by Tim Ellis
The Kisses of an Enemy
(Parish & Richards #17)
Previously:
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Breath of Life
The Dead Know Not
Be Not Afraid
The House of Mourning
Through a Glass Darkly
A Lamb to the Slaughter
Silent in the Grave
In the Twinkling of an Eye
A Time to Kill
Deceit is in the Heart
The Fragments That Remain
The Kisses of an Enemy
Coming in 2016:
Evidence of Things Not Seen
Tim Ellis
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Kindle Edition
Copyright 2015 Timothy Stephen Ellis
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Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.
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To Pam, with love as always
Also
In memory of Auntie May
Dorothy May Owen
Who passed away on July 29, 2015
aged 91 years
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A big thank you to proofreader James Godber
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Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.
Proverbs (27:6)
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Chapter One
Tuesday, February 17
Lisa Cabot was missing.
Parish wouldn’t normally have become involved with the search for a missing child, but murders were thin on the ground and it was all hands to the pumps.
‘What pumps?’ Richards said.
‘When there was a hole in the boat, and water was threatening to sink it, all the crew were expected to man the pumps.’
‘Why is there a hole in the boat?’
‘Woodworm.’
‘Where did the pumps come from?’
‘Sheffield.’
‘But we’re not in a sinking boat.’
‘You soon will be if you don’t stop asking stupid questions.’
They were on their way to the Major Incident Room on the ground floor. It was quarter past ten and they’d run out of things to do for the day already.
‘So this Lisa Cabot is missing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you got any more information?’
‘I know as much as you do.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘That’s exactly how much I know.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see when we get there.’
‘Are you in charge of the investigation?’
‘I’m in charge until we reach our destination.’
‘Then who’ll be in charge?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there.’
‘You’re not being very forthcoming.’
‘That’s because we’ll be briefed when we get to where we’re going.’
‘How long has the girl been missing? I take it she is a girl. How old is she?’
‘Did I mention we’re on our way to a briefing?’
‘Maybe when we get to where we’re going I’ll ask if I can work with someone else.’
‘It’s not my birthday, is it?’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘Sir.’
‘You’re a pig, Sir.’
Parish opened the door and let Richards walk through first.
‘There’s a lot of people in here,’ she whispered.
He looked round. All the seats were taken. There were about thirty people in the room. They shuffled to the right side of the door and stood at the back with all the other late arrivals.
‘Ah!’ A tall thickset man with black bushy eyebrows, silver hair and a dark grey suit said. ‘The last two pieces of the jigsaw have arrived.’
The majority of people turned round to stare at them.
‘Is my face on fire?’ Richards hissed through closed teeth and a fake smile.
‘Yes. It looks like a bonfire with Guy Fawkes on the top.’
‘I should report you to . . .’
‘. . . The Court of Human Rights?’
‘The Equality and Human Rights Commission.’
‘I look forward to defending my honour against all and any false accusations.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen . . . I know that doesn’t apply in some cases . . .’ the man at the front said.
Polite laughter rippled through the room like a Mexican wave.
‘You didn’t say we were going to be members of a volunteer audience and experimented on.’
‘Shush.’ It was true, the humour wasn’t up to much.
The man smiled. ‘Very kind, but let’s not forget why we’re here. For those who don’t know me, I’m Detective Superintendent Stafford Pike . . .’
Richards nudged him. ‘So that’s Pike.’
‘Shush.’ Stafford Pike had been sent by the Chief Constable to lead the investigation as Senior Investigating Officer. He had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good reputation either. He was well known for achieving results, but his methods were questionable. The people who worked for him were treated merely as a means to his long-term ambitions, and it was rumoured that he wasn’t averse to breaking the law if the law was preventing him from achieving a result and moving up the promotional ladder.
‘. . . And I’ll be SIO. Anybody who doesn’t like that can see me in the gymnasium afterwards . . .’
More lousy jokes.
‘. . . As you all know, or should do by this time, eight year-old Lisa Cabot went missing this morning. But let’s expand on that paltry nugget of information, shall we?’ He swept his arm out to indicate a young woman. ‘I’d like you to meet my able assistant and coordinating officer – Detective Inspector Anne Pollard.’
‘Hey, she’s the same rank as you.’
‘Shush.’ DI Anne Pollard was being fast-tracked. She’d arrived by helicopter ten minutes ago from Force HQ in Chelmsford with Stafford Pike.
A woman, a few years younger than Parish, with shoulder-length blonde hair, a tight sleeveless black dress and matching high heels shuffled centre stage. ‘Good morning, everyone.’
There was a chorus of mumbled sexist comments and “good mornings”.
‘Do you think they’re . . . ?’
‘Shush.’ He’d heard rumours, but as far as he knew there was no forensic evidence to support those rumours. Relationships with work colleagues were strictly against the rules, especially when there was a disparity in ranks, which could quickly lead to charges of constructive dismissal in an Industrial Tribunal. He certainly wasn’t one to listen to tittle-tattle, but it had come to his attention that Anne Pollard was sleeping her way to the top. Again, proof was reduced to back-handed whis
perings in dark corridors. That said, she was definitely good looking with a figure to match, and could understand how most men would be tempted.
‘At approximately eight thirty this morning Lisa Cabot left her house at 15 Hailey Avenue in Rye Park to go to school – Forrest Primary School on Stanstead Road. It’s a twenty minute journey, but she never arrived . . . And before anybody asks: Yes, she does have a mobile phone, but it’s been switched off.’
Three support workers distributed a photograph of Lisa Cabot dressed in her school uniform. She had thick dark-brown shoulder-length hair tucked behind unflattering large ears, a thin face and body, and some of her front teeth were missing.
The incident board had already been set up and the same picture stared out at them from its centre.
A map of the route that Lisa Cabot would have taken to school had been drawn and enlarged across the width of the top of the board by someone with an impressive artistic eye, and the key points were highlighted and flagged.
DI Pollard was using a red laser pointer to trace the route that Lisa Cabot would have taken to school. In fact, the child had been using the same route to school for three years. ‘. . . At the top of Hailey Avenue she would have turned left into Bridle Way, followed the road round and turned left again into Beevers Prospect until she reached the T-junction with Dymokes Way. Now, if she’d been allocated a place at Cranbourne Primary school at the end of Dymokes Way, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but she wasn’t, so we are. She crossed Dymokes Way into Lyttons Way, followed the road round and turned left again onto Bridle Way South where she took a right into Stoneleigh Drive, which is where the pedestrian entrance to Forrest Primary School is located . . .’
‘She’s a good speaker . . .’
‘Shush.’ It was true, Anne Pollard was an impressive speaker. She had everything going for her.
‘. . . Lisa’s teacher – Gillian Sandland – took the electronic register between nine and five-past. Lisa was recorded as being absent. This absence was flagged on the school secretary’s computer and Mrs Janet Lassiter – Lisa’s mother – was sent an automatic text message to her mobile phone stating that her daughter was absent. And this is where the story gets a bit muddy. Mrs Lassiter didn’t see the automated text message until ten fifteen – a whole hour and ten minutes after it was sent. She then contacted the school to double-check, and then the local police. The stepfather – Ronald Lassiter left for work at eight twenty-five – slightly before his step-daughter – and appears to have an alibi. The mother said she was in the shower and getting ready to face the day during that hour and ten minutes, but we don’t believe her. Okay, it’s now ten to eleven. Lisa Cabot has been missing for just over two hours . . .’
‘Any CCTV, Ma’am?’ a male voice called out.
‘Who are you?’
A bald-headed man with a pot-belly hidden by a checked shirt stood up. ‘DS Todd Linklater from Vice.’
‘I’m hoping that Lisa Cabot is found before lunch, so that I never get to know any of you by name, but if she isn’t, and we’re here for the long haul, then I’ll get to know each one of you. The answer to your question DS Linklater is yes, but only on Bridle Way South. I haven’t looked at it myself yet, but I’m assured that Ronald Lassiter’s car is seen driving East along Bridle Way South towards the roundabout with Stanstead Road, and Lisa Cabot never reaches the main road, but that CCTV footage is being subjected to a more rigorous examination by forensics as we speak . . .’
‘Do you think Paul . . . ?’
‘Shush.’ Yes, he did think Toadstone was involved with this investigation – all hands meant all hands.
‘. . . I’m in close liaison with Paul Toadstone – the Head of Forensics already. We’ve sent a forensic team in to search Mrs Lassiter’s address for any evidential leads and to collect a DNA sample should the unthinkable occur. We’ve also despatched a Family Liaison Officer – Lorraine Stewart – who has experience of liaising with the families of missing children . . .’
‘Excuse me, Ma’am,’ a female constable said, putting her hand up.
‘Yes, Constable?’
‘What about the biological father?’
‘He died three years ago on an oil rig off the Scottish coast. We’re having the details confirmed, so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’
‘Ma’am,’ a male constable said.
‘Yes?’
‘Has the girl gone missing before?’
‘No. A risk assessment has been carried out and the behaviour is totally out of character. We’ve therefore assessed her disappearance as High Risk. A report has been submitted online to the UK Missing Kids website; a Child Rescue Alert has been issued; the Child Abduction Unit, National Missing Persons Helpline, Child Exploitation and Online Centre, Interpol, and the National Ports Office at Heathrow have all been notified.’
She looked around the room, but there didn’t seem to be any more questions. ‘I’m going to match people to tasks now, but remember that the first forty-eight hours following a child’s disappearance is critical. Let’s do our jobs properly and find this girl alive.’
***
The Beautiful You Cosmetic Surgery Clinic took up the corner plot on Lower Wimpole Street and Henrietta Plaza in Marylebone, London, and from the outside looked like a gothic cathedral. It had three floors, rooms in the attic and a sprawling cellar. There were also small spires and chimneys on the roof, and someone agile enough could easily have scaled the outside of the building if they’d wanted to.
‘Miss Gibbs,’ the middle-aged nurse said. ‘My name is Beverley Wills. Please come with me. I’ll show you to your room and we’ll complete all the paperwork for your surgery.’
‘Do you have paperwork to complete as well?’
‘We’re in this together, Miss Gibbs. It’s a shared experience.’
She doubted very much whether Beverley Wills was going to donate some of her skin for a graft so that she could experience the same fucking pain as her.
It had been just over a month ago that she’d come to the clinic and had a consultation with Doctor Mark Thompson.
‘Nasty,’ he’d said when he saw the exit wound in her lower back.
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Please, remove your top.’
She turned to stare at him.
‘I’m a doctor – trust me.’
She took off the hoodie and then her Come to the Dark Side: We Have Cookies t-shirt.
‘The bra as well, please.’
‘I hope this is really necessary?’
‘It is.’
She unhooked her bra.
‘No children?’
‘Why – do my tits look like I’ve breast-fed a football team?’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure the slight sagging is due merely to a lack of exercise on your part.’
‘Slight sagging!’ She covered up her breasts with crossed arms and cupped hands. ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve. I do lots of exercise.’
‘Pectoral flys? Chest presses? Push ups? Dumbbell lateral shoulder raises? Ab planks . . . ?’
‘Well no, but . . .’
‘You can also keep your breasts perky by improving your posture – keeping your shoulders straight, pushing them back and holding your head up. Young people today tend to slouch a lot.’
‘I don’t slouch.’
‘Your body tells me otherwise.’
‘My body should shut the fuck up.’
‘We also perform breast lifts, breast implants, tummy tucks, face lifts, liposuction, laser ablation of varicose veins, hair restoration, snoring treatments, vaginal rejuvenation . . .’
‘Do I need any of those procedures?’
‘I think breast implants could be a life-changing experience.’
‘You’ll have a life-changing experience yourself if you don’t stick to the fucking point. This consultation is costing me a hundred quid, so let’s discuss the reason I came here, and stop trying to drum up extra business. Can you
do anything with the scarring, or not?’
‘Please undo your jeans and lie face down on the couch.’
She did as he asked.
He slid his hands into plastic gloves, pulled down her jeans so that her arse was showing, and began examining the exit wound and the other scars on her back. ‘Mmmm!’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Do you want to tell me about these other scars?’
‘No.’
‘It would help.’
‘They’re marks from a father who liked to inflict pain on his daughter.’
‘That wasn’t all though, was it?’
‘Look, I’m not here as a volunteer for the amateur psychotherapist hour. I’m here for you to fix my body, so leave my damaged psyche alone.’
‘Yes, I can fix your body. First of all we’ll remove the damaged tissue . . .’
She wondered what all this “we” was about. ‘Will I be helping as well?’
‘Yes. You’ll be thinking pleasant thoughts under anaesthesia while I perform miracles.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Good. Once we’ve debrided the scarred areas, we’ll remove a layer of skin from your buttock and then graft it onto your lower back.’
‘Will there be a scar on my backside as well?’
He squeezed her buttocks.
She clenched them.
‘No. The skin will grow back after six weeks, but it’ll be painful at first.’
‘I love pain.’
‘That’s good, because you’ll be getting plenty of it. We’ll peel the skin from your back in much the same way as the removal of skin from your buttock – similar to peeling a potato. Of course, we’ll give you strong painkillers, but they won’t completely eliminate the pain. Also, as with any surgery under general anaesthesia, there are risks such as temporary mental confusion, lung infections, stroke, heart attack and death . . .’
