by Tim Ellis
‘Don’t hold back – tell it like it is.’
‘Specific risks associated with the skin grafts are bleeding, infection, loss of grafted skin, nerve damage . . .’
’None of which apply to me – right?’
‘Of course, that’s always the modus operandi, but it’s my legal duty to appraise you of those risks. Most skin grafts are successful, but in some cases they don’t heal well and may require repeat grafting.’
‘If that happens I hope you have medical insurance, because I’ll sue the arse off you.’
‘Which I’m sure will be just as painful as your backside.’
‘I was beginning to wonder whether you had a sense of humour.’
‘Oh yes, I have one, but I try to keep it under wraps. Patients don’t usually appreciate a flippant doctor.’
‘Yeah okay. So, you can make my scarring – front and back – look a lot better than it looks now?’
‘To give you an idea. I’d say the condition of the skin in the scarred areas was currently at forty-five percent. I can raise that significantly to around ninety-seven percent. There will be a few minor imperfections and blemishes, but nothing that will detract from your overall beauty.’
‘Is that you being flippant?’
‘I’m shocked you would even consider that. Of course, if you were to sign up for the breast implants, tummy tuck, face lift and liposuction . . . Well, we’d both become famous. You for your mesmerising beauty, and me for my vision and skill.’
‘Just the skin grafts, please.’
‘Of course, Madam knows best.’
‘When will I be able to go home?’
‘Do you have someone who can change your dressings? Remember, they’ll be on your back and buttock mostly, so you won’t be able to change them yourself.’
‘No.’
‘Ah! Then, I’d say a week at the very least.’
‘Okay.’ What the hell, she could do with a week’s rest after the shit she’d been through lately. A week lying around doing nothing, high on painkillers – sounds like a holiday someone would pay good money for.
The nurse siphoned blood from a vein into a variety of small bottles, took a swab from her mouth, weighed her, recorded her height, took her blood pressure and pulse, asked her to pee into a bottle no bigger than a thimble and then said, ‘National Health Service number?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll check.’
‘Check all you want. I haven’t got one.’ She did have one, but under her real name of Susan Bunyan. The one thing she hated was being in the system. And seeing as she was coming into the clinic as Jessie Gibbs she wasn’t going to give her NHS number to anyone here.
‘What about the gunshot wound?’
‘Private clinic.’
‘Name of the clinic?’
‘It’s closed now.’
‘I see. Do you have any other significant medical history besides the gunshot wound?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have to believe you then.’
She tried to smile, but she’d never been much good at smiling. ‘Is this the face of someone who would tell lies?’
‘Mmmm!’
That was then, this was now.
She signed all the paperwork that Nurse Beverley Wills thrust in front of her and was then left to her own devices to settle in. Her surgery wasn’t scheduled until nine o’clock in the morning.
***
‘Did you bring the sandwiches with you today, numpty?’
‘Jenifer made me some.’
‘She made “you” some! I’m sure you mean she made “us” some?’
‘Of course – a slip of the tongue.’
‘You’ve been having a lot of those tongue-slips recently. I suggest you might want to go and see a tongue doctor.’
‘What do they call them?’
‘Tongue doctors.’
‘Oh!’
They were sitting in a rusty pool car on a dirt track overlooking a collection of industrial units located on Grange Farm, Church Lane in Carneles Green. The Chief Constable had heard that there were detectives sitting around on their fat arses at Hoddesdon doing sweet bugger all and phoned Chief Kowalski yesterday, who had promptly called them into his office.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Your Chief Constable needs you. Someone must have told him you had nothing to do . . .’
Xena’s lip curled up. ‘It was Parish, wasn’t it? Or that trollop, Richards?’
‘I doubt it, they’ve got nothing to do either.’
‘So why does the Chief Constable need me and Gilbert, and not Parish and Richards?’
‘You’re still on my shit list, Blake.’
‘After what Parish did, he should be on your shit list as well?’
‘He was cleared of any wrongdoing by Professional Standards.’
‘And that makes everything all right does it, Sir?’
‘Stop whingeing, Blake. You and Gilbert have been seconded to Kent and Essex Serious Crime Directorate for as long as they want you. You’re to report to Detective Chief Inspector Alan Ridge at Force HQ in Chelmsford. He’s expecting you before lunch . . . and stay out of trouble.’
‘I’ll make sure she stays out of trouble, Sir,’ Stick said.
‘I’m relying on you, Gilbert.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Outside Xena said, ‘If I want to get into trouble Stickynuts, I fucking well will.’
‘Of course, my mistake.’
Now, she said, ‘Well, what’s on our sandwiches?’
Stick licked his lips. ‘Fish paste.’
‘Fish paste! I hate fish, and I particularly hate fish paste.’
‘I’m sure Jen didn’t know.’
‘You should’ve told her.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you should have known. I hope you’ve brought strong black coffee with milk and lots of sugar in it?’
‘Herbal tea.’
Xena spat. ‘How long have we been partners?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘You don’t know anything, do you?’
‘It’ll come to me.’
‘I’ll bet you don’t even know when our anniversary is, do you?’
Stick pulled a face. ‘We have an anniversary?’
‘The first day we started working together.’
‘It was a Wednesday . . .’
‘It was a fucking Tuesday.’
‘I was close. I recall it was in July . . .’
‘February.’
‘Again – pretty close. The thirtieth?’
‘The seventeenth.’
‘I think I have a fairly decent memory, don’t you?’
‘You have the memory of a gnat. Our partnership means nothing to you, does it?’
‘I didn’t realise it meant so much to you.’
‘It means less than a pile of cow dung to me, Stickamundo.’
He passed her a plastic sandwich box from the shopping bag he’d brought with him.
‘What’s this?’ She prised the lid off. Inside were two tin foil packages, a short-stemmed rose and an envelope. She opened the tin foil packages. The first one contained two cheese and cucumber sandwiches cut in half – her favourite, the second one was an almond tart – she loved almond tarts. She sniffed the rose – it was freshly picked. In the envelope was a card with a picture of some flowers on the front and inside, a handwritten message:
Xena
Thank you
for being my partner
Happy Anniversary
Stick
X
‘I should find the nearest gallows and string you up by your stickynuts.’
‘I know, but you won’t.’ He put his hand in the bag, brought out a thermos flask and passed it to her.
‘I was wondering where the coffee had got to. I didn’t get you anything, you know.’
&nb
sp; ‘You remembered – that’s all that matters.’
‘It was Jenifer who remembered, wasn’t it?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Using the police-issue binoculars he peered through the windscreen at the industrial units. ‘Do you think anything will happen today?’
‘Do I look like a clairvoyant?’
‘There was this woman on Southend beach once . . .’
‘Just because you bought me a work-anniversary card, it doesn’t mean you can talk dirty to me.’
‘Sorry.’
She poured herself a coffee and screwed the top back on the thermos flask. ‘In my experience of drug suppliers . . .’
‘I didn’t know you had any experience of drug suppliers.’
‘I’ve seen them on the television, and I was in the pub once when officers from the Drug Squad were talking about a drug bust.’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘That has nothing to do with it. So what do you know about drug suppliers then, Stickleback?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘I’d say that makes me the resident expert, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does.’
‘Maybe we should go down there and stir it up a bit?’
Stick turned to stare at her. ‘That’s exactly what the Chief was talking about when he said, “Stay out of trouble”.’
‘So we sit here doing nothing, working the whole day through?’
‘That’s what being on a stake-out involves.’
‘How many stake-outs have you been on?’
‘Lots. When I was in Special Ops . . .’
‘I don’t want to know about that. I want to go down there and see what’s happening.’
‘There’s nothing happening down there. Drink your coffee and eat your sandwiches, and let’s follow orders. DCI Ridge said that if we saw any movement we were to call it in and then we’d get some more instructions. He did not say that we should go down there and make some movement of our own. And anyway, we’re not the only people staking the farm out.’
Xena screwed up her face. ‘I’m bored.’
Chapter Two
‘Detective Inspector Parish,’ Stafford Pike said, coming forward with his hand outstretched. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Parish smiled and shook the proffered hand. ‘All good I hope?’ He wasn’t going to mention he’d heard a lot about Pike as well. That was a conversation littered with booby traps, trip wires and pot holes.
‘Mostly.’
‘Mostly?’
Pike looked beyond Parish. ‘And who have we here?’
‘This is . . .’
‘. . . Detective Constable Mary Richards,’ Pike finished for him. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about you as well.’
‘Also good I hope.’
‘Mostly.’
‘Mostly?’
Pike swept his arm out. ‘And this is the beautiful and talented Anne Pollard.’
Pollard’s face coloured. ‘Stop embarrassing me, Sir.’
‘See how modest and self-effacing she is.’
Parish smiled and shook Pollard’s hand as well. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’
Richards nudged him in the back.
‘And this is DC Richards – my partner.’
They shook hands.
‘Ma’am,’ Richards said.
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’ She turned to the incident board. ‘Okay, I’d like you two to focus on this area here . . .’ She’d cut up the search area into four sections and used her laser pointer to indicate the fourth section. The other three sections had already been allocated to search-trained team leaders:
1) Hailey Avenue, Bridle Way North, Bridle Close, Beechfield, Chaucer Way and Granville Gardens;
2) The second part of Bridle Way North, Molesworth, Beyers Way, Beyers Prospect and Plomer Avenue;
3) Dymokes Way, Bridle Way South and Lyttons Way;
4) Stoneleigh Drive, Forrest Primary School and Stanstead Road.
‘Now, I know you two are used to looking for murderers, but today you’re searching for an eight year-old child. I’ll let you have six uniformed officers to help you. I want everyone questioned, everywhere searched and everything recorded. I know the CCTV footage suggests that Lisa Cabot never reached Bridle Way South, but ignore that. Let’s assume that she did reach the school. I’d hate the idea that she was being held somewhere we ignored. Any questions?’
Parish pursed his lips. ‘Seems straightforward enough.’
‘Good. A mobile command centre – where I’ll be located – will be set up here in about an hour.’ She pointed to the corner of Beyers Prospect and Dymokes Way. ‘Anything at all – call it in.’
He nodded.
‘Do you have any leads yet, Ma’am?’ Richards said.
‘No – not a one.’
Parish picked up a map of the area and two radios from a table, ‘What does the mother think happened to her daughter?’
‘She has no idea. Can’t give us anything. Although, as I said during the briefing – she’s not telling us the whole truth.’
‘Do we think she’s been abducted?’
DI Pollard glared at Richards. ‘Let’s not second-guess our own investigation, Constable. We have to work with what we’ve got. And for now we have people on the ground.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
There didn’t seem to be anything further to discuss, so they made their way out.
Six uniformed officers followed them.
Richards led the way in the pool car with Parish in the passenger seat.
The six uniformed PCs – Tracey Caldecott, Tim Arkell, Graham Hill, Morris Martin, Jean Vincent and René Stephens – travelled behind them in two squad cars.
‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ Richards mimicked as soon as they were heading towards Hailey. ‘No, and you never will if I have anything to do with it. You have a wife and three children to support.’
‘You have a mind like a sewer, Richards. “I haven’t had the pleasure” is what people say in polite company. The pleasure relates to meeting the person, not having sex with them.’
‘I know what you meant. I mean, she wasn’t behind the door when they were giving out looks, bodies and intelligence, was she?’
‘Not unlike yourself.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Pike was drooling.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘I’ll bet.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘And did you hear – she called me “Constable”?’
‘Because that’s what you are.’
‘I’m a DC not a PC.’
‘Both of which are mouthfuls. “Constable is the common denominator in both of those ranks, therefore you’re a Constable.’
‘I’d prefer it if she called me “Detective”.’
‘Like the Americans do?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Never going to happen.’
‘Do you really think Pike was drooling?’
‘Like a rabid dog.’
‘He’s too old for me, isn’t he?’
‘Ancient. And not only that, he’s a DCI. If he even looked at you the wrong way he’d be burned at the stake as an example to others. A similar punishment would also befall a Constable who became involved with a senior officer.’
‘I’m not thinking . . .’
‘That’s exactly what you were thinking. Any port in a storm. Just because you’re between men at the . . .’
‘Between men! That’s what they say about women who have boyfriends . . .’
‘You have boyfriends.’
‘Paul, you mean?’
‘He was a boyfriend, wasn’t he?’
‘He’s a work colleague. I should never . . . It was a mistake.’
‘You’ve had other boyfriends.’
‘I seem to attract the wrong type of men.’
‘You’re too picky.’
‘Me? You’re the one who’s too picky. I must be the onl
y twenty-two year-old woman in the country who has her boyfriends vetted by her father.’
‘Look what you ended up with when you didn’t listen to me.’
‘One mistake.’
‘One! There was the married man . . .’
‘All right, you don’t need to keep bringing my past mistakes up all the time.’
‘You’ll find someone.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. You’re young, beautiful and intelligent. Maybe you should try internet dating.’
‘I’m not that desperate.’
‘You are that desperate. You keep pooh-poohing it, but maybe now is the time to take the bull by the horns and do it.’
‘I’d rather . . .’
‘You’re not the only person on the planet who has trouble meeting Mr or Mrs Right, you know. I tried it once – before I met your mother, of course.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. We’re busy professionals. When do we ever get the chance to meet anyone who isn’t a work colleague, a criminal, a suspect or an undesirable?’
‘Never.’
‘Exactly. Teachers have the same problem as well.’
‘Really?’
‘And doctors, nurses, social workers, the clergy . . .’
‘The clergy?’
‘They’re like us. When do they ever get to meet people who aren’t parishioners, or relatives of married people, christened people, or dead people?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You suppose right.’
‘Okay, maybe I’ll try it.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, if you set up a meeting with someone you met online, he could be a serial killer . . .’
‘Now you tell me.’
‘You’d have to be pretty unlucky to get one of those though.’
‘That would be me.’
‘Anyway, you’d meet them in a public place. I’d be skulking in the shadows to make sure nothing untoward happened . . .’
‘And I don’t go anywhere with them on my own?’
‘Definitely not. Maybe after the fifth date – once we’ve got to know him.’
