by Ellis, Tim
‘You were working as a legal secretary?’ Stick prodded her.
‘Yes. Pebbles was in school and I had to work late. I asked Mathew if he’d mind picking her up from school. Bastard was only too happy to oblige. Thankfully, the meeting I was at finished earlier than expected and . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He was just about to, you know . . . Anyway, I threw him out. Said I was going to call the police if I ever saw him again.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘It still makes me angry when I think about it. I was his sister, Pebbles was his niece and he was going to do that to her. I hope whoever killed him tortured him before they murdered him. Thankfully, Pebbles doesn’t remember anything – she’s a trader on the Stock Exchange now, earns more in a month than I used to earn in a year. Of course, there are downsides. It’s a high-pressure job and I very rarely see her.’ She took a breath and a sip of her tea.
Between them, Koll and Stick had polished off the scones and clotted cream.
‘You’d better tell me why you’re here then,’ she said.
Stick didn’t see any reason not to tell her the truth. ‘Your brother had a townhouse in Wivenhoe, Colchester . . .’
‘I don’t want anything . . .’
Stick shook his head. ‘No, that’s not why I told you . . . When we searched his house, we found a cellar with a hidden room. Inside that room were six cages. Inside three of the cages were three blond-haired children . . .’
Shirley Bridges crossed herself. ‘Holy Mother of Jesus.’
‘The DNA from at least sixty-three other children were found in that room . . .’
She ran out of the room holding a hand to her mouth.
Stick and Koll could hear her vomiting in a downstairs toilet, then they heard it flush and a tap running.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said when she returned. ‘You hear about these people on the news, and it seems that they’re becoming more prevalent, but you never expect one of them to be your own brother or even someone who you actually know. I should have called the police when I had the chance. Were the three children all right . . . you know?’
‘Yes, they were untouched.’
‘That’s something at least.’
‘I was going to ask you if you knew anything, but . . .’
‘No. Mathew was always a closed book to me . . . even before the incident with Pebbles. We weren’t happy children. Our father was a drunk and a bully. He used to hit our mother and when he got tired of that he’d turn on us. In all the time I spent as a child with Mathew, I don’t think I ever saw him smile. As I said before, he was very secretive . . . kept everything locked up inside.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Bridges. One last thing – we found a series of letters and numbers in Mathew’s house . . .’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. He spent his time learning codes, writing with invisible ink, searching out Chinese puzzle boxes, making up passwords and such like . . . It’ll be something like that, mark my words.’
Stick and Koll stood up. ‘You’ve been very kind. Thank you for the tea and scones – very welcome. And I was sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’
‘Good news, you mean. That bastard is dead. As far as I’m concerned – my birthday has come early.’
They made their way towards the front door.
‘There’ll be three clues, you know.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Stick said, turning round.
‘It was just something he used to do. He’d write a secret code, and then he’d devise three clues to get you to that code. He’d make me play. I remember being the recipient of Chinese burns if I didn’t play, or I couldn’t find or work out the clues. Needless to say, I had a lot of Chinese burns on my wrists and ankles.’
‘What type of clues did he use? What should we be looking for?’
‘Everything and anything – it all had another meaning. My suggestion would be to go through his personal effects again and look at each item through a different lens.’
‘Can you give us an example?’
She thought for a moment. ‘He’d cut a picture from a magazine. The clue might be the location, the number of people in the picture, the dominant colour, or something like that. On its own, it wouldn’t mean anything, but there would always be three clues. If you put the three clues together you could work out the secret code.’
‘I can understand how a boy might enjoy doing something like that.’
‘He was obsessed. If the other children didn’t want to play his game, he wasn’t interested. That’s why I had to play and, of course, why I had more than my fair share of Chinese burns.’
They shook Shirley Bridge’s hand and made their way back to the car.
‘I suppose we need to take another look at Pitt’s possessions,’ Koll said.
Stick nodded. ‘We have nothing else better to do. Call that woman you gave the secret code to, and ask her if she’s cracked it yet.’
‘Dawn Mines.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s her name.’
‘Oh! Do you want to eat first?’ Stick asked her.
‘You’re not full after the scones?’
‘Not really.’
Koll smiled. ‘I suppose I have room for some pub grub.’
***
He made good time and arrived in Great Boughton in Chester just after three o’clock.
Agnew and Semple Garage Services was located on Chichester Street at the end of a row of shops that included an estate agents, a bakers, a betting shop, a men’s barbers and a cafe called Chez Prune.
The whiff of baking bread reminded him that he hadn’t even stopped for lunch. His stomach started rumbling. Maybe he’d grab a roll or two from the bakers once he’d spoken to Harry Hawkesby.
After finding a parking space he walked into the oil-stained garage reception.
Sitting behind the chipboard counter was an attractive plump receptionist chewing gum and texting. She wore a baggy sleeveless low-cut t-shirt with no bra, which left nothing to his imagination. The tattoo of a snake slithered from between her ample cleavage and up the left side of her neck. Her blonde hair had been shaved on the left side, but hung to her jawline on the other side. A brass plaque on the counter suggested that she might be:
Lydia Plews
Receptionist Extraordinaire
‘Uh huh?’ she said without looking up at him.
‘Harry Hawkesby, please.’
‘And you are?’
He brandished his warrant card, but she didn’t look at it. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski from Hoddesdon.’
She stopped mid-text. ‘Don’t tell me. That’s in Yorkshire, isn’t it?’
‘Essex.’
‘Hey! Are you from Essex?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love TOWIE.’
‘Really?’ He had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Is Mr Hawkesby about?’
‘That Arg is dreamy.’
‘Mr Hawkesby?’
She pulled a face. ‘He’s here. Hold your horses.’ She pressed a button on the base of a microphone. ‘Hawk, there’s a copper in reception to see you.’
‘There are armed police covering the rear exits.’
She’d returned to her texting. ‘Yeah great.’
Harry Hawkesby was tall and thin, had an abundance of wavy brown hair and had not long passed eighteen years of age.
‘Thanks Lyd’,’ he said to the receptionist.
‘You can thank me later, babe,’
Hawkesby’s face reddened. ‘What’s wrong?’ he directed at Kowalski.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Tell Charlie I’m on a break, will you, Lyd’?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll be at the Prune.’
‘Uh huh.’
They walked up to the cafe wedged between George’s Barbers and a BetFred.
‘Are you going to tell me what it’s about?’ Haw
kesby asked again once Kowalski had paid for two cups of tea and a salad roll, and they were sitting at a table facing each other.
The old Kowalski would have ordered a full English with extras and a couple of slices of doorstop toast with lashings of butter. The new post-heart attack Kowalski was clinging on to life eating rabbit food to reduce the cholesterol clogging up his arteries.
‘You volunteered a DNA sample some time ago.’
‘Yeah – for the rapes.’
‘That’s it. Well, we were feeding other DNA samples through the database as part of a different investigation we’re conducting in Essex when we found a familial match to you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘At the time you gave the sample you said you had no biological family.’
‘That’s right. Isn’t there a thing about innocent people’s DNA being deleted from the database or something?’
‘I’m sure that if you make a complaint, they’ll look into it.’
‘Okay. So what’s this match thing?’
‘According to the database you have a sister.’
‘No . . . that can’t be right. Your database must have fucked up.’
‘There’s no mistake.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. You were two years old when your parents died?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Do you remember anything about your biological parents?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Have you asked to see your social care records?’
‘I’ve been informed that I can, but what for?’
Kowalski shrugged. ‘Curiosity.’
‘I don’t see any point looking at them. They’re not going to tell me anything I don’t already know.’
‘Have you any idea how the fire started?’
‘No.’
‘How were you saved from the fire, but your parents died?’
‘I never gave it any thought.’
He’d had a wasted journey. It was clear that Hawkesby knew nothing. ‘I’m going to Shropshire Social Services tomorrow morning to take a look at your records. Do you want to come with me?’
‘You can’t do that without my permission, can you?’
‘I have a court order that says I can.’
Hawkesby’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand. What’s this really all about?’
‘My wife is missing. A woman was caught on CCTV driving her car. When forensics examined the inside of the car, they found numerous samples of DNA. One of those samples produced a familial match to you.’
‘There must be some mistake. I don’t have a sister.’
‘So you keep saying, but there’s no mistake.’
‘Have you got a picture of the woman?’
Kowalski looked around the cafe and saw a folded newspaper on a vacant table. He walked over and helped himself, opened the paper up to the page with the photographs of Jerry, Julie Wilkinson and Hawkesby’s sister displayed and turned it round so that Harry could see it. ‘That’s her,’ he said, pointing to the third picture.
Harry stared at the photograph. ‘She doesn’t look like me.’
‘Siblings rarely look like each other.’
‘And you think she’s kidnapped your wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And she stole this Julie Wilkinson’s identity?’ he asked pointing at the middle picture.
‘Yes.’
‘And where’s the real Julie Wilkinson?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘You think . . . my sister killed her, don’t you?’
‘It’s a possibility we’re looking into.’ He didn’t think it was necessary to tell him about the death of Julie Wilkinson’s parents.
Hawkesby shook his head. ‘I’m struggling to get my brain round this.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I’ll have to get back soon,’ Hawkesby said glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘Charlie will think I’ve done a runner.’
‘So, do you want to come with me to Shropshire?”
‘I can’t. I’m working.’
Kowalski passed him a business card. ‘My mobile number is on there if you change your mind. I’m going to book into a local hotel, but I’ll be setting off early in the morning. When I’ve finished in Shropshire I’ll be heading back to Essex. If you’re going to change your mind, you’d better do it before I set off.’
‘I’ll talk to Charlie. Maybe there is something in my records that I don’t know about.’
Outside, Kowalski shook Harry’s hand and watched him trudge back to the garage. Then he went back into the cafe and ordered a full English breakfast with another mug of tea, but held off on the extras and the toast.
He was hungry. He liked a cooked breakfast. He couldn’t think on an empty stomach. It was comfort food and he needed comforting. Why torture himself when he was already suffering with Jerry’s absence? It was a relapse – surely one cooked breakfast wouldn’t do any lasting damage to his heart. And so what if it did? If Jerry was dead, why would he want to live without her anyway? They were all excuses. The ugly truth was – he was an addict and he needed a fix..
The waitress brought his meal.
‘A couple of slices of toast as well, please.’
‘With butter, love?’
He nodded. If he was on the road to hell, then he’d go out in a blaze of glory astride a Harley Davidson.
***
Oliver Brightmore had been recruited by MI5 in 2003 during his time at Cambridge University where he’d been taking a politics degree. He imagined that he’d rise to the top quickly and would soon be head of MI5, but reality hadn’t matched up to his expectations.
He was still a field agent after ten years in the job. Not only that, but he was stationed at the Defence Geospatial Intelligence Fusion Centre (DGIFC) in Feltham, South West London so far underground that he felt like a mole.
Initially, he’d been ecstatic with his new position – as understudy to the famous Chapman Ryder, but when people began to avoid him like the proverbial plague, he soon realised that he’d been shunted out of harm’s way. It didn’t help that Harold “Kim” Philby – one of the Cambridge five who had defected to the Russians during the Cold War – had been a relative.
He hadn’t been informed officially, but he’d heard rumours – whispers in the corridors of power: “Once a spy, always a spy.” “Spying runs in the family you know – it’s genetic.” “Oh yes, the Russians would love that – Philby’s heir rising to the top of MI5 – they’d have a belly laugh in the Kremlin for sure.” “We’d become a laughing stock – the Americans would never trust us again.”
The trouble was, one couldn’t simply hand in a letter of resignation. Things didn’t quite work like that in the security services. He knew too much. He’d done too much. He’d killed too many people. It would be easier all round if Oliver Brightmore had his own little accident. So, he’d carried on doing the job he’d been trained to do knowing that there was no possibility for advancement, and that even though the fires of ambition burned within him he’d just have to accept his fate – for now. But as uncle Harold used to say, “Ambition comes in all shapes and sizes, Oliver.”
After reading the file on Group323, he had a fair idea of what he was up against. He gathered a three-man team together – four including himself – and set off to the abandoned farm off the M25 between Barnet and Potter’s Bar. He knew that a Black Ops team had already been there looking for the activist group, but they’d been in a rush, and he was hoping that in their haste they had missed something that might tell him where Mark Whitebrook and his band of traitors had gone.
The driver pulled up at the entrance to the farm, and they moved the rest of the way on foot. After concluding that there was no one about, he gave each of them an area of the farm to search. Willie Braidwood got the outside, Ade Powell the outbuildings and Helen “Hell” Fitzgera
ld the farmhouse.
Hell looked at him as if she were about to rip his throat out with her teeth and eat it raw, but after a moment’s hesitation she followed his orders.
They called her “Hell” because she had a bite like Lucifer’s three-headed dog and the disposition to match. She was not a very nice person, but that’s why he’d included her as part of the team. If he needed someone torturing, killing, or just slightly maiming – Hell was the person who would be first in the queue to carry out the task. She liked nothing better than to hurt people – the more people and the more hurting the better.
Three heads also made her a very good sniffer dog, and that’s why he’d given her the farmhouse to search.
He’d looked in her file once. What he found there gave him nightmares. Her parents had beaten the shit out of her from the day she’d been born, hired her out for sex from the age of five years old and got her hooked on drugs. The local authority residential care home wasn’t much better – the staff and the other children abused her. How she’d made her way through all of that was beyond him. She’d managed to find a home in the shadows with the security services, a home with people who didn’t care what she’d done, who were happy to take on the task of abusing her some more so long as she did as she was told.
He wandered round looking supportive and making encouraging noises, but he didn’t really give a shit. The only reason he’d brought them with him was because he knew if he did find Group323, sorting the wheat from the chaff wasn’t a one-man job – Hell would get the truth out of them one way or another.
‘I think you might find this useful,’ Hell said, holding four pieces of a broken SIM card in the palm of her outstretched hand.
He smiled. ‘If anyone was going to find anything, I knew it’d be you.’ He didn’t think of Hell as a woman. The thought of taking her out for a meal, sharing a bottle of wine or falling into bed and having sex with her never entered his head – you didn’t think of Hell in that way. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful – she was. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a figure that gave you a hard-on – she did. You just knew that if you ever did get into bed with her, you’d never get out alive. Some men might want to go that way – they’d probably say it was the only way to go – but he wasn’t ready to go any way just yet.