House of Mourning (9781301227112)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘It’s all my fault. I knew you had hormone problems . . .’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was your fault. How much are you going to give me in compensation?’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Your crocodile tears don’t fool me, Stickamundo. You sit there holding my hand as if you care, but you’re not willing to share your millions with me.’

  ‘Jennifer sends her best wishes.’

  ‘Ha! I knew it. Tell her I probably won’t be coming round on Friday night now.’

  ‘It’s an open invitation, Sarge.’

  ‘I can see where this is going. You want me to join your harem, don’t you?’

  ‘You know me too well.’

  ‘So, have you solved the case yet?’

  ‘Oh! I forgot. You know I went back to the tattoo . . .’

  ‘Bloody hell – the press conference!’

  ‘It’s all right, I did it on my own.’

  ‘You did it? You took my press conference? Without me?’

  ‘They were waiting. I had no choice. I knew what you were going to say, anyway. I was nervous, but it went well.’

  ‘You could have postponed it until tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s already tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, there you go then. I’ll get out of here and we can get on with solving the case.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sarge.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She tried to push herself up.

  ‘If I were you, I would stay where you are. I’ll call the nurse.’

  ‘What’s going on, blockhead?’

  ‘You nearly died.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. I fainted in the toilets, that’s all. I’m just glad I didn’t have my knickers round my ankles. I bet you’d have liked it if I had, wouldn’t you, pervert?’

  ‘When they brought you to the hospital, you were rushed to the operating theatre. The doctors spent over seven hours trying to save your life. It was touch-and-go for a long time.’

  ‘Where’s the camera? This is you getting your own back, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s no camera, Sarge. You know I’m not like that.’

  She put her hand under the bedclothes. ‘Someone had better have a good explanation for this cross-stitch across my perfectly flat stomach.’

  ‘I’ll call . . .’

  She gripped his wrist. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He told her what the surgeon had said about endometriosis and removing her ovaries, fallopian tubes and uterus.

  ‘They went the whole nine yards then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I never wanted children anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why are you sorry? You didn’t do the operation, did you?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Are you going to stay here all night? I’m sure there’s a cardboard box with your name on it somewhere.’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘You’re not thinking of climbing in here with me, are you?’

  A nurse came in to take Xena’s blood pressure, pulse and check the intravenous drip rate. ‘Ah, Miss Blake, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Can you get this stalker out of my room?’

  ‘I thought . . .’

  Stick grinned. ‘She’s joking. The doctor should have removed her sense of humour as well. I’ll be back tomorrow, Sarge.’

  ‘I won’t be here. I have a one-way ticket to the Maldives.’

  ’You’ll be here, and so will I.’

  To the nurse Xena said, ‘There is an escape committee, isn’t there?’

  ‘The doctor will be in shortly.’

  ‘Hasn’t he done enough damage?’

  ***

  After interviewing the four plant workers from Winton’s factory, dealing with the Interpol Liaison Officer, the press officer from Police HQ, and Uncle Tom Cobley’s extensive family as well, it had been nearly nine o’clock when they got home last night.

  All he could manage was a cold and crusty meal, a quick walk for the dog, and a passable impression of an exhausted man crawling into bed.

  This morning he woke up at five. After his caffeine fix, he decided to shake the cobwebs off by walking Digby.

  ‘Maybe I should take you into work with me, old fella,’ he said as they headed along Puck Road. ‘I feel a bit guilty about leaving you on your own all day.’ He could tell the dog was listening, but training as a canine detective clearly wasn’t at the top of his to-do list at the moment. ‘Instead of Parish and Richards, it would be Parish and Digby.’

  The dog barked.

  ‘Yes, I know you’d like it to be Digby and Parish, but as I’ve said to Richards on many occasions – I’m the Inspector. You’d have to learn the ropes first, then maybe we could discuss it.’

  Digby obviously wasn’t impressed with the plan.

  ‘Also, I have to tell you this, and I’m not sure whether you’re going to like it, but I don’t think “Digby” is the right name for a detective. Maybe we could change it to something like “Wolf”, “Brutus” or possibly “Chainsaw”. What do you think, Dig?’

  As usual, it was a one-sided conversation, but he would have to do something about Digby being on his own all day.

  So, the favour for the Chief had swallowed up most of yesterday, but at least they’d solved the murder. In fact, they’d solved a lot more than they bargained for. Human meat! That was a broadside. They could all have been eating human meat without realising it. He shuddered thinking about it. Yes, the best said about that the better.

  There were still a few loose ends, but they would be tidied up over the next couple of days. Someone had rung Crimestoppers and given up the assassin. There was an all-points bulletin out for Terry Merry – also known as Tom Steel – from the Crossways Estate in Bow, London. They still had to speak to Cookie – whoever she was – and find out what other skeletons she had discovered about Winton’s directors.

  Today they’d have to get back to their main case, and the day was already mapped out. First, they’d pop into the station to brief the Chief, but that wouldn’t take long because they’d been speaking on the phone most of yesterday about the revelation at Winton’s. Next, they had to drive up to Billericay to see the adoptive parents of Fannie Binetti’s son. On the way back, they’d make a detour to Potters Bar to speak to Gareth Hayes, and that would fill up the day nicely.

  Were they close to solving this case? Not really. They had one victim – Fannie Binetti, and unless Gareth Hayes was the killer they didn’t really have any other suspects. Oh, there was the issue of her son, but he wasn’t optimistic about that lead. The problem was the broken heart carved on Fannie’s abdomen – they hadn’t got to the bottom of that. What was it about? It was clearly personal. The killer had known Fannie, but who was it? They’d taken the word of her friend Jane Cole that there were no previous boyfriends with the initials GH, but maybe she was mistaken, or lying.

  An then there was DS Blake. What was going on with her? Who would pick up the severed hand case? Would the Chief let DC Gilbert work that case on his own, or draft someone new in to take charge? Gilbert could work the case and report to him. He’d suggest that option to the Chief this morning.

  Toadstone had been less than useless on this case so far. Maybe he was more interested in his date with Richards on Friday night than he was in finding evidence for the case. He’d pay him a quick visit in forensics and give him a boot up the arse this morning. That was the trouble with scientific types – unless you kept pointing them in the right direction they lost their way trying to figure out the meaning of the universe and everything in-between.

  ‘How’s that, Digby?’ He’d walked the dog for a good hour. He felt guilty. Dogs thrived on human contact, not being left alone in the house all day. It wasn’t as if the old fella could read a book, watch television, or take a stroll down the pub. He�
�d have to look at the local papers and see what was available.

  ‘You took your time,’ Richards said when he walked into the kitchen.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were timing me.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do.’ He changed Digby’s water and scooped a meaty breakfast from a tin into the dog’s bowl.

  ‘What do you do out there for so long?’

  ‘Ah, I see. You think I’m meeting the lap dancer from No.15.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a lap dancer at No.15.’

  ‘There isn’t, but that won’t stop you thinking there is.’

  ‘I was just wondering what took you so long, that’s all.’

  ‘Digby needs his exercise. I don’t see you getting off your fat arse to walk him.’

  She was wearing her Children in Need Pudsey pyjamas and pulled the bottoms tight across her arse. ‘I haven’t got a fat backside.’

  ‘You do a lot of sitting down.’

  ‘I still haven’t got . . . And anyway, I could walk Digby.’

  ‘So, you’ll get up with him at five tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about the morning shift. I need my beauty sleep. I could walk him in the evening though.’

  ‘And what would I do while you’re walking Digby?’

  ‘You could put your feet up and relax. You’re not getting any younger, you know.’

  ‘I see. Let’s get back to your fat arse. Have you heard the expression “love handles”?’

  ‘I know you’re just teasing me. And anyway . . . You can’t have handles without love, and I don’t have any love.’

  ‘Not that old potato again. You’ll have Toadstone’s love on Friday night.’

  ‘Not that old potato again.’

  ‘Is there an echo in here?’

  ‘Do you remember that love scene in the film “Troy”?’

  ‘With Paris and Helen?’

  ‘No. Paris was a wimp. The one between Achilles and Brisēís.’

  ‘In Achilles’ tent?’

  ‘Yes, where he says: “You will never be lovelier than you are now,” and then he makes love to her. God, I cry every time I watch that scene.’

  ‘And you want to be part of a Greek tragedy?’

  ‘Yes.’ She finished her muesli, washed the bowl and spoon and shuffled into the hall.

  ‘You’re going to live a lonely life,’ he called after her.

  ‘I know,’ she said, trudging upstairs to get ready for work.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The plane landed at London Heathrow at ten past seven. By the time they’d collected their luggage and queued at passport control, it was quarter to nine.

  Rosibel could have hired a car for them, but he said they’d catch a taxi and let someone else have the stress of finding the hotel instead. If they needed to, they could hire a car later. He could drive, but his license was a forgery. He’d never actually taken a test. In Colombia, the police knew better than to ask Oscar Gamboa for his licence.

  He could have sat in the front with the driver, but instead he shuffled along the back seat to sit next to Rosibel. A man would be a strange creature if he chose to sit in the front with an ugly man instead of in the back with a beautiful woman.

  The radio droned in the background. England looked a dreary place. Mile after mile of motorway and grey skies. The sooner they found this Raymond Kowalski and arranged for Mr Garcia’s money to be transferred back to his account, the sooner they could go home to Colombia.

  He had heard of England. They played football like old women. Some of the Colombian national team had played football in England – Hugo Rodallega and Faustino Asprilla. They must be crazy to want to leave beautiful Colombia to come to a dreary place such as this.

  ‘You don’t mind if I turn the news up, do you?’ the driver asked.

  He shrugged.

  Rosibel said, ‘No, we don’t mind.’

  He could see the slavering fool looking at Rosibel through the rear view mirror. If he’d been in Colombia he would have said something like, ‘You look at her one more time and I will roast your eyeballs over a spit, eat them and wash then down with a can of Aguila.’

  Maybe he was being over-sensitive. Rosibel was, after all, a very beautiful woman. A man would have to be made of stone to not want to stare at her until his eyes bled.

  Rosibel elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Listen.’.

  He listened.

  Esteben Garcia, the head of the powerful Los Cambios drug cartel in Medellin, Colombia was shot dead in his own home this morning during a police raid. Garcia, wanted by the US for supplying tonnes of cocaine to Mexican gangs, had a $2.5 million bounty on his head.

  Garcia was a lieutenant of drug lord Pablo Escobar, who was killed in a 1993 raid. He had formerly been a right-wing paramilitary fighter and was also wanted for his involvement in a series of murders.

  A team of 150 officers stormed the house, on the outskirts of Medellin, shortly after 6am. They had been tipped off he would be celebrating his fiftieth birthday with his men last night.

  Three of his trusted lieutenants were captured, together with a number of his men. Seven police officers, and more than fifty of Garcia’s men, were killed in the raid.

  On hearing the news, Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos tweeted: “What a good start to the day.”

  The Los Cambios are one of Colombia’s main gangs, along with Los Rastrojos, Los Paisas and Las Aguilas Negras.

  Colombia is one of the world’s top producers of cocaine, and criminal gangs – made up of former right-wing paramilitary groups and old cartels – have become a major emerging threat to the nation of 46 million people.

  While bloodshed from Colombia’s long guerrilla and drug wars has dropped since a US-backed offensive began more than a decade ago, bombings, murders and combat continue, mainly in Colombia’s frontier areas.

  The decline in violence has attracted billions of dollars in foreign investment . . .

  Leaning forward, Oscar said to the driver, ‘Turn the car around.’ He had to get back to Colombia. Somebody needed to take charge of the cartel. He was the only lieutenant left – he would be in charge – or would he?

  Rosibel shook her head and said, ‘No, carry on driver.’

  Oscar looked at her and spoke in Spanish, ‘I decide what we do, not you.’ He reverted back to English and said to the driver again, ‘Turn the car around and return to the airport.’

  Rosibel said to the driver, ‘Please stop the car while we have a conversation.’

  The driver pulled onto the hard shoulder on the M25 and put his flashers on. ‘I wish you two would make up your mind.’

  Oscar climbed out of the car.

  Rosibel slid across the seat and joined him outside. They moved up the steep grassy bank away from the noise of the traffic speeding by.

  ‘I have to get back to Colombia,’ he said to her. ‘If Mr Garcia is dead, someone needs to take control of the cartel. I am the only lieutenant left.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re a fool, Oscar Gamboa.’

  Rosibel was the only one he had ever allowed to talk to him like that. Anyone else would be lying dead on the floor by now.

  ‘You know that someone will have already taken your place. If you returned, they would kill you.’

  He knew she was right. People didn’t queue in the cartel. His absence would be filled by someone – probably already had been. Everybody would realign themselves – Oscar Gamboa was now surplus to requirements.

  ‘Also, as soon as you set foot in Colombia they would arrest you, and after a short time they would execute you by firing squad. You are well known in Medellin. They will be surprised they have not captured you already.’

  ‘What do you care if I am captured and executed? Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along?’

  ‘I don’t care, but if we go back to Colombia now the police will know that we have travelled together. I will also be arreste
d. They will think I am part of your grubby little world. They will put me in jail or execute me as well, and I am not ready to die yet.’

  He paced up and down on top of the bank. She made perfect sense. They were both travelling under their real names. The authorities would know he had left the country with Rosibel by now. They would know he had flown to the Cayman Islands, and they would already know he was in England. It wouldn’t be long before they came after him – legally or illegally. There were no rules in the drug wars. The Colombian authorities had ripped up the rules of war and thrown them in the trash can. It was the only way they could ever win against men who would do anything for money. Now, they did whatever was necessary to rid Colombia of the cartels.

  ‘We will continue to the hotel, and then I will decide what to do.’

  She nodded.

  They returned to the car.

  ‘Carry on with our journey, driver,’ Rosibel instructed him.

  ‘I take it you two are from Colombia?’ the driver said.

  They both ignored him, so he shut up.

  ***

  She’d slept fitfully. They were still pumping her full of painkillers and other drugs. Her head felt as though someone had stuffed a whole bag of cotton wool balls through her ears one ball at a time with a stick to fill up all the spaces.

  The doctor had come in shortly after Stick had left and told her what he’d done. He explained why he’d had to remove everything, and why she’d suffered during her periods each month since the age of twelve. Now, she couldn’t have babies - forever. Not that she’d ever wanted babies, but the option had always been there – now it wasn’t. If she’d had difficulty getting a man before, it was going to be nearly impossible now. Well, the right kind of man. Men wanted offspring. It was a biological imperative to continue their line. As soon as she told them that she was devoid of baby-making machinery, they’d go and find another wide-hipped big-breasted wench to ravish.

  She cried. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe the operation had taken its toll on her. Maybe . . .

  Stick would have to manage on his own for a couple of weeks. She’d probably be on sick leave at least for a while, and then she’d get back to work. Or, she could manage the case from her hospital bed. She looked around to see if she could find her mobile phone, but it wasn’t anywhere in sight.