by Tim Ellis
He’d seen leather jacket bring in the carry case and sit down at the same table he was sat at yesterday. He was obviously the Russian’s flunky.
After being checked by leather jacket for weapons, he eased himself into the seat opposite the Russian and waited for him to speak.
‘I have what you want, but you cannot check that everything is in order here in the public bar. Go into the back with Henry, check that the rifle meets your specifications, come back and pay me the money.’
Linton wondered whether it was a trick to keep both the rifle and the money, but he had little choice in the matter. He could get up and walk out, but then he wouldn’t have the rifle. Maybe he should have brought the Glock, hung it on a thread around his neck so that it rested in the middle of his back – most times guards never checked your back, and Henry hadn’t checked his back.
He slid out of the seat and followed Henry through a door into a large kitchen with red-clay terracotta tiles on the floor and stainless steel tables, sinks, and cooking implements. May sunshine pierced a grilled window high up a wall to his right.
Henry put the metal transit case down carefully on one of the stainless steel tables, eased the clips upwards, and opened the cover. The British Accuracy International L115A1 long-range rifle sat snugly in the foam cut-out. It was surrounded by the Schmidt & Bender PM11 10x42 telescopic sight, which rested on top of the rifle, a five-round magazine in its slot, the mount, butt spacers, bipod, spare mags, sling, cleaning and tool kits were all in their allotted spaces in the foam. It wasn’t the first time he’d see this type of rifle in its case.
‘The bullets?’ Linton said.
Henry brought out a cardboard box containing five hundred .338 Lapua Magnum LockBase B408 bullets and put them on the table, but out of Linton’s reach. ‘We like to keep these separate from the rifle, I’m sure you understand?’
Linton nodded and realised Henry was English not Russian like his boss. ‘Open up the box.’
Henry did as he was asked.
Linton reached and picked a bullet up at random from the box and turned it in his fingers to inspect the base. It had .338 Lapua Mag and the ‘L’ in a shield for Lapua engraved around the rim.
Henry tensed and put his hand in his jacket pocket.
John put the bullet back in the box and Henry snapped the lid shut.
‘You carry the rifle, I’ll take the bullets. You’ll get them outside. We don’t want any mix-ups, do we?’
Linton nodded, closed the transit case, secured the metal clips, and picked it up by the handle.
They made their way back out into the bar.
‘You are satisfied?’ The Russian asked.
In answer, John took the brown envelope containing six thousand five hundred pounds across the table.
The Russian tossed the envelope to Henry who began counting it.
John finished his orange juice.
‘Six five,’ Henry said.
‘An extra two-fifty?’ The Russian raised his eyebrows.
The shadow of a smile crossed John’s face. ‘For the excellent service.’
‘I hate you English, you say one thing and then do something else.’
John slid out of the booth, nodded at the Russian and made his way outside. Henry followed, and passed him the box of bullets when they were stood on the pavement.
At the car, John put the transit case and bullets in the boot, and took out the Glock just in case they came after him for the rifle now that they had the money. There wasn’t a lot of room, but he managed to push the gun into the waistband of his trousers.
Now, he needed to zero the rifle in and he knew exactly what target to use for that. He climbed in the car and made his way back home.
***
Parish walked along the corridor wondering what additional information he could tell the press when the new press officer – Jenny Weber – blocked his way in a weird sideways shuffle as he tried to get past her.
He stopped moving and smiled. ‘Hello, Jenny?’
‘I’ve had to move it.’ Jenny was in her mid-twenties, and had been with them for a fortnight. She had shoulder-length natural blonde hair with a fringe that had been cut too high, and large black-rimmed glasses that made her look as though she’d stepped through a 1970’s time warp.
‘I’m very pleased for you,’ he said having no idea what she was talking about.
‘It’s become massive. We’ve got news crews here from all over the world. They wouldn’t fit in our small briefing room.’
‘So, where are you taking me? Somewhere nice, I hope?’
Jenny’s face reddened. ‘Temporarily, I’ve hired the conference room in the Raglan Hotel.’
Parish would have to walk along the High Street to get there. He checked his watch – it was five past two. ‘I’m late?’
‘I’ve delayed it until two-thirty.’
‘So, you’re running this investigation now?’
‘On my instructions, Parish.’
He turned round to see the Chief standing behind him. ‘Hello, Chief?’
‘The Chief Constable’s been on the phone, wanted to know if you needed more people?’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, do you?’
‘Toadstone could do with some help, but I think Richards and I have it under control, Chief.’
‘I knew you’d say that, so I’ve taken an executive decision and agreed to the secondment of two extra detectives to work with you.’
‘You know I don’t tolerate fools easily, Chief.’
‘Neither of them are fools, Parish. When you come back from the press briefing they’ll be waiting for you in the incident room.’
‘If you say so, Chief?’
‘I do, Parish.’
The Chief turned to go, but Parish stopped him in his tracks by asking, ‘Where are they from, Chief, and what’re their names?’
‘They’re from Potter’s Bar Police Station and their names are DS Sally Holmes and DC Erica Watson.’
Parish’s brow wrinkled. ‘Holmes and Watson! You’re kidding me, Sir?’
‘Far from it, Parish, and the Commander at Potter’s Bar has assured me that they’re at the top of their game.’
‘Richards isn’t going to like having another two women around.’
‘She’ll get used to it.’
‘I’ll tell her you said so, Chief,’ Parish mumbled as the Chief returned to his office.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said to Jenny Weber and followed her down the stairs and out into the May sunshine.
As he walked along the High Street towards the hotel he thought about having two new detectives to direct. Since being promoted to Detective Inspector he’d only worked with Richards, and that was more of a partnership even though he was in charge. Before that he hadn’t had much opportunity to lead a team. Yes, he’d been part of teams and directed people as a DS as the need arose, but that wasn’t the same thing as being a leader and expecting people to follow you. As part of his DI’s course he’d learned about leadership, and the different styles that leaders adopt. He guessed he was a democratic leader, at least that’s what he tried to be, but he also wondered if in the end it was down to a person’s personality. He’d read some books about whether leaders were born or made, and he had the opinion that they were born. As empirical evidence he only had to point to the Chief – Walter Day – who seemed to take leadership in his stride, and Chief Inspector Trevor Naylor – who was the worst example of a leader he’d ever seen. He doubted whether either of those could be anybody else.
The Conference Room at the Raglan Hotel was certainly larger than the press briefing room at the police station. It was really two rooms, but the concertina door separating them had been opened up. There were chandeliers down the centre of the two rooms, which had been switched on even though bright light came in through the large windows on the right-hand side. The walls were cream, the deep pile carpet blue, and rows of red and gold chairs stretched from the oblon
g table with three chairs behind it at one end of the room to where Parish stood with Jenny Weber at the other end.
‘I could get used to this,’ Parish joked.
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Jenny responded.
An assortment of men with television cameras perched on their shoulders and connected to thick cables that led to mobile television units were stood to either side of the table, and there were rows upon rows of reporters stretching all the way to the back.
‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said setting off down the centre isle like a recipient of some award.
He noticed there was a jug of water and three glasses on a tray in the centre of the table and poured himself a glass. For some strange reason, his mouth had turned into the Gobi Desert.
A hush descended on the room as he looked up and scanned the occupants. He noticed Catherine Cox in the second row on the right, who smiled and waved a hand at him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ His phone began vibrating in his pocket and everyone laughed as the William Tell overture began to play. He’d forgotten to switch it off. He smiled, pulled it from his pocket, and was about to switch it off when he saw that it was Toadstone. Swivelling to his right on the chair he answered it. ‘This better be good, Toadstone, I’m in a press conference?’
‘It depends what you think of as good, Sir? We’ve found another grave with five children’s bodies in.’
‘Thanks for letting me know, Toadstone. Anything else?’
‘The grave is five hundred metres away from the other three graves, Sir?’
‘You think there’s a pattern?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Do you know what type of pattern?’
‘Not yet, but I’m working on it.’
‘Good job, Toadstone, that’s the first real clue we’ve had.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
He disconnected the call. ‘I apologise for that, but as you know this is an ongoing investigation.’ He took a drink of water. ‘Twenty children’s bodies have now been found in Galleyhill Wood.’
As usual, with shocking new information, the noise level increased to deafening proportions. He held up his hand until it was quiet enough to speak. ‘I can confirm that the first body to be found is that of Amy Linton, and the parents have now been informed. The forensic team – led by Dr Paul Toadstone and Dr Maurice Michelin – are still searching the woods for evidence, and moving the remains of the children to the mortuary at King George Hospital. We are now beginning the slow process of identifying the bodies.’
A man about seven rows back on the left-hand side stood up. He had a fringe, which he kept brushing out of his eyes with the hand that held his pencil. ‘Is it true that all the bodies are skeletons, Inspector?’
Parish wondered how these people found out their information, but he could see no harm in confirming this detail. ‘Yes, which as you can imagine, creates problems in identification, especially as no children’s DNA is held on computer.’ He thought he’d confirm that detail as well. There was no harm keeping in the Chief Constable’s good books.
‘What about Masterson, is his murder and the fire at the Hoddesdon Mercury connected to this case as well?’
‘So it would appear, but as yet we don’t know how.’
‘Have you got any suspects…?’
It was three quarters of an hour before the press ran out of questions, and he ran out of answers. There were certain details he kept to himself, such as Masterson’s missing body and Toadstone’s theory of a pattern between the graves.
‘The next press conference will take place on Thursday at ten o’clock in here…’ He looked at Jenny Weber and she nodded. ‘I’ll see you then.’
He and Jenny walked down the centre isle towards the exit like a couple that had just got married. There were still reporters who wanted to ask more questions, but he ignored them. They’d had more than enough of his time. Now, he needed to tell Richards she had some competition.
Chapter Nine
It was three-forty by the time Parish got back to the station. He knew he wasn’t going to have time to visit the witnesses from the park that Amy Linton had gone missing from. Maybe the Chief was right, he thought, maybe he did need some help.
Richards sat at her desk, and had the phone pressed against her ear listening and taking notes on an A4 pad. He waited for her to finish.
‘Hello, Sir, that was…’
He held up his hand to interrupt her. ‘You don’t want to repeat yourself, do you?’
‘Well…’
‘We’ve got two extra detectives on the team, so wait until we brief them.’
Richards looked around. ‘I haven’t seen anybody, Sir?’
‘They’ll be in the incident room, so the Chief told me.’ He looked around the squad room. ‘Where’s Kowalski?’
‘You told me not to talk to him, so I haven’t. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Follow me.’
They walked along the corridor to the incident room. The door was ajar and laughter seeped out through the gap.
Parish entered and found Kowalski sat on the table talking to a white woman with short red-hair, and a black woman dressed all in black.
‘Call me Mr Cynical, but I knew I’d find you in here, Kowalski. You’re like a magpie attracted to bright shiny objects.’
‘I’ve tried to change, Jed, but it’s in my nature.’ He jumped off the table, took hold of Parish’s arm, and dragged him out into the corridor. ‘They’re lesbians,’ he whispered.
Parish’s lip curled upwards. ‘And that’s relevant because?’
‘I just thought you’d like to know. Keep an eye on Richards, we wouldn’t want her turned to the dark side, now would we?’
Parish laughed. ‘You’re a dinosaur, Kowalski.’
Kowalski waved as he walked back to the squad room. ‘Always happy to help,’ he threw over his shoulder.
‘So, you three have met?’ Parish said as he went back into the incident room and shut the door.
‘Not really, Sir,’ Richards said.
He sighed. ‘DS Holmes?’
The black woman stood up. Her luxurious long brown hair had been pulled back into a knotted ponytail, which emphasised her long neck and angular jaw line. She extended her hand and said, ‘I’m DS Sally Holmes, Sir.’
Parish shook the hand as he would a man’s. ‘Nice to meet you Sergeant Holmes.’ He pointed to Richards. ‘This is my partner, PC Mary Richards.’
‘I’ve passed my Phase 2…’
‘I was getting to that, Richards.’ He turned back to Holmes. ‘As you can see, trainee detective Richards is a tad impatient.’
‘It’s all right, Sir, I know about Constable Richards.’
‘There you go, Richards, you’re famous in your own lunchtime, one person has heard of you.’
‘Stop being mean, Sir.’
‘And you must be DC Erica Watson?’ he said turning to the other woman who had the short red hair, and a pale thin face.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You’re not going to split us up are you, Sir?’ Holmes asked. ‘We work best together.’
‘And I suppose Inspector Kowalski told you we sleep together as well?’ Watson said.
Richards gave him a funny look.
He pulled a chair out and sat down. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? What you do in your own time is your business and not mine. I’m only interested in you as detectives. If you’re good detectives, then I’ll be a happy Inspector. If you’re rubbish, we’ll part company. As for splitting you up, why would I do that? You obviously have a good working relationship, and I think that’s important. What I don’t want to see is a falling out at home being brought into the station.’
‘We’re good detectives, Sir. If you give us a chance, we’ll prove it.’
‘Oh, you’ll get your chance Sergeant Holmes. There’s more than enough bodies to go round on this case. We’ve now got four graves and twenty bodies.’
�
��Twenty, Sir?’ Richards said. ‘When did you find out about the other five?’
‘Toadstone rang me up during the press conference. Right, let’s get to it, shall we? I’m parched, so I’m going to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, check my emails, post and intray. While I’m doing those important things, Richards, I want you to brief Holmes and Watson… You don’t live at 221b Baker Street do you, Holmes?’
‘Is that the best you can come up with, Inspector Lestrade?’ Sally Holmes said.
Parish smiled. ‘Give me time, Holmes. So, Richards, you brief our two new detectives up to the point of what you’ve found out today. I’ll come back at say, four-thirty and we’ll finish the briefing, update the incident boards, and plan our next moves. That all right with you two?’ he said to Holmes and Watson.
They looked at each other and nodded.
Richards said, ‘I thought we were going to see…’
‘No time now, we’ll let Holmes and Watson do the interviewing tomorrow while we’re in London at CEOPS.’
‘Oh, okay…’
Parish got up and went into the corridor, but Richards followed him out.
‘Sir?’ she hissed pulling the door to and holding onto the handle.
‘Why are you whispering, Richards?’
‘You’re not going to leave me alone with those two… lesbians, are you?’
Parish burst out laughing at the look of concern on Richard’s face. ‘They’re not going to jump on you and turn you into one of them, Richards. Lesbians aren’t the same as vampires.’
‘I know, but…’
Still laughing, he bundled her back into the room and shut the door.
***
He walked up to forensics and hoped he didn’t see Rick Murcer because he wasn’t feeling especially charitable towards him. The blonde-bobbed woman who had flirted with him previously was on reception, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. She’d written it on a post-it note with her telephone number, which he’d thrown away. He tried to picture the piece of paper in his mind’s eye, but without any luck.