by Ellis, Tim
‘You know we’re not allowed to use it for our personal relationships.’
Angie touched his arm. ‘He’s not going to come back on Wednesday, or any other day, is he Jed?’
‘I would be very surprised if he did.’
‘He’ll come back, you just wait and see. He loves me, he calls me his passion fruit.’
‘Oh dear,’ Angie said again.
Richards pulled a face as she plonked herself down in a chair. ‘You just don’t want me to have anyone to love, but you’ll see, he’ll be here on Wednesday evening.’
‘Name?’ Parish asked.
‘Vince... Vince Jones, although he likes me to call him Vinny.’
Parish burst out laughing.
‘What? Don’t laugh, tell me what?’
‘Vinny Jones was a footballer who used to play for Wimbledon FC, and is now a Hollywood actor.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Did you check his driving licence, or see anything with his name on it?’
‘I didn’t have to, I trusted him.’
‘What about his car number plate, tell me you wrote down his number plate?’
‘I have his mobile number.’
‘And you’ve rung it?’
‘We’ve texted.’
‘Ring him now.’
‘It’s a bit early in the morning.’
‘Give me the number, I’ll ring him.’
She snatched her phone up. ‘I’ll do it.’
They waited while she connected, and held the phone up to her ear.
‘That doesn’t prove anything. He could be in the shower, driving to Land’s End, or...’
‘Land’s End?’
‘That’s where his course is.’
‘And you’ve checked that there is actually a course running there, and he’s on it? You’ve rung the hotel where he’s staying? And...’
‘You always have to spoil everything, make it seem sordid.’
‘What’s your job, Richards?’
‘You know what it is, I’m nearly a detective.’
‘Nearly being the operative word. You’ve let a man into your life without checking him out. Would you do that as a detective?’
‘Well no, of course not, everyone is a suspect when we’re investigating a case.’
He stared at her waiting for the penny to drop.
‘What, you want me to treat all men as suspects?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘But everyone is innocent until proven guilty, aren’t they?’
‘That’s a nice idea thought up by some do-gooder, but do we honestly believe that? You’ve just said that everyone is a suspect when we’re investigating a case. As such, it doesn’t work in practise – everyone is guilty until proven innocent.’
‘That’s terribly cynical.’
‘You work on that basis every day at work.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes.’
She put a spoonful of Muesli in her mouth and was evidently thinking about what Parish had said.
‘Okay, but normal people don’t run their boyfriend’s names through the CrimInt database.’
‘First of all, you are normal people. And second of all, if they could, they would. All men are the worst kind of criminals when it comes to sex – they can’t help themselves. They’re driven by an evolutionary imperative to sow their seed wherever they can, and they’ll lie and cheat to do it.’
‘He’s not going to turn up on Wednesday, is he?’
‘I doubt it very much.’
‘Why do I do it? I say every time I’ll let you vet them first, but they all seem so honest and persuasive. I shouldn’t be allowed out on my own.’
***
After lunch he sidled down to the ground floor to find Celia Rowe in Missing Persons. He’d never been there. In fact, apart from knowing that it was located on the ground floor, he actually had no idea where it was. Eventually, he found a door with a hand written sign pinned to it, which read MPs and a smiley face drawn underneath.
He knocked and opened the door.
Constable Celia Rowe was a short rotund black woman of indeterminate age who wore a permanent smile on her face. He’d caught her eating some strange food out of a plastic container.
‘You wanted to see me?’ he said.
‘And you are?’
‘DI Parish.’
‘From the MIT?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, take a seat.’
He looked around but there was nowhere to sit. ‘Where?’
‘People usually perch on the corner of the desk.’
He perched.
‘Do you want to share my Ackee and Saltfish?’ she said thrusting the fishy dish under his nose.
He hated fish. ‘Thank you, but I’ve just had lunch.’
‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Chief Kirby said you you’d found something?’
‘I’m always finding one thing or another in here.’
‘A pattern?’ He was beginning to wonder if he’d stumbled into the twilight zone. The tiny office boasted a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, a chair, and stacks of files on every surface.
‘Any particular pattern?’
‘You told the Chief you’d found a pattern?’
‘I did?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, so I did.’
‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘And then you’ll take all the credit for all my hard work.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll let everyone know that it was you who found the pattern should it materialise into an investigation, but it would be very helpful if you could just give me an outline of what you’ve found so that I can decide what to do.’
‘Chief Abby didn’t tell you?’
‘Not a word, only that you’d found a pattern.’
‘Okay, but I should warn you that I’m from Haiti, and trained in the dark practise of vodou, so you don’t never want to mess with Celie.’
‘I’m not messing with you, Celie.’
‘Okay.’ She withdrew a folded piece of paper from between two files and opened it up. ‘I’ve found seven up to now going back to 1984, but I’m sure there’s more.’
‘More what?’
‘Well look,’ she said spreading the paper out and turning it towards him. In 1984, on the 10th of September, nineteen-year-old Andrew Cardigan went missing.’ She moved her finger across the years. ‘In 1991, on the same date, nineteen-year-old Abigail Carr went missing...’
‘Were they reported missing on those dates?’
‘No, those were the dates they disappeared.’
‘Okay, go on?’
‘In 1998 Adam Cunard, 2001 Adele Copeland, 2007 Aimee Carsley, 2008 Ainsley Coleman, and last year Allan Cousins – they’re all nineteen years of age.’
‘They could be spurious patterns.’
‘Which patterns are you talking about?’
‘The fact that they’re all nineteen year’s old and that they disappeared on the 10th September.’
‘Yes, those are two of the patterns, but there are others – look at the names.’
He looked, and it took him a minute – maybe two – until he saw that the names all had the same initials. He nodded his head. ‘I’m a bit excited, Celie.’
‘Yeah, I thought you might be.’
‘And you think that every year on 10th September someone goes missing with the initials AC?’
‘There’s another pattern.’ She pointed to pencilled-in letters above the years.’
He saw it straight away. ‘Alternating boy/girl?’
‘Yeah. Now I’m not sure that’s really a pattern, because we only have seven MPs in twenty-eight years, but when I pencilled the letters in – it worked out.’
‘So what’s the difficulty with the other years?’
‘Do you know how many MPs there are each year?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘One thousand cases every
day, three hundred and sixty-five thousand last year, and every year it increases.’
‘That’s a lot of...’
‘Fifty-five to eighty percent of MPs return with 24-hours. Only around one percent remain missing each year.’
‘That’s still a lot of people.’
‘You bet. Between eight and thirty-five are found dead each week.’
‘But some MPs are never found,’ he said rubbing his four o’clock shadow.
‘I knew you weren’t as dense as you looked.’
‘Thank you, very kind.’
‘And of those that are never found, some could be dead.’
‘And not all people who go missing are reported as missing?’
Her smile widened. ‘You’re beginning to see the problem I’m having filling in the other years, but I will fill them in mark my words.’
‘How long since you spotted the pattern?’
‘Last week, that’s when I went up to see Chief Abby.’
He stood up and massaged his right buttock, which had gone to sleep. ‘Do you think there are more before 1984?’
‘Might be.’
‘But?’
‘Paper records only.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Okay, let’s focus on the years since 1984.’
‘Oh, so now you’re in charge of Celie?’ She pulled a faceless straw doll – approximately three inches long – out of the drawer of her desk and stroked it. ‘You haven’t got any long pins have you?’
He grinned. ‘No, no pins, and you can be in charge of Celie, but... If I’m running an investigation, which it looks like I am, then you can be an adviser to the investigating team.’
‘An adviser?’
‘You’re the expert.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Do we have a deal?’
Celie put the straw doll back in the drawer, but with the head peeping over the top, and pushed the drawer closed until only the head was showing. She thrust her hand towards him. ‘Deal, Sir.’
‘At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, come up to the MIT squad room and I’ll introduce you to the team. Also, how would you like a desk and computer up there for the duration of the investigation?’
She stood up and hugged him.
‘I’ll see you in the morning then,’ he said and squeezed out of the door.
Really, it was a Cold Case, unless people with the initials AC were continuing to go missing. There was one last year, would there be one this year? It was a few months until 10th September. Also, there was no evidence that any of the MPs had been murdered, they were simply missing. So, officially, it wasn’t really a murder investigation. While things were quiet, it wouldn’t hurt to make a couple of enquiries. Maybe, they could start with last year’s MP, and go from there. Celie could have found a serial killer that had been operating under the umbrella of missing persons for twenty-seven years. Yes, he was a bit excited at the prospect of finding out if Celie’s patterns held up.
***
He still had the clue Alex Knight had sent him via email in his wallet. He had told Angie about it, but hadn’t said anything to anyone else. Although, he knew Richards knew, because he’d climbed out of the shower one morning before the wedding to find that his wallet had moved slightly, and when he looked inside, the piece of paper had shifted from one compartment to another. But even though she knew, she couldn’t tell him she knew, because then she’d have to admit how she knew. He could have put her out of her misery by telling her he knew she knew, but then why should he?
Although he kept telling himself that he hadn’t decided what to do, he knew he had. He needed to pursue the lead Alex Knight had sent him. If there was a chance he could find out about his parents, about his own beginnings in life then he really had no choice. The main reason he was dragging his feet was because the last time he had unwittingly attracted people who wanted to kill him, and he didn’t want to do that again. Also, he had Angie and the baby to think of, not just himself anymore.
This morning, after he’d cleared his emails, he input frati neri into the search engine – really just to find out what it meant – and apparently it was Italian for black friars or black brothers/brethren. He was stupid enough to think that maybe everything would become an open book, and that he’d immediately discover who he was. Of course, he was cruelly disappointed when he saw the possibilities presented to him. There were references to a Frati Neri on the Via Romita on the outskirts of Cupramontana in Italy and a strange sun dial called the orologio solare. A Dominican Order of Preachers who wore black habits were called the Black Friars. Then there was God’s banker, the hanged man – Roberto Calvi. Of course, there was Blackfriars Bridge over the Thames, which was also referred to as ll Ponte dei Frati Neri. There were numerous restaurants and pubs boasting the name, a multitude of religious sites, an illegal masonic lodge called P2, and Blackfriars Hall at Oxford University.
He felt defeated at the number of possibilities and focussed on other work, but the detective in him soon began to consider how he might approach the enigma. The thought of hiring a detective dawdled across his mind like Sancho Panza on a mule, but he discounted the idea as possibly too costly. Stubbornly, he also didn’t want to hand over the investigation to someone else. If he ever did find out the truth, he wanted to gaze back in the knowledge that he had unravelled the Gordian knot. It wouldn’t have the same meaning if a stranger discovered who he was.
The question was where to start? He hated to admit it, but what he needed was Richards to categorise, classify, record, and do all the things he wasn’t much good at. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. If he had to do all those boring things he would, and he’d do them well, but he much preferred the blue sky thinking after all the administrative tasks had been done. Maybe he would let her help him, but he’d make her work for the privilege.
####
About the Author
Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, grew up in Cheadle, Cheshire, and now lives in Essex with his wife and four Shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then he has worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.
Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com/
Warrior
(Genghis Khan)
Path of Destiny
Scourge of the Steppe
The Knowledge of Time
Second Civilisation
Orc Quest
Prophecy
Adult Crime:
Solomon’s Key
Jacob’s Ladder
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Twelve Murders of Christmas
Body 13
The Graves at Angel Brook
The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf
Collected Short Stories/Poetry
Untended Treasures
Where do you want to go today?
Winter of my Heart (Poetry)
Also due out in 2012/2013:
The Timekeeper's Apprentice
Orc Quest II: The Last Human
The Gordian Knot (Stone & Randall 2)
The Breath of Life (Parish & Richards 6)
The Terror at Grisly Park (Quigg 5)
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