by Tim Ellis
He took out his phone with the intention of calling Bronwyn, but there was no signal. She’d just have to wait a little longer until he returned to ground level. He didn’t need two holdalls, so he transferred the money into his own bag, shrugged out of his coat and put the shoulder holster on, slid the journal into the inside pocket of his coat and put it back on. There was a waste bin in an alcove, and as he made his way back to the entrance he deposited the second holdall in that.
‘All in order, Monsieur?’
He gave the man the shadow of a smile. ‘Yes, thank you, Monsieur,’ he said like a native. He caught the elevator back up to the main concourse and headed towards the exit.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man with a wire dangling from his ear that disappeared inside the collar of his shirt talking to a badge on the lapel of his jacket. Kowalski knew then that he was being followed. They’d kept their distance up until now, but he’d reclaimed what was in that locker and that’s what they wanted. He stopped, pretended to look around while he thought about his next move.
There were three of them that he could see, and they were closing in on him. He could stay where he was and give them what they wanted, or he could run . . .
Chapter Twenty-One
Xena and Stick stared at the painted female through the glass lid. On the right side she was a beautiful white angel, on the left side a gnarled red demon. Like the last corpse, the left side of the woman’s head had been shaved. And as well as being painted a deep red that looked as though it had been fermented in the pits of Hell, she also had one twisted goat’s horn protruding from her skull; a prosthetic blood-red eye; a cavernous mouth that had been cut into her face and extended up to her ear; additional teeth inserted behind the jagged flaps of skin; and pointed false finger and toenails the same colour as the hellish red. In stark contrast, the right side was truly angelic, with flowing white hair; and an intricate white lace design painted on her body.
‘Why is the lid still on, Pecker?’
‘I was advised to wait for you, Ma’am.’
‘So you’ve wasted a ridiculous amount of time waiting for me to arrive on the ill-advised say-so of some flunky you brought with you?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Where’s Doc Paine?’
‘I’m here,’ Doc Paine’s voice came from further up the tow path as she walked towards them carrying her bag of tricks.
‘Did you take the scenic route?’
‘Unlike you, who appears to have very little to keep yourself occupied in-between the discovery of stray bodies, some of us work for a living by multitasking, overlapping and generally meeting ourselves coming back the other way.’
‘You’re right, Doc.’ She glared at Stick. ‘Tell her, Stick. Tell the good doctor how we sit around drinking martinis and eating hours de ovaries in-between stumbling over dead bodies.’
Stick shrugged. ‘It’s like she said, Doc. Sometimes we get really bored, and then we fall over because of all the martinis.’
‘I knew it.’ She handed Stick a file. ‘The post-mortem report from the last body. There’s nothing in there you don’t already know except that the paint is simply face and body paint that you can buy anywhere. There are no special ingredients that might help you identify the killer. Well, who’s going to lift the lid off the jar so that I can examine the corpse?’
Two of Peckham’s men did the honours.
Xena’s phone vibrated.
She moved up the tow path to take the call.
‘DI Blake?’
‘It’s Dave Pittman.’
‘Hello, Pittman. Well?’
‘He’s not at the address you gave me. Oh, he lives here all right, but he’s not here now.’
‘I see. Can you keep a man outside?’
She heard Pittman grunt. ‘A man from where? Maybe a homeless man, but I don’t have any men.’
‘I know what you mean . . . Nobody’s got any slack these days.’
Somebody poked her in the back.
‘Just a minute, Pittman. I’m being poked, and not in a good way either.’
She turned to find Stick standing there. ‘Can’t I have a private conversation without you eavesdropping like a member of GCHQ?’
Stick shuffled from one foot to another. ‘He’s got a second place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should have thought of it before. The collector part of him needs somewhere to hang his one-off works of art. The body-painter part of him needs to wake up in a place that does not include those works of art. He’s painting them for a collector – not himself. We need to find his other place.’
She put the phone on loudspeaker. ‘Did you hear my crazy partner, Pittman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And – what are you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing. I don’t work for you.’
Stick laughed.
‘Is somebody laughing?’ Pittman said.
‘Don’t worry. It’s my partner. He’s laughing because he knows everybody works for me eventually.’
‘I don’t.’
‘All you need to do is go back into that place you’ve just come out of and see if you can find the location of his gallery – an easy enough job. Unless you’re telling me you’re not up to it?’
‘You think that’ll work with me?’
‘It works with other people.’
‘Who are not me.’
‘Okay, well I’ll just let my boss know about the appalling lack of co-operation offered to a fellow officer out in the sticks. He’ll phone your boss and your boss will tell you to do what I’m asking you to do now. It’d be a lot easier if you just do as you’re told.’
‘I’ll go and take a look, but then we’re done.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll call you back if I find anything.’
‘And if you don’t. You’ve got credit on your phone, haven’t you?’
The call ended.
She smiled. ‘That was easier than I thought. Seems a bit of a wimp to me.’
‘I’m surprised you get away with it,’ Stick said.
‘As you very well know, I have a winning personality.’
‘Hey, you two,’ Doc Paine called.
‘Did you forget my rank and name, Doc?’
‘I don’t think anyone who knows you could ever forget you, DI Blake. Anyway, this is obviously the work of the same killer, but we need to get the body back to the mortuary. Maurice and I have taken a little peek with the black light. There’s clearly some ultraviolet painting, but it’s hard to decipher anything in the daylight – we need a darkened room. Also, take a look at this . . .’
Maurice tilted the body towards him.
As well as being painted to match the front of the woman’s body, a pair of wings had been surgically attached to her spine. The right wing was white, and the left wing was black.
‘I think they’re swan’s wings,’ Doc Paine said.
Stick cleared his throat. ‘A whooper swan,’ he said. ‘I know about birds and animals.’
‘Does it matter what type of swan’s wings they are, numpty?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Okay.’
She glanced at the pathologist. ‘Call me when you’ve carried out your initial examination, Doc.’
‘It’ll be hard. I usually like to keep everything I find to myself.’
‘You’re in the wrong business, Doc.’
Xena’s phone vibrated. ‘Blake?’ She moved along the tow path again.
‘It’s Pittman.’
‘And?’
‘We’ve found evidence of a lock-up garage that Markov’s been hiring.’
‘Good stuff. Are you on your way there now?’
‘That wasn’t part . . .’
‘Look! How do I know whether to come back to London, or not? I have work to do here . . .’
‘And I don’t?’
‘Obviously not
if you’re working for me. Look, if you find him at the garage and lock him in a cell, I’ll need to come up to London . . . Are you married?’
‘Why?’
‘No particular reason, but I’ll probably need somewhere to lay my weary head.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, are you on your way to that lock-up garage yet?’
‘I’m just about to get into my car.’
‘Call me when you get there.’
She ended the call.
‘What about me?’ Stick said.
‘You’re a pervert.’
‘No, I mean, where will I sleep in London?’
‘Do I look like your fucking booking secretary? Find your own place to sleep. Right, let’s go. I suppose I’d better brief Chief Nibbles before we catch the train to London.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
‘Nibbles! Nibbles! Nibbles!’
***
They reached the corner of Pecks Hill and Sedge Green in Lower Nazeing where Billy Hunter had been found.
A news helicopter was hovering overhead like a bird of prey.
The press and a group of onlookers were already there, and they were subjected to a barrage of questions and friendly advice as they ducked under the crime scene tape.
‘Is it Billy Hunter, Inspector?’
‘Do you have any suspects?’
‘We should be told about the paedophiles living in our midst.’
‘Yeah. Bloody kiddie-fiddlers. String ‘em up – that’s what I say.’
There was a ripple of agreement from the crowd.
He ignored them and carried on to the allotment.
‘They’re angry,’ Richards said.
‘You can hardly blame them.’
‘I know. If I had children, I’d be angry as well.’
‘Aren’t you angry now?’
‘Well – yes. But I’d be more angry if I had children.’
‘Talking of which, what’s happened to anaconda and the crime statistics?’
‘His name is Abel Winter. Yes, I was wondering about him as well. I’ll give him a call after we’re through here.’
Toadstone and Doc Riley were both there. The forensic tent had been erected, and white-suited officers were picking through the undergrowth bagging anything that didn’t have roots.
‘Anything, Toadstone?’
‘Nothing yet, Sir.’
‘Have the hidden cameras been installed at Yewlands Community Hospital?’
‘Yes. I have a man – Eddie Rowley – in an unmarked van outside in the hospital car park. The surveillance cameras have been routed through the wireless network and he’s piggy-backed the security system. If anybody moves a baby out of that unit he’ll follow them via the CCTV system.’
‘He knows what he’s looking for?’
‘He’s been fully briefed. We can trust him.’
‘Good. What about you, Doc?’
‘Restraint marks around the neck, wrists and ankles similar to those of Adam Weeks; sexually abused by more than one man . . .’
‘Is there a tattoo?’
She curled his top lip back. ‘Yes.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Within the last twenty-four hours. I would imagine that he was dumped here during the early hours of this morning. Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘Let’s just say that we hope to identify who’s responsible for tattooing the children soon, and we have two people of interest in custody who we need to question. Anything else, Doc?’
‘After the post-mortem. It won’t be until tomorrow morning now.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Doc . . . And you, Toadstone. I know these cases aren’t easy for anyone.’
Before leaving they interviewed the owner of the allotment – a tall, gangly man with thinning lank grey hair and hearing aids in both ears called Philip Doubleday.
‘You found the boy’s body?’ Parish said.
‘I did. Terrible thing. If I had my way . . . Well, you’d probably arrest me if I told you what my way was.’
‘You didn’t touch him?’
‘No. I’ve seen enough TV to know that’s not what you do. I hurried to the nearest house and called the police.’
‘You haven’t got a mobile phone?’
‘Can’t get on with them. Hard of hearing you see.’ He tapped his right hearing aid. ‘Those technological gadgets don’t work right with these. I know you can link them up, but who can be bothered? If people want to talk to me, they can damn well come and knock on my door like they used to do in the good old days.’
‘What time did you arrive here, Mr Doubleday?’
‘Eight o’clock – as I do every morning come rain or shine. I went into my shed first and made myself a pot of tea on my gas burner, sat down for half an hour and thought about the state of the world, my place in it and what I was going to do on my allotment . . . Well, that went for a ball of string, didn’t it? I wandered round inspecting my cauliflowers, potatoes, leeks, parsnips, broccoli . . . and it was as I drew level with the rhubarb patch that I saw him. God-awful sight that I’ll never be able to un-see.’
‘Did you see or hear anyone?’
‘No. The boy was blue. I think whoever put him there had long gone.’
‘Did you notice anything else at all?’
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s all right. Thanks for calling us.’
‘It’s what normal people do, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.
They walked back to the car.
He didn’t speak to the press. They expected a sound bite, but he really wasn’t in the mood.
‘The Hunter’s address?’
‘Yes. Let’s go and tell another mother her son won’t be coming home.’
Afterwards, they returned to the station. The fax from Doc Riley, listing the forty-seven people who knew the freezer location of Adam Weeks’ body, was waiting for them. There was also a short report from Jodi Grammatke in Missing Persons saying that there didn’t seem to be a trail of missing children matching the route of the Muma Padurii Travelling Carnival.
‘According to Jodi in Missing Persons,’ Richards said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any connection with the travelling carnival. Should we cancel the early morning search?’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s not about me. It’s about all those other police officers who would have to get up in the middle of the night . . .’
‘Cancel it. We still have three more days if we do need to go there.’
Richards grinned and rubbed her hands together.
‘But don’t think you’re not getting up early. We still have the small matter of the London Marathon in two months’ time. We have to buckle down to some serious training.’
‘But not tomorrow?’
‘Yes tomorrow. Nothing like grabbing the bull by the horns and running with it.’
‘I’m not running with a bull.’
‘No, you’ll be running with me.’
She picked up the phone, called Inspector Threadneedle and cancelled the morning operation. ‘She wasn’t happy.’
‘So what’s new.’
Richards’ phone jangled. ‘DC Richards . . . Okay . . . Hello, DI Mackinnon . . . Yes, that’s right . . . I’d met him once . . .’ Her face drained of blood. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ She put the phone down.
‘Have you seen a ghost?’
‘Abel Winter has been killed in a hit-and-run.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘You don’t think . . . ?’
‘Don’t start constructing conspiracy theories. Crime statistics are hardly worth killing someone for.’
‘No . . . You’re right. Still, it’s a bit of a . . .’
‘Don’t say it, Richards.’
Chief Nibley walked into the squad room, pulled up a chair, turned it back to front and sat down with his arms resting on the upright.
‘Well, you two have r
eally put the cat among the pigeons. The Chief Constable called me. He said that he’d had a director of some top secret MI5 department in London shouting at him down the phone about an ex-Appeal Court Judge called Norman Hillhouse who you’ve arrested. He said we have to release him on the grounds of national security, and under no circumstances are you to question him.’
‘He’s the DNA match.’
‘Chief Inspector Frayne was forthcoming then?’
‘No, but she knew a man who was.’
‘There are also two MI5 officers downstairs who want to take Mr Hillhouse off our hands.’
Parish told the Chief what they’d learned about Larch Guest House; the sexual abuse of children by high-profile people and the Soviets; how MI5 became involved and Operation Larix; how the lost children from orphanages around London were seen as a price worth paying to keep Britain safe; how MI5 officers were not only involved in the sexual abuse and grooming of the children, but also permitted it to continue and colluded with others to protect those involved from being investigated or prosecuted . . . ‘Which is what those two MI5 officers downstairs are doing now.’
‘But surely that’s all in the past?’ Nibley said.
‘It’s our understanding that a rogue element of MI5 have branched out into the trafficking of children. The barcodes are integral to their operation.’
‘That’s all well and good, Parish. Show me the evidence?’
‘Ah! Well, we obviously have the DNA match . . .’
‘Which you can’t use in a court of law due to the restrictions imposed by the cloak of national security.’
He told the Chief about the CCTV surveillance at Yewlands Community Hospital.
‘That sounds promising. Let’s say you catch someone – what then? Do you think that they’ll tell you everything? Implicate all those involved? Provide you with incontrovertible evidence that will create a domino effect in the corridors of power?’
‘Probably not.’
‘I tend to agree. They’ll keep their mouths shut. MI5 will reward them for that by extricating them from any wrongdoing. So my advice . . .’