by Tim Ellis
‘Jesus!’
‘I don’t think it was anything to do with you.’
Xena stared at him for a handful of seconds and then said, ‘Why would it be?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just saying.’
‘Well don’t just say. What you were unaware of is that her mother had died recently . . .’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Also, she’d had a miscarriage, and then the bastard who got her pregnant left her for somebody else.’
‘I didn’t know any of that either.’
‘No, but I did. So don’t think you know everything about me, Stickamundo. Sometimes, I can be a loving and caring person.’
‘I guess so.’
‘What pisses me off is that I should have seen it coming. I told her to take some time off, but she wouldn’t. So, in a way, it is my fucking fault. That bitch had the last word, after all.’
‘I don’t think she did it on purpose.’
Xena pulled a face. ‘Of course she did. Well, are they sending someone else instead? We still have a murder to solve and a crime scene to pick over.’
‘Yes. Peter Peckham with a team.’
‘Peter Peckham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you just made that up?’
‘He’s new.’
‘Why hasn’t he changed his name by deed poll?’
‘Maybe he likes the name Peter.’
‘It’s certainly better than Rowley.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, where’s this sign on the tree?’
Stick pointed to the white sign a good ten feet away about six inches square nailed to a silver birch tree. It had a nail in each corner and the nails weren’t rusty, which suggested that it was a fairly new sign. Of course, they might have been non-rusting galvanised nails, but she didn’t think so. It looked like an official sign, until she saw what was printed on it.
1000100
1001001
1000111
1001000
1000101
1010010
1000101
‘Have you worked out what it means yet?’ she said to Stick.
‘I don’t understand binary code.’
She took out her phone and did a search on Google. ‘DIG HERE.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘Obviously. Have you got a spade?’
‘No, but we should wait until forensics get here.’
‘That’s your considered opinion, is it?’
‘Yes. If we destroy evidence . . .’
‘All right. How long before forensics do get here?’
‘They didn’t say.’
‘Well, it’ll be at least an hour, and then they’ll have to set up a perimeter, organise access to the area by the sign, erect the tent, get their equipment here . . . Okay, let’s go and do something else on our “to do” list.’ She turned to Sergeant Murdoch. ‘You’re in charge, Sergeant . . .’
‘Oh well, if I’m in charge can you go get me and the lads coffees and a cheeseburger each?’
‘I could do that, but then your pension would belong to me.’
‘You didn’t say there were strings attached to my well-earned rapid promotion.’
‘There are always strings attached, Sergeant. With power comes great responsibility.’
***
Doc Riley had made her apologies and left.
Richards had gone back up to the counter in the restaurant to buy a bottle of water to take with her. Or, that was what she was meant to be doing. Instead, she was laughing, joking and wantonly flirting with a man in a set of blue scrubs, a white coat and a pair of Nike trainers.
Parish watched the two of them out of the corner of his eye as he finished the pot of tea off. It was barely eight o’clock and he was ready for the knackers’ yard.
Richards returned and stood beside him. ‘Ready?’
‘I’m ready to hear the reason why you were flaunting yourself like a strumpet.’
‘It’s a good job for you I don’t know what a strumpet is, because if I thought . . .’
‘Well?’
‘He’s a doctor.’
‘Really? As a group, they’re the worst serial killers in history.’
‘He’s not a serial killer.’
‘A desperate spinster would say that.’
‘His name is Ethan Black. He’s working in Accident & Emergency at the moment, but his speciality is gynaecology.’
‘And you said he could practise on you?’
‘I knew you’d be disgusting when I told you.’
‘Told me what?’
‘I’ve said I’ll go out with him tomorrow night.’
‘Over my dead body. And what about the anaconda from last night?’
‘Abel was definitely a good kisser. I might keep both of them.’
‘Both of them!’
‘I’ve waited long enough for one. And nobody said I couldn’t have more than one if I wanted to.’
‘It’s called being greedy.’
‘So – I’ll be greedy.’
‘Just wait until I tell your mother.’
‘Mum won’t mind. In fact, it might give her ideas.’
‘Your mother is extremely satisfied with the one hunk of a man she’s already got, thank you very much.’
‘You’d like to think so, Mr Flabby.’
‘What do you mean? Has she said something?’
‘All I’m saying is that neglect is a terrible thing.’
‘Neglect! I don’t neglect your mother.’
‘You mean your wife.’
He stood up. ‘If you want to go out with two serial killers at the same time that’s your funeral. Just don’t come crying to me when they’ve cut you in half and each half is being tortured in different parts of Hoddesdon.’
‘As if.’
They headed out of the restaurant, down the stairs and into the morning drizzle towards the Skoda sitting in the car park.
‘What are you going to do about the DNA match and the sealed records?’
‘We’ll brief the Chief first, and then after the press briefing we’ll go and speak to Chief Inspector Allyson Frayne.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘She’s a member of the UK Protected Persons Service, which is run by the National Crime Agency. Each force has its own liaison officer, and CI Frayne is ours. The reason you haven’t heard of her is that – like most UKPPS officers – she keeps a low profile because of the nature of the job. And, of course, she’s based in Chelmsford and we don’t go there much.’
‘Do we have a lot of people in witness protection?’
‘About three thousand in the UK.’
‘That’s a lot of people.’
‘In some inner-city areas it’s difficult for the police to find any witnesses to a crime who are willing to come forward. Not only are they risking their own lives if they give evidence, but also the lives of their families and relatives. And don’t think that being in witness protection is a life of wine and roses either – it’s far from it.’
‘I can imagine. You’d have to be thinking about what you said or did all the time. You couldn’t do anything which would get your photograph in the newspaper, because someone might recognise you. In fact, you’d have to live an anonymous life. You couldn’t be anyone famous.’
‘Are you feeling sympathetic towards our DNA match?’
‘Absolutely not. There must be rules if you’re in witness protection, and one of those rules must be that you don’t commit any crimes and get yourself noticed. He’s obviously broken that rule and doesn’t deserve any more protection.’
‘Let’s hope Allyson Frayne sees it like that.’
‘Surely she wouldn’t condone the rape and murder of a ten year-old boy?
‘We don’t know the circumstances surrounding this person.’
‘I don’t care what the circumstances are – Adam Weeks and his mother deserve justice.’
; ‘Let’s hope it’s that clear cut.’
After leaving the car park Richards headed towards Hoddesdon.
Parish stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket. ‘You’ll have to swap this car today – it’s rubbish.’
‘At least it works, which is more than can be said for your cheap Mazda.’
‘Maybe a BMW, a Mercedes or what about the new Ford Mustang – a red one – that would be a good match for my outgoing personality.’
‘There are personality tests on the internet, which would tell you what type of car you should be driving. I think one of those little Smart cars would suit you, or maybe a Fiat 500. Yes, there are lots of little cars out there for little people.’
‘And you’d need a people-carrier.’
Richards laughed. ‘Maybe I could have a man for each day of the week like your boxer shorts. They wouldn’t have names – I’d call them whatever day it was.’
‘Yesterday you were going to die alone. Now, you have one for every day, and two on Sunday.’
‘I’m being greedy, aren’t I?’
‘Far be it from me to point a flabby finger.’
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Go on?’
‘We need to go back and talk to that woman at Criminal Ink – Kat Wagner about how someone could tattoo a functioning barcode on a tiny baby.’
‘I’d rather dance naked under a full moon through Hoddesdon.’
‘That would be a sight to see, I’m sure. Maybe you should suggest it to the Town Council.’
‘Maybe I will.’
‘I’ve noticed you have a problem with strong dominant women.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
‘A therapist might be able to help you with that.’
‘A therapist!’
‘Or, maybe you could stay outside and window-shop while I go in and talk to Kat on my own.’
‘I have no problem in coming in with you.’
‘Are you sure? You’re not scared that she might get the better of you again?’
‘Scared! Now you’re straying into the realms of fantasy.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’
‘Also, I think we should find out from Mrs Hunter which hospital Billy was born in.’
‘I was wondering how long it would take you to think of that.’
‘You’re a liar.’
Parish called Mrs Hunter. ‘It’s DI Parish. Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Hunter.’
‘Do you have some news?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask you another question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Which hospital was Billy born in?’
‘Yewlands Community Hospital on January 15, 2006. He’s only just ten years old. Do you want to tell me why you’re asking that question?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Okay.’
He ended the call.
‘It’s not looking good, is it, Sir?’
‘No. Not at all, Richards.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Where to, Mr K?’ Shakin’ said.
‘Drive around for a while and make sure no one’s following us.’
‘You got it.’
‘And I thought I told you two to leave?’
Joe turned slightly in the passenger seat. ‘We made Mrs K a promise, and she’s the boss. We couldn’t leave while you two were still in that place.’
‘And it’s a good job we didn’t,’ Shakin’ said.
‘Did you steal this Mini?’
Shakin’ laughed. ‘We borrowed it.’
‘You’re trying your best to get me arrested, aren’t you? Do you know what they do to ex-coppers in the nick?’
‘It’ll be even worse than that,’ Joe said. ‘Shakin’ hasn’t got a driving licence.’
‘Great.’
Bronwyn opened her eyes and said, ‘Got any popcorn?’ and then slipped into unconsciousness again.
‘Will she be all right, Mr K?’ Joe said.
‘They drugged her, but apparently it doesn’t last long. Right, let’s go to Bronwyn’s squat. Follow the signs for the cemetery and Oakeshott Avenue is just off Swain’s Lane – Number 47.’
After jerking round Highgate, Shakin’ pulled up outside the squat.
Joe let Kowalski and Bronwyn out.
‘I’ll go and lose this Mini in the next street,’ Shakin’ said. ‘And then I’ll come back.’
Joe nodded. ‘I’ll keep an eye open for you.’
Kowalski helped Bronwyn up the steps and banged on the door.
It opened a crack. ‘Yes?’ The same young woman with short brown spiky hair and elf-like pointed ears was standing there still wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of panties.
‘I’ve got Bronwyn here.’
The door opened.
‘She don’t look so good,’ the woman said.
‘No,’ Kowalski agreed, and helped Bronwyn inside. ‘Where’s her room?’
‘Upstairs – second on the left.’ She said and turned to stare at Joe. ‘Hey.’
Joe smiled. ‘Hey.’
‘My name’s Poo. You wanna make out?’
‘I’m Joe. I sure do.’
‘Cool. Follow . . .’
‘Joe!’ Kowalski said from half-way up the stairs.
‘Uh huh?’
‘Come and help me with Bronwyn.’
‘Sure thing, Mr K.’ He looked at Poo. ‘I won’t be long.’
Between Kowalski and Joe they helped Bronwyn into her room and onto the bed.
‘Should we take her clothes off, Mr K?’
Kowalski turned to stare at him. ‘Do you think you’d have much of a life once Bronwyn woke up and discovered what you’d done?’
Joe pulled a face. ‘Point taken.’
‘And leave the young woman downstairs alone.’
‘Leave her alone!’ His eyes opened wide. ‘Are you crazy? And I don’t mean that in any disrespectful way, but she wants to make out with me, not Shakin’ – me. It’s usually Shakin’ who gets the girls. But for once a beautiful woman wants to make out with me, and now you’re telling me to leave her alone . . .’
‘When I called earlier, she asked me if I wanted to make out with her as well.’
‘Okay. Well, I don’t mind if you go first, but . . .’
‘I’m not going first, Joe.’ He twirled a finger round at the side of his temple. ‘I think she asks everyone who knocks on the door whether they want to make out. A sandwich short of a picnic, if you ask me.’
‘Oh!’
‘And you’d never know what she’s got until you have it yourself. By which time, it’d be too late.’
Bronwyn sat bolt upright. ‘What the fuck?’ She checked her clothes. ‘You two slimeballs haven’t . . . ?’
Kowalski shook his head. ‘I’m your partner, not a slimeball. And as far as I’m aware your virginity remains intact. Are you awake now?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She looked under the bed. ‘Where’s that other slimeball?’
‘He’s getting rid of the stolen car,’ Joe said.
Kowalski sat down on the bed. Bronwyn’s eyes began to close, and he thought she might be drifting off again. ‘Do you remember what happened at AutoMove?’
‘They injected me with something.’ She pulled up her sleeve and rubbed the bloody injection mark. ‘Bastards. What did they do to me while I was out of it?’
‘According to the man I spoke to, he said they hadn’t got round to questioning you yet. They injected you with Sodium Thiopental, which I believe is a “truth drug”.’
Bronwyn reached round and felt the back of her neck. ‘What’s going on back there? Why is it sore?’
Kowalski stood up, lifted up Bronwyn’s hair and examined what looked like another injection site. ‘Mmmm!’
‘What?’ She reached round and felt it again. ‘It’s a lump. Why is there a lump? The bastards have put something inside me. I can feel it. God, it’s an alien parasite.’
‘Hardly,’ Kowalski said, but he had a bad feeling about it all the same.
Joe half-laughed. ‘You’ve been micro-chipped, like they do with cats, dogs and pigeons.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it, Kowalski?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘I was only joking,’ Joe said.
‘Get it out of me, Kowalski. Get the fucking thing out of me.’ She jumped off the bed, went to a chest-of-drawers and wrestled out a box from the bottom drawer. After rummaging in the box, she withdrew a scalpel in a plastic wrapping and handed it to him. ‘Get it out of me.’
He looked at the scalpel and said, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure – do it.’
‘Do you want me to hold you down?’ Joe said.
She looked at him as if he was a strange bug she’d just stepped on. ‘There’d better be a logical explanation for why you’re here in my bedroom, otherwise I’m going to use that scalpel to open you up and eat your liver.’
‘I’ll go and see if Shakin’ has arrived, Mr K?’
‘Good idea, Joe.’
Joe opened the door and slithered out.
‘Be nice to him,’ Kowalski said. ‘Without him and the other one we’d still be in that place.’
‘You be nice to him.’ She sat on the edge of the bed, scooped her hair forward and bent her neck. ‘Do it.’
He opened the plastic wrapping, took out the scalpel and began digging the point into the injection site. He saw her clench her fists as he pushed the scalpel deeper into her neck between the vertebrae and said, ‘You do realise that if I have to go too far I could sever your spinal cord, and then your head will probably fall off and roll across the floor like a basketball?’
‘I’ll take that chance. Have you got it yet?’
‘Yes. Stay where you are while I mop up the copious amounts of blood.’ He put the tiny glass cylinder, which was smaller than a grain of rice, in the palm of her hand and went to the first-aid box, found some gauze and a plaster, and applied it to the small cut in her neck. ‘There.’
‘Bastards! Slimeball was right – they micro-chipped me.’
‘So it would seem. What concerns me is whether it’s providing someone with our location.’
‘Shit!’ She jumped up, put the chip on the floor and lifted her foot up. ‘You’re right . . .’ She lowered her foot and picked the chip up again. ‘The trouble is, if we get rid of the fucking thing we won’t be able to examine it . . . Where’s my rucksack?’