by Tim Ellis
The man came in and did nearly the same things he did every morning. Although, he only guessed that it was morning, but it could have been any other time of the day. What he didn’t do now, for which Allan was extremely thankful for, was rape him. The man had stopped doing that some while ago. Maybe it was because Allan smelled so bad. The rotting flesh around the bolts in his forearms and shins, the festering wounds where the man had taken slivers of skin, the reek of urine and faeces. Allan was here all the time and didn’t notice the stench anymore, but the man must smell it. That’s probably why one of the things the man did, after he’d filled the lamp with kerosene, fed him through the tube, and changed the intravenous bag of Hartmann’s solution, was to hose him down with cold water and antiseptic solution – it camouflaged the smell for a while.
Of course, he screamed. The antiseptic solution stung him like crazy. The cold water made him ache and shiver so badly he thought he would shake himself free from the metal contraption.
‘Please... Please kill me,’ he pleaded with the man as he did every morning, but the man ignored him as he always did.
***
Outside in the corridor, between the Chief’s office and the squad room, Parish stopped Richards and said, ‘The Chief said she’d never heard of P2, and yet she knew they’d been established in 1945. I didn’t tell her.’
Richards’ eyes opened wide. ‘Oh God, she’s a part of it, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t know, but I think we’re on our own from now on, so don’t go blabbing to anyone.’ He was really fed up, and felt like a marionette that had just had its strings cut. He’d hoped Abby Kirby was a long-term replacement for Walter Day. He liked her, she’d made the effort to fit in, and he could talk to her. Maybe he was jumping to another conclusion, but he knew he didn’t believe that. She couldn’t possibly have known they were established in 1945 unless she knew the history of P2, and one reason she would know the history was if she were a member.
‘For your information, I don’t blab. Do you want a coffee?’
He wasn’t going to start cataloguing her blabbing crimes – they could be standing in the corridor all day. ‘Sometimes Richards, you ask the perfect question. Put some rat poison in it.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Since when did you become an expert on me?’
‘I don’t know. I woke up one morning, and it was as if you’d always been in my life. I suddenly knew everything about you.’
‘Except who my parents are.’
‘Yes, except that.’
‘I thought you were making me a coffee?’
‘I’m going.’
He wandered to his desk, sat down, and switched on the computer. The squad room was like the Marie Celeste without Kowalski and Ed’s chatter and joking. Ed and his whole family dead! Information like that took its time to seep into a person’s brain. Christ, he should tell Angie before she heard it on the news. In his mind’s eye he could picture Daisy, Jerry and Angie crowded round the kitchen table like the three witches – double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble – and Digby barking like crazy out in the back garden as the kids teased him with his own toys.
Since Walter Day’s death, everything had changed to a bag of shit. But wasn’t that the nature of life? Every day the universal clock shifted. Sometimes, only by a small imperceptible movement, but at other times it shuddered on its axis and caused a shock wave of epic proportions. This was one of those times, and life would never be the same again. As Einstein had stated – time was relative.
He keyed in his username and password – Digby09 – into the dialogue box on the login screen, and while he was waiting for it to verify he was who he said he was and crawl to his user profile he picked up the phone and dialled home.
‘It’s me.’
‘I’ve heard, Mary rang me. Are you all right?’
‘I rang to see if you were all right.’
‘I’m fine. Working in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital makes you immune to loss.’
‘Mary might believe that, but I don’t.’
‘I know. Thankfully, I can sleep and won’t have to think about how awful it is.’
‘I’ll be glad when you’ve finished nights.’
‘So will I.’
‘I love you, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. I love you too.’
He put the phone back in its cradle.
Richards came back with his coffee.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She stretched out on her chair with her head back and placed a small ice pack on each of her eyes.’
‘This is a police squad room not a beauty parlour, you know?’
‘I know. I won’t be long. My eyes are all puffy, I look as though I’ve been in a domestic.’
‘No you don’t. After Rick Murcer had thumped you, you looked a complete mess.’
‘I look a complete mess now, but without the pain and bruising.’
He left her to it and clicked on Internet Explorer to check his emails. There were ninety-seven clogging up his inbox, and twelve in the Spam folder. He chose the Spam folder first – start with a small success and build on it. Dealing with twelve emails would be easy, and then he’d go to his inbox and start on the ninety-seven. It was a good plan, and it would have worked if it hadn’t been for the small matter of the eleventh email with P2 in the subject line, which had been sent by a dead person – Rowan Grieg.
‘Morning boss.’
He tore himself away from the screen and glanced at the standard Acme government-issue wall clock. It was twenty past nine. ‘Good morning, Lola.’
‘I done heard about Sergeant Ed and his family,’ Lola said putting a file down on her temporary desk. ‘I’m desecrated.’
Parish knew what she meant. ‘I think we all are. Kowalski won’t be about either, the Chief sent him home.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. Those two were thick as thieves.’
‘Well, as they say, life goes on.’
‘I heard stuff like that. Whoever they are, they want their tongues cutting out and stomping on for saying stupid things like that.’
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he really wasn’t in the mood for smiling. This was a dark day at Hoddesdon Police Station – first the death of Ed and his family, then the realisation that he couldn’t trust the Chief, and now an email with seven attachments from Rowan Grieg. She must have had an idea she was going to die, and it was probably the last thing she did before the killer stuck a needle in her neck – her last will and testament.
He said to Richards, ‘Phone Toadstone, and tell him to get his arse down here.’ To Lola he said, ‘You make your way to the incident room. I just need to print something off, and then I’ll be along.’
Richards sat up and the ice packs fell nicely into the palms of her hands. ‘What are you printing off, Sir?’
‘One of these days you’re going to get your nose trapped trying to stick it into other people’s business.’
‘But not today.’
‘No, because today I’m not going to tell you. Do as I’ve asked and stop busy-bodying.’
‘Huh.’
Chapter Sixteen
The red phone rang – twice in two days, he thought. Before that, it hadn’t rung since the death of Arthur Pocock.
He hadn’t given it much thought before, but he wondered why important phones were always red. If anything, he should have acquired a grey one that everyone ignored. A red phone said, “Look at me, I’m important”, and he didn’t really want to draw attention to a phone that only six people – besides himself – knew the number of. He unlocked the phone and held the handset to his ear.
‘Yes?’
He listened to the woman speaking. The lodge hadn’t always had female members, but somewhere between the 80s and 90s it had been decided to recruit them. One member had argued that by not recruiting women the lodge was jeopardising its future, because wo
men were quickly gaining positions of power. At first, there had been vehement opposition, but eventually the logic of the proposition had eroded the antagonism against the idea until the majority ruled. If nothing else, the lodge could be democratic when it wanted to be.
‘Parish? Never heard of him,’ he said, leaning back in his Captain’s chair.
‘He’s the Detective Inspector who is investigating Rowan Grieg’s death.’
‘Will he find anything?’
‘No.’
‘Then we can ignore him.’ He wondered why the Tyler was ringing him. He had been the Worshipful Master of the P2 Lodge since 1995. Since that time, after the fiasco over the Italian, it had been quiet and business had proceeded as usual. The lodge had disappeared into the shadows, which was just the way he liked it. That was until the investigative reporter decided to meddle in lodge affairs. Well, she won’t be meddling in anybody’s affairs anymore.
‘What about the search for his parents?’
‘Why is he looking in our direction?’
‘Arthur Pocock gave Parish a clue – Frati Neri – before he died. I don’t know the circumstances of how that occurred, but that’s where he got it from.’
‘We should have expunged that idiot a long time ago. Do we actually know who this man’s parents are?’
‘I have no idea, but I can tell you that he was born in 1980, or at least that’s what his birth certificate says, but that is a forgery. The one person who seemed to know – Pocock – is now dead.’
‘I’m intrigued. Why would Pocock point Parish towards us? I’ll ask the Senior Warden to look into it.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘I have to go. Ring me if there are any further developments.’
He put the phone back in its cradle.
‘Come.’
A pretty female head appeared round the heavy oak door. ‘They’re ready for you, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Marcia.’
He stood, put on his black damask gown with gold lace trim, and adjusted the short wig in the full-length mirror. As Master of the Rolls and head of the Civil Division of the Court of Appeal he had to look his best. He was the second most senior judge in England and Wales, and would soon be the Lord Chief Justice once that idiot Michael Mulley had died of natural causes in a month’s time. Today, he and his fellow judges – Moses and McGregor – were deciding on the application by the Friends of the Earth & others for permission to appeal and expedite the appeal if granted against the Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change. He smiled, and brushed a speck of fluff off his shoulder. There was no way in hell he would allow the appeal to proceed. Destabilising this government at this time was not an option, especially by known anarchists.
He locked his rooms and strolled along the corridor of the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand to the Appeal Court.
‘The Master of the Rolls, Lord Peter Elias,’ the Recorder’s voice rang out.
Lord Elias shuffled in and sat down between the other two judges as the people in the court stood out of respect.
***
‘Okay,’ Parish said standing at the white board. ‘Sergeant Gorman’s death has hit all of us hard. Let’s acknowledge that we’re all devastated, lock those feelings up in a dark place within our minds, and get on with our work. Ed was a policeman through and through, and that’s what he would have wanted. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to grieve in the coming days. Do we all agree?’
There were looks between them and hesitant nods.
‘Good. Toadstone, you forgot to tell me about your analysis of the train tickets and the twig last night after me telling you not to forget.’
‘That’s because one minute you were there, and the next you were gone. I wish I could disappear like that. It was like a magic trick.’
‘It takes years of practice, and it does help if there’s some distractions like news crews and explosions. So, what did you find out?’
Lola put her hand up. ‘Excuse me, but what tickets, what twig, what news crews, and what explosion?’
‘Ah, of course, there was no briefing last night.’ Parish told Lola what they’d discovered at the Cousins’ house.
‘I see, and what about last night?’
‘That’s another case and doesn’t concern you. Right, reveal all, Toadstone?’
‘There are four train tickets to Maldon with no significant traces of anything interesting on them.’
‘I’m beginning to feel depressed.’
‘Hang on, Sir, the twig is interesting.’
Parish scooped up the tickets and passed them to Richards. ‘Pin them to the notice board.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘The twig has been cut from a white thorn tree, which grows in a number of places in England. What’s interesting, however, is that it is particularly abundant in a nature reserve called Northey Island.’
Parish looked at Richards and Lola. ‘Do either of you know where Northey Island is?’
They shrugged and shook their heads.
Richards said. ‘Paul always does that. He stops at the interesting part, and then you have to beg him to continue.’
‘Very observant. I’ve noticed how he does that as well. Well, Toadstone, do you want me to grovel and kiss your feet?’
‘It’s an interesting idea, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Northey Island lies off the coast of Maldon in the Blackwater Estuary, and can only be reached by boat or a causeway at low tide.’
‘You’re right, the twig is interesting. That bit of information was worth waiting for. Now, we probably have a location.’
‘But that’s not all though.’
Richards giggled.
‘Don’t encourage him, Richards. Well, come on then, out with it?’
‘You wanted to know about the mark on the twig?’
‘You know I normally have the patience of a saint, Toadstone, but my halo is beginning to slip.’
‘It’s the thirteenth letter NG or nGéadal of the Ogham Script, which means to slay or death. The Ogham Script dates from between the 3rd and 6th centuries, and is the oldest known Irish text. Also, it is sometimes called the Celtic Tree Alphabet because it assigns the names of trees to the individual letters. The white thorn – Úath – is the sixth letter, and means horror or fear...’
Lola sashayed round the table to take a closer look at the four train tickets, then took up a marker pen and drew a circle on the whiteboard. ‘I been ogling closely at these here train tickets, and listening pathetically to what Toad-in-the-Hole has been saying, and I think I might have got something.’
‘Are you all right being interrupted?’ Parish said to Toadstone.
He swept his hand in front of him as if he were a grandee at the court of Elizabeth the First and said, ‘Feel free.’
‘I’ve heard of this Eggham writing before, and what I know is that the druids used to use it. Those druids liked the circle a lot. That’s why you got all those stone circles in Britain and Ireland like Stonehenge in Wiltshire, and the Druid’s Circle in Cumbria. Anyway, you have four train tickets here dated the 9th and 12th of August and the 3rd and 6th of September last year.’ As she was speaking she put a cross through the circle, and wrote a number at the side of each line as it intersected the circle: 3, 6, 9, and 12. ‘See, like a clock.’
‘You’re a genius, Lola,’ Parish said, then turned to Toadstone. ‘Why didn’t you know that?’
‘My team are obviously getting sloppy.’
‘I should say so.’
‘Should I finish, or has Lola got some more gems she’d like to share with us?’
Lola sashayed back to her seat. ‘No, but I got a new poppet I’m gonna stick me some pins in.’
Toadstone ignored her. ‘As I was saying, the druids used to write Ogham letters on sticks and use them for divination purposes – one stick for each letter. They would select some sticks randomly and throw them onto a cloth, called Finn’s Window, and interpret wha
t they said based on the symbols and where the sticks lay in relation to the others.’
‘The same as our divining bones,’ Lola said, delving into her large leather bag and pulling out a small cloth sack. She placed the sack on the table, undid the tie at the top, and poured out a collection of shells, dice, coloured stones and bones.
Leaning over to look and pick some up Richards said, ‘They’re pretty, but the bones aren’t human, are they?’
‘Had to kill me some babies to get those,’ Lola said with a glint in her eyes.
Richards gave a nervous laugh. ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’
‘Mary Richards, you think I be carrying around human bones in a police station? They’re chicken bones, maybe some goat, monkey, but not human... Least ways I don’t think so. You want me to tell your future while I got them out?’
Parish cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be telling some futures if we don’t get back to what we’re meant to be doing.’
‘Maybe later,’ Lola whispered nudging Richards with her elbow, and giving her a wink.
There was a knock at the door and Wendy Wells, one of the clerical assistants, came in. ‘A parcel has been delivered for you, Sir. It has ‘Urgent’ and ‘Fragile’ marked on it.’
Toadstone was sitting next to the door and took the box off her.
‘Thanks very much, Wendy,’ Parish said.
She smiled and left.
‘Do you want me to be Mother?’ Toadstone asked.
‘Be careful,’ Parish said. ‘It has Alice Cooper’s jewellery box and diary inside, and the person who sent it to us wants them back undamaged.’
Toadstone opened the cardboard box and extracted the jewellery box first and then the diary. The jewellery box was made from high gloss wood with two dancers inlaid into the lid and surrounded by floral scrolls. It was a curved oval in shape with brass feet.
Richards helped herself to the thick pink diary and began leafing through it.
