by Ellis, Tim
‘Thank you, Mr Randall,’ Marvin said.
‘Let’s move on. Where does Jim work?’
‘He’s a software development engineer with a company called Lotus Systems,’ Megan said.
‘What does that entail?’
‘He travels around a lot, and apparently he designs, develops, maintains and troubleshoots software – whatever that means. He tried to explain it to us once, but as you can see . . .’ she waved her arm around to take in the whole room. ‘We don’t even have a computer.’
‘And where are Lotus Systems based?’
‘South Ockendon I believe.’
‘Does he enjoy his job?’
‘Loves it. That’s what his degree is in – he applies the principles of engineering to software. Do you know, he’s the first in our family to have gone to university?’
‘Really?’ He played along. They had lived the lie for so long that they didn’t even realise it was a lie anymore.
‘Yeah. He’s done us proud. Considering Marvin and me aren’t up to much in the old brain department.’
Marvin screwed up his face and said, ‘Hey, speak for yourself. I do quite well answering those “Pointless” questions every night.’
‘Of course you do. And I’m sure you’re a world expert on how to manage Tottenham football club.’
‘Yeah well. If I was in charge I’d get rid of . . .’
‘I don’t think Mr Randall came here to talk about football, Marvin.’
Marvin took his hand back and stuck his bottom lip out.
‘What about Colleen?’ Randall continued.
‘She’s been to university as well. Her degree is in English. She works as a reporter for Oyster Wines & Spirits in the City of London, and she loves her job as well. I know the police think Jim and Colleen simply walked away from their lives, but I just don’t see it. They would have told us for one thing.’ She took a tissue from the box on the plastic coffee table and dabbed at her eyes before blowing her nose.
‘Stop blubbering, Megan. Mr Randall will find them. Won’t you, Mr Randall?’
‘I’ll certainly give it my best shot.’
‘There you go, old girl. He’ll get some answers for us.’
‘Do you know if they had any money troubles?’
Megan shook her head. ‘They’re both earning a good wage. Yes, they’ve got a mortgage and other bills just like a lot of other young people, but nothing that would make them run away from everything and everyone.’
‘Do you know why they were in the Blackwall Tunnel at ten-thirty on a Saturday morning?’
‘No, sorry. They had their own lives and certainly didn’t tell us everything that they did. Maybe they were going away for the weekend.’
‘The police didn’t find any luggage, briefcase, handbag or any other personal possessions such as Jim’s wallet in the car.’
Megan shrugged. ‘Then we don’t know.’
He exhausted his bank of questions, and then went outside before it got dark to examine the Ford Focus. He’d read an article once on the lengths that the East Germans used to go to in order to escape from Russian controlled East Berlin, but he didn’t find any modifications to the car that would enable two people to hide inside until they could make a break for freedom.
‘Thank you for your time and honesty,’ he said shaking their hands. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Thanks, Mr Randall,’ Marvin said. ‘You’ll keep us informed?’
‘That’s what you’re paying me for.’
Chapter Nine
George Swash had short gelled hair, a four o’clock shadow and the jaw line of a Greek god. She wanted to be angry with him, but his smile melted her resolve. After all she’d been through she had no right to be attracted to a man. In fact, she was toying with the idea of dabbling in the dark cesspit of lesbianism.
‘DI Molly Stone,’ she said shaking his hand.
‘You should be on the cover of Vogue.’
‘Does that rubbish actually work?’
He gave a laugh. ‘Not so far, but I live in hope.’
‘Well, keep your mind focussed on what you’re here for. I’m a lesbian.’
She saw his face visibly sag. ‘Oh!’
The Margravine Gardens evidence storage warehouse – ESW for short – had come into existence as a dire necessity. Police stations were gradually filling up – not with criminals, police officers or technology, but with files and evidence boxes. The more paper-oriented, efficient and streamlined the police became, the more files and boxes of evidence were produced. Until, with more and more space in police stations being identified as “Property Rooms” it became obvious that something had to be done before police officers were encouraged to start working from home, and asked to keep suspects in their spare rooms.
A working party was set up to examine the issue and make recommendations. Due to the constraints of the criminal justice system, however, it quickly became apparent that securing case evidence was simply another task to be undertaken to ensure criminals were put behind bars and remained there. A warehouse was purchased, police and civilian staff under an inspector were identified to undertake the task of document and evidence management, a ready-made storage system was brought in, everything was moved from A to B and the bureaucracy breathed a sigh of relief.
The chain of evidence is essentially a chronological paper trail showing the seizure, custody, control, transfer, analysis and disposition of physical or electronic evidence. It has to be provable in a court of law that nobody who has not been documented in the paper trail could have accessed that evidence.
Sergeant Kathleen Cooke was one of a number of people in charge of the terminal stages of that paper trail for Hammersmith and the surrounding areas, but before any evidence was accepted for storage at the warehouse the chain had to be verified and she – or one of her officers – would then sign for the evidence as the last person in the chain, and allocate it to a storage space within the building.
Molly showed her warrant card.
Sergeant Cooke was expecting both her and Mr Swash, and slid a sheet of paper clipped to a board towards her across the counter and through the gap in the metal grill. ‘Please sign in and be sure it’s legible.’
They both did as she asked and then she examined what they’d written to make sure she could read it.
‘Mr G Swash from the Criminal Cases Review Commission?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Could I see some form of identity, please?’
He passed his ID to her.
She verified he was who he said he was and passed it back. ‘Please follow me,’ she said unlocking a metal gate for them to walk through with an access card. She then locked the gate again.
Molly could see at least three CCTV cameras high up pointed at her and Swash.
They were in an administrative area between the reception and the main warehouse. There were two other police officers seated at computers – one male and one female – and two female clerical staff.
Sergeant Cooke unlocked another door at the rear of the room using her access card, ushered them through into the warehouse proper and locked the door after them.
Parked up against the wall were five electric buggies. She released one from the spiral charging cord and sat in the front behind the steering wheel.
‘Jump in,’ she said to them. ‘This place is too big to walk anywhere.’
They did as she told them.
She drove down an aisle. On either side were shelves four high, and each shelf had been delineated by cages. On the front of each cage was a serial number and a card lock.
‘Very impressive,’ Molly said.
‘The latest technology. When I open the storage unit to give you access to the evidence in the Haig case, my card will be recorded in the software as the person who opened the unit at this time today. I then have to go back and explain in the software why I opened the storage unit. A senior officer must then sign off on it. The cha
in of evidence is maintained.’
‘What about the doors?’
‘Everything is connected to the software including the CCTV system. We also have a high-security room and a cold room for weapons and drugs.’
‘Have there ever been any security incidents?’
Sergeant Cooke glanced over her shoulder. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Ma’am, but are you crazy? This place is like the bullion depository at Fort Knox.’
‘That didn’t stop Goldfinger.’
‘Which was a movie, Ma’am.’
‘What about when there’s a power cut?’
‘Lockdown. Nobody gets in or out. But we have a back-up generator anyway. After three minutes, the back-up kicks in.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got everything tied up here, Sergeant.’
‘Never had any complaints, Ma’am’
After a labyrinthine route through the aisles, they eventually arrived at the storage unit where the evidence in the David Haig case was stored.
Both Molly and Sergeant Cooke put on plastic gloves before Cooke slipped her card into the lock. The door of the cage clicked open. She pulled one of the two translucent plastic storage boxes out of the unit and dropped it onto a similar-sized foldaway shelf that she’d opened up at waist level.
Between her and Molly they began checking the contents of the box. Every item of evidence had been sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag with its contents recorded on the front.
‘Dress – Chelsea Mey?’ Molly read from the content list that had been secured to the top of the box.
‘Check,’ Sergeant cook said putting the bag to one side.
‘Knickers – Chelsea Mey?’
‘Check.’
‘Shoes – Chelsea Mey?’
‘Check.’
‘Bra – Chelsea Mey?’
‘Check.’
‘Vaginal DNA sample – Chelsea Mey?’
There was no answer.
Molly looked up and repeated: ‘Vaginal DNA sample – Chelsea Mey?’
Sergeant Cooke’s face had drained of colour. ‘It’s here, but . . .’
‘But . . . ?’ Molly asked. ‘But what?’
‘The seal on the evidence bag has been broken.’
‘Impossible. You said that this place was like Fort Knox. You said that not even Goldfinger and Oddjob could get in here.’
‘Don’t ask me how . . .’
‘Is there a problem?’ George Swash asked.
It came to Molly then that it was all a set up. This was what they were meant to find. She pulled out her phone and called Perkins.
‘Hello?’
‘DI Stone, Perkins.’
‘How lovely to hear from you.’
‘I’m sure. I need your help.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m at Margravine Gardens about to sign over evidence to a man from the CCRC.’
‘And why do you need my help with that?’
‘We’ve found an evidence bag in one of the storage boxes with the seal broken.’
‘Impossible.’
‘And yet, here I am looking at an evidence bag with the seal broken.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘You personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘With your box of tricks?’
‘Oh yes! The Amazing Carl Perkins is on his way.’
‘And . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Bring your brightest computer specialist with you. They have . . .’
‘Yes, I know about the latest software they have installed there.’
‘Good. I want to know what happened before the shit hits the fan and a murdering rapist bastard is released.’
‘I understand.’
The phone went dead.
She glared at Swash. ‘Yes there’s a problem, Mr Swash, as you knew there would be?’
‘I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You will be sorry if I find out you’re involved.’ She looked at Sergeant Cooke. ‘What’s going on, Sergeant?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Ma’am.’
‘This place is like Fort Knox you said, and yet somebody has waltzed in and destroyed the chain of evidence in the David Haig case. How is that possible?’
Cooke shook her head. ‘It’s not possible.’
‘Aren’t you the person in charge?’
‘Today . . . yes, but there are twenty one police officers and two clerical staff who work here under Inspector Andrew Strebler at New Scotland Yard.’
‘Well, it’s obviously an inside job?’
‘I’ll have to contact the inspector.’
‘Not yet. The less people who know about this at the moment the better. I’ll phone Inspector Strebler as soon as I know what’s going on. My head of forensics is on his way with a computer specialist. Leave everything where it is.’
‘Does that mean I’m not getting the Haig evidence now?’ Swash said.
Molly held out her hand. ‘Mobile phone?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I don’t want you calling anybody until we know what’s happened here.’
‘I think you’ll find I have the right to a phone call.’
‘I’m suspending all rights. Handcuff him, Sergeant.’
Sergeant Cooke unhooked the cuffs from her belt.
Swash produced his phone like a street magician and offered it to her.
Molly took the phone and slipped it in her jacket pocket.
‘You’ll be in a lot of trouble once we get out of here you know, Inspector,’ Swash said.
She ignored him. To Sergeant Cooke she said, ‘Handcuff him.’
Cooke’s eyes opened wide. ‘For real? Are you sure, Ma’am?’
‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
‘You can’t do this,’ Swash complained as Cooke handcuffed his wrists behind his back and sat him in the rear of the buggy.
‘Let’s all go back to the reception shall we?’ Molly said climbing into the buggy beside Swash.
Cooke drove them all back.
The two police officers were still in the administrative area when they got there, but the two clerical staff had gone home.
‘Step away from the computers,’ Molly said to them.
They looked at Sergeant Cooke.
‘Do as the inspector says,’ she said.
They obeyed.
Molly smiled. ‘Okay, who’s turn is it to make the coffee?’
Cooke crooked her head at the female constable. ‘Steadman, it’s your turn.’
Constable Annette Steadman asked Molly and Swash how they liked their coffee and then went to the kitchen area.
‘I won’t be able to drink mine,’ Swash said, indicating his arms.
‘Handcuff one wrist to the upright,’ Molly said to Cooke, pointing at a metal shelving unit. ‘And give him a chair so that he can sit down.’
‘They’ll want to know where I am,’ Swash said.
‘Speak again and I’ll put a gag on you.’
He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but then closed it.
‘All access is controlled by those cards?’ she asked Cooke.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘How many cards are there?’
‘Twenty seven. Three currently in use by those on duty, and twenty four in the safe. Nineteen are for other members of staff, and four are spare but haven’t yet been activated. The clerical staff are not issued with access cards.’
‘Check that all nineteen are still there, and that the four cards that haven’t been activated remain inactive.’
Cooke squatted in front of the Chubb Data Safe, keyed in her pin number and opened the door.
‘Who has access to the safe?’
‘Inspector Strebler and the three sergeants: Jill McGregor, Verona Adam and myself.’
‘Well?’
‘All nineteen are here, but I’ll have to put the inactive cards into a reader to check their status.’
/> ‘Okay, leave them until the computer spec’ gets here.’
Constable Steadman brought out the drinks.
She moved to the far side of the room with her coffee and phoned Randall.
Chapter Ten
He was travelling from Covent Garden to Hammersmith during the rush hour. He’d forgotten how claustrophobic it felt to be a sardine crammed in a tin. There were no seats and his arm was aching from hanging onto the ceiling bar. He wondered who the hell was driving the train, and after a few stops reached the conclusion that it was probably one of the inmates from the asylum who’d been let out on day-release – there were a few who thought they were train drivers. Then his mind wandered along the route of internal design, and he decided that the whole underground system was a government experiment in human control. Like all the other passengers, he was simply a rat in a maze, subject to the whims of crazy scientists.
It was only Monday. He’d visited the crime scene, interviewed Jim’s parents and examined the car. It had been a good first day. Also, threads of the spider’s web had begun to extend outwards. Ruby was looking into Jim and Colleen’s credit card expenditure, and their bank and telephone records, which would probably result in further leads.
Tomorrow, he needed to visit the O’Connor’s house in Chiswick, and the two places of work – Lotus Systems and Oyster Wines & Spirits. Then there was the strange event of Jim’s abandonment and adoption. Did that have a part to play in his disappearance?
His phone activated.
People gave him dirty looks as he wriggled his arm into his pocket to retrieve it.
‘Hello, Molly.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Yes, I’m fine thank you. How are you?’
‘I don’t even know why I’m ringing you. I should just let them arrest you, lock you up and throw away the key.’
‘Like you did . . . ?’ He didn’t finish the sentence. That part of his life was over. He still had issues, but to a large extent he had come to terms with what had happened. Nothing would be achieved by raking over the dying embers of his past life.
‘Go on say it, “Like I did last time”.’
‘What would be the point? We both know what happened. Why are you ringing?’
