by Tim Ellis
***
‘Are you ready, Richards?’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Stay behind me.’
‘I’m not stupid.’
They were standing in the back garden of Winston Hillman’s house at 15 Lake Road in Nazeing. The house used to belong to a Mrs Margery Hillman, but she had died from a virulent form of throat cancer three months previously. Winston Hillman was an Assistant Librarian, but he’d received notification that the Library was due to close, and that he would soon be unemployed.
Parish held the Glock 19 in both hands. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he knew from experience that the best laid plans had a nasty habit of going pear-shaped. One thing tonight had highlighted was that Richards wasn’t weapon-trained. He’d have to fix that in the not-too distant future.
They were both wearing bullet-proof vests and more armed officers were waiting for his order outside the front door.
Through the glass of the kitchen door he watched as the small skinny man helped a really obese girl into the room, which he assumed must be Abigail. She looked as though she’d been drugged – most likely Rohypnol, he thought. The man bent her over the heavy-duty kitchen table . . .
He’d seen enough. ‘Now!’ he hissed into the radio.
The sole of his size ten boot connected with the wood of the kitchen door – it splintered and flew open.
‘Put you hands behind your head and lie down on the floor,’ he shouted at Hillman.
Winston Hillman didn’t seem to understand simple instructions. Instead, he picked up a double-edged knife and came at Parish like a flailing banshee.
Parish pulled the trigger twice.
The nineteen millimetre parabellum rounds entered his heart and killed him instantly.
Hillman seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Eventually, he fell to the kitchen floor and bounced once.
Two armed officers burst through the connecting door between the living room and kitchen aiming their Heckler and Koch MP5 carbines.
Parish held his hands in the air and shouted, ‘CLEAR!’
Everyone relaxed.
‘What’s happening?’ Abigail mumbled.
The paramedics were called in and took Abigail away. It was unlikely that she’d remember anything of what had happened, but now, at least, she’d get the help she needed.
Next, came Toadstone. He’d finally handed over 116 Sutherland Road to forensic officers from the Met. They’d found the bodies of twenty-three young women, but there was still some way to go. A number of the bodies had been buried three-deep in graves.
‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late, Toadstone.’
Toadstone’s face looked drawn and tired, but he smiled anyway. ‘Shakespeare at his best.’
Richards opened her mouth to say something.
‘Don’t give him any credit for that, Richards – it was a really easy one.’
‘You look tired, Paul,’ she said.
‘I am.’
‘Stop complaining, Toadstone. You’re lucky to still have a job. There are millions out there who haven’t got jobs, and the vote to leave the European Union has had a devastating effect on Richards’ plans to take me to the Court of Human Rights . . . Right, are you ready, Richards?’
‘For what?’
‘To go home, put our feet up in front of the television, watch some decent football and then stagger up to bed. Talking about Toadstone being tired has planted a seed in my mind . . .’ He yawned. ‘Now look what you’ve done, Toadstone.’
Toadstone opened an evidence bag.
Parish dropped the Glock in it.
‘Have a good sleep, Sir.’
‘I intend to, Toadstone. Don’t you stay up too late. I expect to see you at the station first thing.’
‘I’ll be there.’
***
Thursday, February 25
‘Keep going.’
‘Will you stop doing that?’
‘I’ll stop shoving you in the back when you stop slowing down.’
‘I’m tired. How far have we run?’
‘A mile.’
‘No we haven’t.’
‘That’s what my pedometer states.’
‘It must be broken.’
‘It’s not broken.’
‘It must be lying.’
‘It doesn’t lie.’
‘I feel faint.’
‘Keep going.’
‘Stop doing that.’
‘Only another four miles to go.’
‘Four miles! That’s not even a real distance, is it?’
‘Have you lost any weight yet?’
‘I’ve put on two pounds.’
‘Are you snacking between snacks?’
‘No.’
‘And you call my pedometer a liar. I checked under your pillow and found a hoard of chocolate bars and wrappers.’
‘You’ve been in my bedroom?’
‘I was looking for Digby. I slipped on the clothes littered all over your floor, put my hand out to break my fall, which accidentally slid under your pillow and came into contact with the offending items.’
‘I’m being framed. You planted them.’
‘I advise you to call a lawyer.’
‘It must be where Digby keeps his chocolate. You know I never eat chocolate.’
‘Digby knows he can’t eat chocolate. In fact, I’m beginning to think that Digby is more intelligent than you.’
‘You think more of that dog than me.’
‘I’ve disposed of the chocolate.’
‘You’ve taken my chocolate away?’
‘So, it was your stash of chocolate?’
‘No.’
‘You should start to lose weight now.’
‘I hate you.’
‘And there’ll be a chocolate inspection every night before you go to bed.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I’m your trainer, I can do anything I want to. Also, if I feel that it’s necessary, you’ll have to undergo blood tests, so that we can check for any banned chocolate substances.’
‘I’ll die if I don’t get my chocolate.’
‘You’ll die if you do.’
‘What about BetaStats?’
‘You can change the subject, but you can’t change your training regime.’
‘Did I say I hate you?’
He pushed her in the back. ‘Keep going.’
‘Will you stop that?’
‘Toadstone obtained the BetaStats staff list and there are two people on it with those initials.’
‘Are we going to arrest them?’
‘On what evidence? We need to find out what’s going on first. It’d help if we had an inside man.’
‘I’m no good with numbers.’
‘I know that. I was thinking of Toadstone.’
‘He’s not an undercover officer.’
‘Not yet.’
***
‘Where the fuck have you been, Kowalski? I’ve been waiting here for ages.’
‘My jetpack ran out of fuel. I had to divert to Heathrow and catch a train here on the underground. Do you know how difficult it is trying to get on a train carrying a jetpack? In fact, difficult isn’t the word – it’s impossible.’
‘And yet here you are?’
‘Here I am. Did you get me a drink?’
‘I’m a lady. You should be buying me drinks.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Seeing as the boat’s coming in, I’ll have a lager.’
‘I thought you knew the jargon. It’s a ship, not a boat. A pint, or a half?’
‘A pint. I don’t do half-measures in anything.’
‘No. I should have realised.’ He made his way to the bar. He would have liked a pint himself, but settled for a half. Hunting serial killers under the influence was not to be recommended. He weaved his way back through the end-of-day crowds filling up the King Charles pub, put the drinks on the table and sat down on a st
ool.
‘Well?’ Bronwyn said.
‘I ran a background check on Lieutenant Geoffrey Orwell. He has a very expensive apartment close by overlooking the Thames.’
‘Being in the Navy must pay well,’ Bronwyn said. ‘I thought the apartments here were selling for nearly a million pounds.’
‘He was left money by rich parents.’
‘How the other half live.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not one of the other half.’
‘I am, but I wouldn’t squander my hard-earned money on irrelevant luxuries.’
‘You prefer to live in a squat?’
‘Living somewhere for free with like-minded people is like winning the jackpot on a fruit machine.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, Orwell’s father was an Admiral, who sent his son to be educated at Eton. After that, he studied science – specialising in botany – at Cambridge University. He then went to the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth for initial training. He’s thirty-eight and he’s been serving on HMS Westminster for eighteen years.’
‘So, you have people breaking into his place and searching it for evidence?’
‘No.’
‘You pigs will never learn. You’ve tied yourself up in knots with stupid laws to protect the rights of everyone but yourselves. In the end, you can’t do anything to anyone at anytime, because you have your hands tied behind your back, shackles around your ankles, a blindfold covering your eyes, tape over your mouth . . . Need I go on?’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary . . . Oh! By the way. The Chief Constable offered me my job back.’
‘I fucking knew it! I should never have agreed to go into business with a copper. I hate coppers. Coppers are like the worst species of human being on the planet. They’re untrustworthy, out for what they can get, shifty, untrustworthy, greedy, have no morals, don’t put in a decent day’s work . . . I fucking hate coppers.’
‘I was flattered, of course. I mean, it only seems like yesterday that I watched that three million pound helicopter disappear into the murky depths of the North Sea, and there he was offering me my job back on a plate.’
‘Well, you can go for me. I often wondered what you did anyway. I’m sure I can employ an amoeba to replace you. And don’t think you’re getting any of your money back . . .’
‘Anyway, as flattered as I was, I said no.’
‘You said no?’
‘That’s right. I told him I like being my own boss.’
‘You’re delusional, Kowalski. I’m surprised you haven’t realised yet that you work for me. But that’s it with coppers, especially ex-coppers, they’re a bit slow on the uptake. Well, never mind, it’ll sink in with time. I don’t know what fucking possessed me to get involved with a copper. I fucking hate coppers . . .’
‘Should we go?’
‘It is time?’
‘Unless you want to carry on talking to yourself?’
‘No, I think I’ve made my feelings crystal clear.’
They made their way to West India Docks and stood opposite the gangplank with all those waiting for family, friends and loved ones to disembark.
Kowalski gave Bronwyn a copy of Lieutenant Orwell’s picture, but Orwell didn’t walk down the gangplank. Neither did Seaman Perry Rawlins.
‘Where’s Perry, Kowalski?’
‘I don’t know.’
There was a few stragglers left, but everyone who was going on shoreleave had already gone.
‘I have a plan,’ he said. ‘Come on . . . And, I know it’ll be hard, but leave the talking to me.’
She made a noise with her lips.
Two seamen were on guard at the bottom of the gangplank.
Kowalski produced his Warrant Card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Kowalski to see the Captain.’
‘Is he expecting you, Sir?’ one of the seamen said.
‘No.’
‘And the lady?’
‘She’s with me.’
He used a radio to contact the Bridge and was told to escort Kowalski and Bronwyn to the Wardroom.
They followed the seamen.
Kowalski had been to the Wardroom before, but he couldn’t remember the way.
Captain Renshaw-Smythe was waiting for them. ‘I thought it was you DCI Kowalski – related to Polish royalty as I recall?’
‘That’s right, Captain.’
‘What brings you on board Her Majesty’s ship?’
‘Seaman Perry Rawlins.’
‘Ah!’
‘What?’
‘We believe he either fell overboard, or . . . jumped.’
‘Could he have been pushed?’
‘Of course! You’re a murder detective. When other people’s first thought is an accident, yours is murder.’
He indicated Bronwyn. ‘I don’t know if you recall Bronwyn, but she was also on your ship with my wife?’
‘I recall. I have a good memory for faces.’
‘Well, she and Perry have been romantically involved since then, and Perry contacted her by email saying that he was concerned that his superior officer was murdering prostitutes in the ports you were visiting.’
‘Preposterous.’
Kowalski took out the two translated foreign police reports he had been able to obtain, the foreign language newspaper reports and the list of murders that Bronwyn had discovered, and placed them on the table in front of the Captain.
Visakhapatram, India – February 11, 1999
Karlskrona, Sweden – April 27, 2002
Dohar, Qatar – September 9, 2010
West India Docks – March 23, 2011
Colombo, Sir Lanka – 15 December, 2012
Jebel Ali, Dubai – May 02, 2013
Karlstrom, Sweden – January 19, 2016
‘Those are the dates a prostitute was murdered in each of the ports. Now, if you tell me that HMS Westminster wasn’t in just one of those ports at the time of a murder, then that will be an end to it, and Bronwyn and I will walk away.’
The Captain ran his finger down the list. Eventually he said, ‘You have my attention, Chief Inspector.’
‘Each prostitute was killed in the same way. They were raped and sodomised, strangled with a black skinny scarf, which was then tied around each woman’s neck. An orchid was also left in their hair. The orchid was the same type in each case – an Ophrys, sometimes called a Prostitute Orchid.’
He stared at the list of dates again, skim-read the reports, looked at the photographs of the murdered women . . . ‘Lieutenant Orwell joined the ship in 1998.’ He stood up and spoke into a radio on the wall.
‘Lieutenant Portland.’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘Send two armed guards to the Wardroom.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Are you going to throw us overboard as well?’ Bronwyn said.
The Captain half-laughed. ‘It’s a bit cold for swimming in the Thames, my dear. I could let the Chief Inspector here loose on my ship to go and arrest Lieutenant Orwell, but that’s not how we do things in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. We’ll put the Lieutenant in the brig for the time being, and the Royal Naval Police will liaise with the Metropolitan Police Service and we’ll see what materialises.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
‘Leading Hand Jolly and Able Seaman Morgan, Sir.’
‘Okay, lads. We’re going down to Lieutenant Orwell’s cabin. When we get there, you’re to arrest him, put him in the brig and guard him. Any questions?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Good. Follow me.’
Kowalski and Bronwyn brought up the rear.
The Captain knocked on Orwell’s cabin door.
‘One moment.’
The Captain wasn’t the type of person to wait and threw open the door.
Orwell was sitting on his bed looking at photographs. He stood up and tried to shield the photographs from sight. ‘Captain! I wasn’t expecting you. If you could just . .
.’
‘Arrest Lieutenant Orwell and take him away, men.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Leading Hand Jolly said.
The two seamen grabbed Orwell’s upper arms and propelled him out of the cabin.
Kowalski and Bronwyn squeezed into the cabin.
The Captain pointed at the Polaroid photographs on the bed. ‘I think those support your version of events, Chief Inspector.’
There were seventeen photographs in all. On the back of each was the date, time, place and name of the prostitute he’d murdered. Jodie Wilkins – Opal – was number twelve.
‘Yes, they do.’
The Captain pointed to a flower. ‘Isn’t that an orchid?’
‘Bronwyn’s the expert on orchids.’
They both stared at her.
‘Looks like a prostitute orchid.’
‘As I said, I’ll get the RNPs to investigate and liaise with your people, Chief Inspector.’
‘It’ll be a bit embarrassing for the Royal Navy won’t it, Captain?’
‘Embarrassing . . . No. We’ll deal with this internally. Lieutenant Orwell will be court-martialled, drummed out of the service and handed over to the civilian prison authorities for incarceration.’
‘What about Perry?’ Bronwyn said.
‘It’s possible that he got too close to finding out the truth about Lieutenant Orwell, but proving it would be difficult. He might confess to pushing Seaman Rawlins over the side of the ship in the course of the investigation, but I would say that those photographs provide enough evidence to lock Orwell up for some considerable time. As for my report – Seaman Rawlins was lost at sea. That’s the best I can offer I’m afraid, my dear.’
Kowalski left all the evidence he’d accumulated with the Captain – he had copies.
They shook hands and were shown off the ship.
‘That’s it then,’ Kowalski said, as they made their way to Westferry tube station.
‘Except I haven’t got a boyfriend anymore.’
‘A boyfriend via Skype is no boyfriend at all. My advice to you is to find someone a bit closer to home.’
