by Angie Smith
Laurent tapped on the window with her car keys. “Hello,” she shouted.
Gomez did not respond. She tapped again, only this time much louder. Finally Gomez stirred, looking far from compos mentis.
“Are you alright, Patricia?”
Gomez appeared anything but. She shook her head and her eyes looked glazed.
“Patricia, open the door!” Laurent demanded.
Gomez tried in vain to take hold of the handle and it took three attempts before she finally succeeded.
“What’s the matter?” Laurent asked, sounding concerned. The overwhelming aroma of alcohol filling her nostrils answered the question: her secretary was completely paralytic. There were empty vodka bottles scattered around in the back of the car and Gomez was unable to make any sense or coordinate her movements.
Laurent shook her head in disbelief. She encouraged Gomez to step out of the vehicle, and, struggling with the weight, managed to hold her up against the side of the car momentarily, before she slid onto the floor, rolling over and groaning in the process. Just as Laurent was losing patience she noticed another vehicle driving into the car park. It was Marie Maunsell, one of her teachers. Laurent left Gomez writhing about and rushed over to Maunsell.
“Can you help me, Marie?” She explained the situation and said she wanted to get Gomez into the Fiat’s passenger seat and drive her home. “Could you follow us and then bring me back here?”
Maunsell agreed and together the two women struggled to get Gomez off the floor. Then, frog-marching her around the car, they unceremoniously bundled her into the passenger seat.
“She’s completely out of it, Madame,” Maunsell said. “Has she driven to school in this state?”
“I’m not sure. Look, there are empty vodka bottles in the back. I hope to God she didn’t drive like this.” Laurent pulled the seat-belt tight around Gomez’s ample frame, clipped it in, then climbed into the driver’s seat and drove the seven miles to the outskirts of Montpellier and her secretary’s small cottage. Maunsell followed close behind.
Throughout the journey Gomez slipped in and out of consciousness and when they arrived at the cottage she was still incapable of walking. Consequently the two women had difficulty getting her from the vehicle to the front door. While Maunsell pinned Gomez against the wall, attempting to keep her upright, Laurent fumbled with the bunch of keys, trying to discover which one fitted.
Eventually, Gomez was steered into the cottage, which, to Laurent’s horror, stank of spilled alcohol. The threadbare carpets and bare plaster walls were an indication of an uncared for property.
“Just look at the state of this,” Maunsell said. “I’ve never seen a house in such a mess.”
The two women guided Gomez into the bedroom and laid her on the bed.
“Oh my goodness,” Laurent said, spotting at an assortment of sex toys on the sideboard and a variety of whips and restraints hung by the wardrobe.
“Now we know what she gets up to on an evening,” Maunsell said, looking perturbed.
“I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s get her into bed so she can sleep it off.”
They undressed her and covered her with the duvet.
“I can’t have her turning up at work in this condition,” Laurent said. “I’ll have to speak to her when she’s sobered up. I’d appreciate you not saying anything to anyone at the school. I’ll ring her this afternoon to see how she is.”
As they left the cottage they checked the windows and doors were locked and posted the keys through the letterbox.
When Barnes walked into the Incident Room it was later than normal, because she had spent the early part of the morning sorting out a few additional security features at her flat. McLean and Dudley were already there; Jacobs was on his way to France; Foster was in Woods’ office and West was still on sick leave.
“Good morning, Maria,” McLean called out, as she went over to her desk.
She appeared not to hear him. “Sorry, did you say something?” she asked.
“I said good morning.”
“I’m sorry, I’m a little deaf. There was a massive power surge last night at my flat and everything came on at full volume.” She glanced at Dudley. “I think I’ve burst an eardrum.”
Dudley frowned.
The opportunity presenting itself was too good to resist and she seized it. “Pete, have you seen the new vending machine on the top floor? It does some fantastic coffees. You can get essence of anthracyclines, paclitaxel and mitoxantrone with a sprinkling of interferons, and just a hint of interleukin-2.” She grinned at Dudley. “Could I get you one, Hilton?”
“What are you talking about?” McLean asked, looking bewildered.
Dudley stood up abruptly. “I need to go out,” he said, pulling his jacket off the chair and promptly storming off.
Barnes looked at McLean. “Poor Hilton, perhaps he didn’t have much sleep.”
Foster appeared. “Ah, Maria, have you got a minute?” he asked, gesturing that she should come to the office.
Barnes entered and settled on one of the stools.
“I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday.”
“No problem,” she replied. “I’ve been thinking about Zielinski.”
“Oh yes?”
She relayed her thoughts on why she considered him not to be in danger.
Foster smiled. “I agree with you.”
“I’m not sure Pauline’s at risk either; from what I’ve discovered, I don’t think Gerrard would want to harm her.”
“This might sound callous, Maria, but as she’s paying for her own protection, I’m not too concerned. The problem we have is, who is in danger?”
“I’ll keep digging,” she replied. “Do you know where Dudley has gone?”
“I thought he was out there.”
“No, he just stormed off without saying a word, but it doesn’t matter, I’ve got lots to be getting on with.”
Foster pondered. “Listen, Maria, I think placing you under him was a big mistake. Just between you and me, I think he’s a waste of time. I’ll tell him from now on you are reporting to me. Greg was right; you’re a good detective.”
Bingo. She blushed. “That’s fine by me. If it’s okay I’ll start by checking out the people who’ve worked for Albion Bedford.”
Foster nodded.
Dudley was once again in the Hepworth Gallery speaking to Faulkner-Brown. “You told me to stop fretting because you were going to concentrate on her. Well, you didn’t do a very good job did you? She knows exactly what was in the coffee and has obviously worked out what happened. What if she goes to the Chief Constable with the evidence? And how long did bugging her flat last? Less than four minutes I was told. I understand the poor chap listening in has perforated eardrums!”
“You’re losing control. You’re trained to deal with these situations. For Christ’s sake, she’s twenty-eight years old and five-foot nothing.”
“She’s got evidence I tried to murder Woods!”
“And whose fault is that?” Faulkner-Brown snapped, sounding annoyed.
“I went straight to the room to retrieve the carton, but everyone piled in and it was utter chaos. Barnes was staring at it, so I couldn’t nonchalantly stroll over and pick it up. I was dispatched to get the defibrillator and when I returned it had disappeared. Everyone who’d been in the room claimed to know nothing about it. I even checked the bins.”
“Calm down. Obviously she took it and had it analysed; we’ll need to find out where. I’ll check her movements and phone conversations.”
“I spent yesterday evening in the flats overlooking the Incident Room, knocking on doors, asking if anyone had been filming from there. No-one knew anything about it, so I’m still unsure if it was her or Woods who filmed me in the offices.”
“You need to get a grip. If she’d intended showing the evidence to Matt Holden he’d already have it and I’d be the first to know. I wonder if it’s Woods or the Russians she’s working with. The
re’s no point placing her under surveillance; she’d easily spot a tail, especially when it takes her seconds to discover her flat’s bugged.” Faulkner-Brown paused. “I’ll set up surveillance on Woods and if that doesn’t bring anything to light we’ll assume she’s with the Russians.”
“And what if she is? Trying to eliminate Freddy Williams will be a piece of cake compared to dealing with them. Have you considered the possibility that he may have defected?”
“He’d never do that.”
“When he was in Russia, are you absolutely sure he wasn’t double-crossing you?”
“He wasn’t, and that’s why I’m sure he’d never defect; we all know what went wrong, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. Now, go back to work and do what you’re supposed to be doing; let me worry about everything else.”
It was eighteen minutes past noon when Foster came out into the Incident Room to update the detectives on Chris Jacobs’ progress in France and the search for Ramírez.
Barnes, McLean and Dudley were the only ones in.
“Chris is in Lodeve with a couple of gendarmes at the address where Ramírez was supposedly living. She’d initially changed her identity to Patricia Gomez and lived in Algeciras, Spain, before marrying Pierre Dupont and settling in France. Unfortunately one of the neighbours says the Duponts separated in 2009, when Pierre took their daughter to live in Toulouse with his mistress. The neighbour doesn’t know where Gomez stroke Ramírez went; apparently she’d taken the breakup badly and been hitting the bottle, then she disappeared. Chris and the gendarmes are trying to trace Pierre Dupont and he’s going to ring back later this afternoon with an update.” Foster turned to Dudley. “Apparently, the neighbours say another English policeman was there first thing this morning asking the same questions. Any idea who that might have been?”
“The killer?” Dudley suggested.
Barnes shook her head. “The killer will know exactly where Ramírez is; prior to striking he’s been watching the victims for weeks and he’s unlikely to be at the stage we’re currently at. I’d wager it was one of the guys in the black Maserati Quattroporte, trying to get to Ramírez first. What do you think, Hilton?”
Dudley glanced first at Foster and then at Barnes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said unconvincingly.
Foster winked and smiled at Barnes.
It was late afternoon. Madame Laurent was trying to contact Patricia Gomez and was about to replace the telephone receiver when Gomez finally answered.
“Hello Patricia. It’s Madame Laurent. Are you feeling any better?”
“I feel so ill Madame. I’ve a tremendous headache and I’ve only just crawled out of bed.”
“Do you remember me bringing you home this morning?”
“No! Was I ill at school?”
Laurent explained and Gomez kept repeating she could not remember any of it.
“What did you do yesterday evening, Patricia?”
“I think I might have had a drink, but I can’t remember. The house’s a tip and I don’t know how I ended up at work. I’m really sorry Madame. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Patricia, I thought you’d got the drinking back under control. Obviously you’ve relapsed, you need to get help. You must go and see the doctor.”
“Madame, I haven’t had a drink in months. I’ve no idea what went wrong yesterday.”
“Patricia, you must go to see the doctor. I can’t have you turning up at work in that condition. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame. I’m sorry for what happened. I’ll make an appointment and get things back on track.”
“Good. I’ll speak to you first thing on Monday morning - and no alcohol this weekend.” Laurent ended the call.
Foster was out when Jacobs’ update came through and it was Barnes who picked up the call.
“Hello, Maria. Things haven’t gone as well as I’d hoped; we traced where Pierre Dupont was living in Toulouse, but we arrived there only to discover he’s away on holiday, camping somewhere in the South of France. The gendarmes have organised a search for his vehicle. In the meantime we’re trying to trace Ramírez under her original name and that of either Patricia Gomez or Patricia Dupont. Unfortunately there’s a national strike here today and all the government agencies and civil servant offices are closed; consequently it’s proving difficult to get reliable information. So far we’ve come up with nothing; I’m hoping things will improve tomorrow. In addition there’s the possibility that she’s gone back to Spain so I’ve asked the Spanish Police to speak to her parents and also to search for her under those three names. I’m not expecting to hear back from them until tomorrow morning.”
“Any more news about other English policemen involved in the search?”
“No, but I’m getting the distinct impression I’m being followed. I keep spotting a silver BMW three series with a couple of guys in it; I’ve asked the gendarmes to pull it over and check it out.”
Barnes thanked him for the update and confirmed she would pass the information on to both Foster and McLean, deliberately omitting Dudley from the list. Jacobs then ended the call.
She looked down at her watch, it was 5.48 p.m. She needed to go home and prepare to go out running at seven; she would be altering her route this evening and running mainly across open fields where there was good all-round visibility.
Woods was in the White Rose Shopping Centre located off Junction 28 of the M62 motorway. He strolled through the busy shopping mall with his wife Pamela, while closely keeping track of the time. At exactly 7.00 p.m. he made an excuse of wanting to look in Carphone Warehouse and he left Pamela in Debenhams, agreeing to meet up later in the fast food area.
When safely inside the store he positioned himself so he could watch the passing shoppers while pretending to browse. He then took out the unregistered phone that Barnes had provided him with, switched it on and called her unregistered number.
“Hello,” he said, when the call was answered.
“Did you get my text?”
“Yes, no names, no locations, I understand.”
“Good, it’s important that neither the calls nor the text identify anyone.”
“Are you sure you haven’t done this before? You appear to be awfully clued up on things.”
“It’s common sense, that’s all. Now let me update you.” She spent ten minutes bringing him up to speed with the day’s events, being careful not to mention names or locations.
“We’ll have to agree some codenames,” he said, “otherwise this is going to become extremely difficult.”
“I’ll write some suggestions down and when we next meet you can have a look and let me know if they’re okay, but it’s. . .”
“Important that I destroy the piece of paper and remember the names.”
“Well yes, that’s obvious. What I was actually going to say was it is better if we still keep names and places to a minimum.”
“Understood.”
“Do you want anything from me?”
“Yes, please can you get the name and number of the undertaker from two years ago? In addition, I’d like to know if anyone of the same gender and similar age went missing around that time; in particular, if they’d also been diagnosed with a certain terminal illness. Do you understand where I’m going with this?”
“Yes. I’ll have to hand that information over to you; it’s too risky texting or discussing it. I’ll arrange to see you somewhere tomorrow evening.”
“Just a minute,” Woods said, sounding concerned. “I think I’ve spotted a shadow. I’ll have to go; take care.” He ended the call and stared out through the store window at a tall thin man in a grey suit who he’d spotted wandering around outside the shop. “Have you got a rear exit?” Woods asked the store manager, flashing his ID, “I need to get out quickly; someone I’m following has disappeared and I think they’re making a run for it.”
“Yes sir, follow me.” The obliging young man let Woods out and locked the doo
r behind him. Woods then sprinted around to the front of the complex and stopped by the entrance to the supermarket, from where he had a clear view of the Shopping Centre main entrance but was obscured from people in the car park. He took out his normal mobile and telephoned his wife, saying he’d been taken dizzy and gone outside for some fresh air; he asked her to meet him by her car.
As Pamela hurried out of the building he spotted the tall thin man in the grey suit together with another suited man following her. He stepped behind the column to hide as the two men walked by the supermarket entrance close behind his wife. When she reached the car she looked frantically around and her phone rang again. “Hello darling, where the hell are you? Are you alright?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll explain later. I’m currently walking up the dual carriageway towards the motorway. Can you come and pick me up?”
She jumped into the car and set off as the two men dashed back across the car park to a black Audi A3 and sped off after her.
Woods noted the number of the Audi and waited a couple of minutes before ringing his wife for the third time. “Everything’s alright sweetheart. I promise you there’s nothing to worry about, but two guys were following me. Just drive straight home. I’ll get the bus and I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t you want me to come back and fetch you?” she asked.
“No, do as I say,” he insisted, “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” He terminated the call and ran across to the bus parked at the stop. Without looking at its destination he jumped on board and held up his ID. “Where are you heading, pal?” he asked the driver.
“Town!”
“That’ll do,” Woods said, sitting behind the driver.
It took him over ninety minutes to reach home and as he walked down towards the house he spotted the black Audi A3 parked at the side of the road not far from his property; he quickly ducked out of sight into one of his neighbour’s gardens. Then, seeing a house brick — used to prop open the gates — he picked it up, and, crouching, made his way slowly along the conifer hedged boundary, out of sight of the men in the Audi.