by Ellis, Tim
‘I’d like to speak to your supervisor, please.’
‘Ah, you think you can go above my head and that my boss will ignore the rules she herself wrote to give you the briefcase. Never going to happen, Mr Parish. We have rules, clear rules. No proof of identity, no briefcase. No court order, no briefcase. No . . .’
Richards sidled up to the counter, batted her eyelids and licked her lips. ‘We’d like just a little peek inside that briefcase. I’m sure there’s something we can do to facilitate that.’
The man pulled a face. ‘Something? Can you give me some examples of what you’re suggesting, Miss?’
‘No she cannot,’ Parish said, raising his voice. ‘Get me your supervisor now, please.’
‘Of course, Sir. Please take a seat.’ He disappeared for about five minutes and came back with a woman who looked as though she played rugby for the All Blacks.
‘I am the supervisor Olga Tarasova. How can I help you?’ she said, her voice rebounding around the warehouse.
‘I want the briefcase that’s identified on that left luggage ticket.’
‘And you’re not the person who deposited the briefcase with the left luggage office at Paddington station ten years ago?’
‘No, but does that matter? I have the ticket, and isn’t possession nine-tenths of the law.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’d know about the law being a Detective Inspector, Sir. All I know is what our rules say, and they say you can’t have the briefcase unless you’re the person who put the . . .’
‘You wrote the rules, can’t you change them?’
‘That would be against the rules, Sir.’
‘Here’s a hypothetical scenario I’d like you to consider,’ Parish said. ‘You finish work, you get in your car and start driving home, you’re stopped and searched by the police because they’ve received an anonymous tip-off, and they find a stash of heroin hidden in the boot. You’re arrested . . .’
’You’re threatening me?’
‘Absolutely not. I would never abuse my position in such a way. As a police officer I serve the public, but that service is based on the understanding that I receive cooperation from the people I serve. To be perfectly honest, I’m not convinced I’m getting that cooperation from you two.’
‘So, do you have any other strategies you’d like to try on us?’
‘No, I think I’ve exhausted my repertoire.’
‘Good. In the spirit of cooperation, I will see if we can find the briefcase. Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet, Inspector. Even if we do find the briefcase I haven’t decided whether I’ll let you look inside it yet.’
They sat down on the plastic chairs.
‘Do you think she’ll let you look inside?’ Richards asked.
‘Have I shown any aptitude in the past for ESP?’
‘The opposite in fact, but you know about people.’
‘She’ll let us look inside.’
‘What if she doesn’t?’
‘I’m open to suggestions, and I don’t think offering sexual services to that man was very helpful.’
‘It was about as helpful as you threatening to frame the woman.’
Olga Tarasova eventually returned with a dusty old briefcase and placed it on the counter. ‘You’ll have the combination then?’
They both stood up.
He knew exactly where they were. ‘On the back of the ticket.’
Richards glanced at him and smiled. ‘Of course.’
Tarasova turned the dials on the left to 0956 and the lock snapped open. The same results were achieved when she turned the dials on the right to 1184. She put her forearms on the top of the case and leaned forward. ‘I’m not going to get into trouble for letting you see what’s in this case, am I?’
‘The person who left this case at Paddington station ten years ago died in a hotel fire in America a month ago. He has absolutely no relatives that can be traced. The only thing that wasn’t destroyed in that fire was an envelope in the room safe and that was an envelope addressed to me. It had the Left Luggage ticket inside. Does that answer your question?’
‘I suppose it does. So, you’ll be eager to see what’s inside this case then?’
‘Just a bit,’ Parish said staring at the briefcase.
‘Sorry . . .’
They both looked up at her with their mouths gaping open.
She was grinning. ‘Only joking,’ she said and opened the briefcase. ‘Mmmm.’
‘What?’ Richards said trying to see around the lid.
‘A piece of paper.’ She examined what was written on the paper, put it back in the briefcase and slammed the lid closed.
‘But . . .’ Richards mumbled.
‘Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll let you copy what’s on that piece of paper, and then we’ll return everything to as it was. That way, if a relative of Mr Lewis does materialise, the briefcase and its contents will be intact – agreed?’
Parish nodded. ‘Agreed.’
Olga slid her hand into the jaws of the case and pulled out the piece of paper. ‘There you are,’ she said passing to Parish.
Richards craned her neck. ‘Let me see.’
Printed at the top of the sheet of paper was a name: Orvil Lorenz. Underneath the name was a list of five pairs of names with a line through each of the first four:
E1: Gabriella/Gideon
E2: Rufus/Roscoe
E3: Mary/Molly
E4: Sebastian/Simeon
E5: Zara/Zachary
‘What does it all mean?’ Richards whispered as she finished copying what was on the paper into her notebook.
‘No idea. Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I expect the E’s stand for Epsilon.’
‘Of course. Epsilon 5 was written on the envelope underneath your name. Who are Zara and Zachary though? Do you think Zachary might be you? But who’s Zara? Zara and Zachary who? And who’s Orvil Lorenz? Who do the other names belong to? Why . . . ?’
Parish passed the piece of paper back to Olga. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. Would you mind if I check personally that there’s nothing else in that briefcase?’
She swivelled the briefcase round so that he could look inside. ‘I’m going out on a limb here, you know.’
He passed her a business card. ‘You ever get yourself into trouble with the police, give me a ring and I’ll see what I can do.’
She slipped the card in a pocket of her brown coat.
He began systematically checking the pockets of the briefcase and feeling the bottom, top and sides for anything that might have been hidden – there was nothing. He was about to close the briefcase and call it a day when he noticed something. ‘You don’t have a tape measure or a ruler, do you?’
The man produced a ruler from beneath the counter.
Parish measured the depth of the inside of the briefcase and the depth of the outside. ‘There’s a quarter of an inch missing. I think there’s a hidden compartment here.’
Richards was slavering. ‘Can I try?’
‘I’ll do it.’ He pressed all over the brief case, and eventually found a tiny catch. The base clicked open. Inside was an ageing brown file. On the front of the file was the German eagle with the swastika inside a laurel wreath gripped in its claws. He took the file out, opened it up and saw half a dozen pages written in German. He closed the file again. ‘I have to take this with me.’
Olga banged the briefcase shut. ‘Are you two still here?’
‘Thanks,’ he said.
They left the Wembley storage depot on Great Central Way and caught a taxi back to Wembley Park tube station.
‘Are you going to let me see the file?’ Richards asked him in the taxi.
‘Can you read German?’
‘Well . . . a little bit.’
‘Tell me one word of German you know.’
‘Eh . . . BMW.’
‘I thought so. You know absolutely
no German at all.’
‘Berlin.’
‘Keep going.’
‘When I look at the file I’m sure it’ll jog my memory. Everything I learnt at school will come flooding back.’
He opened the file and turned the pages over slowly one at a time.
‘Wow.’
‘Well?’
She grinned. ‘Nothing is coming to me.’
‘I thought so.’
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘We’re going home.’
‘I mean with what we’ve found out?’
‘Well, I suppose we’ll put it in a drawer and forget about it.’
‘As if.’
***
The Puncak Hotel
Senggigi, Lombok Island,
West Nusa Tenggara, Indonesia
Thursday, May 16
After an overlong discussion on what each of them should be called, it was decided that they would both keep their first names to prevent any confusion. He was now called Oscar Rivera and she was Rosibel Valdez. He had the temerity to suggest that they might be a married couple, but she told him that if ever she was going to get married it would be in the sight of God.
As he had Esteben Garcia’s account number and could make a passable signature of his own name, he was able to transfer ten million of the one hundred and ninety five million in the account to another account he had opened under his own name.
After some searching, he was able to find a Lithuanian who could produce forged Panamanian documents – a passport, birth certificate and driving licence – for both of them. He paid fifty thousand pounds for the documents.
Once he had become Oscar Rivera, he removed five million pounds in cash from his account, took it along the road to another bank and opened an account under his new name. The following day, he removed another four million pounds and gave it to Rosibel.
‘I don’t want your dirty drug money.’
‘Just in case,’ he said to her.
‘In case of what?’
‘You know what. If I were killed you would need money.’
‘I will put it in an account with my name on it, but I will never touch it. I am not a hypocrite.’
He didn’t like to mention that he was paying for everything with dirty drug money.
While they were waiting for the documents they plotted a circuitous route via the Eurotunnel to Paris, a train journey to Marseille, a French Airbus flight to Hong Kong, two nights in a luxury hotel in Macau, a flight to Dubai . . . Needless to say, it would have taken a whole pack of tracker dogs ten years to pick up their trail.
Now, they were lying on the white sand together. The palm trees were hardly moving in the breeze and the sea was lapping their names.
After all the things he’d done in his life he didn’t deserve to be so happy – and yet, for this short time he was. He propped himself up on his elbow and stared at her. Mother Teresa and all the saints in Christendom, she was so beautiful. Since making love to her the first time, he had never wanted to stop. He felt as he did as a child in the store at Puente de Calamate. Old Mrs Neira used to chase him away from the sweets with a stick.
‘Soon we will have to leave this place,’ he said to her.
‘But not today.’
He kissed her. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow.’
####
About the Author
Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, grew up in Cheadle, Cheshire, and now lives in Essex with his wife and four Shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then he has worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write fiction full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.
Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com
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Warrior: Path of Destiny
Warrior: Scourge of the Steppe
The Knowledge of Time: Second Civilisation
Orc Quest: Prophecy
Solomon’s Key
Jacob’s Ladder
Raga Man
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Breath of Life
The Dead Know Not
Be Not Afraid
The Twelve Murders of Christmas
Body 13
The Graves at Angel Brook
The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf
Footprints of the Dead
The Terror at Grisly Park
The House of Mourning
Collected Short Stories/Poetry/Anthologies/Non-fiction
Untended Treasures
Where do you want to go today?
Winter of my Heart (Poetry)
With Love Project – The Occupier
The Killing Sands (Anthology)
The Writer’s A-Z of Body Language (Non-fiction)
Summer of my Soul (Poetry)
Also planned for 2013/2014:
The Gordian Knot (Stone & Randall 2)
The Song of Solomon (Harte & KP 2)
The Timekeeper's Apprentice
Orc Quest Book II: The Last Human
Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel 2)
The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (Quigg 6)
A Lamb to the Slaughter (Parish & Richards 10)
Through a Glass Darkly (Parish & Richards 11)