by Tim Ellis
‘Yes?’
‘DI Parish, Hoddesdon Murder Investigation Team.’
‘Murder?’
‘This ambulance... or what’s left of it, was carrying the driver, a Mortuary Technician, and the female victim of a murder that took place this afternoon at the Prince Regent Hotel. It left the hotel about thirty minutes ago. I was giving a press briefing when we heard the explosion. My guess... In fact, I’m almost certain, is that a bomb – which was either on a timer, or set off by remote control – was placed underneath the ambulance.’
‘That helps, thanks. So, you want us to look for a device, piece it together, and try to identify it?’
Normally, he would have been optimistic regardless of the outcome, but he was beginning to feel powerless in the face of the P2 conspiracy. ‘Yes, if you’re able to do that it would really help us,’ he said without conviction. Walter Day and the Chief Constable of Essex being on that list had taken the wind out of his sails. If he couldn’t trust the people above him, whom could he trust? Were P2 still recruiting new members? For all he knew, Chief Kirby could be a member, and if she was, where did that leave him?
‘There’s not much left of the people who were in the vehicle’ Sub Officer Grant said. ‘What do you want us to do with what we find?’
Parish shrugged. He knew that any evidence there might have been was now useless. It had been contaminated and scattered over the surrounding countryside. ‘Put it all in a bag and tell the ambulance driver to take it to King George Hospital Mortuary. They should give it to the pathologist, Dr Megan Riley.’
‘Will do.’
‘Come on, let’s go home,’ he said to Richards.
After manoeuvring around the wreckage, she turned right along the northbound A113 towards Chigwell.
Parish closed his eyes and tried not to think.
‘Are you tired?’
‘Tired of answering questions.’
‘Oh.’
***
Ray was right, Ed thought as he swallowed his second glass of Epping Green Ruination that Parish had given him, the damned stuff sent you gaga, but he wasn’t so gaga that he didn’t know what he was doing, and what he had to do.
He moved the children back into their own beds. If the death of a family of five was going to appear as nothing more than a tragic accident, then everything had to look normal. It took him ages to put Daisy’s nightdress on, but eventually he managed it.
Everything was ready. He sat on the sofa in the living room thinking through his life and drinking the homemade brew. After a shaky start at school and then university he had turned it around when he joined the police. He knew what he wanted, and he’d been a success. Somewhere though, it had all gone wrong. He had blamed Parish, but if he was being brutally honest, it was nothing to do with Parish. He had set his heart on being a DI, but as Walter Day had tried to tell him, he just wasn’t DI material. He cried, for the missed opportunities, for what he’d done, for being less than he should have been.
Around midnight, he was all cried out. All roads led to Rome, and tonight – for one night only – his house would burn like Rome. There would be no fiddling, no escape, and no one would rise from the ashes. This was where everything ended for him and his beautiful family.
Even though he was drunk and could hardly focus on what he needed to do he made his preparations. During his time in the MIT he had learned enough about fire investigations to know what not to do. Afterwards, when they were sifting through the ashes looking for a cause, the fire officer assigned to the case wasn’t going to find any evidence of an accelerant such as petrol. What they would find was a wreck of a house with some body parts scattered about for good measure. The explosion would rip everything apart. He imagined that the roof would literally be blown off the house.
It was an effort, but he made that effort because he knew there was no other way out of the place he found himself in. He lit a candle in each of the children’s bedrooms, and a final one in his and Daisy’s bedroom. He left the doors open, and made sure all the windows were secure. Then, before he climbed the stairs, kissed his three children goodnight, and slid into bed next to his dead wife, he turned all the gas taps on the cooker fully on, and blew the pilot light out on the boiler. His heart raced, not because he was afraid to die anymore – he had resigned himself to his fate and, of course, the beer helped to keep everything in perspective – but he was normally a safety-conscious husband and father. Turning the gas on went completely against who he had been for forty-five years.
At last, everything was ready. He was ready
‘I’m sorry, Daisy,’ he said to his wife in the darkness. He held her cold hand. ‘This was not meant to happen. I had plans – big plans – for me, us – you and the kids. We were going places. Don’t ask me what went wrong, I must have turned down a side road without realising it. Well, too late now. I love you, Daisy, more than anything. Always have done, always will do.’
The smell of gas was strong. He leaned over and kissed Daisy’s dead lips. ‘Forgive me, my love.’
Chapter Fifteen
Friday, 15th July
It was quarter to one. He had his hands behind his head, and his eyes were closed. Digby was lying on Angie’s side of the bed with his head on her pillow snoring like a human. It felt like Angie had been on night duty for six months straight, or at least he was sure that’s how long he’d been sleeping with a snoring dog.
He’d been really tired and worn out, had come to bed as usual at ten o’clock, but for nearly three hours now he’d tossed and turned. Why couldn’t he sleep? He’d never had any trouble sleeping in his thirty-one years as far as he could remember. Usually, once his head hit the pillow, he was a heartbeat away from the darkness. He never dreamed. Oh, the nightmares still came for a visit occasionally, but he’d never had those crazy dreams that needed interpreting. Well, he probably did have crazy dreams, but he never remembered them when he woke up refreshed and ready to seize the day.
His mind kept jumping from Lola’s missing persons to P2. Both seemed to be insoluble problems, and he had no idea where to go with either. There were still a few leads with the missing person case, but they would soon peter out and then what? He’d recalled Toadstone mentioning earlier that he had the results of the analysis of the train tickets and the twig, but then he’d forgotten to tell him about them. Nevertheless, he knew it wasn’t Toadstone’s fault entirely. The press being outside the hotel had thrown him, and then the explosion, and Catherine. What had forensics found? It had crossed his mind that they could have caught the train to Maldon, but then what? Maldon was a big place – not as big as Chigwell he guessed, but still big enough. They could have wandered around in Maldon in the hope that something would turn up, but then he thought he was beginning to sound like Richards and Mr Micawber.
And as for P2, what the hell was he going to do with that? He still had the list Rowan Grieg had given him, and his notion that it was a death warrant seemed to be correct – were he and Richards next? There was probably someone outside now cutting his brake pipes and planting a bomb underneath his car. He and Richards were walking corpses looking for a freezer shelf to climb onto. The whole idea of contacting Rowan Grieg had been to find out who his parents were, but it had turned into something a lot more sinister. Who were P2? Were they still active, or did they have a rogue member? Was Lathbury’s clue a way of obtaining revenge by getting him killed? If he launched a murder investigation into Rowan Grieg’s death would he force P2 out into the open? Would they even let him? If the manager had called the local police instead of him would they have known it was murder? Would they have discovered that the files, laptop and phone were missing? His prior knowledge had upset the applecart. But how could a small MIT fight a secret organisation with massive resources? He still had far too many questions and not enough answers. What should he do?
***
At some point between one and five o’clock he must have drifted off to sleep, but he had the feeling it
was closer to five than one o’clock. Now, sitting in the Chief’s office drinking her expensive monkey faeces coffee he knew that his mind wasn’t as sharp as it usually was, but that could have been because he was dragging around a rucksack full of questions lacking matching answers. Richards had been briefing Chief Kirby on the missing persons’ case when the office phone rang.
Carrie stuck her head round the door. ‘You’ll want to take that, Chief,’ she said.
His mind may not have been on top form, but he could still appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one, and even at eight-thirty in the morning Carrie was certainly that.
After she’d taken the call the Chief stood in front of them wringing her hands. ‘It’s Sergeant Gorman, there’s been a tragic accident.’
Parish had the idea she was talking about a road traffic accident.
‘There was an explosion at Sergeant Gorman’s house at approximately three o’clock this morning. The fire brigade were called, but there were no survivors.’
‘But he has three children,’ Richards said as if children were immune from dying.
‘I know.’
Parish immediately thought of P2, but cast it from his mind. What would P2 be doing blowing up Sergeant Gorman and his family? ‘Do we know what happened?’
‘At the moment, they think it was a gas explosion, but obviously there’ll be an investigation.’
Richards had begun to cry. ‘What about DI Kowalski?’
‘He doesn’t know yet, I thought...’
Parish stood up. ‘I’ll go and tell him.’
He wandered down the corridor and into the squad room.
‘Parish, as I live and breathe,’ Kowalski said. He had his feet crossed on the desk and was reading the Telegraph. ‘Ed’s late today.’
‘Ed won’t be coming in, Ray.’
He stopped reading. ‘Oh? Cold or something, although...?’
‘No, apparently there was a gas explosion at his house last night... Everyone’s dead.’
‘Dead? No, you must be mistaken. I dropped him off at his house last night. He was fine.’
Parish didn’t need to say anymore, he just needed to wait until Ray Kowalski’s brain had processed the information.
‘Jesus... Daisy and the kids?’
Parish nodded.
Kowalski pulled out a clean white handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes. As unusual as it was, even a mountain of a man sometimes cried.
‘I’m sorry, Ray. The Chief just got a phone call.’
He stood up. ‘I’d better get over there.’
‘And do what?’ Parish said putting his hand on Kowalski’s arm.
He sat back down again. ‘Ed’s been my partner for seven years, Jed. I don’t know what to do with this. Jerry and I have known Daisy just as long. His kids played with my kids... Jesus.’ He leaned back, swivelled the chair round, and stared out of the window.
‘Do you want me to stay, Ray?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. I just need to... I need to phone Jerry.’
He left Kowalski to phone his wife, and walked back to the Chief’s office. Carrie gave him a weak smile, but his mind was a bubbling cauldron of questions and thoughts. All day, everyday, he was close to death – mostly violent, unfathomable, and meaningless death – and he had learnt to let it wash over him – but when it was so close to home... He had only recently come to terms with Chief Day and Doc Michelin’s deaths – if coming to terms with the black holes they’d left in his life was the right expression. Now Ed! Kowalski would be a wreck for a couple of days. It was probably a good job it was Friday – he’d be no good to anyone until next week.
‘How is he?’ the Chief asked.
‘Not good. I was thinking, it’s Friday, why not send him home until Monday – give him time to come to terms with Ed’s death... and the family. God... three children! How does anybody explain that?’
The chief nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Richards’ face was streaked with tears.
‘You look a mess,’ he said to her. ‘Go and tell Kowalski to go home, and then sort yourself out.’
She bundled out of the door sobbing again.
‘It’s always difficult when it’s a member of your own team,’ the Chief said.
He took the bull by the horns. ‘Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of P2?’
Abby Kirby shook her head as if she had cotton wool in her ears. ‘I’m sorry? That sounded like the sixty-four dollar question by Senator McCarthy during the Communist hearings of the 1950s.’
He had the feeling she was stalling. ‘It’s a simple question, Chief.’
‘P2? Sorry, never heard of them.’
‘I’ll have to believe you, because if I don’t I may as well give up and go home.’
‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’
He told her about the clue from Lathbury, about Richards contacting Rowan Grieg, and about the events at the Prince Regent Hotel. ‘And I have a list of possible P2 members. Walter Day and James Miller-Gifford are on that list, as is the Duke of....’
Richards gave a short knock and came in. ‘He’s gone home.’
‘Have you stopped crying?’
She dabbed at her eyes and sat down. ‘I think so.’
‘I’ve just told the Chief about P2.’
‘Oh.’ A look of concern crossed Richards’ face.
‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. You believe that a secret Masonic lodge called P2 are still active, and has high-ranking British members who ordered the death of Rowan Grieg...?’
‘Because she was getting too close to exposing them.’
‘I don’t understand... exposing what? What is it that they actually do?’
‘Rowan called them a shadow government,’ Richards said.
‘They’re the power behind the government,’ Parish said. ‘Not just ours, but I suspect a number of others.’
‘I’m struggling to wrap my head around the idea that there’s a group of people out there controlling world governments. What do you want me to do with it? In fact, what does anybody do with something like that?’
Parish shook his head. ‘I have no idea. I suppose that’s why I’m telling you.’
‘And you say Walter Day and the Chief Constable’s names are on this list of supposed members?’
‘Yes.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it sounds like one of those far-fetched conspiracy theories.’
‘I know, and that’s the problem.’
‘If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve just lost two detectives, I’d be tempted to take the case away from you, Inspector Parish.’
Half of him hoped she would. ‘Why?’
‘Well, as I see it, you’ve made a lot of assumptions. The first one being that Lathbury’s clue actually means something in the context of your parentage. As far as I can see, you haven’t even considered the possibility that it could be a hoax. Second, you haven’t even considered any other suspects. You’ve immediately assumed that this shadow organisation – that might not even exist – is responsible for Mrs Grieg’s death. Yet you have no evidence to support that conclusion...’
‘What about the missing files, the laptop, and the mobile phone?’ Richards said.
‘Because you saw her pull the list from a red folder the night before, you’ve assumed that the rest of the material in that folder related to her inquiries into P2, but you admitted yourself that you didn’t actually see any of the papers in that folder. Also, besides her notes into P2 – if they exist at all – the laptop could contain unrelated information about any number of other investigations that she was conducting. Finally, the mobile phone might have been taken by anyone for any reason, you just don’t know. For example, you haven’t considered her ex-husband, a boyfriend, a person or other organisation she might have been investigating, and I’m sure I could think of a number of other likely suspects who should be investigated before you start pointing the finger at an organisation dating f
rom 1945.’
‘But what about the puncture wound and...’
Parish put his hand on Richards’ shoulder to stop her talking. ‘You’re right, Chief. I need to go about this investigation in the usual manner instead of jumping to conclusions and making wild assumptions.’ He stood up. ‘Come on Richards, we have two investigations to organise now, no time for sitting around chatting with the Chief.’
‘Oh.’
***
He had decided that the noise he heard – each time the man appeared – was the sound of a door. For a long time he had imagined it was a trapdoor – which would have meant he could have been absolutely anywhere, but he had now concluded – from the sound of a click instead of a thud – that it was a basement door opening and closing. As such, he had determined that the room he was in must be just beyond the boundary of a house, and the tree above him next to that house. Oh, it didn’t help him in any way. He was still trapped, and even if the nuts and bolts magically disappeared, he would have been unable to drag himself along the tunnel to that basement door. It was only by remaining in this position that he was able to cope with the pain. It merely gave him something to think about, to exercise his brain, and keep himself occupied during the long emptiness of unimagined boredom.
Why had he been working in a shoe shop? He’d had a brain, but he hadn’t used it. He’d been good at maths, understood the logic of numbers, helped the other kids with algebra, trigonometry, and statistics, and then he’d forgotten it all to work in a shoe shop. He’d been pathetically stupid. He should have applied for university, got a degree, made something of himself. He could have been someone, done something, but now... Well now, he was already in his grave. All around him he could see his neighbours, the corpses he would share his grave with. There would be no second chance for Allan Cousins, no possibility of reclaiming the life he had lost. This underground cavern would be his resting-place, and he’d be glad when he could rest in this place.
