by Ellis, Tim
Richards wasn’t ready in time, so he strolled down to breakfast on his own. He felt okay, but he knew that if he didn’t keep moving his muscles would turn into blocks of concrete. She arrived fifteen minutes later wearing a bikini underneath a pair of shorts and a halter-neck top.
‘Don’t think you’re going to get me running the London Marathon.’
‘When we get back, we’ll have to plan a training programme. We have a year to get into shape.’
‘Have you accumulated a build up of wax in your ears?’
‘We’ll start off slowly and build up to longer distances. By the time the race comes along, we’ll be running twenty miles a day.’
‘Anyway, today I’ll be lying by the pool working on my suntan. And I know that you have difficulty when I’m not there to guide you, but try not to ring me unless it’s an emergency.’
‘Aren’t you excited?’
‘Yes. I checked the weather, and it’s going to be sunny all day.’
‘You could finally get rid of that fat arse.’
‘That won’t work on me either. I don’t have a fat backside.’
He snorted. ‘You want to try walking behind yourself sometime. Your arse reminds me of Fatso the Fat-Arsed Wombat from the Sydney 2000 Summer Olympics.’
She burst out laughing. ‘Now I know you’re lying. You’ll never get me to run a marathon.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘So, what about a whiteboard?’
‘I’ll arrange for one to be delivered by the Army. Make sure you let reception know where you’ll be and to contact you when it arrives.’
‘I’ll be by the pool.’
‘So you keep saying.’
A young soldier of barely eighteen arrived at nine o’clock to collect him. He saluted and held the passenger door of the Land Rover open for him. ‘Sir.’
Once they were heading towards Episkopi Parish said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Private Sam Gilmour, Sir.’
‘From?’
‘Southend on Sea in Essex, Sir.’
‘Have you been allocated to me as my driver while I’m here?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well, let’s dispense with the saluting and the “Sir” unless the Air Commodore is about, shall we?’
‘Okay with me, Sir.’
‘Good. How long have you been here?’
‘Three months, Sir. Best posting left in the Army.’
He closed his eyes and dozed. Was he being over-ambitious thinking he could run the London Marathon? Maybe a one mile fun run would be more doable.
***
The train was just pulling into Liverpool Street on the Central Line when her phone vibrated. She carried on talking as she stepped off the train and headed towards the platform for the Circle Line – there were another seven stops to go before she reached Temple and the Dickson Poon School of Law at King’s College Strand Campus.
‘It’s Charlie.’
‘Hello, Charlie. What’s up?’
‘We were fire-bombed last night.’
Her stomach did a back-flip. ‘Fire-bombed! God! Are you all right?’
‘I was damned lucky. I heard breaking glass, looked out of the window and could see the flames reflected off a car before it drove off. Pattie and I got out of the flat just in time.’
‘You saw who did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t tell me – Tug Muleford?’
‘Yes. I’ve been at Woodford Green Police Station looking at mugshots – he wasn’t hard to spot. They’re picking him up for an ID parade, and I’ve got to go in later and point him out.’
‘Oh Charlie.’
‘What?’
She stopped to talk and people began banging into her as if she were an obstacle they needed to clamber over to get to where they were going. ‘Hang on a minute.’ She pushed herself through the tide of people, found a doorway in the left-hand wall and wedged herself into the gap. She continued, ‘You don’t know him, Charlie.’
‘And you do? You’ve only met him once.’
‘That was enough. I’m worried. I just know that as soon as he knows you saw him, he’ll come after you.’
‘And do what?’
‘Break your legs, kill you. You have to tell the police you need protection.’
‘I’m flattered by your concern, but I think you’re over-reacting. They’ll probably lock him up anyway.’
‘His lawyer will get him out within twenty-four hours.’
‘I can’t hide away. You know I have work to do.’
‘I’m coming back.’
‘You will not. I’ll give you a call later.’
‘What about the office?’
‘The fire brigade came and put the fire out, but the place is a burnt out shell. We might be able to salvage a few files.’
As far as she could recall all she’d lost was a picture of Ray and the children, and an old winter coat – nothing that couldn’t be replaced.
‘And your flat?’
‘Gutted. Flames rise, remember.’
‘So, what will you do?’
‘Thankfully, Pattie still has her place, so I’ll be staying there.’
‘We needed a bigger office anyway.’
‘Don’t start saying things like that. The insurance will think we did it on purpose.’
‘What will you do today?’
‘I’m in court. There’s the Riley case this morning . . . In fact, I’d better get moving. I’m going to have to rely on my memory – the files went up in the fire. This afternoon . . . I might have to speak to the magistrates and get the case postponed if I’m pointing the finger at Mr Muleford.’
‘We’ll look for a new office tomorrow. I’ll give you a ring tonight and we’ll decide what to do.’
‘Okay, and don’t go ringing your husband making me out to be a special case.’
‘You are a special case, Charlie Baxter.’
‘Jerry.’
‘All right, I won’t.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Be careful.’
The call ended.
She rang Ray.
‘I thought you were at university?’
‘I’m just switching trains at Liverpool Street . . .’
‘And you thought you’d ring to tell me how wonderful I am?’
‘You already know that. It’s Charlie.’
‘Why do I suddenly feel nervous?’
‘Remember, he saved our lives and got our children back. It’s time to repay the favour.’
‘You can’t keep ringing me . . .’
‘I lied when I said I tripped and cut my knees.’
He went quiet. ‘Go on.’
She told him about the restraining order, about visiting Leanne Pettigrew and about Tug Muleford coming home and throwing her out into the street. ‘And last night he fire-bombed Charlie’s office. It was lucky . . .’
‘He threw you onto the ground?’
‘Yes, but that’s . . .’
‘What’s his address?’
‘I won’t . . .’
‘I’ll find out myself.’
‘Ray, will you listen to me?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘No you’re not. Remember, I know you Raymond Kowalski. You’re thinking about what you’re going to do to Tug Muleford when you get hold of him.’
‘Nobody touches my wife.’
‘Charlie saw him firebomb the office, and has to pick him out of an ID parade this afternoon. Tug Muleford will kill him.’
‘Oh I see, this is about you thinking that because you’re married to a DCI you have your own private police force. You simply ring up, by-pass the system and get whatever you want. If I don’t go along with your wacky plans, bedroom privileges are withdrawn until such time as I give in.’
‘That’s certainly a strategy I’ve used in the past, but this is different . . .’
‘Different how?’
‘Well, Tug Muleford is
going to kill . . .’
‘You have evidence of his intentions? A recording of a conversation? Written instructions to a minion signed by him? Or, is it just your woman’s intuition after a single meeting? I’m getting a distinct feeling of déjà vu.’
‘I was right before about someone trying to kill Lorna Boyce.’
‘Look, Jerry . . .’
‘A minute ago you were going to go round to Tug Muleford’s house and kill him with your bare hands.’
‘And I might still do that.’
‘Except you’d leave me husbandless and your children fatherless.’
‘You know I can’t get involved, and Parish is away in Cyprus.’
‘Charlie needs protection, Ray.’
‘What I can do is talk to people and find out who this Tug Muleford is.’
‘Okay, but you’ll ring me when you know anything?’
‘I’m working for you now, am I?’
‘You’ve always worked for me, Raymond Kowalski.’
‘Yes, I suppose I have.’
The call ended.
She stayed where she was for a handful of minutes more and watched the waves of people moving past her like termites in a colony. Charlie would be all right today, but she just knew he’d be in danger as soon as Tug Muleford found out that Charlie had seen him throw the Molotov cocktail. Ray would come up with a solution – wouldn’t he? She stepped out into the fast-flowing stream of worker termites and became a part of the swarm intelligence.
***
‘Sorry about that, Gilbert,’ the Chief said. ‘Are you married?’
‘No, Sir. I have a girlfriend though.’
‘Not really the same thing, is it?’
‘No.’
‘My advice is to stay single. A lot less complicated.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘So, you have a dead administrator from the medical school at Essex University, and a dead doctor from a company called GeneTest?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And DI Blake is on the mend?’
‘I’m glad to say.’
‘Good. Everything is right with the world then. What about a press briefing?’
‘I haven’t got much to tell them about either case at the moment.’
‘Maybe tomorrow?’
‘I’ll know more then.’
‘In the meantime, write a few words and pass it to Jenny Weber in the press office. If you don’t give the press something they’ll make up their own news.’
He stood up to go. ‘Will do, Chief.’
Koll was waiting for him in the squad room.
‘One of the clerical staff is feeding the names of the university staff and students into the database, but it’ll be a while before anything comes out the other end.’
‘Good work.’ He spotted Inspector Singh’s traffic report, picked it up and passed it to Koll. ‘Read it in the car.’
They walked up to forensics first to see Richard Buswell.
‘Ah! I was wondering where you two were.’ He handed Koll his report. ‘The short version is this: The weapon used was a Remington 700 modular sniper rifle that is usually used in competitions, so my suggestion would be to focus your efforts in that direction. The rifle is accurate to a distance of 1500 metres, which was well within the range from the trees to the oncoming car. The rifle was set up to take a standard 7.62mm NATO round and had a suppressor attached. We found a single shell casing at the base of one of the trees, which had a fingerprint on it – unfortunately, there was no match on the database.’
‘That’s great,’ Stick said. ‘Do we know how many of those rifles there are out there?’
‘I can do some more work on this if you want me to?’ Buswell said.
‘With two cases on the go, I’d appreciate all the help I can get.’
‘No problem. I’ll see if there’s a list somewhere of who owns one of those rifles. At the very least, I should be able to find out who the competitors are.’
‘What about using the firearms licence database?’ Koll suggested.
‘Yes, I’ll factor that in.’
‘Thanks for your help, Richard,’ Stick said and smiled.
‘I’ll give you a ring when I have something.’
They headed down the back stairs to the car park.
Stick scratched his head. He needed a haircut. ‘We have a full day ahead of us.’
‘Where to first?’
‘Did Victim Support tell you who was looking after the children?’
‘The mother.’
‘You’ve got her address?’
‘Yes – 18 Colvin Gardens. It’s not far from her daughter’s house actually.’
‘Okay, maybe we can go to both. Where’s the father?’
‘Scotland. Or, more precisely, he lives in Goatfell on the Isle of Arran. He’s a crofter.’
‘I’d love to do that.’
‘What – live in a stone hut with no gas or electricity and sheep for company?’
‘Where do I sign?’
‘No thank you. I like my creature comforts too much.’
‘Give me the simple life every time. So, while we’re in Chingford we’ll visit GeneTest at Stone Hill Business Park. Then, we can go and see Doc Paine about Pitt’s post mortem, and they might have done Morrow’s PM as well. Finally, we need to take a look at Pitt’s home.’
They travelled along the Hertford Road until they reached the A10, joined the Nag’s Head Road across King George’s Reservoir and into Chingford. At Colvin Gardens they turned right off the B160 – Larkshall Road.
Number 18 – like all the others on the road – was a three-bedroom semi-detached house with bay windows and a small front drive – enough to park two small cars on.
Sylvia Banks – Samantha Morrow’s mother – welcomed them in. She was in her late fifties with rosy cheeks, short dark brown hair with grey streaks and a black Cocker Spaniel panting by her legs. Her husband had died of a heart attack eighteen months previously. The children – a boy and a girl aged three and five respectively – were making a mess of colouring-in books in the back room under the supervision of the Victim Support officer – Constable Janet Gore – who clearly knew nothing about colouring within the lines. They stuck their heads in the room, nodded and said hello.
Once they were sitting in the living room Stick said, ‘We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs Banks.’
The dog – Jessie – snuffled in his hands looking for treats. He stroked her head and behind her ears.
‘Thank you. I’m just . . . I don’t know what the right word is – maybe astounded, shocked, devastated or a combination of all three. Of course, you hear about it on the news, but it never happens to real people, does it? Are you investigating her murder?’
‘Yes, that’s why we’re here. At the moment, we have no idea why Samantha was shot, we’re simply trying to build up a picture of who might have wanted your daughter dead and why.’
‘You’re going to ask me if I know anybody who would want to kill her, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that was my next question.’
‘Does anybody know a murderer? I don’t, and I don’t think Sam did either. I mean, she was shot by a sniper while she was driving her car. I don’t know anybody who could do something like that. It sounds like something out of a movie, doesn’t it?’
‘What about her husband?’ Koll asked. ‘Could he have . . . ?’
‘No. He’s on the Isle of Arran in Scotland. They’d planned to live there, but at the last minute Sam couldn’t do it – Roger went anyway. Said he couldn’t take the rat race anymore, but he didn’t blame her. He knew it was extreme. She used to take the children there for holidays.’
‘So, there was no animosity between them?’
‘No. They still loved each other, and they were still friends, but Sam was a doctor and wanted more from life, which is a bit ironic now, isn’t it?’ She started to sob softly. ‘I’m sorry. You expect to die after your children, not before them.’
‘They carry out genetic and paternity testing. It’s high tech, but nothing controversial as far as I know. She used to track people down – a bit like a detective, I suppose. Women trying to find the fathers of their babies, fathers trying to prove or disprove they are the father, children searching for their parents, their siblings and relatives.’
‘You don’t think it could have been one of her clients?’ Stick asked. ‘Maybe somebody who didn’t want to be found?’
‘I can’t imagine such a thing. Maybe you need to ask the people at GeneTest who her clients were.’
‘Yes, we’re planning to visit there this morning.’
Koll asked, ‘Had she met anyone else?’
‘No. As I said, even though she and Roger are separated, they still love each other.’
Stick stood up. ‘If we find nothing at GeneTest, we might have to search your daughter’s house. I’d be grateful if you could leave everything as it is until tomorrow.’
‘Of course. The children have everything they need – apart from a mother that is.’
Outside Stick said, ‘Let’s go and see if GeneTest can provide us with some answers.’
Chapter Eight
The Deputy Commander of British Forces in Cyprus – Air Commodore Peter Beckett – was a small man with a moustache. Parish had expected him to be closer to seven feet than six feet, but he was much smaller – probably five feet ten. The rank of Air Commodore had given him the impression that Beckett’s head would be touching the clouds and yet, Parish was shaking hands with a veritable pigmy.
He was directed to sit.
Coffee and biscuits were brought in by a male Corporal who poured him a coffee.
He put in his own milk and sugar.
‘Inspector Parish,’ Beckett said once the Corporal had left. ‘We appreciate the Essex Constabulary sending you over here, and of course, for you leaving your family to assist us in our hour of need. Now, I understand that your partner has had an accident?’
‘Yes. She’s laid up at the hotel. Nothing serious, and it hasn’t stopped her from talking.’
The corner of his mouth went up. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of providing you with a replacement.’ He stood up, walked to the door and opened it. ‘Come in Sergeant.’
