by Tim Ellis
‘No pressure then.’
‘You create your own pressure, Jed. You always have done.’
‘I hear you’ve got yourself a young woman called Bronwyn.’
‘Horses for courses, Jed. You’re a half-decent detective, and I’m a brilliant lover. Anyway, my personal masseur has arrived, so I’ll bid you farewell. Keep me informed.’
‘Will do, Ray. And I’ll probably come and see you tomorrow.’
‘Bring grapes. Nobody brings grapes anymore.’
The call ended.
So, he was in the clear. Ray, on the other hand, was about to commit professional suicide. He closed his eyes and began fleshing out a strategy that might save him.
Next, he called Lauren Perry to find out what was happening about the journal and keepsakes, but was again diverted to voicemail. It seemed his fears were justified – Newcastle had their heads in the sand.
Shortly before nine, he received a call from Doc Riley.
‘I received the pictures, Jed.’
‘How was it for you?’
She laughed. ‘The best yet.’
‘What did you think of them then?’
‘There are a few rare fobs here, you know.’
‘I expect I know as much about Victorian wax-seal fobs as you do about Champions League Football.’
‘Football! Yes, I’ve heard that it’s a simple game. Twenty-two men chase a ball for ninety minutes and at the end, the Germans win?’
‘That sounds about right. Not such a muttonhead, after all, Doc.’
‘Very kind.’
‘I like to do my bit for inter-departmental relations.’
‘Of course. Anyway, shall we get to the fobs?’
‘Carry on, Doc.’
‘The first one is a Victorian rebus puzzle intaglio with “I Love You” engraved on it.’
‘I have no idea what you just said.’
‘A rebus is an illusional device that uses pictures to represent words or parts of words. For instance, this rebus depicts an eye (I), a winged cherub or cupid holding a bow (Love) and a yew tree (You) – I Love You.’
‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘And intaglio?’
‘Techniques in art in which an image is created by cutting, carving or engraving into a flat surface.’
‘The engravings in the semi-precious stones?’
‘Exactly.’
‘It was worth getting out of bed this morning.’
‘There is also a bloodstone intaglio of a beehive and bees; a carnelian agate of a winged cherub holding an anchor representing Hope with the motto: The Best Gift of Love; another rebus puzzle depicting an eye (I), a maiden leaning on an anchor (Hope), a yew tree (You), the letter R (Are), and a well (Well): I Hope You are Well? Then we have an iridescent white chalcedony stone depicting two hearts tied with a bow and Forever engraved underneath, also a Lover’s Bouquet For You engraved in amethyst. There are others that are reasonably interesting such as the intaglio of a flower surrounded by the words: Forget Me Not engraved in an unusual purple stone, but the one that fires up my imagination is a Fabergé agate, gold and enamel wax-seal fob carved as an owl with gold feet and created by Fedor Afanassiev in St. Petersburg, Russia between 1908-1910 . . .’
‘Fabergé – like the eggs?’
‘The very same.’
‘Surely it’s a copy?’
‘Possibly, but I don’t think so.’
‘We’re talking about a woman who lived on a housing estate in Newcastle.’
‘And yet, she had a Fabergé wax-seal fob worth in the region of half a million pounds. Of course, value is relative, but I should imagine that I’m not too far out.’
‘Well, apart from it stirring up your imaginative juices – how does the information help me?’
‘This fob is a one-off created by Fabergé. It will have provenance, which means, you’ll be able to find out how it ended up on a housing estate in Newcastle.’
‘I see. Can’t you find out?’
‘Possibly, but it would probably take me a long time, and I have no right of access. Sometimes, provenance is a closely-guarded secret.’
‘Whereas the police will be able to . . . ?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’ve heard about the DCI?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, from tomorrow, I’ll be the temporary DCI.’
‘Congratulations. You’re not going to use that as a way of crying off lunch on Friday, are you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘I’m glad.’
The call ended.
He rang Toadstone again.
‘I have other work you know, Sir.’
‘Stop telling fairy stories, Toadstone. I want one of your people to find out the provenance of a Fabergé wax-seal fob.’ He told him what Doc Riley had said about the fob. ‘It’s a one-off, so they shouldn’t have too much difficulty.’
‘I suppose we could do that for you.’
‘You suppose? You should be wholeheartedly thanking me for giving you interesting things to do. I can tell you now, the days pass a lot more slowly when you have nothing of any note to do.’
‘Where’s my manners?’
‘I’ll forget it this time, Toadstone. But I want it by the end of the day.’
‘Of course you do, Sir.’
***
She sat down behind the table with the Hoddesdon coat-of-arms draped on the wall behind her. The press were chomping at the bit like nags waiting for the starter’s gun to begin the annual village derby.
As the special guest, she’d been asked to get the derby underway. The trouble was – she had no bullets for the gun. All she had, that was in any way different from yesterday, was the vague hint of a tattoo. Of course, she still had the brown poly tarpaulin with APEX stencilled on it.
She’d arrived this morning to find Stick waiting for her like the maître d'hôtel with a tea towel dangling over his forearm holding her mug full of piping-hot coffee.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, offering the mug – handle first, and inclining his head as if he’d just returned from an intensive training course in Silver Service.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Which is exactly why you think I’m the best partner you’ve ever had.’
‘You have an over-inflated opinion of yourself.’
‘Somebody has to.’
‘That’s true.’
She sat at her desk. ‘Well?’
‘I updated the incident board, which didn’t take very long at all, and then I went through the calls in response to your public appeal – nothing.’
‘To be expected.’
‘Maybe today.’
‘Maybe.’
Now, she said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
They settled down.
‘There’s not much more to tell you other than we now know that the victim had a tattoo on her chest above her right breast.’
‘Christine Mason from the Identity Channel,’ a woman with her hair in a ponytail said. She had designer-glasses perched on the end of her nose and a top row of teeth like a picket fence. ‘Have you found the victim’s head yet?’
‘No. We employed an animal specialist to identify which animals had interfered with the corpse and to track them back to their liars. He discovered evidence of badgers, foxes and rabbits, but no head.’
‘Lisa McCarthy from the Broxbourne Beagle, Inspector,’ a woman with short brown hair and a face like an abstract painting said. ‘Could the head have been consumed?’
‘Skull and all?’
‘It’s merely a suggestion.’
‘Extremely unlikely. Animals eat flesh not bone.’
‘Basil Murphy from the Mission Daily,’ a small squat man with wiry hair and an Irish accent said. ‘What about the request for public assistance?’
‘Nothing useful, I’m afraid. But if we could do the same thing again today, but add in the tattoo on the
right side of her chest, that would be helpful.’
‘Susan Reid from the Estuary Telegraph. So, you have no leads?’
‘I didn’t say that, Miss Reid.’
‘So, you do have leads?’
‘We have a number of leads that we’re still pursuing.’
A middle-aged black man with pinched lips and a scar down the left side of his face stood up. ‘Josiah Sepeng from Five News. Can you tell us what those leads are?’
‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Sepeng. I’d like to thank you all for coming today, and I‘ll have more news tomorrow.’
She made her way out of the briefing room and back upstairs. ‘Are you ready to go?’
Stick smiled. ‘Definitely. Was it bad?’
‘Embarrassing – more like.’
Chapter Twenty
Jerry brought the tablet in, kissed him and headed back towards the door.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Kowalski.’
She stopped and looked at him. ‘Yes?’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘There are nurses and doctors everywhere . . .’
‘I don’t mean that.’
‘Oh!’
‘A promise.’
‘About what?’
‘About you keeping your nose out of things that don’t concern you.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Let me see. Bronwyn’s at death’s door in ICU. I look more like an entry in Robot Wars, and you’re free to cause mayhem wherever you go.’
‘I promise.’
‘Why do I not feel reassured?’
She came back to the bed, kissed him again and said with more conviction, ‘I promise.’
‘Make sure you stick to that promise. Lying here worrying about what you’re doing will only hamper my recovery.’
‘I promise. I have to go and see Bronwyn now.’
‘Say “Hello” from me.’
‘Of course.’
Instead of phoning Bronwyn, which he had planned to do as soon as Jerry had brought him the tablet and left, he decided to watch the news instead. The hostage situation in Hainault – close to where Jerry worked – had come to an end. The man was called Ian Norman. An officer from CO19 had put a bullet between his eyes. Nobody had heard of Ian Norman. He was a nobody – a furniture salesman from Ilford apparently. The female hostage was also dead – a bullet in the back of the head from Bronwyn’s gun. The five year-old child was still alive, and had been snatched away by Social Services for some serious counselling.
It wasn’t really the outcome that anybody – least of all Kowalski – had expected. Who the hell was Ian Norman? What he had expected was that the Snaresbrook bomber was the missing Birmingham child – Lance Birmingham – even though it seemed unlikely because he was now in his late sixties. They’d picked up the other three Birmingham children – two daughters and another son, but Lance had been missing, so they’d assumed he was the man who had shot Bronwyn, set the booby trap that had caused so much damage, and taken the mother and child hostage.
What was happening to the Birmingham children now? Were they still in the cells at Hoddesdon? Had they been questioned? Had they been released? Had they been forgotten? He didn’t like being kept in the dark like a mushroom.
Fagin appeared on the television screen.
‘Chief Superintendent Champ,’ the newsreader said, holding the microphone in front of Fagin’s face. ‘Can you reassure our viewers that they’re in no imminent danger?’
‘Certainly. The hostage-taker is dead. Unfortunately, so is the adult hostage – Mrs Elaine Morrissey, but we were able to save her five year-old child – Ruby.’
‘And do you know what it was all about?’
‘Not yet, but as soon as we do . . .’
‘. . . We’ll bury it so deep the moles won’t even be able to find it,’ Kowalski finished for her under his breath.
‘That was recorded late last night, DCI Kowalski,’ Chief Superintendent Champ said, standing in the doorway.
He tried to move, but realised that if he did he’d resemble a jumble of discarded Meccano pieces on the floor.
She held up a hand. ‘Don’t break into a sweat on my account.’ She stepped fully inside the room and closed the door behind her. ‘Chief Constable Orde has explained to you the sensitive nature of what we’re dealing with here, hasn’t he?’
‘An explanation wasn’t required, Ma’am.’ He hadn’t personally met Champ before. Oh, he’d seen her on television, heard the rumours about her, heard people talking about her at conferences in muted whispers. She was the worst kind of copper, or so the stories went.
She was thin – not painfully so, but definitely not fat. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail and had been cut in a fringe just above her eyebrows. It didn’t suit her, but then it would have been hard to find a style that did. Like her nose and lips, her face was long and thin, and looked as though it had recently been pulled – with some difficulty – through a sausage-making machine. All-in-all, the effect was unnerving.
‘My spies have told me all about you Kowalski. You’re one of those people who need to tell the truth regardless of the consequences.’
‘The consequences have already happened. There are upwards of fifty dead children in that tunnel, and God knows how many damaged adults walking round . . .’
‘I’m not interested in the past . . .’
He felt at a disadvantage lying on his back dressed in pyjamas. ‘The past is what we deal in.’
‘The past is best left undisturbed. The future is what we’re sworn to protect. If any of this sees the light of day, that future will be in jeopardy.’
‘That’s not my concern.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Kowalski. It is your concern. Let me show you the cards in my hand. It’s not something I normally do at this early stage of the game, but I think it’s important that you realise what that future might hold – especially for you. There’s a young woman in ICU who has various aliases, but her real name is Susan Bunyan. She’s an undesirable who arranged her father’s murder, and the gun that killed the hostage last night was taken from her by Ian Norman . . .’
She saw his face crease up. ‘You didn’t think I’d come here without five aces up my sleeve, did you?’
‘This isn’t a game . . .’
‘Of course it’s a game, Kowalski. The higher you rise, the more skilled you need to be at it. That’s your problem, you still think that people are basically good and honest. In the trenches, I suppose they are mostly. But where we are . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, let me continue. That particular gun has a very interesting history . . . I won’t bore you with inconsequential details, but I will tell you that it was used to murder a number of civilians working at a secret government establishment in London, so I’ve placed her under arrest for murder. Once she’s able to hobble about without crutches, we’ll lock her in a high-security prison and she’ll bother us no more.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘You’re too old to be that naive, Kowalski. There are laws that say I can do anything I want to do. And if there aren’t, then we’ll create them. But I haven’t finished yet. As for you – well, your career will be over. We’ll find something stupid that you’ve done in the past, bring you up on charges and dismiss you without your pension. Then, of course, there’s your wife – wants to be a barrister, I hear. We’ll spread the poison. No one will touch her by the time we’ve finished. I could start describing how your children – Gabe, Oceana, Tabitha and Gabi will suffer because you . . .’
‘If I could get out of this bed . . .’
‘Oh, I have no doubt you’d knock me on my arse and break my jaw in seven places, but then that really would be game, set and match to the establishment, wouldn’t it?’
‘Fucking bitch.’
‘I’ve been called a lot worse. And don’t think I don’t know about the photographs Dr Toadstone took of the ledger. I ha
d someone hack into your email account last night. We’ve confiscated those photographs, so they won’t be appearing on the internet anytime soon.’
He’d played enough poker to know when he was beaten. His hand had just disintegrated into a hammer. ‘I fold,’ he said.
‘A wise decision, Kowalski.’
‘You’ll let Susan Bunyan go?’
‘Who?’
‘But what about those bastards . . . ?’
‘Look Kowalski, even at the top of the hierarchy, we’re still in the business of catching the bad guys. But we also have to keep ourselves and our masters in power. In that ledger are three senior policemen, two Lords, seven Right Honourable Members of Parliament, a number of contributors to government election coffers from all three parties, celebrities who have been awarded honours . . . Needless to say, chaos would ensue. It’s my job to manage the situation in any way I can. If I have to crush your testicles to do that . . .’ She shrugged. ‘And you should know that, if there’s one thing I like doing to men – it’s crushing their nuts into fine powder.’
He couldn’t stop his face from cracking into a smile. ‘I can imagine.’
‘Your imagination is limited by your fidelity, Kowalski. Under different circumstances, I might have done something extraordinary with your nuts, but there it is. So, are we good?’
He nodded. ‘We’re good.’
‘Don’t think you can say one thing and do another . . .’
‘We’re good,’ he repeated.
‘Excellent. I’ll leave you to explain the situation to your wife and Miss Bunyan. As for those men on the list – they’ll get theirs you can be sure about that, but in a place and manner of our choosing. Plans are already being put in place to bring the bastards down. They trampled on the bodies of children to accumulate their power and wealth. Well, it’ll be my privilege to take it all from them. So, you see Kowalski, things aren’t all bad.’
She opened the door and left.
No, maybe things weren’t all bad. For one, he’d still have a career at the end of the purge. For two, Bronwyn would still have a life. And for three, the hand of justice would be crushing nuts into fine powder for some time to come. It wasn’t perfect, but it was probably the best he could hope for under the circumstances.