Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You’re living beyond your means?’

  ‘Like most of the country . . . In fact, like the country itself. As long as we maintain the status quo everything will turn out all right in the end.’

  ‘An admirable stance, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘So, while everyone else tightens their belts, the people at Force HQ are living the life of Riley on the never-never?’ Richards said.

  ‘That’s it exactly, Constable.’ She poured them mugs of real coffee from the glass jug in her coffee machine. They helped themselves to sugar and milk and sat down in the hard-back chairs in front of her desk. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  He told her about Adam Weeks being abducted, sexually assaulted and murdered; about the DNA match and the blank screen when they tried to identify who the DNA belonged to. He didn’t feel it necessary, at this point, to tell her about the three-link chain tattoo and barcode aspect of the investigation.

  ‘I see! And you think this person is one of my protected witnesses?’

  ‘We’re hoping you’ll be able to tell us.’ He gave her the Case Identity Number on the National DNA database.

  ‘Mmmm!’ she said after she’d logged in. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What?’

  She shook her head. ‘Whoever it is – it’s not one of mine. ‘As soon as I saw the Case ID Number I had my suspicions.’

  ‘Who . . . ?’

  ‘Probably the Security Services.’

  ‘Don’t MI5 and MI6 fall under the same legislative constraints as you?’

  Frayne shrugged. ‘Let’s just say that some government-funded agencies are less constrained by legislation than others.’

  Richards screwed up her face. ‘I don’t understand, Ma’am.’

  ‘There’s credible evidence that in the 1970s and 80s MI5 and MI6 were aware of, and possibly involved in, sexual abuse and grooming of children at parties held at the Larch Guest House in Walcott Square, Lambeth; that they permitted it to continue and colluded with others in protecting the individuals involved from investigation or prosecution. Those individuals included former government ministers, senior Members of Parliament, top police officers, judges, pop stars and people with links to the Royal Household.’

  ‘Why were MI5 and MI6 involved?’ Parish said.

  ‘I’m not the person you should be speaking to, but I understand that it was at the height of the Cold War. As well as the prominent people I’ve already mentioned, there was also an open invitation to the Soviets and others living in London from the Eastern Bloc.’

  ‘It was all about spies and the collection of information?’

  ‘That’s my understanding.’

  ‘If there’s credible evidence, why haven’t they been brought to justice?’

  ‘The million dollar question. Apparently, it wouldn’t be in the national interest.’

  Richards glanced at Parish. ‘So all those involved will get away with the terrible things they did?’

  The corner of Frayne’s mouth creased up. ‘They’ve been getting away with what they did for over forty years. What’s a few more years here and there?’

  ‘And the Security Services are not likely to tell us the name of the person behind the blank screen, are they?’

  ‘No. They’ve been covering their own arses for so long that now it comes as second nature. They’ve got far too much to lose.’

  Richards said, ‘Surely the Chief Constable could . . . ?’

  ‘His hands are tied. If he wants to keep his job he’ll continue to do nothing.’

  ‘You said you weren’t the person to speak to – who is?’

  She leaned forward and whispered, ‘Frank Graham – Ex-Chief Superintendent. He resigned over this, but I know he’s still investigating it. Secretly, we’re all rooting for him, but I’m sure you’re aware that there are no success stories when you’re up against the establishment.’

  Parish nodded. ‘Have you got his address?’

  ‘Give me your number. I’ll call him. Once he’s checked you out he’ll contact you.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s popular in the corridors of power.’

  ‘If they could find him, they’d silence him. He’s determined to find those responsible. He has a powerful motive – he was one of the boys who was abused at that guest house.’

  Parish knew exactly how that felt. He passed her a business card with his mobile number printed on it. ‘Thanks for your help, Ma’am. I’ll wait for his call. Come on, Richards. We’ve wasted enough of the Chief Inspector’s time.’

  ***

  Bronwyn focused her attention on the crap lying around her on the bed. She hacked into the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency and discovered that the black Mercedes belonged to the government.

  Typical, she thought. Those government bastards drove around in the newest and best cars while the rest of the population had to settle for rusty second-hand Fiat Pandas.

  Bronwyn now knew that she and Kowalski were up against the government, but which part of the government was open to question. If she was to hazard an educated guess, she’d put her money on MI5. Those bastards were always up to no good, and she’d had dealings with them before.

  The two men Kowalski had photographed from the Mercedes were unlikely to appear on any database of government agents. Well, not one she could hack into without putting herself and Kowalski in danger. The people at GCHQ were sitting there waiting for people like her to squirrel their way into the security services system. They’d have an excuse then – an excuse to lock her up and throw away the key. Or worse, force her to work for them. That would be like . . . the worse kind of torture ever.

  The police, on the other hand, were easy meat. She hacked into the Metropolitan Police Firearms Licensing database, which was maintained by the Firearms Enquiry Team within SO19 and carried out a search on the two Glock serial numbers – 375GDF and 294XFY. As she suspected, the weapons were registered on the database as being in the country, but were not yet allocated to any named persons. Her lip curled up. Government agents didn’t have names, and they definitely weren’t fucking people.

  Next, she carried out a search for the International Mobile Station Identity Equipment (IMIE) serial number from the tracking device that had been attached to Kowalski’s car by typing the number into the website www.imie.info: 354188046399130. She obtained the following information:

  Model: DUO 405

  Brand: LEMON

  IMIE: TAC: 354188 FAC: 04 SNR: 639913 CD: 0

  Which meant that the SIM card in the tracker was manufactured by LEMON in Singapore. The structure of the IMIE included information on the model (the Type Allocation Code (TAC) identified the card as a Nokia design); origin (the Final Assembly Code (FAC) revealed the origin as Singapore); and the serial number of the device. The last number (CD) was a check digit for the computer software. She went to the LEMON website and typed in the serial number: 639913. The SIM card was sold to a Chinese company called Shenzhen Diwei Machinery Co Ltd. In their website, she typed in the IMIE number and discovered that Diwei sold the tracker – incorporating the SIM card – to an unoriginally-named UK company called Britain Holdings.

  That was enough. The company would be a shell company that anyone with time on their hands might be able to trace back to the British Government and the Security Services. It was enough for her that she’d found a shell company, and when that fact was put together with all the other information she possessed it could only be MI5 that had purchased the tracker device.

  If she took the microchip out of the tinfoil it would immediately begin sending out a signal – I’m here! I’m here! Come and get me! – it would say. And they would come and get it as well. They’d reclaim the chip, and they’d reclaim her. No, she wasn’t that interested in finding out who had made the microchip.

  She ran down to the kitchen, found an old marmalade jar with a green furry topping on the marmalade, washed the jar out, took it back to her room, stuffed the tinfoil-protected microchip in
side, screwed the cap on tight and put it at the back of her underwear drawer.

  Fucking bastards, she thought. She’d make them pay for that big time. How? She’d work that out. But pay they would.

  All she had left was the handful of papers Kowalski had stolen from the laboratory, and the strips of shredded newspaper that Linus Frost had used to pack the left-luggage locker key inside the box. Maybe that was all the strips of paper were – simply a jumble of strips from the shredder. But from what she now knew of Linus Frost – it appeared that he didn’t do anything haphazardly. He worked for AutoMove, but not as a trade plater. Oh, that was what he led people – even his own daughter – to believe, but he was really a government agent. He must have had access to the underground facility through the secret door of the Coke machine.

  She made notes, so that she could bounce her ideas off Kowalski when she next spoke to him. Had Frost found something out about the people he was working for? Who they were? What they were doing? Had he stolen something that he’d hidden away in the left luggage locker? Made notes of top secret information that he’d written as code in the journal? Had his employers found out what he was doing? Did he go on the run when they discovered he was a rogue agent?

  Of course, it was all speculation, but the pieces were beginning to fit together. They’d soon have enough to fill in the gaps of their knowledge.

  After going to the toilet, making herself a coffee and deferring until later an offer from Poo to make out, she sat cross-legged on the floor and placed the hundred strips of newspaper next to each other.

  The shreds must have been in the box for a reason other than to stop the key from rattling. A page from a newspaper didn’t need to be shredded. And then it came to her – a shredded page from a newspaper was something hidden in plain sight. There was an article on the page that Linus Frost wanted them to read.

  It took her three hours to discover that the shreds were from page 5 of the Waltham Forest Gazette dated Friday, June 12 last year. A search online produced no results. Yes, they had a website, but no, they had no archives available to the curious public. She had no alternative but to go to the Library. It wasn’t something she’d ever done before, but there was a first time for everything. She might even enjoy the experience, but she doubted it.

  ***

  Before boarding the train at Greenwich they went into the cafe on the station platform and had a Cornish pasty and a cup of tea each. Xena also ordered a chocolate éclair, a Mars bar, and a large bag of cheese and onion crisps to take with her.

  ‘We’re looking for a man with a lisp, aren’t we?’ Stick said.

  ‘You mean a needle in a haystack?’

  ‘We’ve got the competition programme with all the contestants’ names in. It’s better than nothing.’

  ‘That’s debatable. At least with nothing we’d know we had nothing. With the programme and the miniscule clue Lincoln Blackwood gave us we still have nothing, but we think we have something.’

  ‘It’ll take us over an hour to reach Theydon Bois, so I’ll see what I can find out during the journey.’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  ‘I will.’

  After the quick lunch, they boarded the Docklands Light Railway train to Stratford, and from there they’d change to the Central Line to reach Theydon Bois. There weren’t many passengers on the train, so they were able to find a carriage with only one young woman sitting in a seat wearing headphones and ripped clothes as if she’d recently suffered a prolonged attack.

  First, Stick phoned the competition organisers with the loudspeaker turned on.

  ‘Shirley Rutter – Kaleidoscope Promotions.’

  The young woman in the carriage glared at them.

  Xena stuck her warrant card in the woman’s face. ‘Fuck off if you don’t like it.’

  The woman stuck her tongue out, stood up and shuffled down the train without taking off her headphones.

  ‘Young people today don’t know they’re fucking born.’ She leaned back on the seat, stuck her legs out and began crunching through her packet of cheese and onion crisps.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ Stick said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station, and I’m phoning about your recent body painting competition at the Olympia in Kensington.’

  ‘You’ve missed it.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, I know. I have the programme in front of me.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m trying to track down one of the male competitors, but the only clue I have is that he had a lisp.’

  ‘And what do you want from us?’

  ‘Let me explain. I’m investigating the murder of a young woman, so I’d very much like your help and co-operation in finding this person.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who would have spoken to the contestants and would therefore know which of them had a lisp?’

  ‘Is the contestant the person who murdered the young woman?’

  ‘No, but he might very well know who did.’

  ‘Okay. Well, you probably want to talk to Kyle Stanton. He was our man on the ground, so to speak.’

  Stick scribbled the name in his notebook. ‘Okay. Do you have his contact number?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘I’m a police officer. I can give you my collar number. You can check me out, if you want?’

  ‘No, that’s all right. The police wouldn’t lie to me, would they?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  She gave him Stanton’s mobile number.

  ‘Thank you, Shirley.’

  ‘I hope you catch him.’

  ‘So do I.’

  He ended the call and phoned the number she’d given him.

  ‘Kyle?’

  ‘Mr Stanton?’

  ‘The one and only’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘Yeah! They all say that.’

  ‘Do they? I didn’t realise I was that famous.’

  ‘Is this a wind-up?’

  ‘No Mr Stanton. I’m investigating the murder of a young woman.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Shirley Rutter who gave me your number.’

  ‘I’m not happy about that.’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation, Mr Rutter. People tend to help the police when someone is murdered.’

  ‘Okay. What do you want from me? I didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘You were the man on the ground at the Olympia body painting competition?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m looking for one of the contestants, but the only clue I have is that he had a lisp. Did you speak to the contestants?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t recall anyone with a lisp. Mind you, it was crazy there. I was running round like a headless chicken all day. And I didn’t speak to the contestants more than a couple of times. Mostly in a group to give them instructions and tell them what was happening – not that I knew.’

  ‘Is there anyone you can think of who spoke to each contestant and who might know the name of the person who had the lisp?’

  ‘Competition judges.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Lisa-Marie Steffenson. She spoke one-to-one with the contestants. She’s Swedish and . . . Well, let’s just say I’d be happy to sell my soul to the Devil for a one-to-one with her, if you get my drift?’

  ‘I’m sure. Do you have a contact number?’

  ‘Ha! I wish. I asked, but she said there was a waiting list. A bloody waiting list! Can you believe that, man? Shirley will have it – ask her.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Stanton.’

  ‘No problemo, as they say in the terminator business.’

  Stick ended the call and rang Shirley Rutter back. ‘Sorry to bother you again.’

  ‘Was Kyle able to help?’

  ‘Yes. He gave me Lisa-Marie Steffenson’s name, and said that she s
poke one-to-one with the contestants. Do you have a contact number for her?’

  ‘Don’t pass it on to Kyle.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘She thinks he’s a douchebag.’

  ‘She’s probably right.’

  Shirley gave him Steffenson’s contact number.

  The train pulled into Stratford. They changed platforms and had to wait five minutes for the connecting train to Theydon Bois.

  He called Lisa-Marie Steffenson.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Miss Steffenson – I’m Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  ‘Is that a new chat-up line?’

  ‘No. I really am a Detective Sergeant. I can give you my collar number if it will help?’

  ‘You’re really a Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘I’ve never been to bed with one of those before.’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a young woman.’

  ‘Mmmm! That was a bit of a mood killer. What do you want from me?’

  ‘You were a judge at the Olympia . . . ?’

  ‘. . . Body painting competition? Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘We’re trying to identify which one of the contestants had a lisp.’

  ‘My God! I thought he was a bit creepy. Is he the . . . ?’

  ‘. . . No, he’s not the murderer, but he might know who is.’

  ‘He was still a weirdo. His name was Andrei Markov. I think he came from Lithuania . . . Not for the competition, but originally.’

  ‘Thanks very much for your help, Miss Steffenson.’

  ‘I could make space in my busy schedule for a Detective Sergeant from Hoddesdon, if you’re interested?’

  ‘I should tell you that you’re on loudspeaker in a busy train carriage, Miss . . .’

  There was a click.

  The train pulled into the station.

  They boarded and found seats facing towards the rear of the train.