Evidence of Things Not Seen: (Parish & Richards 18)
Page 26
He took another swallow of beer.
‘But there was another side to all of this. Allison told you about the former government ministers, senior Members of Parliament, top police officers, judges, pop stars and people with links to the Royal Household?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, MI5 at the time were doing what they felt was the lesser of two evils; the Soviets were like children themselves let loose in the chocolate factory; but it’s the other people – the people who should have known better – who need to be dragged kicking and screaming out into the daylight and exposed for what they did and the type of people they really are. Also, I’ve since found out that MI5 officers were involved in the sexual abuse and grooming of children at those parties, and since that time they’ve permitted it to continue and colluded with others in protecting the individuals involved from investigation or prosecution.’
‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Richards said.
Frank Graham shook his head. ‘Not really. Look around and what do you see – corruption everywhere? FIFA; match-fixing in football; doping in athletics and cycling; the International Olympics Committee; countries in the Middle East, Africa and Asia . . . It’s a very long list and continues to grow. And I haven’t even touched on the sexual abuse and exploitation of children in the UK – Rotherham; Operation Yewtree; Kincora Boys’ Home; Rochdale; Nottingham, Manchester and Islington Care Homes; the Catholic, Methodist and Anglican Churches . . . And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s a fucking epidemic . . . Excuse my language, Mary.’
‘I’d swear myself if I knew how,’ Richards said.
‘So, let me answer the question you came to ask – who is the man behind the blank screen? His name is Norman Hillhouse previously an Appeal Court Judge. He’s retired now, of course. He has a little place in The Magpies at Epping Green. During the early nineties he was arrested when a nine year-old boy accused him of sexual assault. It was hushed up, but not before the police became involved and forensics took a DNA swab, which was uploaded onto the national database. MI5 came along, and requested – in the interests of national security – that the record be removed from the database. The Justice Secretary wouldn’t agree to that, but he did agree that the record should be sealed.’
‘Was he forced to retire?’ Parish said.
‘No. He continued to preside over appeals, which ironically also included sexual abuse cases.’
‘If that came to light,’ Richards said. ‘All the cases he ruled on would be subject to review.’
‘A can of worms,’ Frank Graham agreed. ‘Now, it’s my guess that if you go and arrest Norman Hillhouse, MI5 officers will appear – as if by magic – and take him off your hands.’
‘We’ll tell the press . . .’ Richards blurted out.
‘They’ll be gagged.’
‘But . . .’
‘And you’ll be gagged. This has been the elephant in the room for the past fifty years. Nobody can afford for this to get out. It’s been going on for so long that it’s become part of the fabric of our society.’
‘Why haven’t you exposed them?’
‘In a word – credible evidence. I have names, dates, places and witness statements. It’s all hearsay – smoke and mirrors. What I don’t have is credible evidence. No DNA, no photographs, no fingerprints, no verifiable documents, no confessions, no smoking gun . . . If I tried to expose them, I’d have to step out from the shadows. And as well as slapping a gagging order on me, they’d confiscate all the circumstantial evidence I’ve collected so far. I have to stay hidden and keep believing that what I’m doing will one day make a difference. Sooner or later I’ll find that one piece of evidence that will be irrefutable.’
‘And what do you know about barcode tattoos?’
‘Only rumours, I’m afraid. I’ve heard that a group within MI5 have gone rogue and entered the child-trafficking business. One point two million children are trafficked worldwide each year, and a small percentage of those children come from the UK. Someone told me that this group are working on a supply-and-demand model. The children are the products feeding this supply chain, and that’s why they’re given an identifying mark. As well as incorporating the barcode, the three links signifies the supply chain – supply, product and demand; and that the product is a slave.’
‘I’d think you were smoking the whacky-backy if I hadn’t seen the tattoos with my own eyes,’ Parish said.
‘I know.’
Richards shuffled in her seat. ‘What I don’t understand is why Adam Weeks was abducted, sexually abused and murdered.’
Frank Graham emptied his glass. ‘He wasn’t abducted – he was sold.’
‘But he didn’t belong to anybody except his mother.’
‘Don’t be naive, Mary. These people take what they want, when they want – ownership is a matter of perception. Children are trafficked both within the UK and to other countries. They’re sold on the Dark Web. It used to be a simple matter of “follow the money”, but you can’t follow what you can’t find.’
‘Does the name George Erikson mean anything to you?’ Parish said.
Graham shook his head. ‘No.’
Parish finished his drink. ‘Well, thanks for your trust and time, Frank. We have to go now – we have another dead boy.’
‘Good luck with Norman Hillhouse, but I’m not optimistic on your chances of charging him.’
‘We’ll see. And good luck with trying to find credible evidence.’
‘Thanks.’
Outside, Richards called the Duty Sergeant and organised the arrest and processing of Norman Hillhouse. ‘Do you really think that MI5 will stop us investigating him?’
‘Do you really think I’m going to let them?’
‘Is the answer “No”?’
‘Yes, Richards. The answer is definitely “Over my dead body!”.’
***
As Bronwyn walked back to the squat she called Kowalski.
‘Are you there yet?’
‘You sound like my eldest daughter.’
‘I liked Oceana. She must be ten by now?’
‘Ten going on forty. I’d say we were about fifteen minutes away from Paris.’
‘I have news.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Mercedes belonged to the government. The Glock pistols belonged to the government, but hadn’t yet been allocated. The tracker device was purchased by a holding company, which means the government bought it. I managed to piece together the shredded newspaper and it led me to Highgate Library to search page 5 of the Waltham Forest Gazette dated Friday, June 12 2015, which was the obituary page. The only corpse of interest was an MI5 intelligence officer called Alfred Scully who was linked to a place called Larch Guest House in Waltham Square, Lambeth. Apparently, during the 1970s and 80s there was a scandal involving the sexual abuse and grooming of children at parties, which included former government ministers, senior Members of Parliament, top police officers, judges, pop stars and Soviet agents, but no credible evidence could ever be found against anyone . . .’
‘The fog is beginning to clear,’ Kowalski said.
‘I think that Linus Frost must have found the credible evidence and MI5 want it back – so be careful.’
‘Careful is one of my middle names.’
‘From what I’ve seen – I doubt that. More like bull-in-a-china-shop. Anyway, I’m still waiting for the website nerds to get back to me on the unscrambling of the number codes. As soon as they do I’ll call you, but you’re going to call me soon anyway when you open that locker, aren’t you?’
‘That’s the plan.’
She ended the call.
When she reached the squat, Poo – still dressed in her t-shirt and panties – was wandering up and down the hall, the stairs and the landing like a lost soul in a fish bowl.
‘You wanna make out?’
‘I’m busy at the moment – maybe later.’
‘I need sex. Can you ask your two friends to come bac
k?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Do you know of anyone else who could come and give me what I need?’
‘No.’
‘Bugger!’
‘Listen, I’d love to help, but I have work to do.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you later.’
She went into her room. Poo was becoming a pain in the arse. She made herself a coffee and was about to look through the handful of papers that Kowalski had taken from the shelf in the laboratory when her laptop pinged – she had a message from the nerds on the website.
Panda-monium:
You there, AA?
Alligator Annie:
I’m here. What’s taking you so long?
Panda-monium:
Ha, ha! Are you ready?
Strawberry Cow:
Have you solved them, PM?
Panda-monium:
Did you ever doubt that I would?
Alligator Annie:
I’m getting bored!
Panda-monium:
Okay, here goes. The easy one first.
224386720482307
377677206896224
386896677482989
206386989720224
677896377224307
482720720896989
307989377677224
The numbers are in groups of three:
224 386 720 482 307
377 677 206 896 224
386 896 677 482 989
206 386 989 720 224
677 896 377 224 307
482 720 720 896 989
307 989 377 677 224
Each number is a telephone code. If you add 01 to each of the three numbers you get:
0 = 01989 = Ross on Wye
1 = 01224 = Aberdeen
2 = 01677 = Bedale
3 = 01206 = Colchester
4 = 01377 = Driffield
5 = 01386 = Evesham
6 = 01307 = Forfar
7 = 01896 = Galashiels
8 = 01482 = Hull
9 = 01720 = Isles of Scilly
Each line of numbers then translates to:
224 386 720 482 307
15986
377 677 206 896 224
42371
386 896 677 482 989
57280
206 386 989 720 224
35091
677 896 377 224 307
27416
482 720 720 896 989
89970
307 989 377 677 224
60421
Now, here’s the rub! I think that the numbers aren’t complete. I don’t know where you got the numbers from, but wherever it was have a look for a five-digit number somewhere.
She leafed through the journal, but didn’t find anything until she accidentally passed one of the pages in front of the bedside light, and then she saw the faint indent of a five-digit number at the top of the page that appeared to have been rubbed out: 01342.
Alligator Annie:
01342
Panda-monium:
I thought so. What you have there, Miss Alligator is a Manufacturers Code. If you add that number to the front of all your other five-digit numbers (the product codes) you’ll end up with a 12-digit barcode. The missing two numbers are a system checker at the beginning and a check digit at the end, which can be worked out based on the other numbers.
Alligator Annie:
You’re a fucking genius, PM.
Panda-monium:
I have to agree with you, but wait there’s more evidence of my stratospheric IQ. Remember those other numbers you gave us?
Alligator Annie:
Did I mention that I have an extremely low boredom threshold, PM.
Panda-monium:
I’m getting there. The numbers are in Hebrew Gematria, which is an Assyro-Banylonian-Greek system of code and numerology that was adopted by the Jewish people. It assigns a numerical value to words and phrases – or the alphabet. Thereafter, a substitution code is used, The problem is always working out the start point and there are different start points. This particular start point is called Albam, which means to divide the alphabet in half. Thus:
A = 40
B = 50
C = 60
D = 70
E = 80
F = 90
G = 100
H = 200
I = 700
J = 900
K = 300
L = 400
M = 500
N = 1
O = 2
P = 3
Q = 4
R = 5
S = 6
T = 7
U = 8
V = 9
W = 600
X = 10
Y = 20
Z = 30
Therefore:
40 300 40 400 80 10 40 1 70 80 5
AK Alexander
6 3 200 2 400 70 6 600 2 5 7 200
SP Holdsworth
500 3 50 400 40 60 300 600 80 400 400
MP Blackwell
6 90 300 700 1 100
SF King
9 400 400 20 7 300 700 1
VL Lytkin
7 200 30 200 8
TH Zhu
4 90 60 200 8 40
QF Chua
Is there anything else I can do for you, AA?
Strawberry Cow:
I think I’m in love..
Alligator Annie:
Me too.
Nightwalker:
He has rotting teeth, hands like claws and a twisted spine. You’d be better off coming round to my house – I have a waterbed and a mirror ceiling.
Panda-monium:
Jealousy will get you nowhere, NW. Shall we go, ladies?
Alligator Annie:
Thanks, nerds.
She left them bickering among themselves. Once she’d printed out the solutions she logged off and considered what she had. There were the barcodes in the journal, the list of names from the whiteboard in the laboratory, the fact that MI5’s dirty little hands were all over this, the obituary linking Larch Guest House to MI5 . . . She didn’t know for sure, but she had the feeling that Linus Frost had stumbled onto the details of an MI5-controlled child trafficking enterprise, and now she and Kowalski were stuck in the middle. She called Kowalski, but was diverted to voicemail.
‘It’s me . . .’ She told him what she’d discovered. ‘. . . And I think you’re going to find another journal linking the children through the barcodes to the people who bought them. Fuck’s sake, Kowalski – be careful . . . And call me! Why haven’t you called me?’
***
He left the Eurostar carrying his overnight bag. Staying in the luxury of a five star hotel was driving him on. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so tired.
Jerry hadn’t been happy when he’d phoned her. ‘You’re what?’
‘Nipping over to France.’
‘I thought you were coming home tonight?’
‘I’m actually at home now packing a few things.’
‘And then you’re going to France?’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Who are you going with?’
‘No one.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘A crummy bed and breakfast that’s run by someone called Esmeralda and her strange-looking husband.’
‘I think I preferred it when you were a boring police officer.’
‘Maybe you have a point. It’s a one-off. I’m sure all my future cases will be the equivalent of watching paint dry.’
‘And you’ll be back tomorrow?’
‘Definitely. I have to collect something from a left-luggage locker, travel to the hovel Bronwyn booked me into, catch up with my sleep and then catch the Eurostar back home to my beautiful wife and children first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘That had better be your itinerary. I’ve heard about those ladies of the night in Paris.’
‘You’ve heard more than me then. I promise, I’ll be home tomorrow untouched by human hand.’
‘Love y
ou.’
‘And I love you, Jerry Kowalski. Kiss the kids for me.’
It had been a reasonably pleasant journey. Travelling under the English Channel had been a bit unnerving, but he’d arrived in France in one piece and without getting his feet wet.
As soon as he was through into the main concourse at Gare du Nord station he followed the signs for “Consignes - Luggage Storage – Schliebŕächer” and made his way down the escalator to an entrance with a caged yellow-framed sliding door. He showed the man behind the wire mesh the locker key.
The man nodded like a collector of rare keys. He then accessed a computer, keyed in the key number, turned to look at Kowalski and said, ‘A hundred and ninety days at 5.50 Euros each day for a small locker is 1,045 Euros, Monsieur.’
‘WHAT?’
‘It is 5.50 Euros each day. The first day has been paid, but no payment has been forthcoming since that first day. You owe 1,045 Euros please, Monsieur.’
That was about £800 in real money. He passed the man his credit card. It was certainly a business expense, but he was sure they’d already exceeded the £2,000 Amelia Frost had said was available, and he didn’t have a contingency fund. So, the business was currently operating at a loss. He keyed in his PIN number, and retrieved his card and the receipt.
The attendant opened the sliding door, let him through and passed the key back to him. ‘Locker number 199 is down to the end, Monsieur. Turn left and then second right.’
‘Merci.’ His French wasn’t extensive, but he knew a few words to get by. He set off in the direction the man had indicated. It was eerily quiet. As he shuffled along, he wondered if he needed a Sherpa and a Davy lamp. The journey was uneventful. He opened the locker. Inside he found a holdall, which contained approximately £50,000 in £50 notes, a journal containing numbers and names and another Glock pistol, but in a shoulder holster this time. He hadn’t brought the other Glock with him, because he didn’t want to be caught carrying a weapon and mistaken for a terrorist. Not that he hadn’t thought about bringing the pistol. The people trying to stop him finding out the truth had weapons, and he was at a distinct disadvantage not having one.