by Ellis, Tim
‘He’s just grumpy because he realised he was obese when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.’
‘With all the exercise I’m doing, my couple of extra pounds will be gone soon enough, but your fat arse will need some serious liposuction if you keep lying about doing nothing. I’m already beginning to look like Sylvester Stallone in the early Rocky films . . .’
Richards laughed. ‘As if . . . More like Mr Blobby.’
They helped themselves to breakfast from the buffet and joined Toadstone.
‘So . . . good flight, Toadstone?’ Parish asked.
‘Is there such a thing?’
‘Well, I take it you had a good night’s sleep then.’
‘I don’t sleep well in strange beds.’
‘A bed is a bed. What’s strange about a bed?’
‘You know – I wasn’t in my own bed.’
‘You brought your teddy bear with you, didn’t you?’
‘Pooh doesn’t like to travel far from home.’
‘You haven’t really got a teddy bear have you, Paul?’ Richards asked.
His face reddened. ‘Of course not.’
‘You obviously like the food,’ Parish said nodding his head at Toadstone’s overflowing plate.
‘It’s edible. I’m a little hungry after the journey. I try not to eat when I travel . . . for obvious reasons.’
‘Don’t think you’ve come all this way to share a sunbed with Richards . . .’
‘I can’t lie in the sun. It brings me out in red blotches.’
Richards chipped in. ‘What about swimming, Paul?’
‘I never learnt to swim, and I’m allergic to the chemicals they use in the water. Also, I come out in a livid rash if I’m forced to take my clothes off in front of other people.’
‘You’re in luck, Toadstone. You’re not here to do any of those things – you’re here to work. And that’s one thing I do know you like doing.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
He told Toadstone what he needed from him in terms of the post mortem and evidence reports.
‘I read Greek.’
‘Nobody reads Greek – it’s a language of hieroglyphs.’
‘Greek is derived from the Phoenician alphabet, which is the ancestor of many European and Middle Eastern scripts. The symbols are also used in numerous areas of science and mathematics. I began by learning Latin . . . Greek naturally followed.’
‘That tells me everything I need to know about you, Toadstone. You can’t swim, but you can read Greek and Latin. You need to get out more and stop being a geek.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Paul. He’s just grumpy because he can’t read the reports himself.’
Parish ignored her. ‘So, Maddie – my new partner . . .’
Richards made a raspberry sound with her mouth.
‘. . . Is picking us up at quarter to nine . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘In forty-five minutes. She’ll drive us to the HQ at Episkopi where we’ll brief the Air Commodore on what we’ve discovered so far. I’ll get you a driver to take you first to the forensic building in Limassol, and then to the General Hospital to speak to the pathologist . . .’
‘What about the body?’ Toadstone asked.
‘Buried already.’
‘Can’t we .. . ?’
‘No. There’s no grounds to exhume the body. You’ll just have to do the best you can with what’s available.’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘There you go then. It’ll be just like being at Hoddesdon. Except . . .’
‘. . . Except, you haven’t brought me all the way out to sunny Cyprus to tell you I can’t find anything.’
‘Exactly. It’s no good being a genius if you’re simply going to tell me what every normal person will tell me. Being a genius is a heavy burden, Toadstone. You have to keep proving that you’re better than everyone else, and now is one of those times. I have the feeling that the only thing that will persuade Inspector Kefalis to examine the other possibilities in this case is forensic evidence that puts in doubt Major Durrell’s guilt.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. While you’re pretending to be a genius, Maddie and I will be. . .’
‘. . . Swimming?’ Richards suggested.
At dinner last night, once the waiter had brought their food, Richards said, ‘Did you go swimming today?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘So you did?’
‘I don’t recall saying that.’
‘You didn’t deny it, so I can only conclude that you did.’
‘I was merely wondering why you asked.’
‘I could smell the chlorine.’
‘That’s because you . . .’
‘I can’t swim with my ankle in plaster.’
‘Maybe when you and Herr Beethoven . . .’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘Is your food all right?’
‘Also, your hair was all messed up and your eyes were red.’
‘That was probably from travelling in an open-top Land Rover.’
‘Extremely unlikely. So, explain to me how you ended up in a swimming pool?’
‘I don’t think I will.’
‘Was Maddie in that swimming pool with you?’
‘That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’
‘Are you denying it?’
‘I’m not denying anything.’
‘I’m confused.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘You didn’t take any swimming shorts with you, so you must have been naked when you went swimming.’
‘Now who’s being disgusting?’
‘Was Maddie naked as well?’
‘You recall me telling you that we went to see Dixie Lang and her husband Gerald?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, they had a pool.’
‘The ugly truth is coming out now.’
‘And they loaned Maddie a swimming costume and me a pair of shorts, and we had a quick dip.’
‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’
‘You need to wash your mouth out with carbolic soap, Mary Richards. It was all innocent, nothing happened and anyway – Dixie and Gerald were there the whole time. Also . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Dixie wouldn’t give me Jackson Wyberg’s address until I’d been in for a swim.’
‘Why?’
‘I refused to go into the pool.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I was meant to be working, and I think the interrogation has gone on for long enough now.’
‘Will you tell the mother of your children how you went frolicking half-naked in a pool with your new partner when you were meant to be working?’
‘I don’t think that would be helpful.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
Back in the present, his face creased up. ‘No, we will not be going swimming. We’ll be questioning Jackson Wyberg in Agios Tychon, and don’t forget to ring the station . . .’
‘Unlike you, I won’t be distracted by . . .’
‘So Mucus Ludwig isn’t coming to . . . ?’
‘No, he has to work. He said he’d try to get away later, and his name is Marcus – not Mucus.’
‘A Freudian slip.’
‘What do you want me to do when I’ve finished?’ Toadstone asked.
‘Ring me and let me know what you’ve discovered, and then get the driver to bring you back here.’
‘You can come and sit with me by the pool,’ Richards said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’ll be all right, Paul. You can wear all your clothes, and we’ll be under an umbrella.’
‘Maybe.’
‘A gorgeous woman is inviting you to the pool and all you can say is, “Maybe”. I give up with you, Toadstone. I know she’s a got a fat arse, but try not to look below her waist.’
‘You had to go and spoil it, didn’t you?’
He s
tood up. ‘Right, are you ready, Toadstone.’
‘Can I go back to my room to wash my hands and face?’
‘Haven’t you had a shower this morning?’
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘You’ve got forty-three seconds and then you’ll be walking.’
Toadstone shot off towards the door.
‘You’re so mean to him.’
‘Me? You’re the one who’s invited him to sit with you and Mucus by the pool when you know his heart beats only for you.’
‘Huh!’
***
While they were eating breakfast at the Happy Clam cafe on the seafront, Stick phoned the Chief, but it went to voicemail. He decided it probably wasn’t appropriate to leave a message that he’d turned a human being into a sieve. There would be an investigation by Professional Standards, but he had no doubts that he’d made the right decision to shoot Michelangelo. If he hadn’t, he’d be hanging on a wall with a meat hook through his neck now, and Koll would probably be dangling next to him having been raped first.
He hoped DI Dougall could find something to connect the dirty officers at Shrub End to Michelangelo. He hadn’t given it too much thought before, but now he wondered how they’d found out about Michelangelo to be following him.
‘A penny for them?’ Koll said.
‘Cheapskate. I was just thinking that we’ve stopped a killer, but once the bent coppers at Shrub End find out you’re still alive . . .’ There was no need to finish the sentence. They both knew how far they were willing to go to silence Koll.
‘Maybe I should refuse to co-operate with Professional Standards.’
‘Have you given them a statement?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing since?’
‘Well, they moved me to Hoddesdon.’
‘Something’s not right. I’ll speak to the Chief.’
‘Are we taking the day off?’
‘I would very much like to spend the day in bed . . . Not with you . . . Anyway, we still have two cases that need solving.’
‘You’re not making me work?’
‘Best thing for you.’
His phone activated.
‘Gilbert . . . Uh huh . . . Uh huh . . .’ He listened some more and then said, ‘We’re on our way.’
He ended the call.
‘What?’ Koll asked.
He opened his mouth to respond, but his phone jangled again.
‘Gilbert . . . Uh huh . . . We’re on our way.’
Koll waited.
‘The first call was from King George Hospital. A thirty-seven year old neurosurgeon called Marie Altamirano was found in the early hours of this morning wandering around Woodford Green near the bus stop where William Pitt’s body parts were dumped – she was half naked and babbling incoherently.’
‘Is she connected to our case?’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s a good question. Apparently, one of the hospital staff recognised her. They did some tests to find out what was wrong with her . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s alive, but there’s nobody at home is what they said. The killer has destroyed the frontal lobe of her brain . . .’
Koll put her hand up to her mouth, ran outside and puked against the wall. When she’d finished, she came back inside and went to the ladies’ room to swill her mouth out. On her way back to the table, she explained to the woman behind the counter what had happened – who then went outside with a bucket of water.
‘Sorry,’ Koll said when she sat down again. ‘Breakfast was a waste of money.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘What about the second call?’
‘Another shooting on the A406.’
Koll looked very pale.
‘You’re not going to be sick again, are you?’
‘There’s nothing left to be sick with.’
‘Maybe you should take the day off. Go back to the hotel to sleep.’
‘No, I’ll be okay.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t mind working on my own.’
‘I’m sure. You drive, I’ll catch up with my beauty sleep.’
‘Okay.’
***
‘You moron,’ Ruth Völker said into the telephone.
She’d made her way into the office. There was no reason for her to stay at the flat. It wasn’t a home – merely somewhere she slept sometimes. Her life was her work, and Brightmore was jeopardising that.
‘I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was torturing her, the next she was dead. She must have had a weak heart or something like that.’
‘I should order your termination.’
‘How was I to know? It was an accident. I shouldn’t be held accountable for unforeseen accidents.’
‘What about the Right Honourable member for Tintagel South?’
‘Died of a drug overdose, unfortunately.’
‘At least you’ve done one thing right. What about Flinders?’
‘I have a plan.’
‘It had better work this time?’
‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’
‘I think we’ve just established that you haven’t got a clue what you’re doing. If you make any further mistakes . . .’ She didn’t bother finishing the sentence. Brightmore knew what would happen to him – and still might.
She’d had a premonition that he’d cock it up. Even though she hadn’t liked Chapman Ryder, at least he would get the job done. Brightmore, on the other hand, was a fucking liability. After this was all over she’d get someone who did know what they were doing. If she still had a job, of course.
Now what was she going to do? She looked at the clock on the wall above the door – it was quarter to nine. She cupped the computer mouse with her hand and navigated to the WikiUK site.
Crap!
They’d begun publishing the documents alphabetically every two hours. The first document – Alpha33 – had been published at exactly eight o’clock. It described a failed mission from 1999 to provide financial and military assistance to the Chechen separatists, which would have helped them move away from Russian hegemony.
Shaking her head, she turned on the television. They were already discussing the document and what effect it might have on British-Russian relations. Involuntarily, a smile cracked her face. The British government had tried to de-stabilise the Russian government – it was fairly obvious what the effect might be – the Russians were going to be seriously pissed off.
The next document – Buckshot – was scheduled for release at ten o’clock, and they’d listed over two hundred files to be published over the coming weeks. Sir Peter could hardly blame her – his people had failed in the first place.
There was also breaking ticker-tape news that the WikiUK building in Iceland had been reduced to rubble, and that the head of the organisation – Cally Flinders – had flown to the UK, and was now missing.
Every finger was pointing at the UK.
The Foreign Secretary had immediately denied any wrongdoing, but a whole bunch of tweets on Twitter suggested that nobody believed him.
She began counting down the list of alphabetic documents, adding two hours to each one as she descended:
1200 – Chopstick
1400 – Commando
1600 – Cudgel
1800 – Delta12
2000 – Duluth
2200 – Epsilon . . .
The only one she was interested in was the Epsilon files. She had until ten o’clock tonight before the proverbial hit the fan..
She rang Nana Rodriguez.
‘Hello?’
‘I take it you’ve seen the news?’
‘I would have to be deaf and dumb not to have seen the news. I take it things have not gone exactly to plan.’
‘You could say that.’
‘And now you need my help?’
‘You could say that.’
‘I’ll do what I can,
but it means bringing someone else into the loop.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning . . . I will lose a skilled computer technician once he has completed the task.’
‘You’d like me to send someone to clean up.’
‘Of course. GCHQ don’t employ those type of people.’
‘Let me know who it is once the task in complete.’
‘Certainly.’
‘On a personal note . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘If you could stop the publication of documents before 2200 hours tonight I would be very grateful.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The call ended.
All she could do now was wait.
***
Armed with a black and white picture of the woman driving Jerry’s car, he parked up at Chigwell train station and used the underground to travel to the Strand. If he needed a car at any point he’d hire one.
He should have been impressed by the 19th Century King’s Building, but he hadn’t come to admire the architecture or wallow in its history. He climbed the steps, travelled up to the Dean’s office on the fourth floor and banged on Professor Angela Knot’s heavy oak door.
‘Come.’
He showed his warrant card, but explained that he was here in his capacity as a concerned husband rather than as a DCI. Although, he did admit that the latter was driving the former.
‘How can I help?’
‘You have my wife – Jerry Kowalski – on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
The professor nodded. ‘Her name has been brought to my attention.’
‘A model student?’
‘A troublemaker.’
‘That’s Jerry all right. Anyway, she was here yesterday, caught the train back to Chigwell and then disappeared.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. How do you think we can help?’
He saw a knowing look cloud her eyes.
‘Let me first say that Jerry is not running away from anything. I’m a wonderful husband – although I could probably be a tiny bit more attentive . . .’
The professor grunted. ‘Couldn’t all men?’
