The Flesh is Weak (P&R3)

by Tim Ellis

  After she’d spent a small fortune on nibbles, she decided to drive to The Three Jolly Wheelers, a pub she’d passed a short distance up the road. There didn’t seem to be much point in sitting outside Parish’s house drawing attention to herself until later tonight. First, she’d go and have a drink and a meal and, of course, use the powder room before she exploded and left a yellow stain on the service station forecourt as the only proof of her miserable existence.

  She smiled at the thought. Lately, she’d been getting morose, which she put down to being stuck in a job that she didn’t want to do anymore. But wasn’t that true of a lot of people? There weren’t many who had a clear idea of what they wanted to do in life, and when they found out it was usually too late to do anything about it anyway. Like many others, she was stumbling through life hoping for a break, a lottery win, or a billionaire to sweep her off her feet and take her to an exclusive beach house on stilts in the Maldives and make mad passionate love to her – A girl can dream, can’t she?

  In The Three Jolly Wheelers two dishy guys kept looking her way, but even if she fancied one – or both – of them she couldn’t do anything about it. Sexual relationships on missions were strictly forbidden, except for James Bond, of course, he could have as many women as he liked. Even a quickie round the back would get her into trouble with Sir Charles, and she mustn’t forget the person who had been assigned to shadow her. All day she’d been looking, but she hadn’t spotted him – he was good. Or, maybe it was a woman. She hadn’t considered that possibility before and looked round the bar, but she didn’t see anyone obvious in black clothes with a black cloak.

  She’d ordered the cheeseburger and chips as the easiest option. Her guts were wound up like a Jack-in-the-box. It was always the same when she was on a mission. What she needed was pills – lots of them – to bring her down. If she wasn’t careful, she could get an ulcer before she was thirty. Yes, being an SIS operative, a spy, a spook, was not really the job for her. She wanted fame, fashion, and fortune – not doom, gloom, and a life in the shadows.

  The waitress brought her burger and chips with a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. The condiments were already on the table. She squirted tomato ketchup all over her chips, followed by an unhealthy amount of salt, and began eating.

  After she’d polished off the cheeseburger and chips, and drank her orange juice she’d drive to 38 Puck Road. She had a plan, and she was determined to succeed. She’d wasted enough of her life doing things she didn’t want to do – First, kill Parish, then leave MI6, and finally become a fashion designer – even if she had to kill to get what she wanted, she was used to that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was seven thirty before Parish and Richards got home. They’d called at the school in Hoddesdon, which was being used as the temporary incident room to co-ordinate the efforts in finding Gabe Kowalski.

  Kowalski and his wife Jerry were sat in the teacher’s staff room holding hands and drinking coffee. Kowalski wanted to kill somebody – anybody, and Jerry was concerned he might have another heart attack.

  Following the initial abduction there had been no sightings and no news, and apart from a shoulder-squeeze, a “Keep your chin up”, and other useless words of encouragement there wasn’t a lot they could do. After half an hour of feeling awkward they said their goodbyes. Parish told Kowalski to ring him if anything happened.

  ‘Do you think they’ll find him, Sir?’

  ‘You should ask your mum, she’s the one that’s clairvoyant, I know nothing.’

  ‘I’ve never seen Inspector Kowalski so angry before.’

  ‘That’s because they won’t let him help. He thinks Commander Lingfield is an idiot who hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing. If the Chief had still been alive... Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, Sir, I suppose I’ll just have to get used to him being gone... At least he didn’t have to suffer...’ She turned to stare at him. ‘He didn’t suffer did he?’

  ‘No, you heard the doctor, he never regained consciousness. I’m sure he didn’t suffer.’

  ‘I hope not, I couldn’t bear it if he was in any pain. I’ll be a wreck at his funeral.’

  ‘You won’t be the only one, Richards. The Chief had lots of friends, and don’t forget Debbie.’

  ‘I know. I hate it when people die.’

  ‘I know it’s a cliché, but the living have to carry on.’

  The shadow of a grin crossed Richards’ face. ‘Yeah, that’s not very helpful, Sir.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘He was clear of the cancer. They’d said he had beaten it. I was there when the doctor...’

  ‘Stop analysing, Richards... Think of cancer as a serial killer. Is there a rational explanation why serial killers murder?’

  ‘To them.’

  He squinted at her.

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a rational explanation on why cancer attacks one person and not another? Or, how one person beats it, but another succumbs?’

  ‘I know what...’

  ‘Stop trying to look for a rational explanation, Richards. There is no rhyme or reason, no simple answer, that’s just the way the cookie crumbles, no more and no less. Some things we can fight against, make a difference, change the way they are, but can we do that with serial killers?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘There’ll always be serial killers, and there’ll always be cancer.’

  ‘They might find a cure for cancer... and serial killers?’

  ‘Both are probably simple genetic anomalies, which in the future will be easily corrected, but I don’t think that will happen in our lifetimes.’

  The conversation had ended, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Angie and a barking Digby met them at the door. He didn’t feel like walking the dog, but he knew he had to. Although he planned to make it a short walk, which wasn’t very fair on Digby, but that was the way the cookie crumbled sometimes and he’d explained that to him during the walk.

  They were in bed by nine-fifteen. He was thankful that, even though they weren’t married yet, Angie hadn’t insisted on her conjugal rights, because after the Chief dying and Kowalski’s eldest getting snatched he wasn’t really in the mood for sex. She must have known, and they simply cuddled fitting together perfectly like two pieces of a jigsaw.

  ***

  John Linton had followed the two coppers from the station to the hospital, from the hospital back to the station, from the station to a school in Hoddesdon, and from there to 38 Puck Road in Chigwell.. It seemed like they were partners in more ways than one, he’d thought, but then he’d seen another older woman come to the door. God knows what was going on in that house, but each to his own as the saying went.

  He’d parked along the road, on the opposite side on a corner, so that he could see Parish’s car through the rear-view mirror. The car was all he was interested in. If that moved, he’d move. Except, there was a police car opposite the house, which he guessed was for protection from the person who was trying to kill him. The lights in the house went out early. He opened the driver’s window an inch so that he could hear a car’s engine start, and then hunkered down to wait.

  His time as one of the best snipers in the Army, in fact – the world – had taught him patience. He had prided himself in being able to sit perfectly still for hours on end, to ignore the flies, the trickling runnels of sweat, and the itches that miraculously appeared where none had been before. As soon as he needed to keep still it was as if the whole insect world were crawling over his body, in his ears and hair, and especially in his crotch. It was imaginary, all in his head, and eventually he had found the control centre and shut it down. It hadn’t worked with the eczema on his leg, he’d had to use special cream to stop the itching, but that was a real condition not imaginary. The funny thing was though, since they’d found Amy, and he’d decided on one last mission, the eczema had cleared up.

  ***

&nbs
p; Friday 13th May

  At quarter past one Alex Knight climbed out of her car and quietly pushed the door shut. She had parked some distance away from Parish’s house, but she was close enough to see his car.

  Since arriving at nine-twenty it had only taken her until five to midnight to polish off all of her emergency rations. She’d eaten three cheese and onion sandwiches, a ham salad sandwich from which she removed the ham and threw it out of the window onto the road for the animals, two packets of cheese and onion crisps, a Snickers bar, and two Mars Bars. She had also drunk the two cartons of orange juice containing the bits, and peed into the plastic bowl she kept for occasions such as this. There was nothing left to eat, the inside of her car was a mess, and she realised it was going to be a very long night.

  She opened the boot and took out the clip-on explosive devices she’d obtained from the stores. She’d had to put in a triplicate request form, which had been initialled by the storeman and the bottom yellow copy handed back to her. Even secret government organisations had to account for expenditure – five clip-on radio-controlled explosive devices (non-returnable) and a remote control (returnable) for the murder of DI J. Parish at a total cost of £107.56 – check.

  She still hadn’t seen the Shadow, and she was beginning to think that Sir Charles had just said that to keep her on her toes.

  The street was deserted, but before she could do anything with Parish’s car she had to dispose of the two coppers sat in the police car. She walked along the pavement, keeping the gun with its silencer down by her leg, and knocked on the driver’s window.

  ‘Yes, Miss?’

  She shot the driver first, then the female copper in the passenger seat.

  She crossed the road, walking normally, and strolled along the pavement to number 38. Then, she crouched on all fours and shuffled to Parish’s car, turned onto her back and lay down. She pulled a penlight torch from the canvas pouch at her waist and began snaking her body under the car, but just as she was about to start attaching the devices a light came on in the house.

  She froze, but not for long. If Parish had been called out to a murder or something he’d be leaving soon and reverse his car out of the drive. If she didn’t move her backside he’d drive over her, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Switching the penlight off, she wriggled from under the car, rolled over and duck-walked out of the driveway and along the pavement. Once she reached a parked car, she ducked behind it and waited. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, and her breathing sounded as though she had tuberculosis on top of pneumonia.

  ***

  The phone vibrated on the bedside table, Digby growled, and Angie elbowed him in the back.

  ‘I’m getting it,’ he said climbing out of bed and going into the bathroom. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Jackson, Sir.’

  He looked at his watch. It was one-thirty on Friday morning. He closed the lid and sat on the toilet. ‘What’s going on, Kristina?’

  ‘We’ve had a call from the hospital. There’s been an explosion in the Mortuary.’

  ‘Oh crap!’ As soon as Kristina spoke the words he knew what had happened, and who had done it. He also knew it was his fault, and that he should have protected the only evidence he had. ‘Are the fire brigade there?’

  ‘That’s my understanding. They say there are three fatalities.’

  ‘What about Doc Michelin and the researcher from Sheffield University?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the dead bodies, Sir.’

  ‘Okay, let them know I’m on my way, but...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did the hospital phone Hoddesdon?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you sure it was someone from the hospital? Did anyone get the name of the person who called?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be the hospital, Sir? And no, nobody got a name.’

  ‘Never mind, Kristina.’

  He ended the call. Shit! Each skeleton had a symbol etched into the sternum; the skulls were being used to reconstruct their faces... what about Doc Michelin and Lindsey Fischer? God, he hoped they were all right. Weren’t they supposed to be working late? It had to be the same people who had killed Masterson and burnt down the Hoddesdon Mercury. He hadn’t heard anything from Kowalski. What the hell was going on? Was it the same people who had taken Gabe? Who the hell were these people? What he had kept to himself, even from Richards in case she blurted it out to Kowalski, was that as far as he could tell Gabe matched the victim profile. He needed a break in the case. The facial reconstructions would have given him so much information. Without them, he had nothing. Without the skeletons, he had no evidence to link the Clan of Tubal Cain – if such a group existed – to the murdered children. What else could he do? He had slowly been building a case, but now these shadowy people had ripped out the foundations and torn down the scaffolding.

  He washed, brushed his teeth, and gelled his hair, which was getting a bit long. He needed a haircut. The Chief had been dead for less than twenty-four hours and already life was rushing on without him. Walter Day had been more than his boss, he’d been a friend, nearly a father. Since getting promoted to DI and recruiting Richards, his life had totally changed. The Chief had been a large part of that, and now he was gone. He needed a picture of the Chief so he wouldn’t forget him.

  The door creaked open. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He told her what had happened.

  ‘You’ll solve the case, you always do.’

  ‘You could be my new boss. The Chief always had confidence in my abilities.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. ‘No, don’t be sorry, and don’t go tiptoeing round Mary or me about the Chief. He was a friend, but we all need to move on. He had cancer, we thought he’d beat it, but he hadn’t – that’s how it goes sometimes. Anyway, I’d better get going.’

  ‘What about Mary?’

  ‘I’ll let her get her beauty sleep.’

  ‘No, don’t do that, she’ll be really sad if you leave her here sleeping.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes. You have to take her with you.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right as always, she’d hate me for it.’ He moved his hands down and squeezed her buttocks.

  She pushed herself away from him and squirmed out of his arms. ‘Don’t you have some place to be?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  Richards wasn’t in her bed. He eventually found her in the bottom of the wardrobe wrapped in her quilt like a mummy. Then it took another couple of minutes trying to wake her up.

  ‘What the hell are you doing sleeping in there, Richards?’

  ‘Childhood regression the therapist called it. When I was a child, this is where I used to feel safe after my dad died. It’s your turn tomorrow. What time is it? Why are you in my bedroom? What do you want?’

  ‘Get ready, there’s been an explosion at the Mortuary.’

  ‘Is Doc Michelin...?’

  ‘If I knew I’d tell you, but I don’t.’

  ‘It’s those people again isn’t it, Sir?’

  ‘One day you’ll be a brilliant detective, Richards. In the meantime I’ll be downstairs, but remember I don’t have the patience of Job.’

  ‘Was he one of the angels?’

  ‘Of course he was. Now, get out of that cupboard and get ready, will you.’

  ***

  John Linton woke up when he heard something he hadn’t heard in a long time – two silenced gunshots. In the wing mirror he saw a figure move away from the police car, walk across the road and disappear under Parish’s car. When the lights in number 38 came on the figure scurried out of the driveway, along the pavement, and hid behind a parked car.

  He waited, and then the two coppers came out of the house, climbed in the car, and after reversing out of the driveway set off towards the A123. He saw then that it was a female that had ducked behind the car. She ran to another car
, climbed in, and set off after the two coppers. He was just about to turn the key in the ignition and follow the two cars when he saw a change in the consistency of the darkness in front of him. A figure dressed in black with a crash helmet on moved into the road pushing what appeared to be a black motorbike. He heard the engine turn over, but it wasn’t the deafening noise usually associated with a motorbike engine. The sound reminded him of the American stealth helicopters he’d heard in Iraq. Then the motorbike drove off without any lights on.

  Again he waited, but he was conscious of two things. First, that if he waited too long he might lose the retinue of vehicles in front of him; and second that the person he was following on the motorbike was probably MI5 or MI6.

  As he turned the corner he saw the A123 in front of him. The motorbike lights came on and the rider turned right. He followed at a distance.

  What the hell was going on? Why were two other people following the coppers? He ran the different scenarios through his mind. The first person was obviously following the coppers, but what were they doing scurrying about on the pavement? Maybe they were doing something to Parish’s car, and when the light came on in the house they had to get out of there. Okay, that explains the first person, but who was the second person? And were they following the coppers or the first person? And why was a spook involved? The whole thing was interesting, but complicated.

  All he wanted to do was find Amy’s killer. He didn’t have time for complicated. If he was spotted, they might decide he was a complication, and that they didn’t need a witness to whatever they were doing.

  He turned onto the A12. He didn’t care what they were doing, they were in his way and he knew he had to get rid of them. There was someone trying to kill Parish, and it might be one of these two. If Parish were killed he’d lose his best chance of finding Amy’s killer. No, he had to stop them.