by Angie Smith
When he was parallel with the car he burst out through the hedge. BANG! He smashed the driver’s door window, reached in, grabbed the driver by the collar and pulled him half out of the vehicle.
“The next time you two arseholes want to follow me it won’t be a new window you’ll need, it’ll be a new face. Tell Faulkner-Fucking-Brown that if he wants to keep working with the West Yorkshire Police he’d better stay away from me. Understood?”
The passenger jumped out, but stopped stock-still when he saw Woods holding his colleague’s head precariously against the side of the door jamb. “Take it easy,” he said, “we’re only keeping watch.”
“In case someone puts crap in my coffee again?” Woods barked.
“Let him go, please.”
“I make my own decisions; I don’t listen to people like you.”
“Please, let him go and we’ll leave.”
Woods slowly released his grip and stepped back as the man fell out of the window down to the floor. His partner rushed over, picked him up and dusted him down.
“Beat it,” Woods growled.
The two men got back in the car and drove slowly down the road.
Saturday 2nd June.
I must be dreaming. Gomez half opened her eyes and saw moonlit trees surrounding her; she shivered as a sudden wave of cold air wafted over her. Similar to the feeling of regaining consciousness after an anaesthetic, she was slowly becoming aware of her surroundings. Puzzled, she lifted her head and gasped as she realised she was sitting in her car wearing only her underwear. It was dark. Her head pounded, her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth, she was dehydrated and felt woozy. An unpleasant smell filled the air and, looking down, she saw encrusted vomit in her lap and on her legs. Nausea gripped her. She wound down the window to get some fresh air but the cold blast set her head spinning. In an instant she drifted off to sleep, only to awaken seconds later. She shook her head from side to side and slapped her face trying to come round.
She looked around inside the car, Where’s my dress? It was nowhere to be seen. She glanced outside; again no clothing. She saw she was parked in woodland, in a deserted, unmade parking area surrounded by shrubs and trees. What time is it? Sheer panic began sweeping over her as she tried desperately to remember how she’d arrived there.
She fought to stay focused and then the sudden desperate urge to urinate took over; she opened the car door and stepped out, but her legs were unable to support her and she stumbled backwards and fell into the shrubbery. Awkwardly crouching, she managed to pull her pants down and urinate. She had fallen near nettles, accidentally placing her hands on them, and they were stinging as she crawled back towards the car. Dizzy and unsteady she managed to clamber back in and close the door.
It was dark, and she estimated that it was around 4.00 a.m.; she needed to get home before she was seen. She turned the key in the ignition; the car fired into life. She pushed down the clutch with her bare foot — it felt cold — and engaged reverse gear, but her foot was muddy from the escapade outside and it slipped off. The car shot backwards, jolting into a tree. She knew she was hopelessly drunk, but her focus was to get home. She slammed the clutch back down and selected first gear, driving kangaroo-style out of the parking area and down the lane. She had no idea whether she was heading in the right direction; she just needed to keep going.
When she reached the main road she instinctively turned right, instantly feeling a surreal awareness that she was veering from side to side. She tried to correct her direction, but each time overcompensated, making the task impossible. The fresh air rushing in through the half open window was helping her stay awake, but she was freezing cold and shivering. Suddenly she realised the car’s lights were not lit, so she fumbled to switch them on, immediately illuminating the road ahead. The relief was an adrenaline boost as she recognised where she was: around five miles from home. All she needed to do now was concentrate on driving and get there safely.
About two miles further down the road she reached a small suburb with a set of traffic lights where she needed to turn right. Focus, and slow down, she repeated to herself through the haze of drunkenness. She tried to concentrate and position the car correctly approaching the lights, but the junction appeared before she was ready. She swerved around the corner, ignoring the red light and crashed over a bollard. The sounds of shattering glass and metal grinding on concrete filled the car as it bounced over the bollard’s base. It lunged back onto the road, but the steering felt heavy. Gomez pressed on, not wanting to stop.
A vicious cycle of nausea came and abated, but finally Gomez felt she must vomit. As she drove she retched violently in the foot-well and the stench of freshly spewed alcohol and the sensation of warm puke swilling around her bare feet caused her to repeat the experience.
Undeterred, and in an effort to maintain concentration and keep awake, she continued driving, leaning forwards and shaking her head from side to side. She managed to drive approximately four miles without seeing another vehicle, but her luck ran out when two bright headlights appeared in the distance. Please, not the gendarme. She was lucky; it was the milkman with his early morning delivery. As the two vehicles approached each other Gomez crouched down trying to avoid being seen, but this made her driving more erratic, and the image of the milkman staring at her in astonishment became etched in her mind.
About a mile from the cottage Gomez started to think she might manage to get home without further mishaps; but as she rounded a right-hand bend she clipped the kerb and spun the vehicle. The car stalled. Frantically, she tried to restart it. After four attempts it fired back into life, although, as she drove off, there was a loud shredding sound coming from the underside. She carried on regardless.
As she drove into her driveway she caught the garden wall and the car shuddered to a halt. She quickly pulled the keys out of the ignition and staggered to the cottage door, praying no-one was watching as she fumbled with the keys; eventually she slammed the door shut behind her. Exhausted, freezing, covered in vomit, she grabbed a coat which was hanging up behind the door, wrapped it around her and staggered into the bedroom.
Chapter 14
Saturday 2nd June.
At 9.15 a.m. Madame Laurent pulled up outside Gomez’s cottage and saw her secretary’s blue Fiat — resembling a write-off — parked in the driveway. The front offside tyre was completely flat, the bumper bashed in, one of the headlights smashed, there was a large amount of damage to the rear and there were dints, scrapes and scratches along both sides. Laurent raised her eyebrows and walked up to the front door.
She knocked and waited. Nothing. She knocked louder and this time she shouted for Gomez to come to the door. Eventually the door opened a tiny fraction, with Gomez hiding behind it. It was dark inside, so Laurent struggled to see through the gap, but recognized Gomez’s voice when she said hello.
“Good morning Patricia. I need to speak to you; may I come in?”
Gomez hesitated, but agreed, and slowly the door opened.
“Goodness, Patricia, what’s happened?” Laurent asked, seeing Gomez in a dark brown scruffy overcoat, which was grasped tightly at the waist to prevent it opening; her hair was untidy, her bare legs, feet and ankles muddy, she smelled of vomit, and her complexion was pale and spotty.
“I can’t remember Madame. To tell you the truth the past couple of days have been a complete blur.”
“You look dreadful. And what have you done to your car?”
“I’ve no idea. I woke up this morning in woodland and it was like that.” Gomez walked unsteadily towards the living room, holding on to the walls, while Laurent closed the door and followed her in.
“Please excuse the mess, Madame,” Gomez said, looking around the room. “I haven’t had time to clear up.” She flopped onto the sofa.
Laurent looked around disapprovingly at the empty beer and spirit bottles scattered around the floor, and, on seeing the ankle and wrist restraints fixed to the coffee table legs, she scowled.
“Patricia, I’m sorry to have to do this, but I’ve come to tell you that you are being suspended from school. As from today, you’re not allowed on the premises. There will have to be a full investigation into the allegations made against you.”
Gomez looked confused and shook her head. “Why Madame, what’s happened?”
“I’ve been sent information about sexual activities that you’ve been participating in, and I’ve viewed footage on the internet.”
“No, Madame. I’ve done no such thing.”
“Patricia, I’ve viewed the footage; it was taken in your bedroom and in here!” She pointed at the coffee table.
Gomez appeared dumbfounded.
“You must understand that I cannot tolerate this sort of thing being linked to one of my employees.”
“Madame, I haven’t done anything. I swear to you.”
“I suggest you take a look at this.” Laurent handed over a piece of paper with a web address on it. “What if one of the parents views it and recognises you? The scandal would be dreadful. You need to get your drinking under control and stop participating in sordid behaviour. Have you made an appointment to see your doctor?”
Gomez shook her head. “I haven’t had time to see him yet,” she said feebly.
“It’s essential that you receive urgent medical help and intervention. Do you understand?”
Gomez nodded.
“Would you like me to call the doctor and get him to come out here now?”
“No, Madame. I’ll get myself cleaned up first, and go later this morning.”
“Right, I’ll let you know when the enquiry is. Until then, I don’t want you in school.” Laurent shook her head and, without saying another word, walked straight out of the cottage, closing the door behind her.
Gomez sprawled out on the sofa in a daze, trying to come to terms with what Laurent had said. Eventually, she pulled herself up, went over to her laptop and turned it on. It took several attempts before she finally keyed in the correct web address; the page downloaded. A few seconds later, footage shot in her bedroom started playing. Her jaw dropped. She watched in horror at herself undertaking an array of explicit sexual acts. She was mortified. It was clear that at the time she had been extremely drunk or high on drugs, and as she watched she started to have flashbacks; deep in her memory there were vague recollections of the sexual acts taking place and a man encouraging her. Oh my God, this is Gerrard Crean’s doing!!!
When the sequence ended she stared in shock at the blank screen. She felt ashamed, distraught, but most of all angry. One thing above all else was crystal clear: she would never work at the school again. She needed to leave France and go home to Spain.
She went into the kitchen, picked up her mobile and keyed in her mother’s number. “Hi, Madre, please can you come? I’m in trouble.”
“What is it? Have those men found you?”
“Yes Madre. I need to leave now, and come home with you.”
“If I set off within the hour, it’ll be around midnight by the time I arrive. Does that give you enough time to sort things out? I can stay with you tonight and we can leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, please hurry, and bring Padre to help. I’ll start packing now.”
Gomez ended the call. Her head still felt fuzzy, but she was having hunger pangs; she could not remember the last time she had eaten a proper meal. Therefore she decided to make a black coffee and cook breakfast.
Jacobs’ update came into the Incident Room just after eleven o’clock and Foster was there to receive the call.
“Morning,” Jacobs said. “We’ve discovered two Patricia Gomezes living here in France and three in Spain, all with the same date of birth as the one we’re after. In addition there are also three Patricia Duponts living here. The Spanish Police are checking out their Gomezes’ and we’re starting with the Duponts’. The gendarmes are either telephoning, or, if that’s not successful, arranging for colleagues to knock on doors. We should have answers re all eight women by early afternoon.”
“Keep me up to speed,” Foster said, replacing the receiver. He went out, updated the others and noticed Barnes feverishly working away on her PC. He went over to check on progress.
“Oh, sorry… I didn’t see you. I was engrossed in this.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve checked all those who’ve worked for Bedford and found nothing of note. However, a couple mentioned that he did a lot of work for Crean in Russia, becoming friendly with former Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti members.”
“What?”
“The KGB. He also had dealings with the SVR, and the FSB.”
“Oh.” Foster said, unsure what to make of it. “Is that significant?”
Barnes madly scribbled down notes from the screen. “It could be, perhaps I need to revisit Mr Bedford.”
“Do that,” Foster said. “Now, where’s Dudley?”
“Probably in France,” Barnes sniped.
“Aye, he’s gone to the laboratories,” McLean piped up.
“What’s he doing there?” Foster snapped.
“Something about a lab report.”
Barnes looked up and then at her watch. “I, err, need to pop out for an hour or so; there’s someone I’ve got to see urgently. I’ll work into the night to catch up.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Foster said reassuringly. “You’re working non-stop as it is.”
She acknowledged the comment and took her coat from the rack. She went down to the car park, getting one of the pool cars, and headed out towards the motorway.
Woods waited, sitting on the bonnet of his car listening to the constant droning of passing motorway traffic. His unregistered phone was switched on and he reread the text he had received at ten o’clock while driving home from the hospital and his appointment with the cardiologist.
Important: Can I see you today at 11.30 a.m.
The place where 9.80665m/sec squared
is relevant, and lovers meet to chat.
It must be here, he thought, glancing at his watch; then hearing the sound of car tyres coming up the lane he spotted Barnes. She drew up and parked alongside his car.
“What happened yesterday evening? Were you being followed?” she asked.
Woods nodded. “Don’t worry, they won’t be doing that again; we had a friendly chat with a house brick and they agreed to leave me alone. They’re nowhere to be seen this morning.”
“They tried to bug my flat.” She explained about the listening devices and the digital radio.
“How did you know they’d been in? Did you spot something they’d moved?”
She shook her head. “I knew the second I went to flick on the light.”
“How?”
“The screws in the light switches are slot screws and I have them all in the vertical position; one, so dust doesn’t collect, and two, so I know if they’ve been tampered with.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Woods said, pulling a strange look. “We both need to be vigilant and on guard.”
Barnes then mentioned Dudley had gone to the laboratories. “He’ll be looking for the report on the coffee. I dropped a few subtle hints that I knew about it. Don’t worry though, the report was written up on the guy’s personal laptop, there’s no record of it on their systems.”
Woods stroked his chin. “Maria, maybe you should’ve played along and not drawn attention to the fact you knew about it.”
“I disagree,” she replied indignantly. “Now they’ll be worried about what I’m going to do with the information; it’ll unsettle them. They could start making mistakes and ultimately assist us.”
“It’s a dangerous game you are playing. The stakes are incredibly high.”
“Do I look bothered?” she said.
Woods shook his head. “No… And that’s what worries me. So, what have you brought?”
She handed over two folders full of papers, saying, “I suppose protocols are out of the window n
ow.”
Woods smiled. “I know, but needs must. So what’s this?”
“The name and address of Crean’s undertaker; a list of codenames for you and I to agree on; the post-mortem report on Crean, and finally a report on a missing person who disappeared on the day that Gerrard Crean died.”
“You have been busy.”
“No more jokes about working through the night, please. The missing person is Kevin Jarvis; he was from Cumbria and he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer two and a half years earlier. And he’d supposedly won £3.5m on the lottery a month before mysteriously disappearing.”
Woods’ ears pricked up. “You’re joking.” As soon as he said it he realised the mistake. “Sorry, I know you’re not, it was just a figure of speech.”
“A figure of speech is an expression that uses. . .”
“I know, Maria, I know. Just tell me what you’ve discovered.”
She tweaked her nose. “I’ve checked with Camelot and they say no-one with that name won a substantial amount of money at that time.”
“Does he resemble Crean?”
“There was a missing persons report on the internet which was published in his local newspaper together with a photograph — it’s in the folder — but he’s five-foot-ten, green eyes, brown curly hair and looks nothing like Crean.”
“I spoke to Crean’s oncologist yesterday and it’s quite possible that he could have fraudulently obtained a false diagnosis by using a substitute, who was already suffering with the disease. The substitute could’ve had the blood tests and scans on his behalf. All he needed was the referral and to know the name, address and date of birth of the person who was supposed to be having the tests. This would clearly fool Crean’s GP and oncologist.”
“Pauline wasn’t present when any of the tests were done; I asked her that this morning when I rang about the undertaker,” Barnes interjected. “But she’s absolutely positive it was Gerrard in the mortuary; she identified his body.”