by Ellis, Tim
‘I can’t do that.’
She thought he sounded shocked at the suggestion.
‘You’ve already crossed the line, Strebler. You can do anything you want to now.’
He went quiet.
Probably searching for an excuse not to do it, she thought.
Eventually he said, ‘The people I know would want to know why. It would quickly get out.’
He was right, but it still rankled. She felt as though he wasn’t pulling his weight.
‘Okay, I know someone who knows someone.’
‘It won’t lead . . .’
‘Don’t worry, nothing will lead back to you. I haven’t come all this way to get caught now.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I need the names.’
‘I’ll text them to you.’
‘That seems logical. Do it now. The sooner we put this to bed the better.’
‘I agree.’
She ended the call.
The list of names pinged into her inbox. She thought about sending them straight on to Randall, but she needed to know about the DNA analysis first. The urge to phone Perkins was overwhelming, but he’d simply say that he hadn’t got the results yet. What was taking him so long? Was he having second thoughts?
She climbed into the car.
Tony was still fiddling with the cylinder.
‘Put it away, Tony.’
‘I’m so close.’
‘You’re about as close to opening that up as I am to becoming the Police Commissioner.’
He put the cylinder back in his pocket. ‘What now, Gov?’
‘King’s College.’
‘Because?’
‘We’re going round in circles with this case. What we need are some answers. We’ll take that cylinder and the number we found, to someone who knows about those things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I have no one specific person in mind, but there’s bound to be someone in the mathematics department who’ll have a much better idea of what to do with that cylinder and the number than you.’
‘If you’d have given me a couple more minutes . . .’
‘You still wouldn’t have opened it up. Come on, let’s get going.’
Tony started the car and reversed out like a getaway driver. ‘What about forensics? Someone there might have . . .’
‘And someone there might not have as well. If no one can help us at the university then we’ll throw the conundrum at Perkins.’ Normally, she would have passed the number and cylinder directly to Perkins, but if she did that it might take him away from more important tasks – such as analysing the hairs that Randall thought might belong to Jacob. What if it was Jacob – what then? Arresting him just wasn’t a feasible option. If she couldn’t arrest him, then legally she could only let him go. That was never going to happen. The only course of action left open to her was to kill him – yes, she had to kill him. And Randall had to let her.
‘Okay.’
‘And then we’ll go back to the station. We need to get to the bottom of who this Marshall Grant was. We know he was in prison between 2005 and 2007. Then he disappeared until he didn’t die in a hit and run in Salisbury in 2012. He then became Father Nathan Grove. We do know – because of that dead bug in his back – that at least two years ago he was living somewhere in the Americas . . .’
Tony glanced at her. ‘Which is a pretty big place.’
‘I’m impressed by your geographical knowledge.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It gives us a place to start looking for Father Nathan Grove. I think we’re pretty sure now that Marshall Grant stole the priest’s identity. What we don’t know is why, or whether the priest is still alive.’
‘I’ve just had a thought.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t think the Archbishop knew he had an imposter in his diocese and that’s why he wouldn’t tell us anything. Maybe he’s trying to find out what’s going on himself and that’s probably why he’s incommunicado.’
She thought about the possibility for a while. ‘Then what did Father Fleming want to talk to me about?’
‘Maybe it was something else.’
Maybe it was. She’d assumed it was about Father Grove’s past and the reason for his murder, but maybe it wasn’t about that at all. Maybe it concerned how the Archbishop knew about her father and Jacob. ‘You could be right for once, Tony.’
He grinned. ‘Thanks, Gov.’
‘Someone impersonating a parish priest for eighteen months would certainly embarrass the Catholic church.’
‘What the Archbishop would have known was where Father Grove had been before he came here, and my guess is somewhere in the Americas where those botflies burrow into humans.’ Tony shivered. ‘Gives me the creeps just thinking about it.’
‘Marshall Grant must have been there at the same time and decided to change places with Father Grove – but why?’
‘Hopefully, the answer will be in that cylinder. He was hiding it up his arse for a reason.’
‘And the killer?’
He grinned. ‘A disgruntled parishioner who found out Father Grove wasn’t a priest?’
‘You were doing good as well. Now, instead of recommending you for the sergeant’s exam, I’ll have to suggest that you go back to pounding the beat instead.’
‘You’re recommending me for the sergeant’s exam?’
‘That was before you thought you were a comic genius.’
‘Hey, thanks Gov.’
‘Drive.’
They parked over double yellow lines in Drury Lane, put the “Hammersmith Police Investigation” sign in the window and walked across Aldwych to the Strand campus Grade I listed building overlooking the Thames. After navigating the steps and arched entrance, they found themselves in the lobby flanked on either side by marble statues of two ancient Greeks – the lyric poet Sappho and the tragedian Sophocles.
The School of Natural and Mathematical Sciences was located on the third floor.
‘Should we use the stairs?’ Tony asked as they waited for the lift.
‘You keep giving me reasons not to recommend you for that sergeant’s exam.’
He grinned. ‘But you will. When is the next one?’
‘February, so you’d better get your head in those books.’
‘I will.’
The lift eventually arrived. On its way up to the third floor it jerked, screeched and crunched. Molly guessed it was probably being operated by an ass and three oxen turning a water wheel in the basement.
Mrs Ethel Clarke – the academic school receptionist – resembled an American pit bull terrier. She had a large head with dark brown hair from a sachet, powerful jaws and a muscular neck.
‘Yes?’ she said, looking as though she might pounce on them at any second.
Molly produced her warrant card. ‘DI Stone from Hammersmith.’
She clearly wasn’t impressed. ‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to see somebody who knows something about numbers, please.’
‘Has that crazy bitch Sue Whitfield from the library sent you to wind me up?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m running a murder investigation, and I’ve bit a problem that I need some help with.’
‘What type of problem?’
‘A number problem.’
‘You can obfuscate as much as you want,, but you’re not getting past me until I know what the problem entails.’
Tony chipped in. ‘We’ve got a cylinder . . .’ He pulled it out of his pocket and dangled it in front of her. ‘. . . that we need help with opening.’
She went to grab it, but he moved it just out of reach. ‘It’s evidence, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmmm.’ She stared at them for a handful of seconds and then picked up the phone. ‘I have two people out here who say they’re police officers, Professor . . . Okay, thanks.’
Ethel continued to stare at them until a black woman in her mid-fifties a
ppeared. She wore rimless glasses on the end of her nose, an emerald green jacket and skirt, with a large matching pendant on a gold chain around her neck.
‘Hello. I’m Professor Violet Pike. How can I help?’
Molly produced her warrant card again. ‘DI Molly Stone.’
Tony held up the cylinder. ‘We want to get this open.’
‘Then you’ll need to see Professor Nicholas Louis – He has experience with those things.’ She turned to Ethel. ‘Is Professor Louis in today?’
Ethel nodded. ‘Yes, but he said he wasn’t to be disturbed.’
The corner of her mouth went up. ‘He’ll want to be disturbed for this.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
As Randall walked through the industrial estate towards the main road and the bus stop, the snow began falling much heavier than it had been when he’d first arrived. He thought that maybe he should have called for the sled and huskies – mush.
His shadow was still following him, and now he wondered just who the hooded man was working for. The possibilities underlying the O’Connors disappearance from the Blackwall Tunnel were mounting up. Could it be related to Colleen’s scoop – the £17.5 million wine fraud? Was it possible that the pregnant Ginny Moran’s crazy father and brothers were involved. Then there was Jim’s abandonment as a baby – had his biological mother or father returned to claim him. Lastly, there was the Ministry of Defence and the Salamander project. What was Jim working on? Had someone kidnapped him to – literally – pick his brains?
He caught the return bus to Upminster station, but before he boarded the metal chariot into the hell of the London Underground he decided to phone Ruby.
‘I’m sorry I ever gave you my number now.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘If you keep calling me and giving me work I could very much mean it.’
‘You don’t want the work?’
‘Can’t you simply send me the money and get someone else to do the work?’
‘Yes, I could do that.’
‘You could?’
‘No.’
‘I’m beginning to go off you in a big way, Cole Randall.’
‘People often do. Once they realise that beneath the grizzled exterior is an even more grizzled interior – it’s hasta la vista, baby.’
‘So, have you rung to tell me how everyone misunderstands you, or do you have more work for me?’
‘Salamander.’
‘It’s a newt, isn’t it?’
‘Probably, but I’m more interested in Project Salamander that Jim O’Connor was working on for the MoD.’
‘Interesting.’
‘And . . .’
He heard a sigh. ‘More?’
‘You sound like Oliver.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Oh yeah, the cooking guy – Jamie Oliver.’
‘That’s the one. Colleen O’Connor received a tip-off about a wine fraud involving three investment companies that I’d like you to check out: Antigua Vintners Ltd, Cambridge Wine Commodities Company and International Wine Trading Ltd. Also, I found six sets of initials in her diary that might be related: GN, DT, MF, GF, JD and JW.
‘I’ll take a look.’
‘By the way, did you find out anything about Jim being abandoned?’
‘You’re not reading your emails, are you?’
‘You’ve probably guessed I’m out and about.’
‘Have you never heard of an internet phone?’
‘Probably not. Remember, I’ve been off the grid for a while.’
‘I remember. So, what phone have you got?’
‘It’s my old one.’
‘Does it have a touch screen?’
‘A what?’
‘You need to upgrade your phone like yesterday, Cole Randall.’
He guessed he did. Kiri had a new-fangled phone. He’d get her advice. ‘Any recommendations?’
‘Go for the best – with plenty of memory.’
‘In the meantime . . . ?’
‘Okay. Eighteen months ago Charing Cross Social Services received a letter from a firm of solicitors relating to a male baby abandoned in a doorway at the rear of Charing Cross Hospital on the night of Wednesday 17th October 1984.’
‘Jim O’Connor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did Social Services respond?’
‘There’s no record of any response, but the firm of solicitors – Crippen, Cross & Stain – were kind enough to give me the name and address of their female client . . .’
‘Very generous of them.’
‘It certainly was. Do you want to write it down?’
‘No. I’m not going to do anything with it today. I’ll take a look when I get home.’
‘As you wish, master. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bye.’
The call ended.
Ruby certainly didn’t hang about. Maybe she was one of the new breed of human beings with strange disorders nobody could pronounce or remember the names of. His view was that they were just another name for a lack of discipline – an excuse for children to do and say what they wanted. Four years in the army would sort them out he was sure.
He rang Athena.
‘Any luck?’
‘I didn’t get to own a multi-million pound company by luck, Mr Randall. Two operatives will meet you at Hammersmith tube station and latch onto the person following you. At the end of the night they’ll report back to me and then I’ll let you know where he went.’
‘Great. Did you . . .’
‘Of course. An alarm system has been installed, and instructions have been left on how to operate it. If DI Stone encounters any problems, there’s a number she can ring.’
‘You’re fabulous.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m about to leave Upminster, so I should get to Hammersmith at about ten past five.’
‘I’ll let them know.’
The call ended.
He thought about ringing Molly, but decided to wait until she called him with the results of the DNA test.
As he walked into Upminster Station – the eastern terminus of the District Line – and over the footbridge to Platform 5, he wondered about the letter from the solicitor. Was the female client Jim’s biological mother? If it was, what did she want from him? Was it simply a meeting to let her son know that he had a mother? That she was sorry for abandoning him? Why hadn’t Megan and Marvin been contacted by Social Services? It was another lead that he needed to explore.
He had to wait three minutes for the train. The journey time was an hour and ten minutes. He decided to doze. Not only had he got up early this morning, but he’d probably be late getting back tonight. Old people needed lots of sleep. Did he have Jacob? How long did Perkins need to analyse a couple of hairs for God’s sake? Maybe he should ring Molly.
It wasn’t going-home time yet, but people were still going home. Why? Were they knocking off early? Weren’t there laws about getting paid for work not done? If there were so many people in work, what the hell were they all doing in this carriage? He closed his eyes. Somebody had farted and it wasn’t him. He opened an eye to examine the suspects, but nobody caved in under the pressure. What was the world coming to?
The train jerked as it arrived at Hammersmith, which was probably a good job because he’d have probably ended up in Scotland if the jerk hadn’t woken him up. The carriage was packed and he had to fight his way through the heaving mass to the door and out onto the platform: ‘Excuse me. Pardon me. Sorry. Can I just . . . ?’ And then he was propelled along corridors, up stairs, escalators, through electronic barriers to the surface like a turd caught up in a fast-flowing sewer.
Outside, he gulped the cold London air. Falling snow was intermittent and it wasn’t sticking. It was the type of swirling snow that promised snowmen, laughing children, closed schools, sledging, snowdrifts
and fifty-mile traffic jams, but gave you nothing.
He burst into the cafe as if it was a desert oasis and found a seat by the window so that he could watch the people on King Street. If he was going to die, then this was where he wanted it to happen. Oh, there were a thousand other places – such as between Kiri’s legs, or up to his neck in blood and gore during an investigation, but slurping coffee and people watching was his first love.
‘Coffee?’
He turned his head. ‘You know how to pleasure a man.’
Kiri smiled. ‘Especially a simple man with simple pleasures.’
‘I was just thinking how much I love sitting here staring out of the window at the people.’
‘I’ll organise a rocking chair and a blanket for you.’
He nodded. ‘Perfick.’
‘How’s your day been?’
‘Unusual. I need a new phone by the way.’
‘Is your other one broken?’
‘No. Apparently, it’s not fit for purpose. I need to be able to access my emails on the move.’
‘Maybe later, we can look at the deals online.’
‘Ah! Later I won’t necessarily be here. I have to go out, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’
‘I could look for you.’
‘And then show me how it works?’
‘Of course.’
She kissed him. ‘You’ll want to eat here then?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I’ll get your coffee.’
The Pepper Pot was a popular cafe at the height of its popularity. It was that time of day when it began to resemble a bus or a train in a third-world country. There were no occupancy limits, no weight restrictions and no rules about what was or was not contraband. It was every person or animal for themselves. If you couldn’t sit – you stood. If you couldn’t stand – you lay on the roof, clung onto the back, sat half-in and half-out of the windows, squeezed into the cage with your pet alligator . . .
He ordered a full English breakfast. His reasoning was that – he liked the meal. Yes, he liked other meals, but if you fancied something why should you have to eat something else? He fancied a full English and that was an end to it. Who the hell said that it was bad for you anyway? Everything was bad for you, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he read recently that salad was bad for you as well? Where would it end? Who were you to believe? And anyway, didn’t everybody die? Oh, you could live until you were a shrivelled walnut living in a care home being fed slush through a tube and unable to recognise anybody, but who wanted that? If he was going to die, then he’d like nothing better than to die sitting here in his rocking chair and blanket, people watching with his coffee and cooked breakfast – perfick!
