His Wrath is Come (P&R5)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Anyone seen a bag?’ Parish said.

  ‘Here, Sir?’ Someone said, passing him a large brown knapsack-type bag, which he remembered from last night.

  He moved to the sideboard opposite the foot of the bed and rummaged through the bag, but there was nothing of immediate interest in it. ‘What about a red folder and a laptop?’

  ‘Here.’ Both objects came his way.

  The folder was empty. He opened the laptop and powered it up – nothing. The light was on, but the hard disk had been wiped of everything. There wasn’t even an operating system. He passed the laptop to Toadstone. ‘See if Steve Potts can recover anything off this.’

  ‘Inspector Parish?’

  ‘What have you found, Doctor?’

  ‘A puncture wound. It’s beneath the hairline at the back of the neck. If I hadn’t been looking for something untoward, it would have gone unnoticed. I’d say this woman was definitely murdered.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He knew it. Now what? Who did Rowan Grieg meet? To Richards he said, ‘Take the Manager and get the security footage before it disappears. You can then begin questioning the staff. She met someone, let’s see if we can find out who.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  ‘Toadstone, this is a priority.’

  ‘Isn’t it always? But I’m a bit confused.’

  ‘Only a bit?’

  ‘Why did you think this was a murder and not a heart attack?’

  He took Toadstone by the arm, led him into the en suite bathroom, and shut the door. ‘Her name’s Rowan Grieg, she’s a journalist. Richards and I met with her last night. She’s investigating a secret Masonic lodge called P2, and she said she was meeting someone today in the hope of obtaining a list of P2 members dating from 1981, which included thirty-five British men.’

  ‘Okay, but what has that got to do with you and Richards?’

  ‘You know I’ve been trying to find out who my parents were?’

  ‘I thought you’d stopped looking?’

  ‘I had, but I forgot about Richards.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, last night Rowan Grieg gave me a list of fifty people, thirty-five of whom might be on the original list, which she was hoping to get a copy of today.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t be listening to this story anymore.’

  ‘Do you want to know who’s on that list, Toadstone?’

  ‘No I don’t, but I have a funny feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.’

  ‘Walter Day and James Miller-Gifford are two of the names on it.’

  ‘The Chief Constable! Are you saying the Chief Constable is now a murder suspect?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s not all.’ He leaned towards him and whispered a name in his ear.

  ‘You’re kidding me?’ Toadstone looked around the small bathroom. ‘Where’s the camera, and I bet DI Kowalski is in on the joke for sure?’

  ‘It’s no joke, Toadstone. That’s who’s rumoured to be on the list. A dead journalist outside proves it’s no joke.’

  ‘I think I’ll ask for a transfer.’

  ‘Too late for that.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Do you need any help in there, Sir?’ Richards called out.

  He opened the door. ‘Help? What do you think I’m doing in here?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure.’

  He heard some sniggers from inside the room.

  ‘Have you people got nothing else better to do?’ The sniggering stopped. He pulled Richards into the bathroom and shut the door again. ‘I’ve been telling Toadstone about Rowan Grieg and P2.’

  ‘That’s putting Paul in danger.’

  ‘It’s a bit late to worry about putting people in danger, Richards. You should have thought about that before contacting Rowan Grieg.’

  ‘So, now it’s all my fault?’

  ‘If the cap fits?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Richards left the bathroom first, followed by Toadstone and finally Parish.

  Knowing looks passed between the forensic officers.

  Parish chose to ignore them.

  Doctor Nield said, ‘I think we’ve established that Mrs Grieg was murdered, is there anything else you need me for?’

  He didn’t trust Dr Riley, and he’d heard of time-limited drugs. ‘Can you take a blood sample and give it to my Head of Forensics here for analysis?’

  ‘Of course, but analysis for what? I only ask because there’s different bottles for different tests.’

  ‘To identify what drug they used on her, which will be proof she was murdered.’

  She nodded and opened up her medical bag again.

  ‘An ambulance is on its way from King George Hospital to take the body back to the Mortuary,’ he told her. ‘The post mortem will no doubt be tomorrow now.’ To Richards he said, ‘Give Dr Riley another ring and find out when the PM will be.’

  Richards moved out of the room.

  ‘There, I’ve taken two samples, one for you and one for me. I’ll send my sample for analysis as well, just in case there are any mistakes or discrepancies. Do you mind if I go now, I still have a mountain of paperwork to complete before I can put my feet up with a glass of Chianti?’

  ‘Of course, and thanks very much for your help, Dr Nield.’

  Richards came back. ‘Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Huh, Doc Michelin would have done it at ten o’clock, so that we could have had lunch and discussed the results.’

  ‘Doc Michelin has gone, Sir.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’

  Now what? He had a dead journalist, no physical evidence to indicate what she’d been working on, and a wiped laptop with little hope of recovering any information from it. He felt as though his life was spiralling out of control. He was being sucked into a deadly game of blind man’s buff, and he was ‘It’.

  ‘I thought you were questioning the staff,’ he said to Richards.

  ‘I have. There were only three of them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Rowan Grieg didn’t come out of her room all day, or at least no one saw her. She made no phone calls through the hotel switchboard, she had breakfast and lunch in her room, and I’ve given the security DVD to Paul.’

  ‘Anybody seen her mobile phone?’ he said.

  Nobody answered.

  ‘Check her bag,’ he said to Richards.

  She looked in Rowan Grieg’s bag but didn’t find it.

  ‘You’ve got the number, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ring it.’

  Richards called the number. No ringtone sounded in the room.

  ‘It’s ringing,’ Richards said holding the phone to her ear.

  Parish took the phone from her. He could hear breathing. ‘Who is this?’

  Silence and then the phone went dead.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’ He passed the phone back to her and said to Toadstone, ‘Get hold of her phone records.’

  ‘They’re here for the body,’ someone called from the doorway.

  Parish nodded. There was nothing more he or anyone could do for Rowan Grieg except find her killer, but he knew that might prove to be extremely difficult, if not impossible.

  Two men came in with a black body bag and a metal chair with small wheels at the back. They zipped the body in the bag and placed it on the chair.

  Parish hadn’t seen the chair contraption before, but realised it was the only way of getting a body from the third floor of this hotel unless someone slung it over their shoulder. The eight-person lift certainly wouldn’t have taken the length of a gurney.

  They tipped the chair back, and wheeled the body from the room. One of the wheels made a low screeching sound and obviously needed oiling.

  ‘What now, Sir?’

  There didn’t appear to be anything left to do. The body had gone, and there was no evidence of P2, or that Rowan Grieg had come here to obtain a copy of the ori
ginal P2 list from someone unknown to them. In fact, now he thought of it, she was obviously lured into a trap. There was probably no chance of her ever getting a copy of the original list. Yes, he had a copy of a list of fifty names – thirty-five of which were purported to be on the original list of P2 members – but Rowan Grieg had written it. As such, it was purely speculative, and couldn’t be introduced as evidence in a court of law. There was a puncture wound beneath her hairline, missing files that only he and Richards had caught a glance of the night before, a wiped laptop, and a missing mobile phone. It certainly indicated foul play, but he had nothing concrete regarding a motive, and no one to point the finger of blame at without appearing as though he’d mislaid his marbles.

  He checked his watch. It was six thirty-five. ‘Now, I think we’ll go home, and leave Toadstone and his team to it.’

  As they walked along the corridor towards the lift Richards said, ‘I feel terrible.’

  ‘Don’t. Do you think Rowan Grieg would have met whoever she was meeting to get the list regardless of our intervention?’

  ‘Well, yes. That list was going to be the story that would make her name, that’s what she said.’

  ‘There you go then. She wasn’t killed because she met with us, she was killed because maybe she was getting close to the truth.’

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘The truth of who really is on that list, and who’s still an active member of P2.’

  ‘So, you don’t think it’s about who you are?’

  ‘No, but maybe now you’ve woken the sleeping giant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m wondering if they knew I existed before, but because you pursued it when I told you not to, I think they know who I am now.’

  ‘So, you are blaming me?’

  ‘Why, do you think you’re blameless in all this?’

  ‘I was doing it for you.’

  ‘Even though I said not to?’

  ‘But you didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I did.’

  They walked through the main hotel doors. The light was fading, and the setting sun was casting a red glow over the evening sky.

  Reporters, TV news crews, and hangers-on had obviously caught the scent of death on the breeze, and had descended on the hotel like vultures looking for their next meal. In the front, with a smile like the Grim Reaper, was Catherine Cox from the Chigwell Herald.

  ‘Detective Inspector Parish,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you again. If you’re here, there must be a dead body somewhere. Can you tell us who it is?’

  ‘Good evening, Miss Cox.’ The picture of her standing outside the cubicle with her back to the full-length wall mirror wearing a pair of red silk French cami knickers and matching bra when he’d taken her shopping for new clothes jumped – unwanted – into his mind. ‘The dead body that has just been taken away is that of Mrs Rowan Grieg – one of your own,’ he responded.

  Bedlam ensued as they recognised the name and began muttering among themselves.

  He held up a hand for quiet. ‘A person or persons unknown murdered Mrs Grieg around five o’clock in her hotel room. As yet, we are unclear regarding the motive, but we have a number of leads.’

  They heard an explosion, and saw a plume of smoke rise above the trees in the distance.

  Parish knew exactly what it was and what it meant. To Richards he said, ‘Ring for a fire engine and ambulance. Tell them there’s been an accident on the A113 near the Prince Regent Hotel.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘That was the ambulance carrying Rowan Grieg’s body to the hospital.’

  ‘Oh God, Sir.’

  ***

  What he realised, as he looked at the faces of the people standing outside the Menzies Prince Regent hotel, was that the killer could be one of them. He’d assumed they were all reporters, cameramen, photographers, and suchlike, but some were obviously onlookers – people who gravitated to disasters like flies to shit – and one of them was probably the killer of Rowan Grieg, and the destroyer of an ambulance with two live people and a dead body inside.

  If he’d had a dozen police officers with him he could have detained everybody, questioned them, checked out who they were and what they were doing here, but he didn’t have a dozen police officers – all he had was Richards, and it was nearly dark.

  ‘Do you have any suspects, Inspector?’ someone shouted out.

  He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t really feel like answering any more questions. It had been a terribly long day. What he needed now, more than anything, was to go home, take the innocent Digby for a walk, and collect his thoughts.

  ‘No, we have no suspects. We’re still collecting evidence, and trying to ascertain what exactly happened.’

  More questions were shouted out, but he really didn’t have any answers. Certainly, none that he was prepared to share with the press. He could just imagine the conversation:

  ‘She was killed by an agent of a secret Masonic lodge called P2.’

  ‘Really,’ snigger. ‘Tell us more?’

  ‘The members are all powerful people, including the Duke of...’

  Richards nudged him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They’re waiting.’

  He held up his hand. ‘I have nothing more to say. There will be a proper press briefing at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon in Hoddesdon’s briefing room. Thank you.’

  Catherine Cox sauntered up to them. ‘Hello, Mary.’

  ‘Hello, Catherine. How have you been, I haven’t seen you for a while?’

  ‘I’m good. My life is nearly normal now that I’m not involved with you two crazy people anymore.’

  Richards smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘So, what’s really going on here?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Parish said. ‘You think because you hung out at our house for a couple of days you have a special relationship and you can get all the inside knowledge?’

  ‘It would be the least you could do after everything you put me through.’

  He wasn’t going to defend himself or Richards. ‘What’s going on here is what I’ve already told you, nothing more and nothing less.’

  ‘Except, I know you met with Rowan Grieg last night in the bar, and that you were paying her hotel bill. I also know that the hotel manager called you personally when they found her body.’

  He didn’t ask her how she knew. She was good at her job. ‘You’ve obviously been sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. What I can tell you, because I’m such a nice guy, is that Rowan Grieg did exactly that, and look where it got her. If you get involved with this case, Catherine, you’ll wind up dead.’

  ‘So, there’s a lot more you’re not telling me?’

  He began moving towards the car. ‘Come on, Richards.’ In answer to Catherine’s question he said, ‘Any further information relevant to the case will be provided at the press briefing tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘And will that include information on how P2 are involved in Rowan Grieg’s death?’

  He turned and grabbed her by the arm. ‘That’s exactly the kind of talk that will get you killed. The killer could still be here, and I don’t want to be responsible for your death, so go away.’

  ‘P2 are involved then?’ she called after him.

  Richards released the Saab’s central locking, but Parish held her back.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wait until I’ve checked underneath.’

  ‘You don’t think...’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, but I’d rather check first than wish I had afterwards. Give Toadstone a ring, and tell him to check his vehicles as well.’

  While she was doing that he opened the boot and took out one of the two large torches, which were standard issue in a pool car. He crouched to look under the wheel arches, but had to lie down to look properly beneath the engine and the seats.

  ‘Okay,’ he said brushing himself down and puttin
g the torch back in the boot.

  They both climbed into the car and shut the doors.

  ‘You were a bit hard on Catherine,’ Richards said as she put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  ‘Not hard enough. Do you think it will stop her chasing after the story?’

  ‘Not likely.’

  He yanked at the seat belt, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘I should lock her up and throw away the key.’

  ‘You have to pull it out slowly otherwise it won’t move.’

  ‘Since when did you become a seat belt expert?’

  ‘Since you got angry because you care about Catherine.’

  ‘I don’t care about her... Well, not in that way anyway.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why are we still sitting in the car park? Are you waiting for the firework display?’

  ‘Are we going home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see what happened to the ambulance?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I think we should.’

  She drove out of the hotel entrance onto the B173 – Manor Road – and turned left. Cars were already backing up. He reached into the glove compartment, took out the flashing light, placed it on the roof through the window, and pushed the power connector into the cigarette lighter socket.

  ‘Switch the siren on for a millisecond only – it hurts my ears.’

  She flicked the switch.

  He put his hands over his ears. ‘All right, that’s more than enough.’

  She switched the siren off.

  ‘Don’t you know what a millisecond sounds like?’

  Shaking her head she said, ‘A policeman who doesn’t like his own siren.’

  The cars in front of them shifted over as they edged forwards. The burnt out wreck of the ambulance lay on its side half-on and half-off the ‘Ted’s Autos’ sponsored garden in the middle of the roundabout.

  He stepped out of the car and approached a firefighter holding a dribbling hose. ‘Are you in charge?’

  The man pointed to another firefighter standing next to the fire engine. ‘She is, Sub Officer Stacey Grant.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, showing his warrant card to the Sub Officer.