by Tim Ellis
‘Hey! Are you still there?’ she said into the microphone.
‘Christ! What did you do?’ Yoda said. ‘They’re going ape-shit in here.’
‘I helped myself to one of their vans.’
‘You’ve got some balls,’ he said.
Tears leaked from her eyes. Yeah, balls was all she did have now. She kept telling herself that she would never have had children anyway, that she didn’t care, but something inside her refused to believe a word of anything she said. She would liked to have had the choice, but that had been taken away from her. Now, no man would ever want her – not without a womb. She wasn’t a woman anymore – she was defective.
***
“I love the way you taste.”
That’s what he’d said to her, but he hadn’t meant it. No, he hadn’t meant it at all.
Tears dripped onto the shrivelled muscular tissue nestled in the palm of her left hand and danced on the taste buds.
She looked at the body of Frank Winchester, the gaping hole in his face that used to be his mouth was filling up with blood, and she knew she’d done the right thing – he didn’t deserve to live anymore.
Once, she had loved this man. Loved him more than life itself. And she thought he had loved her in the same way. He said he had loved her, but then he had gone and loved somebody else. What type of man would do that to another human being?
After sliding the tongue into a plastic bag, and that bag into a second one and folding it all up nice and neat as if it were a tasty ox tongue that she’d just bought from the butchers, she dropped it into the front pocket of her rucksack. She then wrapped the bloody S-hook pliers and knife in an old towel and put them into the main compartment of her rucksack.
On her way towards the stairs, she checked on the two children. They were still asleep. She had nothing against the children, and hoped they slept the sleep of the innocent.
Somewhere in the house, she heard a clock chime two o’clock as she opened the front door and left.
Chapter Eighteen
Tears were pointless. What was done was done, and no amount of crying and self-flagellation would bring back her womb. She had to get on with her life, and that meant getting Yoda and Sushi out of the evidence warehouse.
Her idea of everybody thinking it was a power cut had gone up in a puff of smoke. It would be obvious to a one-legged blind man with alopecia and halitosis that somebody had hacked into their system, especially as she had just erased twenty minutes of their CCTV footage. The last thing she needed was to be scapegoated for the missing Baker Street Robbery evidence, even if she did have a third of said evidence.
‘Hello?’ Yoda’s voice hissed in her ear.
‘Hello. How are you doing?’
‘We’re doing just fucking great. Have you got a plan for getting us out of here?’
‘Oh yes. It involves taking control of a Russian communication satellite, before a stealth helicopter full of hunky bearded SAS men slither down ropes . . .’
‘Very funny.’
‘Well, you already know the answer to the question. You’re just going to have to wait until the bastards leave. Unless, of course, you want to fight your way out. Do you feel lucky, Yoda?’
‘What if they don’t leave?’
‘They’ll leave. They’re not going to find their van by hanging about in the warehouse.’
‘Shush.’
She could still see them filling up the two remaining vans and smiled. Someone was going to get it in the neck for losing a van with a third of the evidence in.
Eventually, they were done. The men came out of the warehouse, locked the doors, piled into the two vans and drove out through the electronic gate..
It was quarter to four in the morning.
‘We’re still here,’ Yoda said.
‘I know.’
She disabled all the systems again. ‘Okay, you can leave now. I’ll meet you in the all-night cafe and we’ll have breakfast.’
‘At last.’
Once Yoda and Sushi were clear of the warehouse and through the gate, she re-enabled the systems. Then she pulled her hood up, made her way out of the hotel and headed towards the cafe.
Along the way, she spotted an old Mercedes Benz that suited her purpose. What she didn’t want to do was to hop into the stolen van and use it to drive to Highgate with the Baker Street Robbery evidence in the back. She would be stupid to think that the MI5 bastards had gone home and snuggled into a warm bed. They were waiting for her to make a mistake. And if she used the van, it wouldn’t take them long to trace it and track it using London’s glut of traffic cameras.
Yoda and Sushi had already ordered their breakfasts.
‘You owe me ten quid,’ Yoda said.
‘So sue me.’ She walked up to the counter and ordered a full English, but replaced the fried egg with scrambled egg.
‘You think we know how to cook scrambled egg here, lady?’ the Turkish-looking cook said.
‘You think I’m a lady?’
‘Your funeral.’
‘And a mug of tea.’
He slopped the tea on the counter. ‘Seven pounds thirty.’
She gave him a ten pound note.
He stared at her. ‘You want your change?’
‘Of course I want my fucking change.’
‘You cheap English make me puke.’
‘You could always go back to wherever it is you came from if you’re not happy here.’
‘Are you crazy? This place is paradise compared to Turkey. I take full advantage of everything you English give me for free.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘That was a fuck-up,’ Yoda said when she got back to the table and sat down opposite him.
‘No one could have foreseen those MI5 bastards turning up.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Sushi said. ‘Aren’t MI5 and the police separate entities?’
Bronwyn’s lip curled up. ‘You’d think so, but they’ve all got their sticky little fingers in the pie. They’re covering each other’s arses. Those MI5 bastards knew exactly how to get into the evidence warehouse. They knew the codes and passwords. Somebody decided that the details of whatever was contained in Box 253 wasn’t safe there anymore, and they decided to move it. The trouble was, we got there first.’
Yoda grunted. ‘We may have got there first, but they emptied the evidence boxes before us.’
‘Yes, but then I relieved them of a third of that evidence, which may or may not contain the details of what was inside Box 253.’
The cook shouted that their meals were ready.
Yoda did the honours.
‘Hey!’ she called to the cook. ‘This is a chopped up fried egg.’
‘It’s a scrambled egg.’
‘Is it fuck.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘I’d like my money back.’
‘Already deposited at the bank.’
‘Bastard.’
‘So, what’s your plan now?’
‘After I’ve eaten this shit I’m going to help myself to a Mercedes Benz, transfer the evidence from the van to the car, pick you two up and we’ll all drive back to the squat.’
‘And we get our money?’
‘Of course. Except . . .’
‘What?’
‘Those MI5 bastards know me, and they know where I live. My advice to you is to use the money and go to a warmer and healthier climate for the winter. I’m not planning on hanging around for long myself.’
‘They’re going to come looking for us?’ Sushi said.
‘Not you – me. But for your own safety, I’d take a winter break.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Yoda said. ‘I always wanted to visit New Zealand and see where the Hobbits live.’
She threw down the breakfast – including the scrambled fried egg – finished off her tea and set off back to the hotel. The Mercedes 300SE was built like a tank, but it handled like a go-kart. She drove into the underground hotel car park, tr
ansferred the black sacks of evidence into the spacious boot of the Mercedes and returned to the cafe.
‘Nice wheels,’ Yoda said, as he slid into the passenger seat.
‘Thanks. A present from an admirer. Put your seatbelts on. We wouldn’t want to get stopped by the police, would we?’
***
‘Wake up.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes.’
‘Mmmm! Fifteen minutes is a long time.’
‘Fifteen minutes to get ready, not to sleep.’
‘No, I’m not ready to get ready. I’m sure it’s still dark outside. I have sleep to sleep.’
He jabbed her arm. ‘Wake up, Richards.’
She jerked upright. ‘What?’
‘We have another body.’
‘At this time? What time is it?’
‘Quarter to four.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She pulled the quilt over her head and lay back down. ‘Bring me a cup of tea at about seven o’clock.’
He grabbed her ankle and began pulling.
‘Don’t.’
She tried to kick free, but he held on and pulled some more.
‘Stop. I’m going to . . .’
Her arse hit the floor and the quilt fell on top of her. ‘You’re a crazy psychopath.’
‘I’ll see you downstairs in thirteen minutes.’
‘I’d rather . . .’
‘Stack shelves in the local supermarket?’
‘At least I’d get a full night’s sleep.’
He walked downstairs to the mug of coffee he’d already made.
In the early days, when Digby had been a puppy, the dog used to get up with him. Now, wiser with the passage of time, he slithered into the warmth his dad had left behind next to Angie. He shook his head, and wondered who was leading the dog’s life.
Another murder! Another innocent victim. Another piece of the jigsaw that didn’t fit any of the other pieces. What was it all for? What was the killer trying to tell them? What did the numbers mean? How were these murders connected to the three murders in Wuppertal between 1990 and 2000?
The investigation was going nowhere. He had no answers, no clues, no suspects, no effective lines of inquiry. A review team, like the Spanish Inquisition, would come into the station on Monday and tell him what he already knew – the investigation had stalled. He’d been given a whole week and achieved very little. They’d probably replace him with a DCI. He’d never been replaced before – Monday would be a first. Oh, it happened to most Senior Investigating Officers in this new era of accountability, but it had never happened to him. It had been a source of pride that he’d never been replaced, but now everyone would see that he was human just like everybody else.
‘You’re thinking about the review team coming in on Monday, aren’t you?’
‘Next time the circus comes to Chigwell, you could pass yourself off as the famous fortune teller and necromancer Gypsy Rose Richards. We’ll get you a crystal ball, some Romany clothes and maybe Toadstone will lend you a forensic tent to ply your black art in.’
‘Gypsy Rose Lee was a stripper.’
‘You could do that on the side when the fortune-telling business was slow.’
‘They’re going to take the case away from us, aren’t they?’
‘Monday is next week, Richards. Today is Thursday of this week. After today, we still have Friday, Saturday and Sunday. We may be swimming in shark-infested waters, but we’ve not been eaten alive yet.’ He pushed the mug of tea he’d made for her across the table.
‘Something keeps niggling at me,’ she said.
‘That’s helpful.’
‘I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m sure it’s important.’
‘As I said – very helpful. Are you ready?’
‘You’ve only just . . .’
He stood up. ‘Good. Let’s go then.’
‘But . . .’
He left the front door open for her. She was right – it was still dark outside, and bloody cold as well. He stuffed his hands deeper in his jacket pockets and took the decision to drive. It wasn’t often he drove these days. Richards was a good driver, and being a passenger gave him the opportunity to think. This morning though, he knew where he was going.
She slid into the passenger seat. ‘Do you want me to tell you what all the buttons and knobs are for?’
‘I think I can manage, thank you.’
‘Maybe we should do a quick re-familiarisation.’
He put the car into gear and jerked backwards using the clutch and the brake. ‘I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it again soon, but I think you’d better put your seatbelt on just in case.’
‘Maybe it’d be better if I drove.’
‘But not as much fun.’ The car jitterbugged forward like a mechanical frog before he accelerated away. ‘There, I think we’ll be all right now – until I try to stop, that is.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Hillyards Supermarket just off the A406 in Woodford Green.’
‘A supermarket?’
‘You could practise your shelf-stacking skills while we’re there – show them what you’re made of.’
‘Don’t tempt me. Are you saying there’s a body in the supermarket?’
‘So I’ve been reliably informed by Central Despatch.’
‘Do you think it’ll be in the meat section?’
‘That would seem to be the logical place to store a body.’
It was a straight run down the A113 through Woodford Bridge, onto the A406 and off at the first turning onto High Road. Hillyards Supermarket was located next to the Odeon Cinema.
Two squad cars with their lights still flashing, and the big white forensic truck, were already parked outside.
At the door, they donned the white paper zip-up suits and other protective clothing, signed the book and went inside through the automatic doors.
Toadstone was waiting for them.
‘Our dead are never dead to us, until we’ve forgotten them, Toadstone.’
‘George Eliot.’
Richards turned to look at him. ‘What’s the score now, Sir? Paul Toadstone a million, DI Parish nil.’
‘One day your hero will say, “I don’t know,” and then where will you be, Richards? Your whole world will fall apart. You need to prepare yourself for that day.’
‘It’s never going to happen.’
‘You’ll see. So, what have we got Toadstone?’
He pointed to the cafeteria. ‘There are five supermarket employees in there. They arrived at three o’clock to fill up the shelves and take in the early morning deliveries. Instead, they found a dead body.’
Parish narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you sure it’s one of ours?’
‘Take a look for yourself.’ He led them to an aisle in the meat section as Richards had predicted.
They were faced with a naked man, drained of blood and vertically impaled on a wooden stake that had been suspended from a metal roof beam.
‘Oh my God!’ Richards said, covering her mouth with her hand.
The wooden stake, which was about three inches in diameter, probably eight feet long and sharpened to a point at one end, had been pushed into the man’s anus, forced through the length of his torso and out of his mouth. The neck was extended backwards, and the sides of the mouth were split to accommodate the circumference of the stake.
‘Go outside if you feel the need to vomit, Richards.’
‘No, I’m all right.’
Doc Riley was walking round the suspended corpse as if it was an exhibit at the Natural History Museum. ‘Are you ever going to catch this killer, Inspector Parish?’
‘I’m beginning to ponder that very question myself, Doc. What can you tell us?’
‘I can tell you that I’m waiting for Doctor Toadstone to take the body down before I make any ill-conceived statements. However, what I can tell you is that there’s probably another message lodged in his heart.’ She po
inted to a small wound in the victim’s chest. ‘And what I think I can also safely reveal, without the fear of someone asking me for a second opinion, is that if the exsanguination didn’t kill him, then the stake forced through his torso and out through his mouth did.’
‘Why isn’t he sliding down the pole?’ Richards asked.
Toadstone pointed to a circle of rope tied around the stake beneath the man’s posterior. ‘It’s called a “stay” or a “rest” for obvious reasons,’ he said.
‘You seem to know a lot about the ins and outs of impalement, Toadstone.’
‘I’ve done some research. It’s a barbarous method of execution that has been practised by numerous cultures throughout history.’
‘But why is it being practised here, and why now?’
‘There seems to be a theme for the three murders, Sir. The Hanged Man was the punishment for a traitor; the crucified woman depicted Saint Julia being punished for refusing to attend a pagan ritual; and impalement was also the punishment for traitors. Vlad III, who was also known as the Prince of Wallachia, preferred this method of execution during the fifteenth century . . .’
‘Vlad the Impaler,’ Parish said.
Toadstone nodded. ‘Exactly, Sir. They say that the road to his capital in Wallachia was lined with a forest of twenty thousand impaled and decaying corpses, and the horror of it turned back an invading army.’
‘See, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘I told you it was something to do with Dracula.’
‘What’s Dracula got to do with this?’
‘Vlad the Impaler was a real person born into the House of Drăculeşti in Wallachia, which was an area of Romania and included Transylvania.’
‘You’re making it up.’
‘It’s true, Mary,’ Toadstone said. ‘Vlad III was the real Dracula, and for good reason.’
‘Well, these murders aren’t anything to do with vampires.’
‘You say that as if you know, Richards,’ Parish said. ‘But we still have no idea why the victims have been drained of blood, or what the killer does with that blood. Remember, the blood is being drained into blood bags. I can’t imagine they’d go to all that trouble just to pour it down the plughole.’ He turned to Doc Riley. ‘Do we know the blood groups of the two previous victims?’
