by Tim Ellis
‘And I was beginning to think that everything people said about the police was an injustice.’
‘No, it’s all true. Well?’
‘Lincoln Blackwood. I saw him in the pub last Friday. We were in a group and it was him who mentioned it.’
‘Where will we find him?’
‘He’s set himself up in an old warehouse in Greenwich, just off Greenwich High Road not far from the station. Of course, his talent is only a shadow of mine, but he manages to eke out a living doing children’s face-painting at fairs, parties and the like. Did you come on the train?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you need to carry on across the river, get off at Greenwich station and walk along High Road until you reach Kay Way – the warehouse is there. He hasn’t got a posh sign like what I’ve got, but he’s painted his name on the metal door: L Blackwood. You’ll have to give it a good kicking if you want him to hear you though.’
Xena stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Chelsea.’
‘It’s the least an insanely-beautiful girl can do for the police.’ She handed Xena a business card. ‘And if you ever want to pose for me while I turn you into a warthog or something similar, all you have to do is call.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Your partner would make a good stick insect.’
‘I’ve said as much since I’ve known him.’
‘But I tend not to use men as models. Too much hair, and they can’t control certain parts of their anatomy.’
Xena gave Chelsea one of her own business cards. ‘If you think of anything else that might be helpful, or if you hear any more about who’s doing these one-off works of art.’
‘I hear snitches get paid.’
‘You heard wrong.’
‘You win some, you lose some. Listen I’m going to the World Body Painting Festival at Lake Wöerthersee, Kärnten in Austria at the end of June beginning of July, if you’re interested in coming to see some of my work.’
‘Are you paying?’
Chelsea laughed like a donkey on Blackpool beach. ‘No, but you could pose naked in front of the many thousands of visitors while I turn you into a grotesque gargoyle.’
‘It’s certainly a tempting offer. Come on, Stick. We have people to torture.’
They made their way outside, climbed back into the taxi and woke the driver up.
‘Back to the station,’ Xena said.
The driver rolled his eyes and grunted. ‘After Belgrade, I’m thinking London most exciting place in world.’
‘Drive, and count yourself lucky I haven’t reported you to immigration.’
Chapter Seventeen
He kept the press briefing short and sweet. There was only so much he could tell them, and a lot more he couldn’t or wouldn’t divulge. As far as the public at large were concerned the investigation concerned the abduction, sexual abuse and murder of Adam Weeks – it was nothing more complicated than that.
Richards was waiting for him.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘I called the garage. They said they didn’t have any other cars available for at least a week.’
‘Why didn’t you use your . . .’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘I was going to say your charm, but that seems to be in short supply at the moment.’
‘I can be charming.’
‘I did see some evidence of that last night.’
‘Now you are being disgusting.’
‘So, we’re stuck with the Skoda?’
‘Yes.’
‘To say I was happy about the situation would be a gross overstatement. What about any link between the carnival route to Hoddesdon and reports of missing children?’
‘I called Jodi Grammatke in Missing Persons and explained what we were looking for – she said she’d carry out a search and get back to us by the end of the day.’
‘Okay. Call Inspector Threadneedle and . . .’
‘Do I have to?’
‘No, you could request a transfer back into uniform. Look, what’s the point of having a partially-trained monkey if I have to swing through the trees and peel the bananas myself?’
After she’d made the call to Inspector Maureen Threadneedle she said, ‘So, that’s all I am to you is it – a trained monkey?’
‘Partially-trained. Call her, and tell her that we want two vanloads of uniformed officers at the carnival at six-thirty in the morning ready to carry out an impromptu search, and we’ll meet them there.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘You will.’
‘We will.’
‘I’ll still be in bed.’
‘Okay.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll let me stay in bed?’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Don’t think that reverse psychology will work on me.’
‘No, I mean it. You stay in bed. You need all the beauty sleep you can get.’
‘I know what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not doing anything.’
‘I’ll have to get up at about five o’clock to be ready in time.’
‘Haven’t I said you can stay in bed?’
‘You’ve said it, but you don’t really mean it.’
‘I mean every word.’
‘There’ll be consequences?’
His lip curled up. ‘Ah! There are always consequences.’
‘Such as?’
‘There’s a long list.’
‘I knew it.’
‘Refusing to obey a direct order from a senior officer, sleeping on duty, dereliction of duty, abandoning your post, failure to . . .’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘Talking of which, let’s go and have some lunch on our way to Yewlands Community Hospital.’
‘Don’t think I’ll forget this.’
‘I would hope not. You can’t stay partially-trained forever. Sooner or later the process of osmosis has to have some effect.’
They made their way to the car park, climbed into the Skoda and headed down Park View Road to the Crusader Arms just off Cock Lane. The swinging wooden sign outside had a crusader knight standing in front of a white horse dressed in full armour holding his broadsword and shield.
‘Those were the days,’ Parish said.
‘Were they?’
‘Oh yes. The days of heroism, chivalry and the Knights Templar.’
‘Uh huh!’
‘I was born in the wrong age.’
‘You think you should have been a knight?’
‘Sir Jed Parish, and his trusty servant Richards.’
‘Oh, so now I’m a servant?’
‘Hardly. You’ll need a lot more training to reach the exalted position of Sir Jed’s servant – something to aim for.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.’
He ordered an orange juice and a Greek salad . . .
‘A salad!’ Richards said.
‘I’m in training.’
‘That’ll last all of five minutes.’
‘I expect you to mirror my efforts.’
‘I already eat salad.’
‘I’m glad you see me as a positive role model.’
After lunch, they travelled the short distance to Yewlands Community Hospital on Holly Walk not far from the Roman Catholic Primary School.
The woman on the reception desk was in her early sixties with grey hair cut into a bob, large oblong glasses, an emaciated neck and a name badge with Mitzy engraved on it. ‘How can I help?’
Parish brandished his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Detective Constable Richards to see the Chief Executive. We don’t have an appointment.’
She pointed to a row of chairs underneath a window to the left of the main door. ‘Please take a seat and I’ll see if Mrs Morley is available.’
They did as she asked.
Richards sat on her hands and whispered, ‘They must have known about the barcodes.’
‘Let’s approach this with an
open mind, shall we?’
A thin woman with short grey-streaked brown hair, an emerald necklace with matching earrings and a dark blue dress appeared in front of them.
‘Sarah Morley – CEO of the hospital. You wanted to speak to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I only have thirty minutes before I’m required to attend a full board meeting. You’d better come to my office.’
They followed Mrs Morley through labyrinthine corridors to a drab office where they all sat in easy chairs around a coffee table that sported two ceramic elephants and a wooden bowl of fruit.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, we’re fine, thank you.’
‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of Adam Weeks.’
‘The boy found in Nazeing Woods?’
‘Yes.’
‘A terrible business. What has it got to do with Yewlands Community Hospital?’
‘How long have you been CEO here, Mrs Morley?’
‘Coming up to three years now.’
‘Adam Weeks was born here on January 29, 2006.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that he was one of our deliveries, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re here.’
‘Something that hasn’t been made public was that Adam had a three-link chain tattooed under his top lip . . .’
Her face wrinkled up. ‘A tattoo?’
‘Yes. And forensic analysis of the ink and the tattoo itself has led us to believe that it was engraved on him within days of his birth . . . That is, it was put on here at the hospital.’
‘A tattoo! Put on here! On a newborn baby? Preposterous.’
‘Were you here in 2006?’
‘Well, no. I was working at Southend Hospital.’
‘So you don’t actually know what was happening in the hospital ten years ago?’
‘No, but I know the dedicated nurses, doctors and other staff would never . . .’
‘If it’s all the same to you Mrs Morley, I won’t take your word for it. I require a detailed list of all the staff who were here ten years ago . . .’
‘That could take some time, Inspector.’
His forehead wrinkled up. ‘Hours?’
‘Days.’
‘I have a murder to solve. I don’t want to resort to threats, but it wouldn’t take me long to obtain a court order.’
‘I don’t think there’s any need for that.’
‘Also, another of your deliveries is missing – Billy Hunter.’
‘I saw on the news he was missing, but I didn’t realise he was one of ours.’
‘He is.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would babies be tattooed?’
‘That’s what we’d like to know. One other thing that hasn’t been released to the press is that the tattoo incorporates a miniature barcode, which could be read by a barcode reader when it was enlarged.’
‘A barcode for what?’
‘We don’t know.’
She stood up. ‘I’ll see about . . .’
He held up a hand. ‘Before you do that, and the news spreads like wildfire throughout the hospital, I’d like to carry out some undercover research first.’
‘Oh?’ She sat back down again.
‘Well, if the forensic analysis was right, it was ten years ago that a tattoo was etched onto the underside of a baby’s top lip while he was in this hospital. What if it’s still happening, Mrs Morley?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector. The doctors, nurses and mothers would know – I’d know.’
‘I’ll admit – the suggestion does appear to be ridiculous, but where were the doctors, nurses and CEO ten years ago? Also, Adam’s mother didn’t have any idea that her son had a tattoo under his top lip, so maybe the suggestion isn’t that far-fetched after all.’
‘What have you got in mind?’
‘If it is still happening, I don’t want to scare the people involved away. First, I’d like to find out if any of the babies who are still in your care have a tattoo under their top lip. If they don’t, then I’ll take the staff list from ten years ago and confine my investigation to what happened then. If we do find tattoos, then I’d like to set up some form of surveillance in order to catch whoever is doing it.’
‘And how do you propose to check under a baby’s lip without anybody finding out?’
‘Not me – you.’
‘Me?’
‘Who else? You’re allowed in the baby unit, aren’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Maybe you could take DC Richards with you as a VIP on an impromptu visit of the hospital?’
‘Mmmm! That could work. And you’d like to do that now?’
‘No time like the present. The sooner we resolve the issue, the better for us and you.’
Sarah Morley shook her head. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I certainly hope you’re wrong, Inspector. Wrong about what happened ten years ago, and wrong about it happening now.’ She turned to Richards. ‘I can’t call you, DC Richards. What should I call you?’
‘Mary.’
‘And who do you want to be?’
‘What about Chigwell’s electoral candidate for the Green Party?’ Parish said. ‘She knows a lot about environmental issues.’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘I do not.’
‘Would you rather we had nuclear power or wind farms?’
‘Wind farms.’
‘You have my vote. I’ll be your campaign manager. We’ll win by a landslide. Now, accompany Mrs Morley to the baby unit and look green.’
‘If you would like some coffee, stick your head out of the door and ask my secretary Janine to make you some.’
‘Thank you. And remember, we don’t want any of your staff knowing that we’re looking under the babies’ lips for tattoos.’
‘I understand,’ Mrs Morley said as she shut the door.
***
Kowalski was right – they’d been lucky to get out of that place alive. If it hadn’t been for those two idiots . . . Well, at least Poo had given them a reward. But if they thought they were getting the same thing from her they’d better think again. She didn’t have sex with people she knew – it was far too complicated.
She was sitting on her bed in a pair of boxers and a black t-shirt with a slogan on the front:
Feminism
is the radical notion
that women
are people
Well, enough ruminating. She had work to do – lots of work thanks to that bastard Kowalski. After logging into her laptop and going online, she went into the answer-at-the-end-of-the-universe website and typed in her username: Alligator Annie. She hadn’t visited the site for quite some time.
Alligator Annie:
Hello, nerds?
Strawberry Cow:
Is that really you, AA?
Alligator Annie:
Did you miss me, SC?
Strawberry Cow:
Didn’t even know you’d gone.
Panda-monium:
So, what brings you back, AA? Hope you’ve got some goodies for us?
Nightwalker:
Yeah! Goodies would be good.
REMsleep:
What’s kept you away from us?
Alligator Annie:
Been busy fighting Satan’s demons. And yes, I come bearing gifts.
Salamander:
Gift(s)! Plural! You’re the best, AA. (Rubs his shaft with joy and expectation).
Strawberry Cow:
Do you have to be so pathetic, Sal?
Salamander:
I get so excited that I can’t hold back my juices.
REMsleep:
We keep deleting Sal’s account, but somehow he finds his way back.
Logical Nonsense:
So come on, AA – lay the goodies on us.
Alligator Annie:
Are you ready?
Nightwalker:
Yawn!
Alligator Annie:
OK. I won’t keep you hanging on any longer.
First, she typed in the seven sets of numbers that Kowalski had photographed on the whiteboard in the room where she’d been drugged:
4030040400801040170805
632002400706600257200
500350400406030060080400400
6903007001100
94004002073007001
7200302008
49060200840
Next, she opened up the journal and typed seven sets of numbers that she took from the book at random:
224386720482307
377677206896224
386896677482989
206386989720224
677896377224307
482720720896989
307989377677224
REMsleep:
Context?
Alligator Annie:
No context.
Strawberry Cow:
Reward?
Alligator Annie:
You’ll get a warm feeling that you helped vanquish Satan’s demons.
Nobody seemed to have anything else to say, so she left them to it. If anyone could crack the codes – the nerds could. The small brown box caught her eye and she picked it up. Why did Linus Frost send his daughter the key in a box, inside a jiffy bag? Most people would have simply put the key into the jiffy bag and posted it off.
She disassembled the top and bottom of the box, ran her hand over the cardboard, held each shape up to the light – there was nothing out of the ordinary. Next, she examined the jiffy bag. There was nothing unusual on the outside, but when she pushed her hand inside she felt tiny holes and ridges. She carefully separated the edges at both sides and opened the jiffy bag up like a pair of angel’s wings. There were a series of tiny pinpricks and gouges in the paper. She found her magnifying glass under the bed and examined her discovery more closely:
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