by Tim Ellis
He waited outside the door until Richards came out with Catherine.
‘What do you want?’
‘Richards is going to take you to an interview room.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want you in the press briefing asking stupid questions.’
She tried to backtrack and return to the room, but he barred her way.
Richards took Catherine’s arm. ‘Come on Cat, he won’t change his mind.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Catherine shouted over her shoulder as Richards escorted her along the corridor. ‘I’ll tell everyone what you’re really like. I’ll sue you for false arrest. I’ll...’
He entered the press briefing room and sat on his own at the raised blue cloth covered table. Lights flashed, cameras whirred and clicked, and he was bombarded by questions. How many times had he done this now? He opened a bottle of water, poured some into the clear plastic cup, and took a sip. His heart was racing, but he felt calm. Rowan Grieg had been an investigative reporter, so she was a person of special interest to the press. He cleared his throat, and gradually silence cloaked the room.
‘As you know, Rowan Grieg was murdered at the Prince Regent Hotel in Woodford Bridge last night, and shortly afterwards the ambulance that was carrying her body exploded on the A113. Currently, we have no leads and no suspects. Forensics has drawn a blank, and no clues were found in the hotel room. I would certainly be interested if anyone knew what Mrs Grieg was working on, or what she was doing in that hotel. Questions?’
‘How was she murdered?’
‘The doctor who examined the body found a puncture wound in the back of the victim’s neck, and we believe that she was injected with a drug to make it appear as though she’d had a heart attack. However, without a body, and without a sample of the victim’s blood, it is now merely speculation. We actually have no evidence at all that Mrs Grieg was murdered, so unless someone is willing to come forward – in complete confidence of course – with information that could help us progress the investigation, then I’m afraid any further enquiries will be put on hold.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’
That should stop P2 worrying that he might have information he shouldn’t have. He strolled along the corridor to the interview room.
‘This is illegal,’ Catherine began. ‘As soon as I get out of here you’ll be finished as a policeman, you’ll have no job, no life. You’ll be living in a cardboard box...’
He sat down opposite her and waited for the tirade to come to an end, but it didn’t. He didn’t realise she knew so many swear words. He withdrew the papers from his inside pocket and put them on the table.
‘Oh, I suppose you’ve fabricated trumped up charges against me to keep me quiet. Well, let me tell you...’
‘You wanted to know about P2?’ he said, interrupting the flow of her accusations.
She stopped talking, looked at Richards and then back at him. ‘You could have told me out there.’
‘No I couldn’t. Why do you think Rowan Grieg was murdered?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She was investigating P2.’
‘Well?’
‘Asking stupid questions at a press briefing is likely to get you killed as well. P2 is a covert organisation that wishes to remain anonymous, and it seems that they’ll do anything to keep it that way. Now, I’m not particularly interested in exposing a secret organisation, but you might be.’
She sat back and crossed her arms. ‘So, you want me to do your dirty work for you?’
He began folding up the papers again. ‘I see I’m wasting my time.’
‘Go on, I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say.’
‘Very magnanimous.’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘Before she died, Rowan Grieg emailed me copies of her research. I don’t want it...’
‘Isn’t it evidence of her murder?’
‘No. It tells me that she was investigating P2, but there’s nothing to link her research to her murder. So, I don’t want the information, but you might. We’re never going to find her murderer. I think the best way to get justice for her is by finishing what she started and exposing P2.’
Catherine reached her hand across the table to take hold of the papers, but he shifted them away from her.
Her eyes narrowed.
‘I don’t really want to give you this information.’
‘But you just said...’
‘I like you, we’re friends. You and Richards are friends, and I’d like to see you become a half-decent reporter one day...’
‘You...’
‘...but this information is a death warrant, and I don’t want to be responsible for your death.’ He leaned closer towards her across the table. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Catherine? If you wind up dead in a couple of days or weeks, because of this information, I’ll never forgive myself.’
‘You’re over-reacting.’
He stood up and put the papers back in his jacket pocket. ‘It was a stupid idea. I’ll find someone else who appreciates the dangers involved. Escort Miss Cox out of the station, Richards.’
Catherine stood up as well and touched his hand. ‘I promise I’ll be careful.’
‘What do you think?’ he said to Richards.
‘Me? I think we should lock Cat up in that dungeon you once told me about beneath the station, and throw away the key.’
‘I thought we were friends.’ Catherine said.
‘We are, that’s why I’m suggesting it. I’m trying to save your life.’
‘All right, you both love me and want to keep me safe. I get it, and I’m touched. Now, are you going to give me that information, or not?’
He pulled the papers out of his pocket and handed them to her. ‘I’ll kill you myself if you get killed. Show her the way out, Richards.’
Once they’d left, he sat back down at the interview table, stretched his legs out, and closed his eyes. Was he doing the right thing? Were his actions going to lead to Catherine’s death? Maybe he should have given it to another reporter, someone from one of the big newspapers, but that wouldn’t have stopped Catherine from asking questions about P2, and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Maybe he should have sent it to every reporter in the UK. That might have worked. The one thing he did know was that not having the information weighing down his jacket pocket was a great relief.
Richards came back into the interview room. ‘She’s gone. We should go as well.’
‘Did I do the right thing?’
‘She said she was already pursuing the story anyway. All you’ve done is make things easier for her.’
‘Does she understand the dangers?’
‘If she doesn’t, she’s a fool. You did all you could to make it obvious her life was now at risk.’
He shrugged and stood up. ‘Whatever will be, will be. Let’s go and get our heads examined then.’
***
Chief Kirby knew from previous experience that the speakers in the interview room sometimes clicked due to electrical feedback when the sound was switched off, which then informed the occupants that someone had been listening to them, so she waited until Parish and Richards had left before pressing the switch.
She sat down in one of the swivel chairs and sighed. Her membership of P2 had never before been a problem. As a newly promoted Inspector she had been flattered to be asked to join, and to be part of a group that were pledged to protect the interests of the country. It was only later, as she rose up the ranks of the lodge that she began to have grave misgivings, but by then it was far too late. Now, she had no choice but to comply. She had never actually murdered anyone herself, but her membership had put her in a position of responsibility, and with that responsibility came culpability. As part of the ruling council she had contributed to decisions that had resulted in a number of deaths. Yes, now her membership put her in conflict with the job she loved.
Like Rowan Grieg, if Catherine Cox dug deep enough she would fi
nd a whole warehouse full of skeletons – and one of those skeletons was her membership of P2. She tried to recall when she became one of them. Oh, it wasn’t the night of the ceremony. She hadn’t committed any crimes then. There was no conscious decision at a specific time on a memorable day in her past. It had happened over time, and she had become a person with a terrible secret that she needed to protect. No, she couldn’t allow Miss Cox to discover her skeleton.
Unlocking the door quietly, she opened it and popped her head through the gap. Relieved, she slipped into the empty corridor and made her way back to her office.
Carrie gave her two phone messages. Thankfully, there was no one waiting to see her.
She picked up the phone and dialled the number that wasn’t written down anywhere.
‘Yes?’
‘The Rowan Grieg case is now on the unsolved pile.’
‘Excellent. We’ll see you at the lodge meeting?’
‘Of course.’ She replaced the phone in its cradle. There was time enough to let the Worshipful Master know about Miss Cox. Information was power so they said. She had no idea what she would do with the information, but she was sure she would find a use for it in the near future.
***
‘I’ll sit out here, shall I?’
‘Why, do you want to come into the therapy room with me, perch on the filing cabinet like a gargoyle, and listen to the mishmash coming out of my head?’
‘I could do that, if you want.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘You’ve got more chance of me learning to belly-dance.’
‘They run classes at the local college, you know.’
‘You’re thinking of going yourself?’
‘DI Kowalski would like to see me do some belly-dancing, I’m sure. Well... he would have done before Ed...’
They were silent for a while.
Parish slouched further down in his seat and said, ‘Maybe I should ring him, see how he’s doing.’
‘I think you should leave him to grieve.’
‘You’re probably right. I could come and sit in on your therapy session.’
‘As if. You’ve got more chance of booking a place on that belly-dancing course.’
‘Maybe I will. Now that I’m not searching for who my parents’ are I’ll have lots of time on my hands.’
‘I think you’d make a good belly-dancer, but you’ll have to have a full body wax.’
Dr Rafferty’s receptionist – a slim young woman with long dirty blonde hair fashioned into an impossible knot at the back of her head, a severe mouth, and porcelain-white skin – looked up from her celebrity magazine and said, ‘Dr Rafferty will see you now.’
He hadn’t heard the phone ring, or a buzzer buzz, or seen a light flash. How did she know Dr Rafferty was free? Maybe he had to wait a specified amount of time before she would let him in. Maybe the doctor had said, “Don’t let him in until five past four.” Maybe they were part of a secret cabal of telepaths who didn’t need old-fashioned electronic devices to communicate. Maybe...
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Inspector.’
Is that it? No explanation, no detailed account of her assignation with the man delivering the box of dark chocolates? How had the man got here? In the advert he’d swum and scaled sheer walls. He hadn’t noticed a moat outside the hospital. Had the man in black updated his skills? Was he now one of those urban parkour acrobats leaping off buildings, jumping over railings, and bouncing off walls? Had he dived out of the window with a parachute like James Bond from the Eiffel Tower...? ‘That’s all right, Doctor. Only fifty-five minutes left to fill now.’ He sat in his usual chair.
‘I’m sure you’d like to think so, but you’re scheduled for an hour, and an hour it will be.’
‘No short measures then?’
‘Not on my couch.’ She wore a baggy, abstract patterned dress with chunky beads round her neck. Her hair had been plaited into a bun and sat on the side of her head like the Gordian Knot. She still hadn’t done anything about her moustache, and he began to think that maybe he should say something, but what, he didn’t know. If she shaved the hairs off it would just grow back, and pretty soon she’d look like a man with a full beard and moustache having to shave twice a day. He’d heard about famous people paying for follicle implants to have a full head of hair again – Wayne Rooney, Bruce Forsyth, and that Jason guy off the ice dancing show. Maybe there was a reversal treatment to remove the follicles. How much would that cost? Maybe he should suggest it?
She sat down in her high-backed brown leather chair, tucked one of her legs under her, and rested her notebook on her thigh.
He wondered how she did that. In fact, he’d noticed women sat on their legs a lot. If he sat on his legs he wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. Maybe there were biological differences in male and female legs. Maybe it was something to do with...
‘Last time we met you were on your way to Yorkshire as a Constable.’
‘Last minute reprieve.’
‘What about the nightmares?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Okay, let’s focus on one of those nightmares, shall we?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Even more reason to do so then.’
‘It’s the same one every time.’
‘The long dark corridor?’
‘Yes. Do you know we lost another member of the team today?’
‘I did hear about Sergeant Gorman and his family...’ She opened her mouth to speak and then changed her mind about what she was going to say. ‘Have you heard anymore?’
‘What more is there to hear? They died in a fire, a gas explosion I believe – it was a tragic accident.’
‘Yes, sorry. Anyway...’
‘Why, do you know something?’
She hesitated, rubbed her nose, and looked up to the right. ‘No.’
‘I’m a Detective Inspector remember. I’m used to interrogating criminals, and I know when someone is lying.’
‘You’ve changed the subject.’
‘So have you.’
‘I’m sorry, doctor-patient confidentiality applies.’
‘Does it? The patient and his whole family are dead.’
She gazed out of the window. ‘I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. My colleague, Dr Suresh, was seeing Sergeant Gorman, and as soon as he heard what had happened he voiced the opinion that maybe the Sergeant was responsible.’
‘What, for the explosion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He was clinically depressed.’
‘Jesus. You think Ed killed himself and his whole family?’
‘Let’s wait and see what the fire investigation and the post mortems turn up. I hope we’re wrong, but...’
‘I feel worse now than when I came in.’
‘We aim to please. Now, let’s return to your nightmare.’
He travelled down the long dark corridor to please her, but he was thinking of Ed. He’d never really gelled with Ed like he had with Kowalski. It was as if there’d been an invisible barrier between them. God, he hoped it wasn’t true.
He told her how the previous case had ended, and that he had stopped searching for his parents.
‘Why?’
‘Life’s too short.’
‘That may be so, but why now?’
He shrugged. He didn’t want to say anything about P2. ‘The more I look, the more paths there are to follow. It reminds me of a crack in ice that shoots off in a thousand different directions. I could spend my whole life searching for someone I may never find. I’ve decided to give up now before it becomes an obsession that ruins my life.’
‘You sound determined.’
‘I am.’
Chapter Eighteen
The man would soon arrive.
Another way he would occupy himself during the long days and nights was to guess when the man would open the door. He wasn’t very good at guessing. His estimation of the passage of time had not improv
ed one iota since he’d been in this place. A minute felt like an hour, and an hour felt like a day. He remembered the science teacher at school telling them about Circadian Rhythms, and how the body had its own clock. Well, all he could say was that his clock was broken. The Circadian Rhythm needed daylight – without daylight the clock just didn’t work.
What he had also noticed was that the underground cavern he was in appeared to be a circle. Although he couldn’t really see behind him where the man kept his instruments and liquids, he was pretty sure that it was a complete circle. He was in the centre, and as he looked around the circle as far as he could see in both directions, he noted that the others were buried at what seemed to be regular intervals. It put in his mind the idea of a clock, but why would the man create a clock with human bodies? He had no answer to that, or to any of his other questions.
The roots of the tree had wrapped themselves around the corpses as if the dead were a means of food, or maybe stability. He was struck by how human beings were one with the Earth – dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
He wondered what type of tree it was, and had in mind a sturdy oak that he would soon be a part of. Maybe trees were sentient, and his consciousness would live on inside the tree and intermingle with the consciousness of the others. Maybe he would get to meet the real Evie after all.
He heard the door open. The man clomped down the steps in his wellies, and walked along the earthen tunnel into the cavern. Allan was always surprised at how nondescript the man appeared. Probably around five foot eleven with dark hair turning grey at the temples, a thin wiry body with large hands and thick stubby fingers. Even after all this time, if he were asked, he’d find it hard to describe his torturer – his killer. The man wore green coveralls and a Barbour jacket, and Allan wondered if he was a farmer, but there were no familiar farm smells that filtered into the cavern. He gritted his teeth as the man tore another sliver of skin off his left thigh, and then he was left on his own again.