by Ellis, Tim
‘Nurse?’
A nurse came in. ‘We have an alarm system so that you don’t have to shout at the top of your voice.’
‘Where the hell . . . ?’
The nurse pulled the alarm button from under her hand. ‘Just press this.’
‘Oh!’ Xena pressed it.
‘Not now. I’m already in here.’
She screwed up her eyes. ‘I didn’t hear any alarm.’
‘It’s a silent alarm. . .’
She began laughing, but then grimaced in pain. ‘Have you come in here to torture me?’
‘A light flashes outside your door. We see it flashing, and then come and find out what pathetic little thing it is that you want.’
‘I want to know where my mobile phone is.’
‘Why?’
‘So that I can make some calls.’
‘No.’
‘No? What do you mean “No”? I’m a Detective Sergeant . . .’
‘In here you’re merely a patient. We don’t allow patients or visitors to use mobile phones because the radio signals interfere with some of our more sensitive equipment. Secondly, you’re recovering from a major operation. I’m in charge of your recovery and I say no phone calls.’
‘What’s your name? I’m going to report you to the Chief Executive. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be lucky if you can get a job as a prostitute.’
The nurse smiled and pointed at her name badge. ‘My name is Louise James. I’m a Registered General Nurse and a Staff Nurse in charge of your care. Your partner – the very lovely Rowley Gilbert – told us you’d be exactly like this and he wasn’t wrong. He said that underneath all the posturing there was a wonderful person, which I’ve yet to see I might add.’
‘I’m going to kill the very lovely Rowley Gilbert when he comes in, so you’d better warn the A & E to expect an emergency.’
Staff Nurse James puffed up Xena’s pillows and said, ‘Would you like a drink? If you’re hungry I could probably do you some scrambled eggs, if you want.’
‘Do they come with a mobile phone on the side?’
‘No, and if you’re thinking of crawling out of bed – which would be akin to a suicide attempt in your condition – to find your mobile phone, don’t bother. Your valuables are locked in the ward safe, and you’ll get them when you leave.’
‘Don’t you people know anything about the Human Rights Act?’
‘I can see you and I are going to get along just fine. Xena is an unusual name – are you any relation to Lucy Lawless by any chance?’
‘Ha, ha! You’re in the wrong profession. I’d like that Complaint Form now, if you’d be so kind.’
‘Maybe tomorrow. You get some rest now, and we’ll see if we can’t winkle out the wonderful person inside.’
‘No chance,’ she muttered under her breath as her eyes began to close.
***
They were on their way to the station when his phone started playing the William Tell Overture.
‘Hello, Toadstone. You’ve found the key piece of evidence we’ve been searching for, and you’ve rung to tell me the case has cracked wide open, haven’t you?’
‘There’s been another murder.’
‘Go on?’
‘Same MO. Her name is Rene Hollitt.’
‘Do I need to come over there and tell you what to do?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Sir. It’s exactly the same as Fannie Binetti. A broken heart has been carved into the abdomen, but instead of FB the initials are RH.’
‘We’re on our way to the station if you do find that elusive piece of evidence you’re always searching for, Toadstone.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
The call ended.
‘You’re really mean to him.’ Richards said.
‘He’s lucky I don’t report him to trading standards for masquerading as a forensic officer.’
‘What did he say?’
‘You tell me. You were listening to the conversation.’
‘There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?’
‘Rene Hollitt – a broken heart carved on her abdomen.’
‘I don’t think we need to go to Billericay now. It’s not about Fannie’s baby, or the father . . . It’s about a connection between those two women and the killer.’
‘It took you long enough.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve known that for days.’
‘As if.’
‘Pull in,’ he said.
She pulled into a row of parking spaces. ‘Yes?’
‘Make a detour. Let’s go and find out whether Fannie’s sister knows Rene Hollitt.’
Richards input 54 Pear Tree Walk in Hammond Street into the satnav and followed the directions.
It took them thirty-five minutes to get there.
Anne answered the door. ‘You’ve found Fannie’s killer?’
‘Not yet. Do you know a Rene Hollitt?’
‘My God! I haven’t heard that name for . . . Well, for years. She went to school with Fannie. That’s really all I know about her . . .. Why?’
Parish didn’t see the harm in telling her. It would soon appear on the news. ‘She’s been murdered in the same way Fannie was.’
‘Just a minute.’
She hurried out of the living room and ran up the stairs.
They heard her banging about opening and closing drawers, then she ran back down the stairs.
‘Here,’ she said thrusting an old Polaroid photograph at them. ‘The Poison Girls.’
Parish and Richards examined the photograph of a group of five teenage girls in school uniform. Names had been written on the back by Fannie: Me, Yolanda, Gayle, Rene and Elena.
‘She was in a gang called The Poison Girls. From what she told me, they used to rule the school.’
‘You don’t know the last names of the other three, do you?’
‘Sorry. I might have done, but I can’t remember now. The only reason I knew Rene, was that I met her once at our house.’
‘What school did they go to?’
‘Same one as me – Turnford School.’
‘We’ll get the photograph back to you when we’ve finished with it.’
‘Thanks.’
Outside in the car Richards said, ‘Do you think the murders are about this gang?’
‘I don’t know, but it certainly connects the two women. We need to find out who the other three women are. Take us to Turnford School, let’s see what they can tell us.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘We’ll see.’
***
His face was all over the television and newspapers. He should have had an escape plan – a passport in another name, loose cash to see him through, an overnight bag stashed in a left-luggage locker at the train station. Instead, he had nothing. He’d rung his mum, but she said he couldn’t go home – the police were waiting for him. He’d had to sleep rough last night, and he felt and looked like shit this morning.
What now? He didn’t really have an answer. He’d gone into a cafe and had a hot breakfast, but he saw people staring at him. He quickly threw the food and mug of tea down his neck and left. Shortly afterwards, he’d seen two police cars arrive.
He’d also seen the news about the man who had hired him to kill Lorna Boyce – William Ismay. A bloody suicide of all things. The one person who might have helped him out of this fix was that guy.
The question he now had to ask himself was whether he wanted to go to prison or not. It was simply a matter of time before he was caught. So, he really only had two options. He could either give himself up, or he could kill himself. That’s what it all boiled down to after all was said and done.
If he was caught or gave himself up he’d become another statistic in the system. The few documentaries about prisons he’d watched on television portrayed places that he knew he wouldn’t be able to fit into.
His barrister would adv
ise him to plead guilty to double murder. There were no mitigating circumstances that he could offer as an excuse for him killing people for money – the judge would give him life imprisonment, or could even give him two life sentences. Life was 30 years for a murder for personal gain. He’d be fifty when he got out – an old man. Or, maybe he’d never get out.
It was a simple decision really. He’d tried becoming an entrepreneur, but the business had hardly got off the ground. Maybe in another life – if there was such a thing – he could come back as a high-flying executive with super powers like Iron Man.
He climbed into his car. It wasn’t a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, or even an Audi TT, but it would do. He was in Walthamstow, so he headed for the M11 motorway. It seemed fitting that he would start his last journey at Woodford – where Lorna Boyce had lived.
Once he reached the motorway, he put his foot down on the accelerator and held it there. It took a while for the needle to rack up the miles per hour 60, 70, 80 . . . He passed Woodford Green, Chigwell, Roding Valley . . . 90, 100, 110 . . . The steering wheel began wobbling, and he wondered if it was going to come off in his hands.
At 125 miles per hour he lost control. He swerved right into the crash barrier, slewed sideways and flipped over. His heart was racing, but he was enjoying the adrenalin rush. The roof hit the tarmac and slid along the motorway at over a hundred miles an hour spinning like a top. He was upside down, and as the car began slowing down he saw an articulated lorry bearing down on him, and as he was crushed under its wheels it was the last thing his brain registered.
What Terry Merry (aka Tom Steel) didn’t know, but would have smiled at had he known, was that the reckless manner of his death caused a massive pile-up on the M11 and seventeen people died including the Member of Parliament for Ware (South) and an unborn baby.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Come.’
Stick shuffled into the Chief’s office. ‘Hello, Chief.’
‘DS Rowley. Take a seat.’
‘You’re confused, Sir. I’m only a DC.’
‘You’re confused Detective Sergeant Gilbert.’
‘I am?’
‘Congratulations.’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘I can always take it back if you don’t . . . ?’
‘No, that’s all right, Chief. What about Sergeant Blake?’
‘Detective Inspector Blake to you.’
‘That’s great. I’m glad you came through for her, Sir.’
‘Everybody says you’re too nice, Gilbert. Why is that?’
‘I don’t know. Have you told DI Blake yet?’
‘No, I was going to tell her this morning.’
‘You wouldn’t mind if I told her first, would you?’
‘I suppose I could go to the hospital this afternoon.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, you’re going to be without DI Blake for at least a month.’
‘As long as that?’
‘Probably longer, but we’ll see.’
‘Will somebody be taking over the case from DS . . . I mean DI Blake?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re a Sergeant now, Gilbert.’
‘Yes, but . . . Well, what about some help?’
‘Help? Are you saying you can’t cope, Sergeant?’
‘If it’s too much trouble . . .’
‘I’m only joking, Gilbert.’
‘I didn’t realise you were so funny, Sir.’
‘We’ve got a detective constable on loan from Shrub End in Colchester. She’s staying at a small hotel on the outskirts of Hoddesdon.’
‘That was quick, Sir.’
‘She was coming to us anyway. A question of lying low for a month or two.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘She’ll be outside, by now. Her name is Isolde Koll, and I expect you to show her the ropes and the courtesy we normally show guests of Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘So, that’s it, Gilbert. Well . . . it would be it if the new Chief Constable wasn’t coming for a visit on Friday. How long have you had this case now?’
‘Since Monday.’
‘Wasn’t the hand found on Friday.’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘So, that will be a week by the time the new Chief Constable arrives?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I would have expected DI Blake to be massaging the figures Gilbert, not you.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we. Promotions are always temporary until they become substantive. I’d like the new Chief Constable to see the Murder Investigation Team in a positive light, but with two cases that seem to be dragging on . . .’
‘Two?’
‘Oh, don’t think I’m just picking on you, Gilbert. I understand that you’ve lost DI Blake in the middle of an investigation, but you need to climb back on the horse – so to speak. I want the case solved by Friday at the very latest. Are we clear?’
‘Very clear, Chief.’
‘Good. I expect you to come and brief me first thing in the mornings.’
‘On my own, Sir?’
‘Why, is there someone you’d like to bring with you?’
‘I was thinking of DC Koll.’
‘Ah! Yes, you can bring her. No offence Gilbert, but you’re not the best looking detective I’ve got.’
‘I understand.’
‘Right, I have work to do. Congratulations again, and pull your finger out on solving the case.’
Outside, he grinned at the Chief’s secretary – Carrie, who introduced him to DC Isolde Koll. He guessed she was about twenty nine, and she wasn’t what he’d expected at all. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he knew it definitely wasn’t the person who was standing in front of him. She was small and petite, had long dark hair past her shoulders, and an angular face.
‘DS Gilbert,’ he said offering his hand.
She shook it. ‘You know who I am.’
‘Yes. How come you’re not a model?’
‘Too short.’
‘I didn’t realise modelling had height restrictions like the police.’
‘Oh yes. You’ve got to have long legs, and my legs are short and dumpy.’
He took a pace backwards and looked her over. She wore a dark grey trouser suit with a chiffon top and he could just make out the pattern of her bra. ‘I think you look lovely.’
‘You’re not hitting on me already, are you?’
‘I never would. I’m not like that.’
‘Okay, I just thought I’d mention it.’
‘Come on, I’ll brief you on the case, and then I have to go and see DI Blake at the hospital.’
‘Yeah, I heard about your partner. I hope she gets better soon.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘It’s best you see for yourself.’
***
She’d expected to see something on the news, in the papers, or at least as an item on Yahoo, but there was nothing. Of course, if she looked at it from another angle – why would there be? Basement 7 was a secret government facility, after all. If they called in the police the facility wouldn’t be secret anymore, and that probably wouldn’t be any good.
She did see the news items about William Ismay, Lorna Boyce and the contract killer – Terry Merry. There was no need to ring Jerry now, she thought. Although there was still the important issue of her money. Even though the whole thing had been a fucking disaster in more ways than one, she still expected to get paid.
When she got back to the squat she took the morning after pill and hoped those bastards hadn’t given her any diseases. At least she’d been unconscious when they’d raped her. So, although she felt bruised and battered down there, she actually had no memories of the rape and didn’t need to dwell on it.
Shrek had a scr
eamer with him. If she’d been in a better frame of mind she might have recorded the noises – a bit like a wildlife recording of strange creatures in the undergrowth – so that they could have laughed about it later, but then she remembered that Romeo and Harley weren’t there to laugh about anything anymore.
She ripped off her clothes and stood in the shower for over an hour scrubbing every part of her that she could reach – inside and out. Then she crumpled down into the shower pan like a broken flower and cried.
‘Fucking bastards,’ she whispered over and over until the water ran cold.
Crap! She’d forgotten her towel again.
She stuck her dripping head out of the bathroom door.
The nocturnal noises had ceased.
She hoped they were asleep as she slip-slopped naked along the landing.
Shrek opened his bedroom door before she reached it and stepped onto the landing in his boxers.
‘Very nice,’ he said, as he looked her up and down.
She didn’t bother trying to hide herself – she wasn’t ashamed of her body, and he’d seen it all before anyway.
‘There’s no need to stand out here with your ear at the door having an orgasm, you know. I can accommodate two women at the same time.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Lovely. Are Romeo and Harley back as well?’
‘I know you’d like me to stand out here freezing my tits off for your pleasure, but you can fuck off.’
‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘You’ve already seen more of me than is good for you. I might have to . . .’ She was going to say she might have to kill him, but he was the only one left she hadn’t killed.
She’d ran to her room, slammed the door behind her and sat on the floor and cried. Later, she knew she’d have to tell him about the other two, but first she needed to sleep. And she did, a deep dreamless sleep.
Now, sat up in bed she took her laptop out of the rucksack. ‘Let’s see what’s it’s all been about then,’ she muttered out loud.
Contrary to what that bastard had said about people looking at her laptop – nobody had tried to access it. She went online and entered the vault where she’d transferred everything from the Basement 7 server and began skimming the codenames.
Alpha 33 described a failed mission from 1999 to provide financial and military assistance to the Chechen separatists, which would have helped them move away from Russia. Buckshot was a partially successful mission to disable Russian Tupolev-95 bombers in Archangel, Russia to prevent them from flying over Britain to test our defences.