The Killing Sands

by Rick Murcer

  ‘Susie Gillott, how can I help?’ She began to move to a lift.

  He followed. ‘Were you employed here at the time?’

  ‘Yes, very sad. Verona was one of our better insurance brokers.’

  ‘You insure ships?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No international conspiracy, or a front for the Colombian drug cartels, or...’

  They arrived in an office that looked as though it belonged to a shipping magnate. Pictures of ships adorned the walls.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Strong and black, please.’ He wasn’t exactly tired yet, but he knew he would be later. Normally, his head was clear, but this morning it felt as though someone had stuffed it with candyfloss using a long stick.

  ‘I’d certainly like a bit of conspiracy to break the monotony, but no – unfortunately, all we do is insure ships.’

  ‘How long had Miss Izatt worked here?’

  ‘Seven years. She was a rising star until the accident.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘Hit-and-run as far as I’m aware, but I read something a couple of weeks ago...’ She picked up the phone. ‘Judy, have you still got that article about the hit-and-run driver? Can you bring it in, please?’

  A much younger woman in a plaid skirt and lime-green blouse came in carrying a newspaper, which she handed to her boss, and left.

  ‘Yes, here it is.’ She began to read: ‘John McGregor of no fixed abode... blah, blah... among a number of other crimes, he admitted to a hit and run accident on St George’s Road during the evening of 4th October 2009...’ She put the paper down. ‘That accident was Verona Izatt. She was walking down St George’s Road to the Elephant & Castle at seven thirty at night on her way home when a Porsche Carrera mowed her down.’

  ‘Is there any indication in that article that she was killed on purpose?’

  Susie Gillott’s brow furrowed. ‘You need to get out more, Inspector. John McGregor stole cars to feed his drug habit. Verona was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What’s all this about? Why are you here after all this time?’

  He pulled out the photograph of the victim. ‘This woman has been living as Verona Izatt in Little Haven, Pembrokeshire. Kathryn Brinck – Verona Izatt’s aunt – died three years ago and left her niece a cottage at Little Haven. Now, this woman has been murdered.’

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘Yes it is, and that’s why I’m here asking questions.’

  ‘No, of course, that’s strange, but I know the woman in the picture.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Me again, Judy. Can you get Verona Izatt’s file and bring it in.’

  Judy appeared with the said file and left.

  Susie opened the file and withdrew a double page from a newspaper. ‘Yes, here it is. This is the original article about Verona’s accident. Look here...’ She thrust the paper towards him and pointed at a tiny photograph. ‘That’s her, isn’t it?’

  Inigo squinted. He really needed to do something about his eyesight. He leaned closer. ‘It certainly looks like the same woman.’

  ‘Her name’s Emily Blake. She was the journalist who wrote the original article on Verona’s accident. She came here, said she was doing background research for the article.’

  ‘Which paper is that?’

  ‘The Westminster Gazette, at Stamford Hill.’

  ‘Can I get a copy?’

  She passed it to him. ‘You can have this. Why we’ve still got it after three years I have no idea.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful. I now have a name for my murder victim, and it doesn’t appear as if this Emily Blake killed Verona Izatt so that she could take her place. Rather, I think she saw an opportunity to disappear for whatever reason.’ He offered his hand. ‘Thanks very much for your time, Miss Gillott.’

  ***

  Outside, he tried phoning Tig, but was directed to voicemail. ‘Weren’t you meant to be ringing me? I know who the victim is, ring me.’

  The Westminster Gazette wasn’t actually located in Westminster. He had to travel to Stoke Newington to find out that the building didn’t exist anymore. Once it did, but where it used to be was a pile of rubble.

  He found a cafe opposite called The Kinghorn, which was run by obese twins Josie and Lucy. Josie cooked, Lucy served, and neither smiled. He asked them about the Westminster Gazette, and they snorted like pigs at a trough.

  ‘Yer crackers, Mister,’ Lucy said.

  ‘It ain’t existed since 1928,’ proclaimed Josie through the serving hatch.

  ‘Became the News Chronicle in 1930,’ said Lucy.

  Josie snorted some more. ‘Until it was stuffed into the Daily Mail in 1960.’

  ‘Yer gotta go to the Daily Mail, Mister,’ Lucy told him.

  ‘That’ll be five pounds fifty,’ Josie said.

  Lucy leaned towards him. ‘Unless, of course, you order something, and then you get the information for free.’

  He checked his watch. It was five to twelve. He ordered steak and kidney pie, chips and peas with a cup of tea up front, which cost him seven pounds thirty-five.

  What the hell was going on? If the Westminster Gazette didn’t exist anymore, then it was more than likely that the name Emily Blake was false. What about the newspaper – he’d forgotten about that? He pulled it out of his pocket and opened it up. It certainly looked real. He took it up to the counter.

  ‘I have part of the Westminster Gazette for...’

  ‘You never heard of spoof newspapers, Mister?’ Lucy said.

  ‘Hold it up to the light, Lucy,’ Josie hollered through the serving hatch.

  Josie took it from him and held it up to the light. ‘There, Mister,’ she said pointing to the white border at the bottom. ‘A watermark of the company’s name.’

  ‘That’ll be five pounds fifty,’ Lucy said.

  He happily paid.

  ***

  The company – MakeTheNews – was located on Aylesford Street in Pimlico. It took him thirty-one minutes on the tube from Stoke Newington, and during the journey he phoned Tig again. He was directed to voicemail.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Tigger?’ He was getting annoyed.

  She should have phoned him, or at least have been available to take his calls. Where the hell was she? All she’d been doing was searching the house again for clues about who the victim was, and questioning a few of the locals to see if they knew anything about the woman known as Verona Izatt.

  He phoned Detective Sergeant Tony Saunders.

  ‘Do you know where DC Griffiths is?’

  ‘I thought she was with you, Sir?’

  ‘I’m in London following up on a lead, she went back to the cottage in Little Haven to have another look at things, and then she was going to question a few of the locals.’

  ‘And she’s not answering her phone?’

  ‘No, I keep getting re-directed to voicemail.’

  ‘Maybe her battery’s dead.’

  ‘I didn’t phone you for stupid suggestions, Tony.’

  ‘Yeah sorry, Sir. I’ll make some phone calls, and call you back.’

  ‘I’m not going to get back until very late tonight, so I’d appreciate it, Tony.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, the Chief has been looking for you. Something about a briefing you were going to give him.’

  He’d forgotten about briefing the Chief. ‘Tell him you haven’t seen me.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’ He ended the call.

  MakeTheNews had two operations. Customers could walk into the shop and order a newspaper – created to their specifications, but based on a template for weddings, stag and hen nights, educational, job and football success – there was a long list. The second part of the operation was much larger and took up the second and third floors of the building. It consisted of their online operations, which contributed seventy percent to the business income.

  He flashed his warrant card. ‘Who can I speak to about an order placed t
hree years ago?’

  ‘God,’ the thin pale young man said. He had short black hair that was long on top and fashioned into a point at the front. It hung down over his eyes, and he kept tossing his head to the right to remove it. Inigo wanted to cut it for him, because no matter how much the young man tossed his head the hair slid back down over his eyes.

  ‘Can you get me someone who talks sense?’

  ‘You just happen to have struck lucky; I own the business.’

  Inigo was reminded of his daughter. What was the world coming to? Young people were turning away from education, and becoming millionaires at the drop of a hat. It had become an upside-down world. There was no place for crustaceans like him. It was time he retired, but how could he retire now? The bastards had pulled the rug from under him.

  ‘I need to know who ordered this three years ago.’ He pulled out the newspaper and unfolded it on the counter.

  ‘I said God before, because the person who used to run the business back then is dead.’

  ‘I see, so can you help me?’

  ‘We have financial records in the basement, but no staff to look through them.’

  ‘If you show me where they are, I could look?’

  ‘Okay, I can do that, but don’t mess the records up.’

  He was deposited in the basement with the financial records, which were contained in filing cabinets – one for each year. He didn’t think it would take him long to locate a credit card receipt if there was one. He went straight to October and found what he was looking for within half an hour. The name on the credit card receipt was Joy Lawson, and he hoped he’d found his victim.

  Upstairs, the young entrepreneur – Syd Field – copied the receipt for him.

  ‘Thanks for your time, and if you’ll take my advice, you want to go to the barber’s shop and get that cut.’

  Syd laughed. ‘Yeah, old people always say that.’

  Outside, he rang Dawn Kellett in database enquiries.

  ‘Long time no see, Inigo?’

  ‘Yeah, what can I say? I’ve got a name. Can you run it through CrimInt for me?’

  ‘It’ll take...’

  ‘Ten minutes?’

  ‘That’s not what I was going to say. There’s a queue, you know?’

  ‘There’s always a queue, but this is important.’

  ‘With you, it’s always important. What’s the name?’

  ‘Joy Lawson, used to live in London, probably around Westminster.’

  ‘There’ll be a few.’

  ‘I’ll know the one I’m looking for when I see her.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ring you back, but you’ll owe me a meal.’

  ‘And I’ll look forward to that.’

  The call ended.

  He found another cafe, and waited with a mug of coffee. It wasn’t worth starting off anywhere because he didn’t know where he was going. If Joy Lawson was a dead end, then he may as well go back to Marielle’s, pick up his overnight bag, say goodbye, and then make his way back to Wales.

  Had Tony found Tig yet? Why hadn’t she rung him? He had a sinking feeling in his gut.

  His phone vibrated on the table.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Joy Lawson was reported missing in November 2009. She lived at number seven Leinster Mews. I’ve checked, and it’s close to Lancaster Gate tube station, postcode W2 4EY.’

  He wrote the address down in his notebook. ‘After three years, I doubt I’ll find much there. Where did she work?’

  ‘The Pentonville Mercury on Pentonville Road in Pentonville. You want the Angel tube station.’

  ‘Thanks, Dawn. Any news on Tig?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s missing.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Okay, don’t worry. I owe you.’

  ‘I have it marked in my diary. I’ll be in touch when I find the most expensive place near here.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  He ended the call, finished his coffee, and made his way to the tube station. He was beginning to feel a bit the worse for wear. According to the large station clock, the time was five past two. Pimlico was on the Victoria Line. At King’s Cross St Pancras he had to change to the Northern Line, and Angel was the next station.

  The Pentonville Mercury was a local newspaper run, in the main, by a husband and wife team called Dawn and Whitfield Cothay, and eight other staff. Inside, the offices were open plan. Apart from a few partitions, nobody had any privacy, and everyone could see what everyone else was doing.

  ‘Joy Lawson?’ Dawn Cothay said. ‘Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.’

  Her husband, so she said, was out gathering the news.

  He showed her the picture of the dead victim.

  ‘Yes, that’s Joy.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Not really. One minute she was here working, the next she wasn’t. I was the one who reported her missing. As far as I know, she didn’t have any family.’

  ‘No idea why she disappeared?’

  ‘None, she loved being a reporter, wanted to make it big one day.’

  ‘Can you remember what she was working on at that time?’

  ‘Bridget?’ she shouted.

  A young girl appeared chewing gum. She had piercings in her left ear, bottom lip, tongue, right eyebrow, and belly button. A tattoo of a blue snake slithered up her left arm. Inigo guessed she must be on work experience.

  ‘Don’t get creeped out by Bridget,’ Dawn Cothay said. ‘Behind the insane decorative artwork, she’s really a very nice person.’

  The girl shot her arm out. ‘Bridget Knight, IT guru.’

  ‘A guru?’ Inigo said shaking the hand.

  ‘Ain’t nothing I don’t know about IT.’

  Yes, Inigo was sure that the world had turned on its head. Here was a self-proclaimed genius with computers, who couldn’t speak the Queen’s English. Time to step aside, and make way for this new species of human being.

  ‘Detective Inspector Morgan wants to know what Joy Lawson was working on before she disappeared three years ago.’

  ‘Yeah, got her files zipped up, encrypted, and tucked away. You want me to open ‘em up for the ‘spector?’

  ‘Yes please, Bridget.’

  ‘Can do. Come with me, ‘spector Morgan.’

  Dawn Cothay offered her hand. ‘I’ve got to go out soon, but I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for your help.’

  She whispered to him. ‘If she offers you sex, decline politely.’ Then she turned to her IT guru. ‘You be nice to the Inspector, Bridget?’

  ‘Will do, Mrs C.’

  Inigo followed Bridget to a space cluttered with gadgets and sat down in an orange plastic chair.

  Bridget worked quickly and then said, ‘You want it on a stick?’

  He guessed she was talking about a memory stick. ‘Yes please, but I’d also like to have a quick look at what she was working on in the last month before she disappeared.’

  ‘No probs.’ She passed him a memory stick. ‘That’s all her records decrypted and unzipped.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the stick in his pocket.

  ‘Now we wait.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Done a block print. There’s a bit of stuff. It’ll take about five. You want to have sex with me while we’re waiting?’

  ‘That’s very nice of you to offer, but I had a late night last night.’

  ‘Hey, don’t sweat it.’

  She shot off, and came back with a stack of paper. ‘There you go, ‘spector. Anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Thanks very much for being a guru.’

  ‘Hey, nice of you to say so.’

  He caught the tube back to King’s Cross St Pancras, and switched to the Piccadilly Line for Knightsbridge. Between Holborn station and Green Park he found out that Tig couldn’t be found anywhere. She wasn’t at home, in the
station, or at the cottage in Little Haven. They were a bit concerned, and had begun a minor manhunt. Her mobile had been switched off, or the SIM card removed, but her last recorded location had been in Little Haven. They were focussing the search in the village, but nothing had turned up yet.

  ‘It’ll take me at least six or seven hours to get back, Tony.’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to find her, Sir,’ DS Saunders said. ‘The Chief Super’s heading up the operation. If nothing materialises in an hour, we’re escalating the search to a full manhunt. We’ll find her, don’t you worry.’

  But he was worried. Chief Superintendent Paul Northfield was a boy. He didn’t have Inigo’s experience, didn’t know the lay of the land, and the people. He doubted the boy-Chief could find his way out of a wet paper bag.

  Crap! He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wanted to be there. Tig was his partner for Christ’s sake, and he wasn’t there to watch her back.

  ‘I’m relying on you, Tony.’

  ***

  He made his way back to Marielle’s flat.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘That’s always been the way, dad.’

  ‘It’s who I am, Marielle, for good or evil.’

  ‘I know, and I still love you.’

  ‘What a difference a day makes.’ He told her about Tig going missing.

  ‘Two things. First, you don’t have to spend six hours on a train.’ She took her mobile from her bag on the floor next to the sofa, found a number, and dialled. ‘Hobb, it’s Marielle. My dad needs to get from London to Wales to save someone’s life. I know, but for me? You’re priceless. Yeah, half an hour.’ She ended that call, and made another one for a taxi to come for them immediately. ‘We have to get you to the Westland Heliport in thirty-five minutes.’

  ‘Heliport?’

  ‘Hobb Whitley will fly you to Withybush Aerodrome in forty minutes in his helicopter. I often use him to beat the traffic.’

  ‘I can’t afford a helicopter flight.’

  ‘Don’t be dense, dad. Also, here’s the number of my stockbroker, her name is Marilyn Atkins. I asked her to invest £25,000 for your retirement fund, and the value of those shares has already risen to £37,500. And if I hear anything about immoral earnings, or you couldn’t possibly take money from me, you’ll be investigating your own murder.’