by Ellis, Tim
Richard Buswell approached the car as they were getting out. ‘Only one car and one person involved this time, but that was enough. If the bullet hadn’t killed him, the crash would have done. There must have been a petrol leak or something because the car is a burnt-out wreck with a charred corpse inside. We ran the number plate. His name is John Henn, he was a dice inspector . . .’
‘A what?’ Koll said.
‘They work mostly in casinos, examining playing dice, making sure all the number dots are where they should be and ensuring the dice are the correct size. They will also make sure the dice are properly weighted and balanced.’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘And people get paid for doing that?’
‘A lot of money, apparently,’ Buswell said.
Koll gave a laugh. ‘We’re in the wrong job, Sarge.’
‘Clearly.’
Buswell continued. ‘It’s going to be a while before we can get inside the car and retrieve anything worthwhile after the fire brigade have sprayed foam everywhere.’
Koll scratched her head. ‘How do you know the driver was shot if . . . ?’
‘Two things. The bullet hole in the windscreen is a bit of a dead giveaway – no pun intended, and we have a witness who saw the gunshot.’
‘Saw it?’ Stick asked.
‘The muzzle flash.’
‘Ah! Where?’
‘The old Grieves Pumping Station.’ Buswell pointed to a derelict white stone building through the trees, which stood close to the reservoir.
‘Where’s the witness?’
He turned and led them to a girl sitting on a BMX bike chewing gum. ‘This is Nicky Ryan, she lives on the Higham Hill estate. ‘Tell these two detectives what you saw, Nicky,’ Buswell said to her.
Nicky Ryan had long dirty blonde hair underneath a reversed dark blue baseball cap with “Help for Heroes” embroidered above the peak. She wore jeans and a washed-out red t-shirt with a large “44” on the front.
‘You really detectives?’ Nicky asked, popping a gum in her mouth.
‘Yes,’ Stick said.
‘I’m gonna join the FBI when I leave school.’
‘Really?’
‘I wanna be like Jodie Foster in “The Silence of the Lambs”.’
‘You’ve seen that film?’
‘A hundred thousand times – it’s my favourite film.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nearly thirteen.’
‘How nearly?’
‘I’ll be twelve in six weeks time.’
‘Isn’t that film rated “18”?’
‘That’s only for kids who are scared. I ain’t scared.’
‘I can see that. So, what did you see?’
‘I was riding my bike on the track over there,’ she pointed to a dirt track behind them disappearing into a wood. ‘I was flying through the air doing a squeakerson . . .’
‘A what?’
‘A trick on my BMX. I was in the backwards riding position . . .’
‘Never mind. So, you were facing towards the pumping station?’
‘Sure was.’
‘And?’
‘I saw a flash, and then almost straight away I heard a sound like an elephant’s fart.’
Stick looked at Koll and they both smiled. ‘What does that sound like?’
‘You sure you’re a detective?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well . . . it’s like . . . it’s like . . . an elephant’s fart.’ She made a squelching sound with her tongue. ‘Like that. Anyways, the next thing is I seen that car sailing through the air as if it was being driven by Vin Diesel . . . you know, corkscrewing through the air like you see in Triple X, and then it crunched into the ground, did a somersault and whoosh . . .’ Her arms imitated an exploding mushroom. ‘The car was toast, man.’
‘Did you see anybody?’
‘You mean at the pumping station?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was a guy in a blue car.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘What d’ya think I am? Have you seen the distance to that place? He was a guy in a blue car. I bet that’s more than ya had before.’
‘It certainly is, but there’s a lot of men driving blue cars around. Any chance you can narrow it down a bit for us?’
‘Well . . .’ She rubbed her chin with a hand and squinted her eyes. ‘He wore a black hat and black clothes like a burglar, and that car was a Vauxhall Astra . . . I’d say a couple of years old.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know about cars. Dopey George across the street has got a red one – drives it like one of those mobility scooters – real slow and careful like. Dopey people shouldn’t be allowed fast cars.’ She looked at their car. ‘I bet you drive fast.’
‘Sure do.’
Koll chipped in. ‘Especially when we have the blue flashing light and siren going.’
‘Yeah, I bet. I should get a reward for being one of your key witnesses, ya know. I mean, I’m putting my life on the line here. That guy could come after me next. But I wouldn’t feel so scared if you gave me a ride in your car with the flashing blue light and siren going.’
‘DC Koll, I believe you’ve talked yourself into a job as public relations officer.’
Koll smiled. ‘Come on then, but we’re not going far.’
‘Cool.’ Nicky pushed her BMX against Stick’s legs. ‘You can look after my bike.’
‘Of course,’ he called after them. ‘I have nothing else better to do.’ Turning to Buswell he said, ‘Have you been over to the pumping station?’
‘Ah, this is where you start telling me how to do my job again, isn’t it?’
‘No, I was merely . . .’
‘I’ve got people over there. You’ll get the report tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’
‘Did you take a look at the report on Samantha Morrow’s laptop and the information I’ve summarised on the Remington 700 sniper rifle, the competitions, who owns them and so on that I left on your desk. . . ?’
‘No, we haven’t been back . . .’
‘I don’t know why I bother.’
‘We’re going back to the station now. With two victims, we’ve decided to treat them as random killings. Although we’ll check, of course, but I expect a connection between the two is unlikely, which means that our focus is now on the killer, so your research on the sniper rifle will be invaluable to us.’
‘Yeah well, just so long as I’m not wasting my time.’
‘Absolutely not.’
Koll returned with the flashing light on and the siren blaring.
‘Wicked,’ Nancy said as she came back to retrieve her bike. ‘I’m definitely gonna join the police now.’
Stick raised an eyebrow. ‘Not the FBI?’
‘Izzy said they don’t have lights and sirens on their cars.’
He looked at Koll. ‘Izzy?’
‘She couldn’t wrap her mouth around Isolde.’
‘Okay. We’ve got to go now, Nancy . . .’
‘You don’t want me to pick the killer out of a line-up?’
‘No, you didn’t . . .’
‘I could be your star witness. You could stash me away in a secret location . . .’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘Well, you know where I live if you find ya can’t solve the case without my testimony.’
‘Yes, we know where you live. Thanks for all your help, Nancy. Have a good day.’
‘Hey! Ya got something I can take back with me? My mum’ll think I’m making it all up.’
He passed her a business card. ‘There you are. It’s got my number on if your mum doesn’t believe you.’
‘Ace!’
Chapter Thirteen
As the plane sank like a stone to 250 feet, Yank felt his stomach lurch upwards against his diaphragm, his lungs concertina in the constricted space of his thoracic cavity and the reduced oxygen intake gave him a wrenching headache. It was the same e
very time. They weren’t on a pleasure trip taking in the sights. It was hard – and every time it got harder instead of easier.
The colour of the light behind the bulkhead changed from red to amber.
They made a final equipment check.
Green.
Sauerkraut jumped first, followed by Marley, Cherry and Bulldog.
He was the last to step into the void.
The DZ was a small patch of ground surrounded by pine trees. A miscalculation in wind direction could result in fatal consequences. Nobody was climbing up to rescue you if you were impaled on a branch at the top of a thirty foot tree – you were on your own.
‘Have a good one,’ Allan Williams shouted.
A good mission! What would that look like? They acquired the information, everyone was killed except for them and the building in which WikiUK had set up business was reduced to smouldering rubble. Yes, that would be a good one.
Then, of course, once it was all over, they had to get out of Iceland, but first they had to survive – survival always came first. After that, they could think about an exit strategy.
It seemed as though he was falling for an eternity, but it was seconds. Seconds to think about life, the universe and everything until he crashed into the ground as if his chute hadn’t bothered to open.
Sometimes – when he had time on his hands – he thought about retirement, but retirement was for normals. How could a person who had killed so many people retire? The only retirement for him was death – that’s just the way it was. The idea of taking up painting, learning to play the saxophone or working behind the counter in the local Oxfam shop was laughable. The long sleep – when it came – would be welcomed with open arms and a willing spirit.
Time and tide wait for no man.
He’d lived his life the only way he knew how and if that wasn’t good enough – so be it. He didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell. Life was merely a blink of the eye, and then there was nothing. You had one chance to make a difference – for better or for worse. He’d squandered his one chance, but those were the cards he’d been dealt – he had no regrets.
There was a smidgen of light left to re-group, but they had a problem – on his way down he’d seen two faces looking up at him from the edge of the forest.
He bundled up his chute, pushed it in a hole and covered it over with leaves, grass and pine cones.
The others found him, but Cherry – the new member of the team – was missing.
‘I saw him drift into the trees,’ Bulldog said.
His face was inscrutable beneath the camouflage cream.
They looked to where Bulldog was pointing, but there was nothing to see or hear. You didn’t call out for help, you didn’t cry out in pain, you died silently – those were the rules.
Yank put a round in the chamber of his Glock 21. ‘He knows where we’re going. Right now, we have two additional problems.’
The others followed him into the forest.
After a short while they found a tent with a man and his eight year-old son huddled together outside by a fire. Yank executed them both with a bullet to the head from his silenced Glock. The others buried the bodies and destroyed any evidence that the father and son had ever been there. No witnesses – his orders were crystal clear.
The waxing gibbous moon was hidden by a thick layer of low-slung clouds as they made their way through the forest towards Route 410 – Breidholtsbraut – which would take them to their objective.
***
The journey to Chigwell seemed to take forever and a day. Albert Einstein was right – time was relative. The more you wanted the time to speed up, the slower it became. Until each minute lasted a week and then some. Her phone activated as a disconnected voice announced that the next station would be Chigwell.
‘It’s Cookie.’
‘Hi.’
‘I have one number for you.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll text it to you so that you don’t have to write it down.’
‘Great, and thanks for your help.’
‘You do know I don’t do these things as a service to the community, don’t you?’
‘I know – you’ll be paid.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
The call ended.
Jerry rang the number.
‘Hello?’
She told the woman on the other end of the phone who she was and what she needed.
‘How do I know you’re not . . . ?’
‘You could ring my husband – DCI Kowalski at Hoddesdon Police Station – I’m sure he’ll vouch for me.’
‘Some men will try anything to get to the women under our protection. All right . . . meet me at The Mall on Seaborne Walk in Walthamstow at seven-thirty – park outside the pet shop. Tell me what you’re wearing, the car you’re driving and the registration number.’
She gave the woman the information she asked for.
‘Seven-thirty – don’t be late.’
‘Okay . . .’ The call had already ended.
The train jerked to a stop at Chigwell station. She looked at her watch – it was ten to six. Now, she had to drive to the address in Woodford Green that Leanne Pettigrew had given her, pick her and her baby up and then drive to Walthamstow. An hour and a half would be enough time as long as there were no accidents or roadworks en route. She was glad it wasn’t Friday, but Thursday was bad enough.
She followed a grey-haired man pushing a mountain bike along the platform. He was already wearing his helmet, hi-vis vest and bicycle clips around his ankles ready for a quick getaway as soon as he exited the station.
The machine swallowed her ticket whole and she walked through the yawning barrier. Another successful day at university. Well nearly . . . apart from that letch Professor Lewis-Payntor and the crazy Julie Wilkinson. She’d been hoping to relax on the way back in the train and read the new book by Professor Hodge that she’d just bought, but as usual life got in the way. Sometimes, she wished that she and Ray could just run away to a desert island and live the simple life.
She rummaged in her bag for her car keys as she made her way through the car park, aimed the key at her nearly new Seat Ibiza and pressed the central locking button. As she went to open the door she felt someone push her body against the car and press a cloth over her nose and mouth. She struggled, but as she struggled she took in more air and the more air she took in the darker her mind became.
Who . . . ?
What . . . ?
Then there was nothing.
***
They had just entered Konia on the outskirts of Paphos when Parish’s phone jangled.
‘What do you want?’ he said when he saw who it was.
‘I just rang to say thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. What for?’
‘Marcus.’
‘What are you babbling about?’
‘The man you sent with the whiteboard – Lieutenant Marcus Ludwig. He’s just gone off to refill my glass with orange juice at the bar.’
‘I hope that’s all he’s doing?’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘Disgusting is as disgusting does, Mary Richards.’
‘Well, you’d know all about that. You don’t need to worry. All we’re doing is lying by the pool.’
‘Make sure that’s all you do. If I come back and find . . .’
‘I’m staying by the pool, but I like him.’
‘Tell him that if he lays a finger on you . . .’
‘You’ll chop it off?’
‘And that won’t be the only thing I’ll chop off either.’
‘You can be really coarse sometimes.’
‘That’s because I want only the best for you.’
‘I know.’
‘Have I told you about Toadstone?’
‘No, what?’
‘He’s on his way out here.’
‘Why?’
‘I need a second opinion. We’re beginning to think Major Durr
ell is being made into a scapegoat.’
‘We?’
‘Don’t start.’
‘I’m not starting anything . . .’
He could have chewed the heavy silence if he hadn’t already eaten lunch. ‘Having heard about your accident, the Air Commodore kindly gave me another partner.’
‘You already have a partner.’
‘Not one who’s mobile.’
‘Who?’
‘Sergeant Madison, Royal Military Police.’
‘Male or female?’
‘That’s not relevant.’
‘I knew it.’
‘Anyway, as much as I’d like to sit here and chew the fat with you, I have work to do. Stay by the pool and I’ll see you later.’
‘But . . .’
He ended the call and climbed out of the Land Rover.
Maddie laughed. ‘How old did you say your partner was?’
‘Where men are concerned she’s a single cell amoeba, and if another female comes within a hundred miles of me she gets all protective. Once she realises you’re not in the slightest bit interested in me, she’ll be fine.’
‘You have a good relationship with her then?’
‘Very good. So, tell me about this Lieutenant Ludwig.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell. He’s like most men – out for a good time. The comments I made earlier apply to Ludwig also.’
‘Not the marrying kind then?’
‘I wouldn’t say so. And I heard rumours he was seeing one of the female officers from 88 RAF Squadron.’
He grunted. ‘I had a feeling it was too good to be true.’
Like a lot of Cyprus, Konia was under development. New holiday flats, villas and houses were sprouting up like mushrooms in the forest. There were tourist shops, a busy local market, the ruins of a temple to Aphrodite and restaurants catering to every palate.
They found the flat above the greengrocers, but the door at the rear was locked, so they went round to the front of the shop and asked the shopkeeper – a Mr Kleanthis – for the key.
He was probably in his early sixties with thick bushy eyebrows, skin like leather and thick-rimmed glasses. Over the top of a checked shirt he wore an open black waistcoat, on his head there was a flat cap and his face was dominated by a grey threadbare handlebar moustache.
