by Tim Ellis
He wasn’t in a room as such, not one built of bricks and mortar anyway. The place he was in was circular, and had been cut from the very earth. He had the notion he was beneath a tree because roots seemed to be everywhere, and in the time he had been here the roots had grown considerably.
It began online. Dissatisfied with his life, and the direction it was taking, he had stumbled upon a site that promised him meaning. He’d had to answer a number of questions, and each correct answer took him to another page and another question. It had all seemed too good to be true. Each question had seemed like it had been devised just for him, and had peeled away the layers of his mind. Until, all that was left, was the final question: Do you want a new life?
The first time he met David Clark was after work one day. The man had given him a lift home, talked to him about the possibility of a new life, but they both had to be sure that it was what he really wanted.
He’d seen it as an interview process – the visits to Maldon, the secrecy, leaving everything behind for the promise of a meaningful new life. How had he been so gullible?
There was no hope of anyone ever finding him because the man had ensured his secrecy. No one knew where he’d gone, no one would ever know.
He heard the man coming for another sliver of skin, another pound of flesh, although it wasn’t a pound, it was barely an ounce. He was being skinned alive – strip by strip. What was the man doing with the skin?
***
‘So, nothing for 1982,’ Kowalski said. They’d found Audrey Carrington for 1983, aged nineteen, who had disappeared on the 10th September.
‘Should we call it a day, Ray?’
‘You’re eager to get home.’
‘You know how it is.’
‘I used to before my heart attack, but now I have to take things easy.’
‘Yeah, that was a crappy thing to happen.’
‘Took the wind out of me, that’s for sure. Listen, it’s three-thirty. We’ll check 1981 just so no one can ever say we did a sloppy job, and then we’ll head home. How’s that?’
‘Okay Ray, you’re the boss.’
They began rifling through the drawers in the 1981 filing cabinet.
Kowalski grunted. ‘It’s only another half hour out of our lives that we’ll never get back.’
‘I could eat a scabby donkey.’
‘Yeah, that was a mistake not bringing food and drink with us. We should of planned it better, brought a hamper, had a picnic, ordered in pizza, dancing girls, the whole nine yards. It could have been a memorable day – instead we cocked up, Ed.’
‘I don’t think that Morgan fella security guard upstairs would have let the dancing girls in.’
‘Or the pizza.’
‘We could have created a diversion.’
‘The CCTV would have caught us.’
‘We could have disabled it, wiped it, or stolen it.’
‘Maybe we should have employed that Prison Break guy – Michael Schofield. He would have got the pizza and dancing girls in for us.’
Ed pulled another stack of files from the drawer. ‘My stomach’s rumbling with all this talk of pizza.’
‘A different part of me is rumbling with all the talk of dancing girls.’
‘Yeah, good one, Ray. Do you really think there are people lost down here?’
‘Nope. It’s a tale they tell, so that you don’t start wandering around and poking your nose in where you shouldn’t. If anyone went missing down here they’d send in the search teams.’
‘Did you hear that?’
‘What I heard Ed, was you stopping work.’
‘I’m losing the will to live, Ray.’ Never a truer word had been spoken. The threads that had been holding him to this life were snapping one-by-one. He had overcome his cowardice, and knew exactly what he had to do, but first he needed to get out of this damned place, get home – if a house with four dead people in the bedroom could be called a home – and end his life. Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. He had to destroy the evidence, and fire was the only way he knew of doing that. What he didn’t want was for people afterwards to say that he’d murdered his family, and then waited two days before he’d killed himself. He would make it look like a tragic accident. It was the only way.
‘I lost that about ten-thirty this morning.’
‘We hadn’t even started then.’
‘I know.’
They both laughed.
At five past four they put all the files back in the drawers and made their way back to the surface.
‘Tell me you can hear those slurping sounds, Ray?’
‘I can hear them.’
‘Why aren’t we running?’
‘Murder detectives don’t run from slurping sounds, Ed.’
‘No one would know.’
‘I’d know, and you’d know.’
‘I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.’
‘Running is bad for my heart, Ed.’
‘I think they’re getting closer you know, and that slurping sound reminds me of someone licking their lips.’
They began running, but only made it up two flights of stairs before they had to stop and catch their breath, which was difficult when they were laughing so hard.
‘You made it then?’ the security guard said when they reached the entrance. ‘Good job too, I was about to lock up for the night.’
‘And leave us here all night?’ Ed said aghast.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be my fault if you can’t keep to the times. I’ve got a home to go to, you know.’
‘Come on, Ed,’ Kowalski said. ‘Let’s get going while we still can.’
‘You have a good day, you hear,’ Mr Grant called after them as they walked back to the car.
‘Do you fancy stopping off for a quick pint, Ed?’
‘Not for me, Ray. I’m just looking forward to getting home.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
***
Parish directed Richards along the A1169 and A414, and then onto the M11 at Junction 7 – it was the fastest route he knew to get him to where he needed to be. They came off the motorway at Junction 4 and got onto the A113, turned right along the B173 and arrived at the Menzies Prince Regent Hotel at ten past four.
As they were speeding along the M11 Parish rang Toadstone and told him to get a team over to the hotel.
He wasn’t surprised Rowan Grieg was dead. He should have been, but he wasn’t. In the back of his mind, he’d expected it. Why was the knowledge of who he was so damned dangerous? Well, that clinched it. If he’d had any doubts before, there were none now. He – and Richards – had to forget all about finding out who his parents were and who he was – if they’d let him forget it now. With Lathbury’s death the people who wanted to keep their secret hidden had managed to shut the lid on the box, but Richards had re-opened the damned thing by contacting Rowan Grieg. Was it possible now to force the lid shut again? Or, would whoever wanted to keep their secrets buried in that box, end it once and for all – with his death, and everyone connected to him?
‘A bloody can of worms springs to mind, Richards.’
‘I should never have rung her, should I?’
‘No. I did tell you not to, but would you listen? No, you never listen. Now she’s dead, and we’re probably next.’
‘Don’t say that. She was meeting someone to get a copy of the original P2 list, wasn’t she? Do you think it was the list that got her killed?’
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘No, I promise I won’t.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
‘I was just curious, that’s all.’
‘Which is the root cause of all of this – your damned curiosity.’
‘Why did they kill her? Who’s on that list?’
‘I don’t want to be responsible for you being tortured.’
‘If they’re going to torture me they’ll do it whether I know something, or not. In fact, they won’t believe me i
f I tell them I don’t know anything, so they’ll torture me some more. You could actually save me from being tortured if you told me who is on that list. As soon as they mention torture I’ll tell them every name on the list that I can remember, and then they’ll just kill me. No torture, it’ll be quick and easy.’
He’d seen the films, and knew she was probably right. Keeping the information from her would probably make no difference at all. She was his work partner, they lived in the same house, no one would ever believe she didn’t know who was on the list. If, as seemed likely, someone on the list was papering over the cracks, the assassin would just kill them both. There would be no point in torturing anyone – a bullet in the head would solve the problem.
He pulled the list from his back pocket and unfolded it.
‘Ha, I knew you hadn’t burnt it.’
‘You’re becoming a right know-all, Richards.’
‘Well, come on then. Tell me who’s on the list and stop calling me names.’
‘You already know about Walter Day.’
‘I still can’t believe that.’
‘Arthur Pocock, who was the man we know as Sir Charles Lathbury.’
‘I’m glad he’s dead.’
‘James Miller-Gifford...’
‘Oh my God, the Chief Constable?’
‘Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you.’
‘It’s not true, is it? He even contacted someone at MI5 to find out if they had a file on you.’
‘Now, let’s not run off half-cocked. Remember, some of the people on this list aren’t on the original list.’
‘I’d like to know how they got on this list.’
‘I suppose we’ll never find out now.’
‘Go on, who’s the royal?’
‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘That’s like asking if I’m sure I want to breathe.’
‘The Duke of...’
His phone activated.
‘Never mind that, just tell me.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’ He pressed accept. ‘Parish.’
‘You did a number on me last night with that homemade beer.’
‘You enjoyed it then?’
‘I’ve ordered a couple of barrels. Best beer I’ve tasted for years.’
‘What about Ed?’
‘He says he’s going to drink his bottle tonight.’
‘Good. How’s your day been?’
‘That storage unit is like an underground world full of filing cabinets. Remember the American warehouse at the end of the Indiana Jones movie where they store the Ark of the Covenant?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Well, it’s like that, and there are ten floors going down.’
‘I’ll have to go there one day and take a look.’
‘Definitely worth a visit. Anyway, Ed and I found one more in 1983 – Audrey Carrington.’
‘Did you...?’
‘Hey, you might have gone to lunch then, but Ed and me stuck at it. We checked 1982 and 1981 – nothing.’
‘So, we’re probably looking for a death in 1982 of a nineteen year-old?’
‘Yeah, it looks like it. Unless...’
‘Go on?’
‘Well, there might have been a delay between the trigger event and the first murder.’
‘I’d already thought of that. We’d have to look at the previous five years to be sure.’
‘Right. Anyway, Ed and me are on our way home now, so see you in the morning.’
‘Hey Kowalski?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thanks for your help today, and tell Ed as well. It can’t have been pleasant down in that basement.’
‘It wasn’t, but for Kowalski and Gorman it’s all in a day’s work.’
The call ended just as Richards pulled into a parking space outside the Menzies Prince Regent Hotel.
‘You were telling me who was on that list?’
‘Later. We have more important things to contend with now.’
‘But...’
***
‘Ring Lola and Toadstone...’
‘No need to ring me, Mary,’ Toadstone said as they climbed out of the car in front of the hotel. ‘I’m here with my team.’
‘They’re already securing the...?’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘Ring Lola then, tell her no briefing tonight. We’ll have one in the morning at nine-thirty. Let her know that Kowalski and Ed found one more in 1983 – a girl called Audrey Carrington.’
‘Okay...’
‘And then ring the Chief. Tell her what’s happened, and that we’ll brief her at eight-thirty in the morning if that’s convenient to her.’
‘Tell her what’s happened... Here?’
‘Mmmm,’ He rubbed his four o’clock stubble. ‘Just say we’ve been called to the scene of a possible murder, and we’ll tell her more about it in the morning.’
Leaning against the car, Richards nodded and pulled out her phone.
Parish and Toadstone made their way into the hotel.
‘I’ve got some news on those train tickets and the twig,’ Toadstone said.
‘Remember to tell me later. I need to focus on what we’ve got here first.’
‘Okay.’
The Hotel Manager – Michael Bradley – was a short man with slicked back hair, a pinched face, and a mouth that pointed downwards. His three-piece pinstriped suit was immaculately tailored and pressed, and Parish thought he looked more like a butler than the manager of a hotel.
‘Inspector Parish,’ the Manager said. ‘This is Doctor Margaret Nield from the Surgery in Grange Hill.’
He took the extended hand and shook it. Doctor Nield was in her early forties, slim with short brown hair parted on the right, and full red lips. She wore her glasses halfway down her nose, and had on a calf-length red dress that matched the colour of her lipstick.
‘Thanks for coming, Doctor. Mr Bradley thinks Mrs Grieg died of a heart attack. I had a meeting with her in the bar last night, and she certainly didn’t look ill to me. Not only that, if I’m not mistaken women are generally at least ten years older than men when they have a heart attack.’
‘Yes, that’s right, but it doesn’t preclude Mrs Grieg having had a heart attack. I think the best course of action would be for me to go up to the room and examine her.’
‘Are your people ready for us, Toadstone?’
‘Yes, they’ve been up there for about ten minutes now, they’ll be ready.’
Richards came into the Reception.
‘Doctor Nield, this is my partner Constable Richards.’
They smiled at each other and shook hands.
‘Right, let’s get it over with.’
Mr Bradley led the way to the lift. ‘Her room is on the third floor, number 311.’
The five of them squeezed into the eight-person lift.
‘Lola didn’t answer,’ Richards said leaning towards him. ‘And the Chief said she’ll see us tomorrow morning,’
‘Okay.’
‘I take it you believe Mrs Grieg was murdered, Inspector?’ Doctor Nield said.
‘Yes, and I have my reasons for that belief. So, before you move her, I’d like you to examine the body very carefully for any signs of foul play.’
‘You do realise I was only called to issue a death certificate. You need to call your pathologist.’
‘Yes, you’re right, and I will, but you’re qualified to do a cursory examination, aren’t you?’ He could have done with Doc Michelin now. He hadn’t even met Dr Megan Riley. Since the bin-bag fiasco he’d had no need of a pathologist. Well, he needed one now. A post mortem examination would definitely be required.
‘I am, and I will.’
‘Good.’ To Richards he said, ‘Call your friend Dr Riley, and get her here.’
‘I’ve only met her once.’
‘Once more than me.’
When the lift doors opened, they all stepped out. Richards hung back to make the phone call to K
ing George Hospital. The others followed Mr Bradley left towards room 311.
Outside the room Dr Nield, Toadstone and Parish put on the usual forensic garb and entered. Inside, beneath the clear plastic sheeting, red was the dominant colour. There was a four-poster bed with a red bedspread and canopy, the carpet was a crazy swirling red and beige pattern that reminded him of the snake’s eyes in the Jungle Book cartoon, and two chairs and a stool were upholstered in red velvet.
Rowan Grieg was sitting slumped forward in one of the chairs in front of the dressing table and wall mirror. The television blared in the corner by the window, and a cup of – what looked like coffee – had been knocked over and its contents spilled onto the carpet.
‘Put the television sound on mute,’ Parish said to no one in particular. They’d been up here fifteen minutes, he thought. How could they concentrate with all that noise?
One of Toadstone’s people used the remote from the bedside table to press the mute button.
‘Thank you.’ To Toadstone he said, ‘Let your people know that this is a crime scene. I don’t want anyone getting sloppy because they’ve heard it might be a run-of-the-mill heart attack.’
Toadstone’s eyebrows arched. ‘I can assure you that there will be no sloppiness while I’m in charge.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll need the body placing on the bed,’ Dr Nield said.
Toadstone directed operations. Plastic sheeting was spread over the double bed, and Rowan Grieg lifted from the chair to the bed.
Richards arrived. ‘Dr Riley said she’d send a vehicle and two technicians to collect the body.’
‘What, she’s not coming herself?’
‘I asked her the same question. She said that if there’s already a doctor here she didn’t need to.’
‘She’ll have to go, I can’t work with amateurs.’
‘Maybe we’ve been spoilt because Doc Michelin was so good.’
‘Well, they’d better get someone of the same calibre. I’ll put in a complaint tomorrow.’
‘Have you found Mrs Grieg’s bag with the folder in, and remember, she had a laptop as well?’
