The Flesh is Weak (P&R3)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘...hypnotise me.’

  ‘I already have. You’ve been under for half an hour.’ She stood up and removed a DVD from the drive of a laptop on her desk, put it in a plastic envelope and passed it to him. ‘I have a copy. You can listen to what you said in private.’

  ‘And what did I say?’

  ‘There was a man with a moustache and a limp. It didn’t mean anything to me, but it might to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Rafferty, and... sorry about earlier. I’m not going to start clucking like a chicken when I get outside as payback am I?

  ‘You’ll just have to wait and see,’ she said and smiled. ‘Make another appointment with my receptionist for next week, we have a lot of issues to resolve.’

  ***

  Richards had caught a taxi to Chigwell station and was sat on the platform waiting for him.

  He’d said the night before he was travelling to London to visit MI6. He wasn’t very hopeful of finding Sir Charles Lathbury, but he had to try. Richards had insisted on coming with him.

  ‘I’ve seen television programmes, Sir.’

  ‘You’ve seen a lot of those, Richards, far too many in my opinion.’

  ‘But some of them have been about people disappearing inside the MI6 building.’ She leaned towards him and cupped a hand round her mouth. ‘They say there’s a tunnel under the Thames, you know.’

  ‘If one can disappear, what’s wrong with two going?’

  ‘No, it’s always one person that disappears. MI6 can do anything they like, you know. Oh, they have a nice friendly website, and a building that looks like a Babylonian ziggurat...’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Apparently, the MI6 building resembles the Ziggurat of Ur, which was a temple built for the Moon god Nanna.’

  ‘You need to get out more, Richards.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m coming with you.’

  And that was that. She wouldn’t be dissuaded otherwise.

  ‘How was the counselling, Sir?’

  ‘Brilliant, I feel like a new man.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t know what you’ve been moaning at.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ah, sorry Richards, client-patient confidentiality.’

  ‘You’re so mean.’

  He pulled out the DVD. ‘She hypnotised me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Apparently, I went back to the first two years of my life in Goffs Oak, and I described a man with a moustache and a limp.’

  ‘That’s not very helpful, Sir.’

  ‘What did you expect, a name and address?’

  ‘We’ll have to listen to it tonight and see what you said.’

  ‘Which part of client-patient confidentiality don’t you understand, Richards?’

  All the way to London she wore him down until he agreed to let her listen to it.

  They stood outside the impressive Ziggurat of Ur on the bank of the Thames at Vauxhall.

  ‘Ur was in Iraq,’ she said.

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘You liar.’

  ‘I think you’re forgetting your place in the scheme of things, Richards. I’m your boss, you’re a minion, the boss doesn’t lie.’

  ‘Are we going to stand out here all day?’

  Inside, it was like any other organisation. They approached the reception desk and spoke to a very pleasant woman in a dark blue uniform.

  ‘How can I help, Sir?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to Sir Charles Lathbury please.’

  ‘And who should I say is calling?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Constable Richards.’

  ‘Just one moment, Sir.’

  She referred to a book with a furrowed brow, picked up the telephone and spoke to someone in a low voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir, there’s no one here called Sir Charles Lathbury,’ she said when she put the phone down.

  He’d expected as much. ‘Who did you just speak to?’

  ‘Personnel, to ask if we employed anyone by that name.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Inspector.’

  ‘Thanks for trying anyway.’

  ‘We should sneak inside and have a look for ourselves, Sir.’

  ‘We’re police, Richards, and besides that did you see the number of security guards they had?’

  ‘What about coming back tonight with rope and torches, and...’

  ‘You live in a fantasy world, Richards. Let’s go home.’

  As they were walking towards the station, Richards pulled out her phone, found a number, and pressed dial.

  ‘Who are you...’ His own mobile activated, but he didn’t answer it. You are the sunshine of my life by Stevie Wonder began playing.

  She wrapped her arms around his arm. ‘You’re the best father a girl ever had, Sir.’

  ‘You had to do it, didn’t you, Richards?’

  She grinned up at him in answer.

  ***

  Somewhere in Helmund Province, Afghanistan

  John Linton had lost three stone in weight and lived in a cave. He didn’t piss himself at night anymore, and the eczema had disappeared from his shins. The cave was close to the Helmund River because he knew he couldn’t live in the desert without water. The river also provided him with a large portion of his food.

  The Taliban and the drug traffickers called him the Ghost, because nobody had ever seen him. He killed from great distances, and although they had searched for him they had never found any sign of the Ghost.

  Military forces on the ground called him the Angel, because when they were up to their necks in shit he would save them. The higher echelons had the idea that the Angel was John Linton, and were content to ignore him. “Hell,” they argued, “if he was saving our guys then he deserved a medal.”

  John didn’t want any medals. What he wanted was to join his daughter Amy wherever she might be. He knew that sooner rather than later he would be killed. Both the Taliban and the drug cartels had a stake in hunting him down and making an example of him.

  In the meantime, he caused as much damage to the opposing forces as he could. He set fire to the poppy fields, because he knew the opium funded the Taliban. He executed as many Taliban fighters and drug traffickers as he could find, and when the military forces left their enclaves to undertake operations, he was right there watching over them.

  He lived each day as it came. He slept and ate when and where he could. Life, such as it was, meant nothing to him. His only desire was to kill the enemy, and one day be killed himself.

  That day came eighteen months after John Linton had arrived for his final tour of Helmund Province. The Taliban or the drug traffickers didn’t kill him – a camel spider took his life. A bite on his leg became infected and he died within a week, the last three days of which were spent talking to his daughter Amy again.

  ***

  On the Greek Island of Ikaria

  Her name was Aella Karallis – Aella meant ‘whirlwind’. It was the name of an Amazonian warrior who wielded a double-edged axe, and she’d picked it to remind her of her past life. When she left the burning Tantalus Industries warehouse she’d had to hotwire a vehicle, and there were lots of expensive ones to choose from. She selected a classic Jaguar XJS that she’d driven to Harwich International Port and swapped in a back street garage for £50,000 and a five-year-old Volkswagen Polo.

  Once she reached France, she drove to Marseilles where she bought a Greek passport, driving licence, and identity card for £1,500. She then caught an Air France flight from Provence airport to the Greek Island of Samos, and finally hopped on a ferry to Ikaria – named after Icarus, the son of Daedalus, who flew too close to the sun and fell into the sea nearby.

  She found and rented an empty shop with a flat above it on the main street in the village of Arministis In the back room she installed a sewing machine, so that when she sat down she faced the door. Taped underneath was a Gl
ock with a full 21-round magazine.

  She began designing and sewing clothes for the local women and children, and the holidaymakers. She could have done so much more, but she was concerned that she might draw attention to herself, so she limited her designs and output.

  All she needed was enough so that she didn’t need to dip into her £40,000 nest egg, and that’s what she made – no more, no less.

  For the first time in a long time she was happy, and even if someone had offered her a job designing clothes for the royal families of Europe she would have declined. She’d seen what the high life was like, and although it’s what she had lusted after when she’d been younger, now all she wanted was to live a simple life.

  Also, the village had a post office that was run by an old man with a moustache that was so thick it could have housed a family of pelicans. This old man, who was named Stavros, had a son called Sander who had taken her fancy, and who made a point of flirting with her when he delivered the post.

  She began to feel something inside, and wondered if Sander would be the father of her children. At times, she caught herself daydreaming like this. Children indeed! She hadn’t even kissed him yet, but she knew it would happen soon.

  Yes, her life was very good, and it was all down to a man she had once tried to kill. He could easily have arrested her, but he chose to let her go. She owed him; and one day she would thank Detective Inspector Jed Parish properly.

  ####

  Tantalus

  Tantalus was the king of Sipylus (or Phrygia), an intimate friend of the gods. He killed his son Pelops and served him to the gods. In the underworld he was placed up to his neck in water, which flowed away every time he tried to drink, just as the branches overhead swung out of reach whenever he tried to pick the fruit from them.

  ####

  Thank you for choosing and reading my book. If you enjoyed it, I would be grateful if you could write a review and post it on Amazon.co.uk and/or Amazon.com.

  ####

  The Shadow of Death

  Tim Ellis

  ___________

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil

  From 23rd Psalm

  ___________

  Chapter One

  Monday, 23rd May

  ‘Come in, DI Parish.’

  He walked into Detective Chief Inspector Hilary Marshall’s office. All Walter Day’s pictures, awards and mementoes had been removed. Now, there were two matching watercolours of flowers that looked as though they’d been stolen from a dentist’s waiting room. The walls had been re-painted in lilac, and there was a new dark green carpet on the floor.

  She didn’t ask him to sit, and there was no offer of coffee. The desk had been moved so that instead of it being on the left, it now faced the door. DCI Marshall – probably in her mid-forties – had long blonde hair out of a sachet knotted at the back of her head, two double chins, large breasts, and was overweight by a good few pounds. Parish decided he didn’t like her one little bit.

  ‘There have been changes whilst you were away.’

  ‘So I see,’ he said pretending to survey her office.

  ‘I don’t mean my office, Inspector. Government cuts have forced us to reduce numbers. It’s every man and woman to the bilge pumps.’

  He hadn’t realised the station was now a ship. ‘What changes?’

  ‘Because of DI Kowalski’s heart condition I’ve transferred him to traffic analysis. We can’t have someone on the team who isn’t pulling his weight.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘I’ll be more hands-on. In fact, I’ll be running the team. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve used the word ‘team’ twice now. The emphasis will be on ‘teamwork’ and in my team I have you, Sergeant Gorman, and Constable Richards – a well-balanced hierarchy.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘From now on, I give the orders. Oh, I know good old Walter used to let you run your own investigations, but I work differently. That’s my job now, and the team will do all the work. Are we clear, Inspector?’

  ‘As glass.’

  ‘Excellent. Get my team together in the incident room, we have a new case.’

  Outside the Chief’s office, in the desk where Debbie Shinwell used to sit, was a man in his early thirties who smiled at him as if her were a sex toy. He wore a Fair Isle predominantly purple sleeveless jumper and a dickey-bow, and Parish definitely didn’t like him.

  What the hell was going on? Kowalski transferred to traffic analysis, and a DCI running her own investigations! The place was going to hell in a handcart.

  ‘You could have warned me, Ed,’ he said to Sergeant Gorman in the squad room.

  ‘I know. I’m depressed, Jed.’

  ‘What, Sir?’ Richards said. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘And you haven’t told Richards either? Kowalski’s been transferred to traffic analysis.’

  ‘I’m not going to fall for one of your jokes.’

  ‘No joke, Richards. The new DCI is Hilary Marshall, and she’ll be running the investigations, the three of us are in her ‘team’.’ He never did double quotes with his hands because he thought it was pretentious, but he did this time.

  ‘You’re speaking in another language, aren’t you?’ Richards said.

  ‘I wish I were.’ He shook his head. ‘Right team, let’s get to the incident room. We have a case that the new DCI will brief us on and then allocate tasks.’

  ‘I will still be working with you won’t I, Sir?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s looking doubtful.’

  ‘Oh God, Sir, we should never have come back. Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Parish and Ed went through into the incident room. The DCI had a laptop connected up to a new wall-mounted Interactive Whiteboard.

  ‘Where’s Constable Richards?’

  ‘Making me a coffee, she’ll be here in a minute.’

  ‘In the team, Inspector, we don’t ask other members to make our coffee for us, we make it ourselves.’

  ‘Okay.’ He’d already concluded that this woman was an idiot. He’d never heard of her. Where had she come from? She must have been promoted out of harms’ way, probably way past her level of incompetence. Now she was here. Why had they got her? What was wrong with the Chief Constable?

  Richards came in with his coffee.

  ‘For those who don’t know me, I am Detective Chief Inspector Hilary Marshall, and I’m now the senior officer in charge of the Murder Investigation Team. I want you all to be clear from the start, I run the investigations, I make all the decisions, and the team gets the credit. In this day and age, there is no excuse for not contacting me for a decision. You all have a Blackberry, you know how to use it for phone calls, Internet access, Twittering, and other means of communication.’ She picked up her Blackberry to emphasise her words. ‘This is the future. The criminal fraternity already understands this. Make sure you can utilise all its features and don’t become a technological dinosaur.’

  Ed and Richards both looked at him, but he declined to meet their eyes in case he burst out laughing. So, the Blackberry was the new face of policing? The woman was crazy. Maybe Kowalski had set this whole charade up, and Ed was in on it. Maybe he was being filmed, and Kowalski was laughing his arse off somewhere with the Vice, Robbery, Traffic and the other teams all sat round drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching him fall for it hook, line and sinker.

  ‘Before, the cases were distributed between the two lead detectives – Kowalski and Parish. As you know, Inspector Kowalski has been reassigned and as such it’s been necessary to reorganise the whole department. We currently have seven cases, eight with the one I’m going to brief you on in a minute. You have files in front of you with a short synopsis of each of the cases, and I will allocate tasks accordingly.’

  The three of them reached for the files.

  ‘No, you can read the files after this briefing. Now, to the
eighth case.’

  A picture appeared on the screen of a maggot-riddled hand protruding from a black bin bag. Then a second picture of another black bin bag that had burst open to reveal a pic n’ mix of dismembered hands and feet, and then a third – the camera looking down into the open bag of jumbled hands and feet.

  ‘These were discovered late yesterday at Bumble’s Green landfill site. Forensics are there now, together with a team of volunteer officers who are searching for more bin bags amongst the rubbish.’

  ‘Are there only hands and feet, Ma’am?’

  ‘At the moment, yes. And I’d like you to call me Chief, Constable.’

  ‘I’ll try, Ma’am.’

  ‘How many are there?’ Ed asked.

  ‘There are thirteen hands and twenty-four feet. Some of the left hands don’t match the right hands and vice versa. There is also a mix of male and female hands, and an approximate age-range between seven and forty-five.’

  Ed grunted. ‘Children as well?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Sergeant. As for the feet, forensics have only found seven matches, the rest are odd.’

  ‘That’s a lot of bodies, Ma’am,’ Richards said.

  ‘It is. Ideas?’

  ‘Surely these are off-cuts from either a hospital, crematorium, or burial service,’ Parish said. ‘They’re not...?’

  ‘Doctor Megan Riley – the new pathologist at King George Hospital – has done a cursory examination and concluded that the hands and feet were all hacked from living people.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Ed said.

  ‘Please don’t swear, Sergeant. There’s no place for foul language in my team.’