by Tim Ellis
‘No.’
‘Oh!’
She heard Joe take off his jumper and then felt the wool brush her knee in the dark. ‘Thanks,’ she said, then stood up and tied the arms around her waist so that the body of the jumper stopped people looking at her bare arse through the gap in the hospital gown. Whoever invented hospital gowns should be hanged, drawn and then quartered as a lesson to others.
‘If you needed something to keep you warm,’ Shakin’ said. ‘I have just the thing.’
Bronwyn half-laughed. ‘You’re going to be a puddle on the floor when we get out of here.’
‘When?’ He grunted. ‘Don’t you mean if?’
‘I’ve been in worse situations than this.’
‘Really?’ Joe said.
‘Really. There was the time . . .’
Just then, they all jolted sideways as the truck came to a stop.
‘Do you think we’ve arrived?’ Joe said.
Jerry’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘Arrived where though?’
Nothing happened for a long time.
‘What do you think is happening?’ Joe mumbled.
‘Have you got your crystal ball with you, Jerry?’ Bronwyn said.
‘I was only . . .’
They covered their ears as chains crashed against the top and sides of the container. They could hear men shouting and swearing, and then felt sick as the container was lifted up and began swinging every which way with metal smashing against metal.
Joe and Shakin’ began shouting.
‘HERE.’
‘IN HERE.’
‘HELP! WE’RE IN HERE.’
Nobody took any notice.
‘Are you two for real?’ Bronwyn said.
‘They could have heard us,’ Joe replied.
‘You certainly screamed loud enough. Like a pair of fucking groupies at a boy band concert.’
‘I don’t suppose now would be a good time to ask you out on a date?’ Shakin’ said.
‘Not now. Not ever.’
‘What about me?’ Joe said.
‘Mmmm! I’ll have to give your request some serious consideration.’
‘Really?’
‘What do you think, weirdo?’
They were rocked from side to side, thrown against each other and lurched downwards with a wrenching jolt. Then, there was more crunching and banging as the container came to a rest and the chains were removed.
‘What do you think is happening?’ Shakin’ said.
Joe gave a nervous laugh. ‘I think we’ve just landed,’
‘Yeah, but landed where?’
‘I’d say a container ship,’ Bronwyn offered.
‘A container ship!’ Joe said ‘Why?’
‘Getting rid of the evidence,’ Jerry suggested.
Shakin’ took a swallow of bottled water. ‘That’s something we know a lot about eh, Joe?’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t expect to be the evidence myself.’
There was an ear-splitting crash as another container was positioned on top of the one they were sitting in, then it all went quiet.
‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’ Joe said into the darkness.
Bronwyn kept quiet. She was of the opinion that if you had nothing useful to say, then you should keep your mouth firmly shut. And at this point in time she had nothing useful to say. She thought Joe was probably right though – they were going to die. How were they going to get out of here? She couldn’t see a way out. Nobody knew where they were. And as such, no one was going to come and rescue them. They probably had enough water to keep them alive for a week, but then what?
‘Where’s that husband of yours, Jerry?’
‘I was beginning to wonder the same thing myself.’
After what seemed like hours of silence they heard and felt the vibrations of an engine, and soon it was a constant part of wherever it was that they were going.
***
‘We’d better let Doc Paine know what we’ve found out, hadn’t we?’
Xena stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Well . . .’
‘If we tell her they’re sextuplets she’ll stop looking.’
‘Stop looking for what?’
‘Anything. We’ve found out something. Now, she should do her own independent investigation without our discovery skewing her results.’
‘Under normal circumstances I would agree with you . . .’
‘That’s very generous of you, numpty.’
‘But we don’t have the luxury of time. There are two fifteen year-old girls out there who we need to find before the killer does.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘Does that mean you agree with me?’
‘It means that I’m thinking about it.’
‘Also, if we’re planning to run a media campaign then Doc Paine will find out anyway.’
‘Okay, ring her up – put it on loudspeaker so I can listen.’
Stick called Doc Paine’s mobile.
‘Doctor Sandra Paine’s phone?’ a male voice said.
Xena spoke. ‘Who are you?’
‘Why do you want to know who I am?’
‘Because you’re answering Doctor Paine’s phone.’
‘I told you that.’
They heard a scuffle. ‘Hello, Sandra Paine speaking?’
‘Who was that?’
‘My receptionist.’
‘I’d say the NHS is in dire straits if that’s all you can afford.’
‘So, what can I do for you DI Blake?’
‘It’s Stick. He thinks our four victims are from sextuplets.’
‘No – you’re wrong.’
‘I’m not wrong. Stick’s the one who’s wrong. Why is he wrong?’
‘DNA doesn’t lie. The first thing I did when I got the bodies back to mortuary was take DNA samples. The initial results suggest that none of the victims are related.’
‘But they all look so similar, and not only that – they all have the same date of birth.’
‘That may be so, but they’re still not biologically related.’
‘I told Stick as much, but he wouldn’t listen. I suppose we’ll have to go back to the drawing board now.’
‘Okay.’
‘But we have six names for you,’ Xena said before Doc Paine could end the call.
‘Six names?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you. Missing Persons came up with six fifteen year-old runaways from all over the country who matched the victim profile, and they look so similar they could be sextuplets. And then we factored in the date of birth . . . Well, Stick made two and two equal six.’
‘Do you know how rare sextuplets are?’
‘Yes – we checked.’
‘Then you should have realised they weren’t sextuplets.’
‘Oh, I did. But you know what Stick’s like.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, have you finished the post-mortems yet?’
‘Didn’t I say tomorrow afternoon at four?’
‘And you’ve not shifted from that position?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow in that case.’
Xena ended the call.
Stick screwed up his face. ‘I thought you were going to listen?’
‘I did listen. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to talk as well.’
‘The conversation didn’t go as planned.’
‘It’s your fault. I knew we should never have called her. Now we look like imbeciles.’
‘You made it quite clear it was my fault. I was certainly impressed by the way you distanced yourself from the sextuplet theory.’
‘Do you think she bought it?’
‘Not a word of it. Doc Paine is a lot more intelligent than you give her credit for.’
‘Oh well, I did my best.’ Xena stretched backwards, interlocked her fingers behind her head and thrust her legs straight under the table. ‘Right, we need a new plan. We have four victims from six, but we don’t know which four they a
re and we need to if we’re going to save the other two.’
‘DNA,’ Stick said. ‘We obtain samples of DNA from each girl’s home address, ask Doc Paine to compare said samples with the victims’ DNA and then we’ll know which two girls are still alive.’
‘I’d already thought of that, but it’ll take at least a couple of days. Do we have a couple of days?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Also, there’s no guarantee that we’ll be able to obtain samples of DNA from the girls’ home addresses. Jean Wells and Elizabeth Vincent ran away from home around two years ago. I know parents are meant to love their children no matter what, but we don’t know their family circumstances. We can still have that as our back-up plan, but we need something else.’
Stick’s eyes opened wide. ‘Vice!’
‘Go on?’
‘We contact Vice in each location, send them the six named photographs and ask them if any of the girls are working in their area. If they’re all prostitutes . . .’
‘Hold on. It’s a good idea, but . . .’
Stick smiled. ‘It is?’
‘Don’t let it go to your head, numpty. The girls might not be working the streets.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They might be high-class independent prostitutes working for themselves in houses or hotels; they could be working for an escort agency; in a brothel, sauna or massage parlour; as a window-worker; as a bar or casino worker; or as a streetwalker. We’ll try it, but we might not get lucky.’
‘Okay . . . You seem to know a lot about prostitutes.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I never would.’
‘Stay focussed, numpty. What else?’
‘Well, there’s the media campaign . . .’
‘Let’s think that through . . . In fact, why haven’t I got a coffee?’
‘Because I haven’t made you one?’
‘Damned right. While I’m thinking about the media campaign, you go and make me a coffee.’
‘I can do that. Do you want a pastry from the canteen?’
‘Sometimes you surprise me, Stickyfingers. I’ll have an Eccles cake. I don’t normally eat foreign food, but I’ve heard there are some nice people in Eccles.’
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘No idea.’
‘Okay, I’ll see if they have any.’
Once Stick had left she closed her eyes. She was so tired she felt lightheaded, and it slowed down the flow of chemicals in her brain. In some cases, she was sure there was some misfiring going on in there, but she would never admit to it. Four victims from six possible candidates, but which four? How could they find out? DNA was the obvious way, but that would take time – time they probably didn’t have. For all they knew, the killer could have already abducted the other two girls and have them locked up somewhere. Had they missed their opportunity to catch him in that room? He was selecting his victims on looks, or was he? She stood up, shuffled to the whiteboard and examined the six photographs more closely. They were all school photographs, which wasn’t unusual in itself. The girls were aged between twelve and fourteen years old. Did they look like sextuplets? Now she focused on comparing them, she realised that they certainly weren’t identical. There were minor differences – an ear, a nose, the shape of the lips, eye colour. What had made her think they were related?
The door opened. Stick came in carrying two mugs of steaming coffee and two cake bags in his mouth.
‘I hope you’re not infectious.’
‘With what?’
‘Bubonic plague for one. Your saliva could dribble down inside the bag and infect my cake.’
‘That’s true. And I have been feeling a bit off lately. Maybe I should test the cake for you . . . to be on the safe side.’
‘You’re a numpty. What would be the point of testing something that you’d already infected? Not only that, you could be a carrier.’
‘Well, I carried the cakes up here.’
‘Did you get an Eccles cake?’
‘The last one in Eccles, so Nancy in the cafeteria said.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘I had no reason not to.’
‘She’s ancient and wrinkly – that’s reason enough.’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’
Xena slipped on a pair of plastic gloves from out of her pocket to open the cake bag, and then removed them to slide the Eccles cake out. ‘What’s strange?’
‘When I look at people I assume they’re telling the truth. But you assume they’re lying, don’t you?’
‘People are intrinsically evil.’
‘Whereas I think they’re good.’
‘That’s why – against all the odds – we have a good partnership.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes, but only because I’m in charge. If you were in charge it wouldn’t work.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re too nice.’
‘Isn’t that good?’
‘No. You’d get taken advantage of. People want other people to be nice, but when they are they take advantage of them – it’s human nature.’
‘The dark side of human nature.’
‘That’s where we ply our trade, Stickleback.’
‘Mmmm! I suppose so.’
‘You suppose right.’
‘On my way back here I thought that if we gave the press all six photographs with the girls’ names and locations on . . .’
‘We haven’t informed the parents yet.’
‘Ah! That’s a problem.’
‘Normally, we’d drive round and give the victims’ parents the bad news, ask them to identify the remains of their child, request that they make a television appeal, give the media what we want them to have and so on, but this is different. There are six sets of parents who live all over the country, but only four bodies and we don’t know which body belongs to which set of parents, so it’s an integral part of matching the DNA samples . . .’
‘We can’t run a media campaign, can we?’
‘No. To put it bluntly – if we did the shit would hit the fan. It would only complicate our investigation further.’
‘If we’re not running the media campaign, don’t we still have the . . . ? No, ignore that.’
‘What?’
‘I was thinking that maybe we still had the industrial unit, but the killer would have seen the media coverage of the drugs’ operation, the helicopter and the shootout.’
‘That’s true. But what if he never reads a paper or watches the television? What if he goes back there? What if . . . ?’
‘I thought you said there was a month between victims?’
‘I did. And I know it’s highly unlikely, but what if I’m wrong? Or, what if he’s getting to like what he’s doing and decreases the time between victims?’
‘We probably need to put a stake-out on the industrial unit, don’t we? Imagine if he returned with another body and there was no one there to see him.’
‘You’re a numpty. If there was no one there to see him, how would we know he’d come back?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘Anyway, here’s something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘Dates of birth.’
‘I was wondering about them.’
‘What were you wondering?’
‘Well, I’d only just started to wonder, so I was at the early stages of the wondering process.’
‘You’re going to hurt yourself.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Definitely. So, how in hell does he know that these six girls’ dates of birth are the same? How does he know they look similar? How does he know where they lived? How does he know anything about them?’
‘Those are all very good questions.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Have you got any answers to those very goo
d questions?’
‘Mmmm!’
‘You haven’t, have you?’
‘Did I say I was a bit tired?’
‘You’re not the only one who’s tired, numpty. I’m tired as well, but you’ll notice that I’m still operating at peak efficiency.’
‘That’s probably why you’re a DI and I’m only a DS.’
‘There’s no probably about it. Look . . .’ She pointed at the six photographs on the whiteboard. ‘Why do they look so similar?’
‘We know they’re not sextuplets.’
‘Yes?’
‘That’s all I have.’
She sighed. ‘Why did they all run away from home? Where did they run to? We assumed that each one was still in the place that they came from, but what if they all went to somewhere else – such as London . . . ?’
‘Okay.’
‘You’re not getting it, are you?’
‘Getting what?’
‘There are no coincidences here – they all know each other. The girls know one another, they also know the killer and he knows them.’
Stick rubbed his eyes and stared at the photographs. ‘They’ve made themselves look like each other, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘Online? Maybe a chat room?’
‘That’s my guess.’
‘Maybe we need to talk to a computer person in forensics.’
‘We can certainly have a womble up there and see what they have to say for themselves, but I’m not optimistic.’
‘Why not?’
‘What would they be looking for?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Exactly. Not only that, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of chat rooms on the internet.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘I have an idea. There’s a junior in the office downstairs. Run down there and drag her up here by her hair.’
‘Because?’
‘You’ll find out when you come back with her.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I don’t suppose so, but I like to call people by their names It’s much better than saying, “Hey you?”.’
‘Are you still here?’
‘Absolutely not.’
***
‘Tilbury docks,’ Kowalski said to the pilot as he climbed back into the chopper.
The pilot nodded and started up the engine. ‘Flight time is about forty minutes.’
