***
As Christina heard the key enter the lock, she removed her feet from the desk and turned to face the computer screen.
“Morning, Mr Grant.”
“That brass sign needs a bloody good polish. I’ve just noticed. I’d be grateful if you’ve got a minute this morning, Christina, if you’d give it a bit of a rub.”
She had to stop herself thinking, and what about the brass? The image didn’t sit comfortably. She had already been far too accommodating in securing this job.
“Gives the place a bad impression. Coffee when you’ve a mo.” He headed up the stairs.
“Certainly, Mr Grant.” She raised her eyebrows and waited for the exclamation but it didn’t come. It appeared that his powers of observation had been exhausted before he had even crossed the building’s threshold. He hadn’t even popped his head round the office door. She went to the kitchen area and prepared the coffee.
Grant was going through the post when she knocked and brought in his cup. “London trip go as expected?”
“Late bloody trains! What time’s the police sergeant due next week?”
“Monday at three. They seemed annoyed that you were unavailable last week.” Christina smiled.
“Everything has to revolve round them. I’ve had that meeting organised for a week, I was damned if I was going to cancel.”
“Have you broken something this morning, Mr Grant? There appears to be some glass on the stairs.”
Picking up his cup, Grant sipped the coffee. He simply shook his head. She turned to leave. Once on the top step she gave a little, melodramatic squeal.
“Christina, are you alright?”
“Come and look at this!”
Grant moved from behind his desk. He stood behind her and followed Christina’s gaze. He then noticed what she was looking at. The upper stained glass was cracked. Where the section had been removed, clear daylight contrasted with the yellow of the surrounding area.
“Jesus Christ what the bloody hell!” He pointed to the thin metal that protruded from the surrounding lead. He walked down the stairs and retrieved a piece of glass. “Fucking vandals!” he yelled. “Do they know what these bloody things cost? Irreplaceable, they’re, irreplaceable.”
“Do you want me to ring the police?” Christina looked down at him with an expression of total horror. “I love this window and so do most people who come here. Can it be repaired?”
“I don’t know. The police? Too bloody right I want the bloody police. Let’s see if they’re as quick to get here when the bloody boot’s on the other foot.”
Christina dialled 101 and went through the reporting procedure. She was assured that someone would call within the hour.
***
Cyril had promised Julie that he would accompany her on her shopping trip; he was thrilled. Within minutes of leaving, his phone alerted him to a text.
Dan Rowney’s damaged laptop found 300 metres from the car. Forensics have removed the vehicle. Further checks following on both items. No sign of Rowney or Johnson. Following leads from ANPR data, nothing as yet. Further work at site continues.
Cyril just smiled at Julie. “It’s from Smirthwaite. Sorry, it’s work! Our search goes on and that reminds me, anything from the pins?”
“It’s Saturday, it’s relax day, shopping day, together day, no cops or corpses, remember. Now, Cyril, repeat after me… no cops.” She laughed and linked Cyril’s arm.
***
Charles stared down at the van parked in the farmyard. His finely manicured fingers tapped the glass to some irregular rhythm before he wandered down to the kitchen. Three people sat around a small table and their conversation stopped as he entered.
“Dan, Karen, how lovely to see you both again. I take it all went beautifully?” His voice had but the faintest edge to it. He held out his huge fist and shook Dan’s hand. “All set for Monday morning?”
Dan nodded. “All set. Police have everything they need.”
We have some filming in an hour, you’ll need your clapper board and a broad mind. We’re filming a montage. Exciting,” Charles exaggerated the vowels drawing out the word.
Dan moved back to the table. He now knew what was on the agenda.
Charles reverted to his genteel, camp persona.
“Come Karen, Charlie needs a hug and a kissy.”
Karen’s demeanour conveyed fear and uncertainty. She had no idea in what Dan was involved. She was an innocent swept along on a fast-running tide, buoyed only by Dan’s ever-weakening assurances that all would be well and that he could handle it. If she were honest with herself, she had no idea what he was attempting to handle. From the moment the people had arrived at their apartment her life had become a maelstrom of gut-wrenching uncertainty and absolute fear. Dan had advised her to keep calm and say nothing.
She stood and reluctantly moved round the table. Charles stooped and kissed her on each cheek. As he released her, he turned to the remaining person in the room. His voice changed yet again. “And you? Were you successful?”
“Right through God’s eye as requested. The bonus was there was no alarm. Couldn’t believe it! The dart lodged in the lead stuff on the edge of all the glass pieces.”
“It’s called came, lead, came. Daddy is so pleased.”
Charles almost skipped from the room, crossed the farmyard and entered what was once a barn. It was partitioned into different rooms, more a studio than a barn. Lighting hung from a scaffolding gantry that was suspended from the skeletal, wooden eaves. The external roof was a mass of solar panels as were the other farm buildings. It fed the heating for the cannabis production.
Two people were already setting up the room. A large table was placed in the centre on which were positioned two Venetian masks. A camera was set to the side and one towards the front. The skill was to keep both cameras out of shot, but if errors were made they would be removed in the editing. There was nothing else apart from a microphone hanging out of shot above the table.
“Have you chosen one of our new arrivals?”
Carla turned to greet Charles. “The one you suggested, the pretty one.”
Carla Bonhomme had worked for Charles for a number of years, usually in her hometown of Cannes. Once fascinated by the big screen, she had slowly succumbed to a more base form of cinema. It allowed her to support her drug habit.
“Our other guest, she ready too?”
“She’s still out of it and therefore compliant. I suggest we work it like this.”
Charles had discovered early in his career that short, pornographic films were a lucrative form of advertising the merchandise he held. They whetted the punters’ appetites he would say. The only difference between then and now was the professionalism of the set up and the distribution. They sat and discussed the schedule for the day’s filming after which, Charles simply laughed.
“Perfect, my dear. Absolutely perfect.” His smile said everything about the man. He stood and kissed her cheeks. “Now, show me the farm. Please your Uncle Charlie.”
Chapter Thirteen
Harrogate Police Station was a beacon of artificial light against the autumnal dark as Cyril turned left onto Beckwith Head Road. There was a definite chill in the early morning air and his collar was up. Vapour escaped from his nostrils as he inhaled his e-cigarette. Within five minutes he was checking the boards in the Incident Room. The live link had been established with the tech boys at Newby Wiske and they were ready to view the data as it came live on the large screen. Cyril had asked a number of his team to be present and ready for immediate action; he also had the emergency services ready and a firearms’ team should the need arise. He felt nervous, unusually so.
Owen stumbled through the door carrying a cup and saucer and his mug. He looked to all intents and purposes to have been dragged through a hedge backwards.
“Morning everyone.” He smiled whilst dribbling whatever his mug held. “Tea, Sir? Cup’s clean, washed it myself.”
Cyril went to h
elp Owen by holding the door but stood away from the cascading fluid. Shakti followed within minutes. She took a deep breath.
“What are we expecting, Sir?”
Cyril just raised his eyebrows. “That’s anyone’s guess but we’re ready for any eventuality.”
“Probably more than can be said for Liz,” Owen mumbled into his mug, “especially after the weekend she’s had! By the way, has anyone seen her this morning? Anyone heard from her?”
Shakti detected a hint of jealousy in his voice. She knew that they were professionally very close and dared not say that she had called Liz three times that morning with no response other than her answer phone.
Smirthwaite, Nixon and Parks all entered and either nodded, grumbled some inaudible greeting or remained silent. There was definitely an air of anxiety that seemed to intensify as the clock moved on.
Owen took out his phone and dialled Liz’s number. It went straight to answerphone. He looked at Shakti and mouthed the word ‘Liz’.
Shakti just raised her shoulders and shook her head whilst stretching her mouth downwards; she too felt Owen’s anxiety. To make matters worse, he had never known her be late for anything before, if the truth were known she was usually first in, organised and ready.
Why Cyril tapped his electronic cigarette on the table only he knew, probably habit, as there was little noise. The tapping was a welcome distraction for Owen until, however, Cyril spoke and mentioned Liz’s name. A multi-directional microphone sat in the centre of the table in readiness for the live link.
“One of our aircraft is missing. Anyone seen Liz?” Cyril enquired.
The collective looked around as if she might be hiding. It clearly showed the tension. Owen could feel the sweat bead on his temples…somehow he had a very uncomfortable feeling that things were just not right.
“We’ll start.” Cyril glanced at his watch and then at the screen before smiling at DC Smirthwaite, who stood and began the briefing.
“A laptop was found near the vehicle just outside Netherthong, the hard drive had been completely wiped. Some DNA recovered was a match to the DNA found in the car, so we’re assuming Dan Rowney. Samples have been taken from his apartment for comparison. Curiously, the laptop delivered to Newby Wiske purporting to be belonging to Valerie Atkins, contained traces of the same DNA, but and more importantly, no match traced links it with Valerie Atkins. According to the lab, she had never touched it. However, the pad does show a match but there’s nothing of value stored; the data’s been checked and is detailed. It can be found in file 6F of your folder. Look in a minute, please, as there’s quite a bit more to get through and time’s pressing on.”
Cyril took a moment and glanced again at the door, expecting Liz to come bounding in, but it remained closed. Smirthwaite continued.
“Data from NPRC shows four dark-coloured Range Rovers in the area; all accounted for. They are owned by keepers who have never been near the cameras in question; one car hasn’t been out of the garage since the owner passed away three months ago!”
“Where are they located?” Owen asked.
Smirthwaite read the list “Scotland, Cornwall, London and Essex. We also cannot rule out from the Forensic reports on the laptop handed to Liz, that the data we are about to see belongs to Valerie Atkins. I checked back through the records and noted that a Miss Dorothy Allen was interviewed at Atkins’s crime scene. That interview is filed 12A but I point out that after a further interview, she gave a more detailed description of the man who followed Atkins into the shrubs that night. It’s tagged 12B. It’s worth noting his hair colour, bleached blond and his size and height. Over six three. She recalled his height against the lamppost as he passed. He was, according to the witness,” Smirthwaite looked down and read from the file. “a handsome specimen of a man. May I suggest we reserve judgement until we see this data.”
“Thanks, Brian! Everyone catch up on the notes afterwards, please.” Cyril checked his watch giving it a brief shake. There were five more minutes before the emergency contact would allow access to the data. He looked at the door. “Still no Liz. That’s unusual.” The apprehension was growing and he felt the adrenalin rush, it was a key part of why he loved his job.
Cyril’s phone vibrated on the table. He raised a finger and then picked up the phone.
“Bennett.” He listened before replying, his voice rose.“ What? Saturday? So why are we receiving this information that could be crucial to my investigation only now, forty-eight hours after the event? Thanks, get Forensics there and close off the area directly in front of the building. I want an officer with Grant and his secretary until we arrive.”
Cyril looked back at the inquisitive eyes that were now locked on him.
“Another piece of tangible evidence found, another bicycle spoke, well, part of one’s been fired through the stained glass window of the Stray Agency. Coincidentally, ironically or cynically, it shattered the image of an eye. Only just come through, put on the back burner. Some bright spark thought it was just the work of kids and didn’t follow up!” He shook his head. “To think we invest millions in technology to prevent this type of cock-up.”
Shakti’s demeanour changed as soon as she heard where the incident had occurred and she could not avoid Owen’s gaze, which slowly intensified.
“What is…” Owen never finished his query.
“We’re live,” Cyril interrupted him whilst pointing to the large screen.
The images appeared live. The camera had been focussed onto the computer screen held at Newby Wiske and they watched the password being entered. The screen changed and the arrow magically swept and hovered above the icon of a magnifying glass before a drop box appeared to inform them that the passwords and secure notes were now accessible.
“What do you want first?” the voice requested through the speakers.
Cyril leaned towards the microphone.“Notes please, we’ll leave the passwords until later. Let’s just see what files come up.”
Once clicked on, the only thing that appeared was a small icon with the title that ended with the letters ‘MOV’
“Open that, please,” Cyril requested.
They heard the double click and the Quicktime icon bounced before the black rectangle appeared to the left of the screen.
“Play it!” Cyril demanded.
The arrow moved down to the controls and the triangle control changed to two vertical lines. An image appeared. There was an immediate realisation that they had seen it before. A young, coloured girl was prostrate, stomach down across a large table. Her fingers feebly gripped the far edge and she appeared to be stretched on her toes. The sound of skin slapping on skin was a nauseating accompaniment. The camera angle changed, and they were now looking at the covered girl’s face. The Venetian mask, white and glittering, contrasted with her dark, oiled skin. The sound of her discomfort was palpable as she gasped and cried. Slowly the screen dimmed before turning completely black.
As an image returned, the scene was very different. Valerie Atkins was standing in front of three young African girls dressed in their national costume. Bizarrely, each wore a different Venetian mask.
“That’s Valerie Atkins. Pause it! Pause it!”
The arrow levitated over the two vertical lines on screen and the image was paused.
“I can now only assume we are looking at a recording. The opening shot is similar to the scenes shown on the four videos found belonging to and including Atkins. Start it, please,”
Valerie began introducing the girls one at a time. Her manner was professional and relaxed as if being in front of a camera was the most natural thing. Each girl introduced herself, stated her age, her ambitions now that she was in the United Kingdom, her hobbies and her skills. Their voices were muffled by the masks. It reminded Cyril of the early beauty pageants. After each girl had been interviewed, Valerie asked if there were one last thing they wished to tell the viewers. Each girl answered with the same statement. I’m happy, I’m here and I’m a
virgin. It was clearly rehearsed, probably untrue and from the girl’s delivery, it was evident that they had little understanding of the statement’s significance. Each girl left the stage after her interview but returned to make an appearance at the end. Each was naked apart from the masks. It was at this stage that Valerie turned to the camera and started the selling process but she did not finish as the programme slowly faded.
Within moments an image began to reappear, returning to the girl on the table. Although everything seemed the same, the girl was different. She was fair- skinned, her hands hung almost lifelessly on the table’s surface, only moving in rhythm with the bodily pounding. A hand suddenly moved into shot before removing the mask. Liz’s face was expressionless, her mouth slightly open and her tongue was just visible, lolling uncontrollably. Her eyes remained closed.
It was surprising how long it took for the people in the Incident Room to realise the identity of the exposed girl’s face. It was Owen who screamed first followed quickly by Shakti.
“Stop it now! That’s Liz. Somehow they have Liz. Fucking turn the bloody thing off!”
Shakti stood and switched off the screen before turning first to look at Cyril. Guilt, fear and tears were clearly visible in her eyes. Sheturned her gaze to Owen whose bulk was now shaking either through shock or anger or both. She studied his face, looking for the pallor brought on by shock to appear, but his complexion remained deep red. She noticed too that the veins stood out on his neck as he opened and closed his clenched fists.
“What the fuck is going on?” Owen screamed, pointing at the screen.
Nobody answered and nobody spoke. Those who had turned to view the screen were now clearly focussing on Cyril, anxious to hear what he had to say. A slight buzz drifted from other parts of the building, amplified by the vacuum-like state of the Incident Room.
“Listen! Owen!” Cyril’s raised voice cloaked a calm instruction that made Owen sit.
Game Point Page 12
