by Tim Ellis
‘Glad to be of service.’
‘What’s your area of expertise then?’
‘Cleaning.’
‘Cleaning?’
‘Yes. I’m the cleaner here. I was changing the fuse on my Henry when you came in.’
‘Okay. Thanks again, and have a good night.’
He made his way down to the press briefing room. The lights were off, so he trudged back up the stairs to the second floor, went into the incident room and found the Braintree map. The reason he hadn’t matched the squiggly line up on the map before was that he hadn’t tried it against any rivers. Once he did, he found a match. He felt isolated in the incident room so, even though there was no one in either location, he went back into the squad room and sat at his desk. He phoned Xena to tell her the good news.
‘Mmmm!’
‘It’s me.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘I don’t know what you don’t know.’
‘I know you don’t know. What do you want?’
‘The number.’
‘I haven’t got the number – you’ve got it. Don’t tell me you’ve lost the number.’
‘I went up to forensics.’
‘Which is where you were meant to go.’
‘It’s longitude and latitude coordinates.’
‘Is this going to take long? I’m trying to cook a three-course meal here.’
‘In the microwave?’
‘Oh! You’re a catering consultant now?’
‘I don’t know anything about cooking, but I’m familiar with the sound of a ready-made meal for one cooking in the microwave.’
‘You should be a detective.’
‘I am.’
‘You’d like to think you are.’
‘Why don’t you come round to my house for a meal on Sunday?’
‘I’d rather poke cocktail sticks in my eyes.’
‘I can imagine that would be painful.’
‘I’m sure this phone call is filling a gaping hole in your empty life, but I have things to do.’
‘It’s part of the River Blackwater in Braintree.’
‘Wasn’t Braintree one of the local maps you brought from the map store?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘We didn’t try the squiggly line against any rivers.’
‘We?’
‘Me.’
‘So you’ve got a team of divers out there searching the river?’
‘In the dark?’
‘Mmmm! First thing in the morning then.’
‘I was thinking.’
‘A rare cosmic event.’
‘There’ll be a tow path along the river.’
‘And you think that whatever the killer wants us to find, he’ll have left it somewhere along the tow path?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll certainly be cheaper and quicker searching along the tow path than dredging the river. Okay, get a search team to meet us out there at eight-thirty in the morning. And . . . I’m anticipating another body, so we want forensics out there as well.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Are you tired of living?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, that was it. How did the press briefing . . . ?’
The line went dead.
He phoned Inspector Maureen Threadneedle in Operations and organised a team of uniformed officers to meet him and Xena on the River Blackwater tow path as it went under the A131 at eight-thirty. Then, he called Di Heffernan, but it went to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call him.
‘Last man standing, DS Gilbert?’
He looked up to find Chief Nibbles . . . Nibley walking towards him.
‘I was just about to call it a day, Chief.’
‘Where’s DI Blake?’
‘Not here.’
‘Why do people in deep shit always state the obvious?’
‘They’re stupid?’
‘That would be my guess. So, we’ve established that DI Blake isn’t here – where is she then?’
‘Gone home, Sir.’
‘I’m sitting in my office waiting for a briefing and she’s gone home?’
‘She asked if I would brief you.’
‘And you were just about to call it a day as well?’
‘After I’d briefed you, Chief.’
‘Why do people try to lie their way out of deep shit, Gilbert?’
‘They’re stupid?’
‘That would be my guess. So, you’d both forgotten that the Chief gets a personal briefing at four o’clock prior to any press briefing?’
‘It’s not that we’d forgotten as such. We were waiting for you to tell us when you wanted the briefings, Sir.’
‘Why do people who have been caught wallowing in deep shit try to pass the blame for their mistakes onto others?’
‘They’re stupid.’
‘That would be my guess. So, as DI Blake isn’t here, I’m telling you – briefings at four o’clock, and I expect DI Blake to be in attendance at all future briefings.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘And in the absence of the Senior Investigating Officer, which has been duly noted, you can brief me.’
‘It would be my pleasure, Chief.’
‘Why do people . . . ?’
***
Tuesday, February 16
‘Maybe we should call someone?’ Joe said.
Shakin’ put his arm around Joe’s shoulders. ‘Go on Joe, tell me who we should call?’
They were sitting on the wall outside AutoMove waiting for Bronwyn and Kowalski to come back out of the building. According to Jerry, it had been a good six hours since they’d gone inside. They’d arrived about seven o’clock, and it was now one-thirty in the morning. In-between time, they’d had a burger, fries and milk shake from good old Ronald MacDonald’s emporium round the corner, and snacked on some crisps and beers they’d brought with them
Jerry had asked them to act as back-up for her husband and Bronwyn. It wasn’t something they’d planned to do on a Monday night, but what could they say? Kowalski had rescued Jerry – his wife – and the two of them a couple of times. To say “no” would have been out of the question. Everybody knew it was time for some pay-back. Although, Jerry hadn’t really explained what was going on. What they did know was that Kowalski wasn’t a cop anymore after the business with the disappearing helicopter, and Bronwyn had a body that was as hot as chilli peppers and they’d both like to have a threesome with her as a reward.
What they didn’t want to do was end up in the same precarious position as the people they were meant to be rescuing, like they had last time while trying to rescue Bronwyn. That was slightly embarrassing to say the least. This time, was their chance to redeem themselves and claim the reward.
They’d come prepared as well. Both were dressed in black with backpacks full of “must-haves” for the up and coming rescuer. They’d seen the film and watched Bear Grills religiously. They could easily survive on a desert island with just a toothpick and a sticking plaster.
‘The police?’ Joe ventured.
‘Who would arrive in a blue and white with blaring sirens and flashing lights, check out the building, find it quiet, locked up and undisturbed. They’d then come back here, handcuff us, and take us somewhere cold, miserable and isolated where they could beat the truth out of us.’
‘We’d have already told them the truth.’
Shakin’ smiled as if he had the patience of Jobe. ‘Like me, you’re nearly a barrister, Joe. We both know by now that our truth and police truth are two entirely different accounts of the same story. The police have been hog-tied, hobbled and hamstrung by paper-shufflers with red tape, bureaucracy, procedures and regulations. They can’t fart in the direction of a suspect without the Independent Police Complaints Commission and those high-paid jobsworths the Police Commissioners breathing down their necks, the media getting in on th
e act by writing incendiary articles about misconduct in public office and then, of course, there’s us . . .’
‘Us?’
‘Oh yes! We represent the suspects who have an overwhelming desire to complain and seek financial retribution. Compensation – that’s the name of the game these days, my friend. We’re not becoming barristers because it’s what Mother Theresa would have wanted us to do, are we?’
‘Aren’t we?’
‘No. We’re in it to win it. And what happens when we win our cases, Joe?’
‘We become famous?’
‘Fame is not the aim of the game. Although fame can have it’s own rewards. For example, what do you think Bronwyn would say to our request for a threesome if we were famous?’
‘I think she’d jump at the chance of stripping naked and wriggling her hot body in-between two famous barristers.’
‘Exactly my point. But as I said, fame is not the aim of the game. Money! That’s what makes the world go round – always has been, always will be. Fame doesn’t last longer than a blink of the eye, but money . . . What’s ten percent of ten million?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘You did do maths at school?’
‘It wasn’t one of my specialist subjects.’
‘Let me help you. If ten million was split into ten parts, how much would each part be worth?’
‘That’s easy . . . a million?’
‘The very number that would be our fee for winning.’
‘A million pounds!’
‘Sure – why not? Now, who do the police hate most in this world?’
‘Criminals?’
‘Keep going.’
‘Animal rights activists?’
‘Nearly there.’
‘It’s not us, is it?’
‘Yes, Joe. We don’t want to work for the Criminal Prosecution Service, do we?’
‘We don’t?’
‘No. Who pays the CPS barristers?’
‘The police?’
‘The government pay them. Do the government pay generous wages to said CPS barristers?’
‘I would say not.’
‘And you’d be right in saying that. The government only pay themselves generous wages. So, if we want to be players, whose team are we going to be on?’
‘The winning team?’
‘Who are?’
‘The barristers who are representing the criminals and claiming compensation?’
‘Brilliantly put if I do say so myself. So, remember that the police have handcuffed us and taken us to that cold, dark and isolated place to beat the truth out of us.’
‘The bastards. I don’t think I like the sound of that Shakin’.’
‘And quite rightly. Do you think they’re going to worry about the IPCC, the media or the shyster barristers when they’re beating two shades of shit out of us and making our deaths look like gangland killings?’
‘There are no witnesses, are there?’
‘The police are like caged animals now. They can’t do their jobs from behind bars. Each night, they sneak out of their cages like vampire-zombies to do what they have to do to keep Joe public safe, and then in the morning they sneak back before Joe public wakes up. On the face of it they’re tolerating the red tape, bureaucracy, procedures and regulations, but there’s a dark underbelly to policing nowadays, Joe. So, who are we going to call?’
‘Definitely not the police.’
‘That’s right. Any other ideas?’
‘Ghostbusters?’
Shakin’ grinned and nodded. ‘Now you’re talking, Joe. If the university had run parapsychology courses, I’d have been a ghostbuster – no two-ways about it – those guys were the best.’
‘Sigourney Weaver was the best.’
Shakin’ licked his lips. ‘Yeah! I’d forgotten about Ripley. She could wrestle with my alien anytime . . . Anyway, you got anyone else you want to call, like your mum?’
‘I guess not.’
‘So, in the absence of anyone else – what we gonna do?’
‘Go in there ourselves?’
‘Seems like the right thing to do. You ready?’
‘Guess so.’
Chapter Eleven
Like a master criminal on a day out, Shakin’ used the crowbar to open the main door of AutoMove.
‘You’re getting really good with that thing, Shakin’.’
‘It’s all in the wrist action, Joe.’
Joe looked up at the external camera pointing at the entrance and cupped his ear. ‘I hope Bronwyn deactivated the CCTV and alarm systems.’
‘She knows what she’s doing, Joe. Mrs K said she’s a bit of a hacker on the side.’
Joe grunted. ‘She could hack into my system anytime.’
‘Imagine that eh, Joe! Bronwyn comes along with her computer, plugs you in, hacks into your pleasure centre and legs eleven you’re in orgasm heaven.’
‘I’m imagining it, Shakin’.’
They wandered through the building looking in rooms until they reached the end of the corridor and discovered the open doorway through the Coke machine.
‘What do you make of this, Shakin’?’ Joe said, peering into the opening.
‘I think that if we go in there we’ll never come out again.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I do. It’s obvious that Mr K and Bronwyn found this secret door and wandered in there, but they haven’t come out again, have they?’
Joe walked to the back of the machine and examined the join where it met the wall. ‘We haven’t seen hide nor hair of them, have we?’
‘Not a glimpse, Joe.’
‘Trouble is, if we don’t go in there we may as well go back to the halls of residence. And then, of course, we’d have to tell Mrs K that we let her husband die a horrible death when we might have saved him.’
‘That’s true, but if we do go in there we could die a horrible death ourselves.’
‘I’m not keen on that idea at all, Shakin’.’
They squinted through the opening, down the half-dozen concrete steps and along the arched stone corridor.
‘The cameras are still working in the corridor,’ Shakin’ said. ‘I can see the tiny red lights flickering on and off.’
‘And yet they’re not working in here.’
‘No.’
Joe scratched his head through the ski-mask. ‘They’re probably on a different system?’
‘Could be.’
‘Maybe . . . ?’
‘Go on, Joe?’
Joe back-tracked along the corridor until he stood outside a door with a heavy-duty lock through a steel hasp, and a plastic yellow triangular sign at eye height that read:
DANGER OF DEATH
ELECTRICITY
KEEP OUT
‘You think the power for what’s beyond that corridor comes from here?’
‘I think we should take a look.’
Shakin’ hefted his crowbar up. ‘I think you may be right, Joe. Let the dog see the rabbit.’
Joe shuffled to one side.
Wood splinters flew through the air like bullets as Shakin’ opened the door with one flex of his wrist. ‘Easy as shearing sheep.’
‘You ever sheared a sheep, Shakin’?’
‘Nope, but how hard can it be?’
‘Not so hard, I guess.’
They peered inside.
There was an open electricity panel housing two separate banks of a dozen circuit breakers in each one. Cables erupted out of a hole in the top of the panel and disappeared through the ceiling. More cables sprouted from the base of the panel and went through a hole in the floor.
‘What do you think, Joe?’
‘I’m thinking that the cables going up into the ceiling power this building, but what are the cables going through the floor for?’
Shakin’ reached out towards the panel. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Joe said, gripping his friend’s outstretched arm.
‘W
hy?’
‘Let’s say we knock out the power of whatever building is down that corridor . . .’
‘Okay?’
‘How long do you think we’ll have before they figure out what we’ve done and come hot-footin’ it up here to get the power back on and set the dogs on us?’
Shakin’ scratched his stubble through the outside of his ski mask. ‘Five minutes, I reckon. During that time we hurry along the corridor, find out where they’re holding Mr K and Bronwyn, set them free and make our escape.’
‘It’s a good plan, Shakin’. Five minutes ain’t long though, is it? Especially seeing as we don’t have a clue what we’re doing or where we’re going.’
‘So, what’s new? You got a better plan, Joe?’
‘Nope.’
‘So, are we going back to the halls of residence? Or are we going to be heroes and step through that Coke machine?’
‘Dead heroes, more like.’
‘Is there any other sort, my friend?’
‘I guess not.’
Shakin’ jerked all the switches down on the circuit breakers, yanked each circuit breaker out of the electricity panel and threw them into Joe’s backpack. ‘That should yank a few chains.’
They shuffled back along the corridor.
Shakin’ pushed Joe through the doorway. ‘Anyway, all the girls love a dead hero.’
Joe switched his torch on. ‘That’s true.’
***
‘Where are we?’ Bronwyn said.
Kowalski looked around the empty room. ‘Up to our necks in the proverbial, I’d say.’ He stood up, shouldered the door a couple of times as if he was in a rugby scrum, tried kicking it down and then paced around the room like a caged gorilla when he realised that there didn’t appear to be any way out. There were no windows, the door was smooth metal without a handle on the inside, there was no grill in the door, no light switch on the wall – this was a room that had been designed to prevent people from escaping. There was a dim light and the inescapable eye of a camera in the ceiling, but nothing else.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve still got the key?’ Bronwyn said.
‘You don’t suppose correctly. My pockets have been emptied. No gun, no wallet – nothing.’