by Tim Ellis
• • ─
─ •
─ ─ ─
• ─ •
─ • •
If she wasn’t mistaken – the dots and dashes were Morse Code. She didn’t know the code off by heart, but it was easy enough to find out. A website provided her with an easy guide to the International Morse Code alphabet and she spelled out:
GAREDUNORD
It didn’t mean anything to her, until she typed the letters into the search engine – GARE DU NORD – one of the eight train stations in Paris, and it also boasted left luggage lockers down an escalator opposite platforms 1 and 2.
She called Kowalski.
‘This had better be good. I’m just getting into my car to drive home to bed.’
‘You don’t want to know what I’ve discovered?’
‘It depends whether it’s going to keep me from my bed.’
‘I would say that was a strong possibility.’
‘In which case – I don’t want to know.’
‘Okay – bye,’ she said, but she knew he didn’t mean it.
‘Your discovery better be on a par with the earth being round instead of flat.’
‘The earth is round? Nobody ever told me that.’
‘Well?’
‘Pack your bags. I’ve booked you on the Eurostar to Paris. The connecting train leaves from Chigwell at seven minutes past three this afternoon, which will take you to St Pancras where the Eurostar will then convey you direct to Paris Gare Du Nord station.’
‘It had better be a sleeper.’
‘The journey from London to Paris takes just over two hours – hardly enough time to close your eyes.’
‘First class? I’m used to . . .’
‘You’re up by the engine shovelling coal.’
‘I hope you’ve not booked me . . . Why am I going to Paris?’
‘That’s where the left luggage locker is.’ She told him about the Morse Code message on the inside of the Jiffy bag.
‘What the hell is this all this about, Bronwyn?’
‘Hopefully, we’ll find out when you recover whatever’s inside that left luggage locker, and the nerds on the website crack the number codes. Also, I’m working my way through the other shit you dumped on me, so I think we’ll have a lot of the jigsaw pieces by tonight.’
‘I’m not travelling back tonight.’
‘I’ve booked you into the L’Hotel du Collectionneur Arc de Triomphe . . .’
‘Is it a five star hotel? I don’t . . .’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t book you into the Jungle at Calais. Yes, it’s a five star hotel. It’s on the Champs Elysees. I’ll text you all the details and you need to pick up your train tickets at Chigwell station. Oh! And call me when you open that locker. Any questions?’
‘I’d like to know how it is that I’m doing all the work while you sit around on your backside watching movies and eating popcorn?’
‘You’re my errand boy – it’s hardly what grown ups would call work.’
She ended the call.
Fucking cheek! She was the one doing all the hard work. All he seemed to do was travel from A to B on the train with his finger up his arse chatting up single women.
***
‘Have we got time to go and see this Lincoln Blackwood?’ Stick said as he paid the taxi driver and they walked into Island Gardens station.
‘What choice do we have?’
‘We won’t make the post-mortem.’
‘Give Doc Paine a ring and explain the situation. I’m sure she’ll understand our problem.’
He bought the tickets. While they were waiting for the next train he called Doc Paine.
‘What did she say?’ Xena said when he ended the call.
‘She seemed quite happy about it when I explained the situation. I said we’d try and get there today, but it was more likely going to be tomorrow morning now.’
‘There’s another possibility.’
‘Oh?’
‘What’s happening at Blackwater?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And?’
‘Do you want me to find out?’
‘I don’t think so. Blissful ignorance is like a drug. I’m thinking that maybe we should ride the train to the end of the line, find an ignorant pusher and get high. What do you think?’
‘I’ll call Sergeant Murdoch.’
‘You always have to spoil it. Put it on loudspeaker, numpty.’
‘Hello?’
‘Sergeant Murdoch?’ Stick said.
‘I think you’ll find I was recently promoted, DS Gilbert. It’s Chief Inspector Murdoch now.’
Stick grinned at Xena.
‘That’s a long way to fall on your fat arse, Murdoch,’ Xena said. ‘Tell us what’s happening.’
‘Forensics are here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s it really. They’re moving into position, setting out a perimeter with crime scene tape, putting up the tent, making a path to the tree where the sign is . . .’
‘How long have they been there?’
‘I’d say about an hour.’
‘And they haven’t done any digging yet?’
‘Not to my knowledge, but then I’m further up the tow path controlling access. The press are here, there must be at least a hundred rubberneckers with phones who want to take selfies with good-looking police officers such as myself . . .’
‘We get the picture.’ She glanced at Stick. ‘Have you got the new forensic guy’s phone number?’
He shook his head.
‘Sergeant Murdoch?’
‘Still here?’
‘Go and find the new forensic officer Peter Peckham and tell him to ring Sergeant Gilbert – we need to find out what’s going on.’
‘Will do, Ma’am.’
The call ended.
The train arrived.
They passed the Cutty Sark and got off at Greenwich station. As they were walking along High Road towards Kay Way Stick’s phone vibrated.
He put the phone on loudspeaker.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Peter Peckham.’
‘About time,’ Xena said. ‘Have you started digging yet?’
‘We’re just about to . . .’
‘I don’t know about the dodgy practices you were allowed to get away with at your last place, but at Hoddesdon we expect a bit more blood, sweat and tears – especially more blood. Are you getting my drift, Pecker?’
‘We have to do things properly, Ma’am.’
‘No one’s suggesting that you cut corners, or compromise the chain of evidence. What I would like, however, is for you to stop forensically examining your arse and focus on the crime scene.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Start digging. And if you find a body, not only are you to call me, but make sure you get that other arse examiner – Doc Paine from King George Hospital – there to do what she’s meant to do with dead bodies before you or your blockheads start playing doctors with it.’
‘I will, Ma’am.’
‘Anything that seems unclear to you, Pecker?’
‘It’s Peck . . .’
‘Good.’
Stick ended the call.
Xena stared at him. ‘You wish to say something?’
‘Me . . .? No.’
They found the warehouse with L Blackwood painted on the metal door. Stick Kept kicking it with the toe of his shoe until a black man wearing paint-splattered coveralls opened it.
‘Do you want to die a horrible death?’ the man said to Stick.
Xena held out her warrant card and said, ‘If you murder my partner you’ll have no complaints about the quick service provided by the police.’
‘There must be some white dudes out there you can go and hassle?’
‘Oh there are – lots of them, much worse than you, but your name has come to our attention.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘They all say that. W
ell, are you going to let us in?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Chelsea Small ratted you out.’
‘The fucking bitch . . . She doesn’t know anything.’
‘Oh! Anything about what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m sure we’ll get to the truth with some police brutality.’
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘We simply want to ask you some questions.’
‘About?’
‘Let us in and we’ll tell you. It’s cold out here.’
He led them up a set of wooden stairs and into the cavernous top floor of a warehouse. The walls were still Victorian brick, there were Mechano-type metal shelving units at one end, a kitchen, bedroom, a pushbike, three sofas, half-a-dozen easy chairs, a mishmash of large paintings on the wall, and in one corner a painting studio with much the same equipment as Chelsea Small possessed.
Stick began wandering round looking at the paintings.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ Lincoln Blackwood called after him.
‘We haven’t got a search warrant,’ Xena said. ‘So your marijuana plants are safe for the time being.’
Blackwood grunted. ‘Now that you’ve flimflammed yourselves in here under false pretences, what do you want to know?’
‘Chelsea was telling us that you mentioned someone who was willing to pay ridiculous sums of money for one-off body-painting art.’
‘It was just a rumour.’
‘And where did you hear this rumour?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Let me explain what’s happening, Mr Blackwood. We have one dead young woman, and we expect to have another one by five o’clock today. The one corpse that we do have was body-painted and anatomically modified. Now, if you know anything at all, I suggest you tell me before I arrest you for conspiracy to murder, obstructing justice, harbouring a criminal and anything else I can think of . . . I’m sure you know how it goes?’
‘I have a vague idea.’
‘Then stop fucking around and tell us what you know.’
‘As I said – it was a rumour. I was taking part in a Body Painting Competition at the Olympia in Kensington last month. In-between gigs I was mingling with the other contestants and my brain tuned into someone talking about a collector who was paying big money for anyone willing to break the rules . . .’
‘What rules?’
Blackwood shrugged. ‘Apparently, the collector wanted to own something unique, something that no one else could ever own – a one-off.’
‘All right, I understand what a one-off is, but if that’s the case then why is it likely that I have two bodies?’
‘A series.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A series of paintings.’
‘How many are there in a series?’
‘Pick a number.’
‘Shit! Who is this collector?’
‘No idea.’
‘What about the people you overheard talking about this collector?’
‘All I know is that they were contestants. Who they were? Where they came from . . . ?’ He shrugged again. ‘Not a clue. I wasn’t even looking in their direction. They were behind and to the left of me. I couldn’t even . . . No, wait! They were both men, and one of them had a lisp.’
‘A lisp?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many contestants were there?’
‘About thirty or so . . . Helping the police goes against the grain, but I might be able to point you in the right direction.’ He wandered off in the direction of his bedroom, came back carrying an A4 booklet and passed it to her. ‘The names of the contestants are at the back. I kept it because I thought I might need evidence to prove my alibi . . .’
‘Alibi for what?’
‘Anything you bastards might want to pin on me.’
‘I’m shocked you would even think that.’
‘Yeah! And I want it back as well – it’s a keepsake.’
‘Did you win the competition?’ Stick said.
‘Came third.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Last year I came second.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well, you know where the stairs are. Slam the door on your way out.’
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Blackwood.’
‘You’ve got the wrong person, lady. Lincoln Blackwood would never help the police as long as he had a breath left in his body.’
Chapter Eighteen
He felt someone poking his arm.
‘Sir?’
‘Go away.’ Who was this person poking Sir Jed of Chigwell? He’d chop off their head and skewer it on a gibbet outside the town walls.
‘Sir – wake up.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Why are you poking a senior officer, Richards?’
‘You were asleep.’
‘I was resting my eyes.’ He sat up and wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth.
‘You were talking in your sleep.’
‘I was using the peace and quiet to mull over the case.’
‘The case doesn’t involve the Temple Mount at the Siege of Jerusalem or Count Raymond of Aguilers.’
‘You’re making it all up as usual. Well, what did you find?’
‘Three babies with tattoos on the underside of their top lips.’
He glanced at Mrs Morley.
She was biting her bottom lip, and pacing up and down. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, Inspector.’
‘Okay, this changes things. I’d like to get my forensic team in to position CCTV cameras in the baby unit and . . .’
‘I’ll need to obtain the authority of the board.’
‘And what if someone on the board is involved?’
‘Preposterous.’
‘You keep saying that, but you’ve seen with your own eyes that nothing is preposterous in the hospital where you’re CEO.’
She carried on pacing. ‘Let me at least obtain permission from the Chairwoman of the Board?’
‘All right, but you’re to make it clear that if my operation is sabotaged I’ll charge you both with obstruction of justice. You should also carry on with your duties as normal.’
Mrs Morley nodded, stuck her head out of the office door and said, ‘Please tell the Board I’m on my way, Janine.’ She came back in. ‘I have to go, Inspector.’
‘I’ll send my head of forensics – Dr Paul Toadstone – with a technician to see you in about an hour. My suggestion is that you carry out a fire drill . . .’
‘A fire drill! They’re absolutely chaotic and need to be planned well in advance.’
‘Like real fires, you mean?’
Her shoulders sagged. ‘I take your point.’
‘Ask the fire brigade to respond as well. The forensic technician can then go into the baby unit while everyone is out of the hospital and position the hidden cameras. I presume you do have CCTV cameras in the corridors?’
‘Yes, but they’re controlled by security.’
‘Mmmm! We’ll have to work something out.’
‘What about the staff list from ten years ago?’
‘Let’s leave that for the time being. You should go to your Board Meeting now. And please keep everything we’ve discussed between you and the Chairwoman. I suspect that we have this one chance to catch the people responsible. If they realise what we’re doing they’ll disappear into the sewers and we’ll never find out what’s been going on.’
They all left Mrs Morley’s office together and separated in the corridor.
They made their way back to reception.
‘Did you see the tattoos?’ he asked Richards.
‘Yes.’
‘No one suspected that’s what you were searching for?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I put on a good act. In fact, I’m thinking of applying for an Equity card.’
‘They’ve got someone to play the lead in that sex film, you know.’
>
‘You always have to drag the conversation down into the gutter, don’t you?’
They reached the car.
While Richards headed out of the hospital car park he called Toadstone and told him what they’d discovered and what he wanted to happen, which included a piggy-back feed into the security system. ‘Can you do that, Toadstone?’
‘Can a duck swim, Sir?’
‘Ducks don’t actually swim – they paddle.’
‘A figure of speech.’
‘An inaccurate figure of speech. Right, I’d love to chew the fat with you, but Richards is driving and you know how nervous I get when she’s driving.’
‘Okay, Sir. I’ll call you when we’ve completed our mission.’
‘This phone call will self-destruct in five, four . . .’ He ended the call.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘It’s your driving that has made me this way. Watch that cyclist! Why are you doing a hundred miles an hour in a thirty mile an hour zone? Oh God! I’m going to die in a ball of flame.’
‘A hundred miles an hour in this thing! Now I know you’ve lost your marbles.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve taken my marbles away.’
They drove along the A10, joined the slow-moving traffic on the M25 and turned off at Junction 28 for the A12 to Chelmsford. The journey took them fifty-five minutes.
Force HQ was located on Kingston Crescent in Springfield, Chelmsford. It was an ugly-looking octagonal-shaped seven-storey architectural monstrosity with an enormous communications tower on the flat roof.
‘Look as though you have a reason to be here,’ he said to Richards as they walked inside.
‘I do have a reason to be here.’
They caught the lift up to the fifth floor, exited into a nondescript corridor and pressed the button on the intercom outside a security door with clouded glass.
‘Yes?’
‘DI Jed Parish and DC Mary Richards to see CI Allyson Frayne.’
The door clicked open.
CI Frayne was standing outside her office waving them towards her like an air-traffic controller.
‘Real coffee?’ she said when they arrived
‘I’m always a willing repository for real coffee,’ Parish said.
‘We make a point of only having the best here,’ she said, ushering them into her office. ‘The rest of the force may be spiralling into the abyss, but our underlying mission here is to maintain standards and stick two fingers up at the fact that we don’t actually have any money.’