by Tim Ellis
Stick phoned Shirley Rutter again.
‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this, DS Gilbert.’
‘Sorry. I think this will be my last call. Miss Steffenson gave me a name: Andrei Markov. Do you have his contact details from his application form?’
‘Just a minute . . .’
Some of the other passengers glared at him.
‘. . . Yes, here we are.’ She gave him an address and telephone number in North Woolwich, London, which he recorded in his notebook.’
‘Thanks for all your help, Shirley.’
‘Missing you already.’
The call ended.
‘Good work, Stick.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you going to phone him?’
‘I’ll wait until we get to Theydon Bois.’
‘Why?’
He looked around the carriage.
‘Fuck ‘em. Do you want me to call?’
‘No, I can do it. I’ve started, so I’ll finish.’ He made the call, but there was no answer. He left a message for Mr Markov to ring him as soon as possible.
Chapter Nineteen
‘It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it, Sir?’
‘We live in a world full of conspiracies, Richards. Another one is hardly going to break the bank.’
‘And the men we’re looking for are going to get away with the murder of Adam Weeks, aren’t they?’
‘Do you know me at all?’
‘We’re not going to let them get away with it, are we?’
‘No, Richards. We’ll meet with this Frank Graham and see if he can’t help us. I don’t care who these men are, they’re not getting away with the murder of a child on my watch.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t let them.’
‘After what CI Frayne has just told us, my respect for some of the people in that building has taken a bit of a battering.’
‘You mean the Chief Constable?’
‘Right, let’s get going.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s right.’
‘No, I mean where are we going?’
‘Ware.’
‘Where what?’
‘Do you think there’s anybody we want to question in Ware?’
Richards laughed. ‘Oh, Ware! I thought . . .’
‘Well?’
She started the Skoda and headed towards the A414 that ran through Ongar, Harlow and Roydon. It was the scenic route that would take them about an hour.
He combed fingers through his hair. ‘I desperately need a haircut.’
‘Do you remember the first time you had a haircut after we started working together?’
‘I remember. You had Wally turn me into your mother’s toy boy.’
‘A position you seemed well-suited to.’
‘Thank you.’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘Sometimes . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Sometimes I think there’s a connection between the murder and the tattoos, but at other times I don’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you keep having these disconnected thoughts?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe . . .’
‘Stop agonising over it. We’re collecting the pieces like we always do. This is only the second day, but we’ve got two strong leads. We know that one of the men who murdered Adam Weeks is known to MI5, and that he’s done something like this before otherwise his DNA wouldn’t be on the database. We now know that tattooing barcodes on newborn babies has been going on at Yewlands Community Hospital for at least ten years. Once Toadstone’s people install the CCTV cameras in the baby unit we should be able to identify who’s been taking the babies, where they’re taking them, why and who else is involved. Spies and spying certainly wouldn’t have been my first thought on the subject; but three-link chains, barcodes, rare buttons and secret societies definitely gives this case a cloak and dagger feel. Now, stop bothering me. I was up far too early this morning, so I think I’ll grab forty winks.’
‘I was up early as well. What about me?’
‘I’d advise against you closing your eyes – you’re driving.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘A very tired pig – oink, oink.’
The Grand Lodge of the Order of Chaeronea in Ware was located over a kebab shop on Cross Street. It was a two-storey building with a flat roof at the end of a row of four businesses. There were cracks in the brickwork due to subsidence, and a supporting wooden framework had been built against the end wall to try and stem the imminent collapse, but from a purely amateur perspective it appeared to be too little, too late.
The side door was open.
‘I’m not going to shake anybody’s hand,’ Richards whispered as they went inside and began climbing the stairs.
‘You must do what your conscience dictates.’
‘I’m still not shaking anybody’s hand.’
‘You’ve said that already.’
‘I’m just letting you know.’
‘Now you have.’
There was another door at the top of the stairs.
Parish didn’t bother knocking.
Four men were sitting in orange plastic chairs around a chipped Formica-topped table in the middle of an empty room talking. There were some framed prints of the Battle of Chaeronea, George Cecil Ives and Alexander the Great – who was rumoured to be homosexual – hanging on the walls, and stacks of coloured plastic chairs at the far end of the room, but nothing else.
One of the men with thick blond hair and brilliant white teeth stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I think you’ve come to the wrong place. How did you get in?’
‘The door downstairs is open.’
‘It shouldn’t be.’ He glanced at the other three. ‘Who came in last?’
A man, smaller than the others, with thinning hair and a few days worth of stubble, raised a limp hand. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘Lock it after you, Arthur. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Sorry,’ he repeated.
The man turned back to them. ‘Anyway, you’re still in the wrong place. I’ll . . .’
Parish produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Detective Constable Richards from Hoddesdon Police Station.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m right in believing that this is the Grand Lodge of the Order of Chaeronea, aren’t I?’
‘It’s meant to be a secret.’
‘Not to the police.’
‘We’re not doing anything wrong.’
‘And nobody’s suggesting otherwise. We’d like to talk to you.’
‘All right. About what?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of a ten year-old boy called Adam Weeks . . .’
‘. . . And because we’re homosexuals and members of a secret society you feel it necessary to persecute us?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’d like my solicitor present before . . .’
‘You’re allowed to tell me who you are.’
‘So you can come round to my house and my place of work to destroy my life?’
‘No. It’s just nice to know who I’m talking to.’
‘You can call me Anthony.’
‘I had no idea until yesterday that the Order of Chaeronea existed. In fact, if my forensic team hadn’t found something belonging to one of your members at the crime scene, I would still have no idea and the society’s existence would still be shrouded in secrecy.’
‘What did they find?’
‘A rare gold button with the Lion of Chaeronea on it.’
Anthony’s face drained of blood and he turned to look at the other three. ‘It has nothing to do with us.’
‘I wouldn’t take up lying for a living if I were you, Anthony.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Parish sighed. ‘There are two ways this can go. You give me what I want, or I get a search warrant to obtain what I wan
t and notify the press by accident about your secret society and involvement . . .’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know who the button belongs to, and I also want an up-to-date list of the society’s members.’
‘If I handed over a list of our members we wouldn’t be a secret society anymore, and I guaranteed confidentiality.’
‘I know that the society’s principle of secrecy is conveyed by the metaphor of a three-link chain,’ Parish said. ‘A tattoo of a three-link chain was found on the murdered boy.’
Anthony staggered and sat down in the empty chair. ‘Surely that can’t have anything to do with us?’
A plump red-faced man with mutton chops and wild-looking eyebrows put his hand on Anthony’s arm. ‘It only takes one to bring the rest of us down. Give the Inspector what he wants and let’s try to salvage the society from the wreckage.’
Anthony glanced at the others.
Each of them nodded their agreement.
‘The only member who wears a jacket with those buttons on is called George Erikson. He lives in Nazeing at 44 Betts Lane.’
‘Thank you, Anthony. And the list?’
‘Do you really need it?’
‘We have evidence that more than one person was involved in the boy’s murder. So yes, I really need it.’
Anthony stood up, walked to a small alcove that Parish hadn’t noticed before, and then returned with a dozen sheets of A4 paper stapled together. ‘Names, addresses and contact numbers. We have ninety-six members.’
‘That many?’
‘And growing all the time.’
Parish handed him a business card. ‘If there’s anything else you think of that might help us – call me.’
Anthony put the card in his jacket pocket, but didn’t respond.
‘Thanks for your co-operation, gentlemen.’
They made their way downstairs and back to the car.
‘Call the Duty Sergeant and ask him to send a couple of officers to arrest George Erikson in connection with the abduction, sexual assault and murder of Adam Weeks,’ Parish said. ‘Also, get a forensic team out to his house. I want the jacket with the gold buttons on it analysed, and I also want his house and computer searched for any evidence.’
‘We don’t need a search warrant, do we?’
‘No. We can enter his property to arrest him for a sufficiently serious crime under section 17 of PACE, and while we’re there we can lawfully seize items.’
She made the calls. ‘Okay – Sergeant Mitchum will organise that.’
Just then his phone vibrated and displayed an unknown number.
‘Parish?’
‘It’s Frank Graham. Where are you?’
‘Ware.’
‘I’ll meet you in the Dog and Duck on Lower Street in Stanstead Abbotts in half an hour.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Make sure you’re not followed.’
The call ended.
‘Who was that?’
‘Frank Graham. We’re meeting him in the Dog and Duck at Stanstead Abbotts in half an hour. So feel free to point this jalopy in the right direction and start peddling.’
Parish’s phone vibrated again.
It was Chief Nibley. ‘They’ve found Billy Hunter . . .’
‘That’s excellent . . .’
‘Dead.’
‘Where?’
‘On the corner of Pecks Hill and Sedge Green in Lower Nazeing. Found by a gardener on the edge of his allotment.’
‘Are forensics on the way, Sir?’
‘Despatched already.’
‘We’ll be there in about an hour.’
‘Oh?’
‘We have a lead on the sealed record.’
‘A good lead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope it pans out.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
‘Bad news?’ Richards glanced at him as she navigated round an illegally parked white van.
‘They’ve found Billy Hunter’s body in Lower Nazeing.’
‘I hate child cases.’
‘You’ve already made that quite clear, Richards.’
***
Highgate Library was within walking distance of the squat – along Swain’s Lane and left down Chester Road. The building was Edwardian and looked like a swimming baths, maybe a public toilet, or a school – although there was a primary school next door.
She went inside and stood in front of a counter where a thin pinched-face old woman was sitting. In fact, if she’d ever been asked to describe a librarian at any time during her life, which she hadn’t, she would have described this woman. Her hair was a dozen shades of grey pulled back tight into a knot. She wore enormous black tinted glasses that seemed to devour her face, bright red lipstick that would have looked better on a prostitute and a potpourri of gold rings on her fingers.
‘Yes?’
‘I need to . . .’
‘Library card?’
‘No, I . . .’
The woman produced an application form and a pen. ‘Fill that out.’ She pointed to a small shelf surrounding a concrete pillar. ‘Do it there, and don’t steal the pen.’
‘I . . .’
‘Next?’
She wandered over to the shelf and used her new name – Jessie Gibbs – to fill out the application form. Then she joined the queue of four people – five counting herself, and six with the doddering old woman behind her who she’d managed to beat to number five.
After six minutes she was called forward and banged the application form on the counter. ‘There.’
The librarian took her time to examine each part. Eventually she said, ‘What about Part six?’
‘I’m single.’
‘You have to put a line through it and write “Not Applicable”.’
She held out her hand for the form to do just that, but the woman held it up and away from her.
‘I don’t permit writing on my counter. Please take it to the shelf, fill all parts out properly and join the queue again.’
‘Join the queue?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t I . . . ?’
‘People are waiting. Next.’
She though about taking the Glock pistol out of her rucksack and empting the whole magazine into the woman’s high-and-mighty, know-it-all, stuck-up face, but decided that was just what the bitch wanted. After completing Part 6 she joined the queue again.
The librarian checked everything again, and then reached down under the counter and passed Bronwyn a plastic library card. ‘Number 76654,’ she said and wrote the number down on the corner of the application form. ‘Now you’re a fully-fledged member of Highgate Library.’
‘Great. How do I find a copy of the Waltham Forest Gazette dated Friday June 12, 2015.’
‘Use your library number to log onto the intranet and choose British Newspaper Archive from the drop-down menu. Use the search box to find what you’re looking for.’
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘I’m sure.’
She wandered into the bowels of the library, found a free computer and sat down. As instructed, she logged on using her new library number. The computer was as slow as pouring treacle in January and she had to wait between each data input for the motherboard to catch up. Eventually, she reached the British Newspaper Archive and typed in what she was looking for.
The front page of the Waltham Forest Gazette appeared on the screen. Her heart began jitterbugging. What would she find? Was it an article that would explain everything? She skipped to page 5 and was slightly deflated to discover the “Obituaries” page.
Undaunted, she began reading the obituaries: Mrs Caroline Bernstein, wife of Joseph Bernstein, a builder . . . Mr William Scranton, farmer . . . John B Aylward, railway worker . . . Eleanor Farlin, teacher . . . Alfred Scully, intelligence officer . . . She scanned the rest of the obituaries, but there was no one of interest, so she went back to Alfred Scully, intellige
nce officer:
. . . Born Forest Hill in Oxford on September 7, 1923; married Clementine Packer-Marriott (one son, one daughter); died peacefully at home in Waltham Forest on May 30, 2015; aged 92.
Attended Woodcote Primary School and St Jude’s Church of England Grammar School . . . Read English at Baliol College Oxford and was recruited to MI5 in 1946 with the approval of MI5’s Director General . . .
He arrived at MI5 during a period of paranoia after the exposure of Allan Nunn and Klaus Fuchs as Soviet agents inside the British atomic research institutions, and the escape to Moscow in 1951 of Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean . . .
She carried out a search and read everything she could find on Alfred Scully and discovered that he was rumoured to be connected in some way to the Larch Guest House scandal in Walcott Square, Lambeth during the early 1970s:
. . . Which involved the sexual abuse and grooming of children at parties by former government ministers, senior Members of Parliament, top police officers, judges, pop stars and Soviet agents, but no credible evidence could ever be found . . .
She read everything she could on the Larch Guest House scandal until she reached data saturation, but she realised early on that it was a cover-up. This is what the MI5 bastards were trying to hide. Linus Frost must have found the credible evidence that the police or whoever couldn’t find, which was hardly surprising with so many of the establishment in the firing line. Well, it was time for payback. She logged off, left the Library and headed back to the squat.
***
Once the train reached Theydon Bois, they reclaimed Stick’s car from the station car park and set off towards Roydon to pick up Mrs Tyndall and her mother at two-fifteen from the station.
Xena’s phone vibrated.
She put it on loudspeaker. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Peter Peckham, Ma’am.’
‘What do you want, Pecker?’
‘You asked me to notify you when we’d begun digging.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve found a body.’
‘As I expected. Has it been painted?’