by Tim Ellis
He dragged her back into the shadow of a doorway.
‘What?’
‘They’re waiting for us.’ He pointed to a man in reception who they could see through one of the large windows pretending to read a paper; and there’s another one leaning on the wall outside the main entrance.’
‘How . . .? They’ll be tracking your phone,’ she said. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘I like my phone.’
‘Jerry can put that on your gravestone.’
He passed her his phone.
She ripped it apart, removed the battery and SIM card, passed the card back to him and threw the other bits away. ‘You can put that SIM card in a new phone when this is all over to retrieve your phonebook.’
‘I’m overwhelmed.’
They carried on walking, crossed over into the Rue de Monceau, down the Avenue de Messine and found a three-star hotel on the Rue de Messine called the Metropol.
‘Here?’ Kowalski said, pulling a face. ‘It’s not exactly what I’m used to.’
‘Well, you go and stay in the one I booked for you, and I’ll stay here.’
‘Can’t we find a decent hotel?’
She headed towards the entrance. ‘No. Come on.’
At the reception Bronwyn used her credit card in the name of Jessie Gibbs to pay for one room with two single beds for the night.
‘Only one room?’ Kowalski said.
‘Don’t go getting any stupid ideas.’
‘You should be so lucky.’
Once they were in the room Bronwyn said, ‘’Right, don’t bother me. The only way we can get these goons off our backs is if they no longer have a reason to be on our backs.’
‘You’re going to put what we have on the internet?’
‘Can you think of a better place to hide it? Not only that, I’ll send a link to every newspaper in the country – England, not France.’ Using her tablet, she hacked into the hotel’s CCTV system, which wasn’t particularly hard seeing as they had no firewall to speak of. ‘Here!’ she said, passing Kowalski her tablet. ‘You keep an eye on the hotel entrance and reception. Hopefully, it was your phone they were tracking, but it might not have been.’
‘You destroyed my phone for no reason?’
She shrugged. ‘Did you not get the email about not bothering me?’
Next, she used her laptop to hook up to the free WiFi and create a free blog in WordPress.com. Once that was done, she began copying in the information contained in the two journals, which contained the names of at least two hundred missing children, their barcodes and the details of the men who had bought them . . .
‘We should have death by lethal injection in the UK.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘You don’t seem convinced?’
‘Oh, I’m not against capital punishment per se, but lethal injection is how they put animals down. I don’t think these people deserve to be treated on a par with animals. Hanging would be my method of choice.’
‘Works for me . . . Oh, I forgot to tell you. Those papers you snaffled from the laboratory . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘They have names, dates and details on them. Such as some of the people responsible, the software they’re using to catalogue and identify the information held in their barcodes . . . I read and photographed every page on the helicopter ride over here . . .’
‘You flew over here by helicopter?’
‘Don’t worry, I used my own money.’
‘Talking of which, with the fifty thousand pounds we’ll be properly reimbursed for all our expenses on this case. Amelia Frost can have the rest . . . I wonder what’s happened to her. I left a message and she was meant to ring me back. Well, that won’t happen now you’ve destroyed my phone.’
‘Stop whining. So, as I was saying . . . I photographed every page on the way over here and I’m simply going to upload the pages onto the blog and people can take from them what they will. Did I mention that there are references to Larch Guest House?’
‘No.’
‘There’s quite a few famous names here. I’d like to be a fly on the wall at MI5 when they really get to experience what the Freedom of Information Act feels and smells like. I think we have a good chance of beating the domino-falling record once this hits the internet.’
She finished typing in the information, and then uploaded all the photographs of the documents on her phone. After she’d checked that everything was how she wanted it, she gave it a heading and put “Compliments of Linus Frost” at the bottom of the first page.
‘I’m done,’ she said, and published the site.
‘It’s a good job, because we have company.’
‘Shit! That means we’ll have to get rid of everything that they could be using to track us.’ She put everything back in her rucksack. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘I thought you were getting rid of everything.’
‘I have to delete stuff first, and I haven’t got time to do that here. We’ll get back on the Metro and we can check how they’re tracking us as we move. Sooner or later, we’ll disappear from their scanners and we’ll swim back to England.’
They left the room, took the stairs and left through a fire exit. Outside, they caught a taxi to Gare du Nord and were swallowed up by the Paris Metro at night.
***
Sergeant Kent – the Custody Sergeant – opened the cell door.
A tall lean man with short blond hair and blue eyes, and dressed in a white paper jumpsuit was standing in the middle of the cell with his fists and jaw clenched.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Jed Parish, and this is Detective Constable . . .’
‘You’re a walking dead man – that’s who you are.’
He’d told Sergeant Kent to take the two MI5 officers into custody, but had the feeling that they might be armed, so he’d suggested that the Sergeant should get two firearm-trained officers with sub-machine guns to assist him. As expected, both men had been carrying Glock pistols.
‘So, let me get this right, Mr Hagman. Not only were you carrying a concealed weapon, which is still illegal in this country if my interpretation of the law is correct, you were also impersonating a member of the security services . . .’
‘You’ve seen my identity card.’
‘Yes, you’re right. But when we came to check you out – guess what? That’s right, you didn’t exist. Now, until we can verify your claim of being a member of the security services we’ll keep you in here . . .’
‘Your life won’t be worth living . . .’
‘Well, it certainly won’t if I’m dead, that’s for sure. There’s also the issue of you threatening to murder a police officer in front of witnesses, and let’s not forget your attempt to pervert the course of justice by trying to break a paedophile and murder suspect out of custody . . . I think you’ll need a good solicitor.’
‘I want my phone call.’
‘Yes, your rights entitle you to have someone informed of your detention, but unfortunately the phones are playing up. As soon as they’re repaired you can make your call, but I’m guessing that won’t be until tomorrow now – late tomorrow. In the meantime, I plan to question our murder suspect without any interference from you.’
‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.’
‘Oh, I think I do. We know all about Larch Guest House, and the barcode programme at Yewlands Community Hospital, trafficking of children . . .’
The man’s face went as white as his paper jumpsuit.
‘Anyway, I’d love to stay and chat with you, but the sooner I begin questioning Mr Hillhouse, the sooner we can wrap this whole dirty business up and get on with our lives while some of us still have them to get on with.’ He stepped out of the cell. ‘Lock it up again, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Norman Hillhouse was brought into Interview Room two.
‘I think you’ll find you aren’t permitted to question me,’ the ex-Appeal Court Judge said. He was in his s
eventies with grey hair, glasses and a turkey neck.
Parish’s lip curled upwards. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that story as well.’
‘I know the law. I want my solicitor.’
‘You’ll notice that the only people in this room are you, me – I’m Detective Inspector Parish, by the way – and Detective Constable Richards. There are no witnesses. There’s no voice or visual recording of what’s taking place in here . . .’
‘You’re not going to . . . ?’
‘No, there won’t be any physical violence, Mr Hillhouse. Now, let me explain what’s happening. I have a dead ten-year old boy called Adam Weeks; I have his dead mother who committed suicide because you took her only son away and she had nothing else to live for; I have your DNA inside the boy’s anal canal; I have your computer chock-full of indecent and illegal images of children – mainly boys; I have a connection between you and the Larch Guest House . . .’
Hillhouse’s eyes opened wide and he licked his lips.
‘I have George Erikson in the interview room next door waiting to tell me everything I need to know . . . MI5 are not going to save you this time, Your Honour. Now, against my better judgement, I’m willing to recommend to the Crown Prosecution Service that you be offered a deal in return for a full and comprehensive statement. This statement is to encompass the totality of your relationship with MI5; the misdeeds you committed during your time as a barrister and as a judge; the crimes you’ve perpetrated against children, including names and dates . . .’
‘No comment.’
‘You have this one chance, Mr Hillhouse.’
‘No comment.’
There was a knock on the door and then it opened.
Sergeant Kent’s head appeared. ‘You need to see this, Sir.’
He and Richards made their way outside while a Constable went inside to guard Hillhouse.
‘What is it, Sergeant?’
‘A news report, Sir. Someone calling himself Linus Frost has posted details of the trafficking of hundreds of children by MI5 on the internet, which is connected to what you’re questioning Hillhouse about, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is.’
He and Richards went into the back room and watched the news report.
‘Do you think Frank Graham posted those details?’ Richards said.
‘No. He didn’t have any of those details.’
‘Well, whoever this Linus Frost is, he’s done us a favour, hasn’t he?’
‘Definitely.’
They returned to Interview Room two and sat down opposite Mr Hillhouse.
‘It seems that the chance I offered you has passed by in the blink of an eye. Someone has published details of the MI5 trafficking business on the internet and it’s all over the news channels; there’s also names and dates relating to Larch Guest House . . . I’m sure your name will be there somewhere . . .’
‘I’m seventy-six years old . . .’
‘That’s of no interest to me, Mr Hillhouse.’
‘I’ll make a statement . . .’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything.’
‘I can’t promise the CPS will play ball.’
‘I understand. I’m well aware of the vagaries of the CPS.’
‘If at any time you become reticent, or try to renegotiate – I’ll pull the plug, and if I do I have no doubt you’ll die in prison. I can only imagine what the inmates would do to a judge who was also a murdering paedophile.’
‘I’ll stand by my word.’
Parish nodded. He wanted to obtain the statement as soon as possible, and he decided to keep Hillhouse in the interview room. The last thing he needed was for the good judge to hang himself in his cell.
‘Stay here, Richards.’ He went outside, sent the Constable in to keep her company and walked along the corridor to ask Sergeant Kent to arrange for Mr Hillhouse’s solicitor to be brought in.
The Chief appeared. ‘It seems that we’re both going to keep our jobs, Parish,’ he said.
‘So it would seem, Sir.’
‘Are you on top of it?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good job. I’m off home now. It’s been a long day.’
‘Have a pleasant evening, Chief.’
‘And you, Parish.’
Aftermath
Wednesday, February 17
‘Wait for me?’ Richards said.
It was five-fifteen in the morning. They’d just come out of the house. Digby had slithered into his warm as soon he’d got up. It had been a long night and they hadn’t arrived home until eleven-thirty. After eating a crispy bake with the juice sucked out of it in the oven, and a bottled beer, he’d crawled into bed.
Hillhouse had made a video statement, which had taken over an hour. While it was being typed up ready for the judge’s signature he’d interviewed George Erikson, who had cried throughout most of the interview, but corroborated Hillhouse’s version of events in relation to the sexual abuse and murder of Adam Weeks and Billy Hunter, especially when Parish revealed that forensics had found Adam Weeks’ DNA on his Lion of Chaeronea buttoned jacket, and the missing button found at the dumping site. Another man – Lester Romney – who was a tall man with curly ginger hair above his ears like Bonzo the Clown, a long nose, bright eyes, enormous hands and went by the nickname of “Jinx”, was also implicated by both Hillhouse and Erikson, and was subsequently arrested and charged.
No further action was taken on any of the people identified on the membership list of the Order of Chaeronea and as such the list was shredded.
At eleven o’clock Toadstone called him.
‘Are you not in bed getting your beauty sleep, Toadstone?’
‘That would be my preferred choice, but instead of that we had a hive of activity in the baby unit. I think they saw the news reports surrounding the Linus Frost revelations, and were preparing to run for the hills. As a consequence, three people were taken into custody – two nurses and a tattoo artist who had a secret workshop in the basement.’
‘Good work, Toadstone. I’ll deal with them tomorrow. Now, I hear my bed singing to me like the sirens of Sirenum.’
‘You have a strange bed. Sleep tight, Sir.’
He ended the call.
‘All I’m doing is loosening up, Richards,’ he said, touching his toes with difficulty.
‘I’m aching all over.’
‘We haven’t gone anywhere yet.’
‘Maybe . . . ?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’
‘I have a good idea that it involved you going back to bed. Get running.’
‘I’ll follow you. I don’t want you staring at my backside.’
He laughed. ‘You call that a backside. I’ve seen less fat on a warthog at the abattoir.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘A pig who hasn’t got a backside like a warthog.’
They ran five miles, but it took them an hour.
‘If we kept the same pace for the whole twenty-six miles it would take us about five and a half hours to cross the finish line. In fact, there wouldn’t be a finish line, because the organisers would have taken it away and be sitting in the pub having their Sunday roast and a couple of pints of nectar.’
‘I’m . . . going . . . to . . . die.’
He laughed. ‘Get in the house and stop whingeing.’
The post arrived before they left the house. He had an envelope from his car insurance, and there was an envelope addressed to Richards.
She came down the stairs as if she had a fused exoskeleton like a robot. ‘I’ll never be able to walk properly again. You’ll have to run that marathon without me.’
He and Angie laughed.
Richards pulled a face. ‘It’s not the slightest bit funny.’
He passed her the envelope with her name on it, and opened his own.
‘You’re joking!’ he said.
Angie looked worried. ‘What?’
‘The insu
rance are saying that it wouldn’t be cost-effective to repair the car, and they’re willing to offer me a settlement figure of a thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘But you paid three thousand for it.’
‘They’re saying that there’s a five hundred pound excess, and because I was using the car for work, which wasn’t specified in my policy, they’re unable to pay the full insured amount.’
‘They’re a bunch of criminals. What are you going to do about it?’
‘What can I do . . . ?’
Richards was sitting on the stairs. The colour had drained from her face.
‘What is it, Mary?’ Angie asked
She passed the sheet of paper that had been inside the envelope to Parish. ‘Take a look.’
It was the crime statistics that Richards had given to Abel Winter. On it, he had circled a dozen figures, put question marks against them, written “FRAUD” and two sets of initials “NG” and “PR”.
‘That hit-and-run was no random event, was it?’ she said.
‘It seems not, Richards.’
***
‘DS Gilbert?’
‘Is that you, Stick?’
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘I’m just making sure DI Pittman is well-and-truly dead.’
‘You had sex with him, didn’t you?’
She looked down at Pittman’s grinning face as she sat astride him. She’d found him at his desk in Greenwich Police Station and pounced on him like a mountain gorilla. He’d laughed, kissed her on the lips and melted her heart. The anger dissipated as quickly as it had arrived.
She spat and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her coat. ‘What the hell are you doing, Pittman?’
‘Thanking you.’
‘Well fucking don’t.’ She paced up and down by his desk. ‘You stole my case.’
‘Hardly. I took a bit of credit.’
‘I want that credit back.’
‘Let’s discuss it.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I want fillet steak, chips, peas and a pint of beer while we discuss it?’
He grabbed a jacket from a coat stand by the door. ‘Okay. I know just the place.’