the gas meter. She found nothing.

  Things were going from bad to worse. Her promotion was moving further and further away. At this rate, they’d be demoting her instead.

  Toadstone arrived with Stick behind him. ‘This is not good,’ he said.

  ‘You’re telling me. There’s no suicide note. I came up here for some critical information, and I can’t find it.’

  ‘One of my team has committed suicide, DS Blake.’

  ‘I understand that, but I’m trying to catch some killers. The show goes on, as they say. We came up here for the location of a website and a gas meter. Now...’

  Toadstone opened up his arms and began corralling them towards the door. ‘You’ll have to leave. I’m sorry, but Erin deserves more respect than this.’

  Xena tried to duck under his arm, but without success. ‘But what about...?’

  ‘If we find anything, we’ll let you know.’

  Stick opened the door, and they were bundled out into the corridor.

  Toadstone turned and locked the door. ‘Can you let the Chief know?’

  ‘She’s not here. She’s seeing the Chief Constable in Chelmsford.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll let you know when we’re back in business.’

  They reached the reception and Toadstone ushered them through the door and locked it behind them.

  ‘Now what?’ Xena said.

  ‘Have you still got the map of those churches?’

  Her phone rang.

  ‘We have a hit, and thanks for the crates of Grolsch – a nice surprise.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Ma’am – address?’

  ‘Flamstead End, 7 Dig Dag Hill. A Mrs Jacquie Riesel, says she’s John Smith’s wife.’

  Stick wrote it in his notebook as Xena repeated what Inspector Threadneedle said.

  ‘Thanks, Ma’am.’

  She ended the call.

  ‘Have we given up on the MAPs’ case?’ Stick asked.

  ‘Given up? What type of talk is that? Of course we haven’t given up, but if we’re going to continue with the investigation we need somewhere to go, and at the moment...’

  ‘What about visiting Gareth Bunyan’s home?’

  ‘To learn what? If any forensic evidence was left when they abducted him, someone will let us know. And based on previous abductions, we’ll get nothing.’

  ‘We’re not having much luck, are we?’

  ‘I think we’re having more luck than Erin Donnelly.’

  They drove to Flamstead End and interviewed Mrs Jacquie Riesel. The picture she showed them of her husband looked nothing like John Smith.

  ‘How in hell did the uniforms think this was a hit?’ she whispered to Stick. ‘In fact, how did the woman think Smith was her husband?’

  Stick shrugged.

  They thanked Mrs Riesel for her community spirit, but sadly they had to inform her that the man in the picture was not her husband.

  No sooner had they climbed back into the car than Xena’s phone rang.

  ‘We have another hit.’

  ‘This isn’t a ploy to have me driving all over the country chasing ghosts as punishment, is it, Ma’am?’

  ‘Inspectors aren’t childish like that. You’ve paid for your crime, and that’s an end to it. Now, do you want this new address, or not?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I’m so grateful.’

  She repeated what Threadneedle said, and Stick wrote it down. ‘Thanks, Ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, have you heard about the woman in forensics?’

  ‘Stick and I found her.’

  ‘Do you know why she did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s all over the news. She was the one who planted all the evidence about Chief Kowalski... something to do with the death of her father.’

  ‘Well, I never.’

  ‘But that’s not all.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘You’re
gonna love this. I shouldn’t really be tittle-tattling with a Sergeant, but it’s not often something this juicy comes along...’

  ‘Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘The Chief Constable has resigned, which is probably a good job, because he’s also been arrested.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘He turned a blind eye to the Chief’s difficulties because he was being blackmailed by the woman in forensics.’

  ‘Blackmailed?’

  ‘Ever heard of The Dungeon in Colchester?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘S&M Club.’

  ‘Not the type of place I go to for a stress-free drink.’

  ‘He liked to be punished.’

  ‘He should have come to me. I’d have punished the bastard for not giving me my promotion, and if he’s no longer Chief Constable it doesn’t look as though I’m going to get it either... bloody hell!’

  ‘There’s a video on the Internet if you’re interested – it’s gone viral.’

  ‘You’re not winding me up, are you?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘So, Chief Kowalski is innocent of all charges?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say, “All charges”, but certainly of the more recent ones.’

  ‘Any other bolts from the blue, Inspector Threadneedle?’

  ‘No, you’ve had my last bolt. Goodbye.’

  The call ended.

  ‘I caught a bit of that,’ Stick said.

  She told him what had transpired.

  He shook his head, switched on the radio, and found a news station. They sat there until the news item came on.

  ‘There’ll be an internal inquiry,’ Stick said.

  ‘More like a bloody public inquiry. I suppose I can kiss goodbye to my promotion now.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘I never know what?’

  ‘Well, you might think it’s all over, but you never know... Remember the 1966 World Cup final?’

  ‘Stop being a numpty. Do I look like I’m old enough to remember a black and white football match?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘No response required. A blind man in a snowstorm can see it’s over. They’ll have more important eggs to boil than promoting a lowly Sergeant to DI when they’ve already got more DIs than they can shake a dirty stick at. Drive. Let’s go and see someone else who doesn’t look anything like John Smith.’