by Ellis, Tim
‘You’re crazy.’
‘So, anything to tell us, Toadstone?’
‘I always dread you asking me that question.’
‘If you were more forthcoming with the evidence, instead of hiding it from me all the time, you’d find the question a lot easier to answer.’
‘We’ll certainly analyse what we’ve found, but as far as I can ascertain there’s nothing that might be considered relevant.’
‘Another wasted journey, Richards. One of these days, when they tell me there’s been a murder, I simply won’t bother to go and look at the crime scene. I’ll just wait for the DVD to come out.’
She screwed up her face. ‘I’m wondering who SEE, HEAR and DO are?’
‘There must be a logical explanation why I brought you with me today.’
‘No, listen. If SPEAK is a barrister, I think HEAR might be the judge, SEE could be . . . who?’
‘A police officer?’ Toadstone offered.
Richards glanced at Parish. ‘He might be right, Sir.’
‘Hang on! As far as I know, Hornby’s don’t deal with criminal cases. I’ve never come across Rattinger before.’
‘But why did the killer send Rattinger’s tongue to you personally?’
‘Maybe he found me in the Yellow Pages.’
‘And who is the DO?’
He sighed. ‘Why do you have to make everything so complicated, Richards. I suppose we’d better go and speak to somebody at Hornby’s before a judge goes missing.’
‘Or you do,’ Richards said.
***
The hour soon disappeared. Louise Cole lived in a little village on the way out of Banbury called Bodicote at 13 Weeping Cross, which wasn’t far from the M40.
As he switched the ignition off, a great tiredness swept over him. He felt as though he could sleep for a week. What the hell was he doing? Was this the way he was going to find Jerry? He was beginning to doubt his own strategy. Yes, he’d found out who he was dealing with, but it hadn’t got him any closer to finding where she’d taken Jerry. She could be anywhere. Was Jerry still alive?
He knocked and waited.
An old woman – who might have passed for middle-age if she’d bothered to pamper herself – opened the door.
His warrant card told her who he was.
‘I’m here about Viki,’ he said.
‘You have news?’
‘No, but I have some information that might help you.’
She opened the door fully and led him into a living room that reeked of human habitation. In his own home, the rooms smelled of lavender, cherry blossom, furniture polish, fabric conditioner or some other fragrance. There were no fragrances in this house. It stank of body odour, cooked and rotting food, and a whole host of other unpleasant smells. As a detective, he’d been in many houses. This wasn’t the worst by a long shot, but it certainly wasn’t the best either. He perched on the edge of the two-seater sofa and hoped he wouldn’t have to stay very long.
‘Can I get you some coffee or tea?’
‘No thanks – I’m fine.’ He would have liked a coffee, but he’d stop somewhere a bit cleaner.
‘Biscuits?’
‘Not long had lunch, thanks.’
She sat down in a chair that had moulded itself to her short dumpy body. All around the room was evidence of a woman who had hobbies to fill her time – cross-stitch, knitting, drawing, quilt-making, painting. There was even a potter’s wheel gathering dust in a corner. He realised that the room looked more like a hobbyist’s workshop than a living room. ‘What information do you have for me?’
He recounted Rose Needle’s journey to Bodicote.
‘And how come someone from Essex is interested in my Viki?’
He showed her the newspaper article and pointed out Rose Needle and his wife Jerry.
‘Are you sure you aren’t making this up?’
‘I wish I were, but that picture is of Rose Needle – or whoever she is now – driving my wife’s car.’
‘Maybe your wife loaned it to her.’
‘No. This was after my wife had gone missing.’
‘Let’s say I believe what you’re saying – what’s happened to my daughter Viki?’
‘There’s a possibility that she could be dead.’
Tears jumped into her eyes. She pulled out a grey handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed at them. ‘I’d have to be stupid not to know she was dead after all this time, but no one had ever said it out loud before. When I reported Viki missing, the police said they couldn’t do anything. Why should I help you now?’
‘Because we both want to find out the truth.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘I’d been to visit my sister in Somerset for two weeks. When I returned Viki was gone. I tried her phone, but there was no service. She’d taken all her clothes, her passport, all of her documents such as her birth certificate, her degree certificate from Bristol University – everything. It was as if she’d moved out without telling me. I called the police, and they came round to look at her room, but the policeman who came said they wouldn’t do anything, that they had higher priorities. As far as they were concerned she’d left home while I was away – she’d escaped. I told them, there was nothing to escape from. Her dad left years ago – there was just me and her . . .’ She started crying. ‘Now there’s just me. What’s it all been for? You tell me that. What has any of it been for?’
He thought he should comfort her, but he wasn’t very good at that. ‘Have you got a photograph of Viki?’
She nodded, dabbed at her eyes again and shuffled off the chair over to the windowsill to retrieve a framed photograph of a dark-haired young woman wearing an academic gown lined with red silk. She passed it to him and said, ‘Viki told me that Bristol graduates don’t wear mortarboards because in the past the male graduates threw their headgear at the female graduates – or off the Clifton Suspension bridge – in protest at coeducation. Viki was the first in our family to go to university . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It was all for nothing, wasn’t it?’
He took out the photographs of Rose Needle and Tiffany Mara and laid them down next to Viki Cole’s photograph – there were similarities.
Rose was living her life by inhabiting other people’s lives – a nobody who became somebody for a short time. When she got tired of one identity, she simply stole somebody else’s.
He stood up. ‘Do you mind if I keep this picture?’
‘No, I don’t mind. I have others.’
‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Have I been any help?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Will you let me know . . . ?’
‘Of course I will. I want to find my wife, but I also need to know what happened to your daughter and the other women who have disappeared – I’m still a detective.’
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ she said as she showed him out.
He was glad to get outside and breathe in some fresh air.
The next stop was Lizzie Bradford in Henley-on-Thames and then the Wilkinson’s address in Esher, Surrey. As far as he knew, Julie Wilkinson hadn’t been reported missing – there was no one to miss her. He’d decided to leave Erica Bull’s parents in Theydon Bois until tomorrow. Tonight, he’d sleep in his own bed. It would be late when he got home, but at least he’d be home.
Although he was learning a lot about Rose Needle, it wasn’t helping him to discover where she might be now, or where she was keeping Jerry – if, of course, Jerry was still alive. He was making the assumption that Jerry was still alive – what else could he do? One of the dangers of printing the pictures in the newspapers was that Rose could have got rid of Jerry.
He rang Cookie.
‘I’m beginning to feel like a police informer.’
‘I usually slap my snitch’s about a bit – just to show them who’s boss.’
‘Is that right?�
�
‘I need your help.’
‘I didn’t think you’d called to listen to my scintillating repartee.’
‘No.’
‘Well?’
He gave her a brief synopsis of what he’d been doing for the past two days.
‘There’s some crazy people about.’
‘I’ve run out of ideas. I need you to find out everything you can about the five women that Rose Needle has more than likely killed. It might be that I’m barking up the wrong tree, but she must have taken Jerry somewhere, and it can’t be far from Theydon Bois.’
‘I must be one of those crazy people helping a copper.’
The phone went dead.
He climbed in the car and set off towards Henley-on-Thames.
Chapter Sixteen
Brightmore and his team were on their way to Woodford Green on the A406. The satnav said forty-nine minutes, but in reality it would probably take them two hours or more once they’d navigated their way through the multitude of cones and hold-ups clogging the North Circular.
He was sitting in the front of the black nondescript Transit van with the driver. Willie Braidwood, Ade Powell and Hell Fitzgerald were in the back preparing themselves mentally for what was to come. He didn’t expect Group323 to have any weapons, but you could never be too careful. He’d never lost a man on a mission yet, and he wasn’t going to start today.
Faysal Nefti had sent word that the computer technician – Roger Manku – was a footnote in the history of road traffic accidents, and that Nana Rodriguez had been murdered and defiled in her own apartment by an unknown perpetrator. He’d expected nothing less from the Tunisian psychopath. Nefti had also discovered that Rodriguez had been keeping a copy of the Bunker 7 files, which was now in Brightmore’s possession for destruction. Only he wasn’t planning to destroy them – a little insurance never hurt anyone.
Why Völker was so concerned about the files leaking out into the public domain he had no idea. What he’d noticed during his time in the security services was that shit happened, but it soon blew over. People forgot – like a collective dementia. There was too much shit happening in the present to dwell on the shit that had gone before.
Shit came and went.
People came and went.
In the total history of humanity very few people were remembered. Who would remember him? He guessed – nobody. If he was a mass murderer, a serial killer, or someone along those lines – then maybe he might get a brief mention in the history books, but nobody really cared about him or anyone else. All anybody ever cared about was themselves – and he was no different. Look after number one, that was the way to stay in the game.
So yes, insurance was a good thing. He’d give the memory stick to the family’s solicitor, together with a letter to be opened on his death.
He smiled.
Something to remember him by – for a short time anyway.
It was five thirty-five when they arrived at the old pumping station in Woodford Green, which was situated between the King George’s and William Girling reservoirs. The building was red brick with a square tower, arched windows and doors, and felt sloped roofs. It was from another time – a time when they knew how to construct buildings that would last.
The light was fading.
Around the side – beyond the surrounding concrete – they could see people tending a vegetable patch, feeding chickens and putting sheep in a pen for the night.
‘A right little home from home,’ Ade Powell commented.
‘We’ve not come here to admire their farming and fucking vegetable-growing skills,’ Hell said. ‘Let’s get in there, kill the motherfuckers and get out again.’
‘We don’t want to kill anybody until we’ve found out who gave them the files,’ Brightmore warned. ‘Let’s round them up.’
It took twenty minutes to coral the seventeen members of Group323 into the main room of the pumping station.
A man stepped forward from the group. ‘What’s this about? We have rights, you know.’
Willie smashed the butt of his gun into the man’s gut who doubled over and puked. ‘I think we should all be clear from the get-go that you have no rights, so shut the fuck up. Anybody else got anything to say?’
Nobody did.
‘Which one of you is Mark Whitebrook?’ Brightmore asked.
Nobody said anything, but they couldn’t stop their eyes from moving towards a man on the left.
Brightmore pointed to a long-haired man with an earring in his left ear and a tattoo of a bird on the skin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. ‘Him,’ he said to Hell.
A woman tried to strangle a cry.
‘Bring her as well,’ Brightmore added. To Willie Braidwood he said, ‘You know what to do with the rest.’
The five of them moved into a side room. Powell shut the door, but it did nothing to lessen the noise of automatic weapon fire.
‘What in God’s name . . . ?’ Whitebrook began.
Brightmore sat on an old wooden desk with a crack down the side. ‘What did you expect, Mr Whitebrook? A mention in the New Year’s Honours List for services to patriotism?’ The corner of his mouth went up. Sometimes he surprised himself at how funny he could be. ‘I have bad news for you – you’re not on that list.’
‘Who are you people? You can’t just come in here . . .’
‘The penny still hasn’t dropped, has it? That’s exactly what we can do. You see, somebody up there doesn’t like you. You pissed a lot of people off when you gave your country’s dirty little secrets to the world. That was a stupid thing to do. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that it was un-British of you. I know being British doesn’t mean a lot these days, but some of us still have a little pride left. So, here we are. Now, you can redeem yourself by telling me who gave you the files – it’s that simple.’
‘Fuck off.’
Brightmore pushed himself off the table and opened the door. Willie Braidwood was standing there grinning. The smell of cordite wafted into the room. ‘Do your worst, Hell,’ he said.
Fitzgerald strapped Whitebrook into a old rotting wooden chair.
Powell held onto the woman.
Hell pulled a pair of pliers from her jacket pocket, without any warning cut off the index finger of his right hand above the second knuckle and threw it on the floor with all the other discarded rubbish.
He screamed. Slobber dribbled from his mouth. ‘Oh God!’
‘Please don’t,’ the woman pleaded.
‘I don’t want you getting the idea that I’m a soft touch, motherfucker.’ She snapped the pliers onto his middle finger. ‘Who gave you the files?’
He shook his head.
Hell squeezed the pliers together.
The finger dropped onto the floor.
She kicked it.
‘Anything to say?’
Snot and dribble spattered from his nose and mouth, but he refused to speak.
‘Okay, let’s crank it up a notch.’ She slid the commando knife from its sheath and sliced off his left ear.
‘Tell her,’ the woman urged Whitebrook.
‘No,’ he gasped.
‘You should listen to her, Whitebrook,’ Hell said. ‘It’s going to get really bad from here on in.’
He clenched his teeth and stared at her.
She cut through his belt and waistband, yanked down his jeans and grabbed his testicles. ‘Anything to tell me?’
‘Tell her, for God’s sake,’ the woman screamed at him.
‘Well?’
He hesitated too long.
Hell pulled the knife through his scrotum.
Whitebrook fainted.
‘If we had yours as well,’ Hell said to Powell, rolling Whitebrook’s testicles around in the palm of her hand, ‘We could play marbles.’
He moved behind the woman. ‘You’re a crazy bitch.’
Hell turned to the woman. ‘Your turn.’
‘Cookie.’
‘Would that be w
ith a cup of tea?’
‘That’s who you’re looking for.’
‘What’s her real name?’
‘I only know her as Cookie.’
‘Is she the one who took the files from Bunker 7?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very helpful.’ Hell looked at Brightmore.
He nodded once.
She rammed the knife into the woman’s chest and twisted it until the head flopped forward.
Whitebrook began moaning. She grabbed his hair, yanked his head back and said, ‘Open your eyes, motherfucker.’
His eyes gradually eased open.
‘Your slut told me everything, but that’s not going to help you now.’ She grabbed his penis, stretched it and sliced through the base.’
He fainted again.
She stuffed Whitebrook’s flaccid penis in his mouth and grinned. ‘Suck on that, motherfucker.’
‘Torch the place,’ Brightmore said. He had what he wanted – a name.
Cookie!
It was about time Cookie learned to keep her hands out of the jar.
***
Parish dropped Richards off outside Hornby’s Solicitors and then drove back to the station to park the car. If he’d parked in the station first, it would have taken Richards an age to hobble into the town centre, and they didn’t have an age. It was three-twenty, and he had a press briefing at four o’clock with the Chief.
It took him seven minutes to stride back into town. His previous personal best had been six minutes ten seconds. How could he not better or match that time? Maybe he was tired – it had been a long day. Or, maybe all the training he’d been doing in the mornings had slowed him down. Maybe he had muscle fatigue . . . or something worse.
‘You took your time,’ Richards said. ‘People have been staring at me.’
Hornby’s Solicitors was housed in what used to be a timber-framed Tudor Inn called the Shoulder of Mutton. On the outside it hadn’t changed much – the timbers were painted black and the rest of it white.
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
‘Not when they think I’m a . . . you know.’
‘Why would they think that?’