by Tim Ellis
‘Are you ready to go?’ Sally Prentice asked her.
‘Just say the word.’
All afternoon she’d expected someone to come for her, to drag her away and throw her into a cell. She’d read about psychological torture methods: Sleep deprivation, solitary confinement, sensory deprivation, long periods of interrogation, the threat of physical disfigurement, exploitation of her phobias, the use of drugs and the infamous Chinese water torture. She was sure she’d tell them everything after fifteen minutes of sleep deprivation – she was useless without her ten hours of sleep a night.
That little flashing red flag must have alerted someone, but who? And why? And what were they going to do about it? But nobody had come for her. Nobody seemed to be interested in what she’d been doing. Maybe the person who had programmed the flag to appear wasn’t actually employed at SCAS anymore. Maybe the flag alerted nobody. Maybe . . .
‘I know. Some days it can be boring, but you have to think beyond what you’re doing to what the detectives on the ground are doing.’
She smiled. ‘I’m a detective,’ she said, but then her face dropped. ‘Or, at least I used to be.’
‘And you will be again. The three months will fly by – you’ll see.’
‘I haven’t experienced any evidence of that yet.’
‘That’s because you’re still on detective-time. Once you adjust to analyst-time you’ll be fine. As my friend Albert Einstein once said: Time is relative.’
‘Relative to what?’
‘Relative to what you’re doing. If you’re doing something really interesting – time flies by. When you’re not – it dribbles by.’
Richards stood up. ‘Let’s dribble out of here then.’
Sally laughed.
They made their way out of the building and across to the living accommodation.
‘See you in the dining room at seven,’ Sally said.
‘Okay.’
Her room was on the fourth floor of the six-floor building, and as soon as the door clicked shut she stripped off her clothes and walked into the shower. She could easily have climbed into bed and slept until the morning, but she knew she had to eat because she’d missed lunch and her stomach was making funny noises.
She thought a lukewarm shower might make her feel refreshed and awake, but it didn’t. The bed was telepathic. It was whispering to her inside her head: “Slide naked between the covers, Mary Richards. Snuggle right on down there. I’ll give you the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had. It was a hard day today. You deserve the very best . . . “ She picked up her phone, and was about to call DI Parish when he rang her.
‘You can read minds, can’t you?’ she said.
‘I’m especially good with empty ones.’
‘Ha, ha!’
‘How’s your day been?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I just did.’
‘Awful.’
‘I have time.’
‘You and The Family Man murders.’
‘What happened?’
‘A flashing red flag – that’s what happened.’
‘There was a carnival in Hampshire?’
‘No there wasn’t a carnival in Hampshire. When I input the first query into ViCLAS, a small red flag flashed briefly at the top right of the computer screen and then disappeared.’
‘That’s not good. Who did you alert?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody?’
‘That’s right. All afternoon I’ve been expecting to be dragged away to the torture chamber . . .’
‘You’re a drama queen.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like . . .’
‘Of course I do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know what it’s like.’
‘You know what what’s like?’
‘At SCAS.’
‘How?’
‘I did a secondment there.’
‘You’re a pig. And you never said?’
‘It was in the early days.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘I could have, but I didn’t. So, nobody came to drag you away?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you answered your phone, we’re talking and you don’t sound as though you’ve been tortured very much at all.’
‘No, nobody came. But they could have done.’
‘And you don’t know who initiated the flag?’
‘No. But that’s not the only strange thing.’
‘Oh?’
She sat on the edge of the bed, swung her feet up and put her head on the pillow. ‘The original analysis on the ViCLAS questionnaire was carried out by someone called Runnel Took, but he doesn’t exist.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Her eyes began to close, so she sat up again. ‘No. I asked Sally Prentice – the senior analyst – and she looked in the staff list. There was no one working there called Runnel Took.’
‘Sally Prentice! Is she still there?’
‘Do you know Sally?’
‘Never heard of her. Maybe he set the flag and now he’s on a day off. Or, maybe he doesn’t work there anymore.’
‘No. Sally said that there’s been no one at SCAS called Runnel Took in the five years she’s worked there.’
‘You must have got the name wrong.’
‘I checked – Runnel Took.’
‘Sally Prentice must be wrong then.’
‘She’s a senior analyst with a formidable memory. But that’s not all, you know.’
‘Go on then?’
‘The analysis wasn’t very good.’
‘And you’re an expert after how many minutes there?’
‘I found some inconsistencies.’
‘Well?’
‘We could ask one of Paul’s computer people to put the E-fit pictures into a face-recognition programme to strip away the layers and arrive at the lowest common denominator between the three faces.’
‘Already done that. Next?’
‘Oh, all right then. Well, it occurred to me that it was no good looking for Mottram, or whatever his name was, because by the time the police did get round to searching for him he had become somebody else.’
‘And your solution is?’
‘We have to find out who he really is.’
‘That’s brilliant. I don’t think anybody has thought of that before.’
‘You don’t need to be sarcastic. If you recall, you asked me for help.’
‘You’re right. I apologise. Is that it then?’
‘No.’
‘Is it going to take long?’
‘I thought you had time.’
‘I do.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘I think we’ve already established that.’
‘He leaves no forensic evidence – why is that?’
‘Because he doesn’t want his biological data to be recorded on our databases?’
‘Or, he’s already on there. And if we find a fingerprint, or obtain a DNA profile, we’ll have a match.’
‘You have my attention, analyst Richards.’
‘Documents. To maintain an alias for so long, he must have obtained original documents. Maybe he left a fingerprint, or some DNA . . .’
‘Already thought of that. Next?’
‘Okay. Well, I thought about Newcastle being his first time, and maybe it wasn’t.’
‘Go on?’
‘I found something.’
‘You mean ViCLAS found something?’
‘I suppose, but I encouraged it.’
‘It took you long enough to get there.’
She took a bottle of cold water from the small fridge, and then struggled to open it with one hand holding the phone to her ear. ‘I’m breathing in deeply and staying calm.’
‘That’s an excellent strategy to cope with stress. Well?’
‘There’s only a forty-percent linkage.’
‘Forty-percent is better than no
percent is what I always say.’
‘You never say that.’
‘I just did. Are you ever going to get to the point?’
‘There was a fire in 1989 at a Methodist Chapel in Heptonstall near Halifax . . .’
‘That’s all very interesting, but . . . ?’
‘If you’ll just let me finish.’
‘Talk faster – my attention-span is beginning to deteriorate.’
‘The whole family burned to death. There was the minister, his wife and three children – Patricia who was fifteen; eleven year-old John; and Luke aged seven. The police and fire services never found the body of the seven year-old boy – Luke.’
‘What was their last name?’
‘Norton.’
‘Oh!’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘I thought it might be Young.’
‘No, definitely Norton. The minister was called Samuel, his wife Beatrice . . .’
‘Beatrice?’
‘Yes.’
‘You might just have solved this case, Little Miss Forty-percent.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He told her about finding the journal, the keepsakes and the bracelet of Victorian wax-seal fobs in Newcastle; about the blue Ford Focus that had been registered in Hebden Bridge; and about the photograph in the journal with the name Beatrice on the back which had been taken in 1989.
‘And don’t forget the name Grant Mottram was lifted from a gravestone at the Methodist Chapel in Heptonstall.’
‘All clues lead to Heptonstall, Richards.’
‘So it would seem. And you think The Family Man is Luke Norton and that Beatrice was his mother?’
‘It’s looking promising.’
She added, ‘But?’
‘We still have no idea what he looks like.’
‘You might once Paul’s computer people have finished feeding the E-fit pictures through the face-recognition software.’
‘We’ll see. So, is there anything else you want to tell me?’
‘Such as?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I did check whether there were any similar crimes between the murders that we do know about, but there were no linkages.’
‘I was thinking more about your love life.’
‘Well, you can stop thinking about something that doesn’t exist.’
‘Not found anybody, huh?’
‘There’s a man with a hairy mole on his top lip who wants to take me out.’
‘Sounds like your type of man.’
‘You would say that.’
‘Right, I think you can put your feet up and take things easy now, Richards.’
‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘You’re familiar with the fable about the scorpion and the frog?’
‘The scorpion stings the frog half-way across the river when he says he won’t, because it’s his nature?’
‘The very same. Well, generosity is my nature.’
‘Since when?’
‘You can be a cruel daughter sometimes.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘Have a nice secondment.’
She ended the call, dropped the towels on the floor and began getting ready for dinner. Another one solved, she thought.
***
He opened his eyes.
Jerry was sitting in a chair by the bed holding his hand. She smiled. ‘Hello, stranger.’
It took a while for the software in his brain to re-boot, but eventually the memories that had filled up the earlier parts of the day came flooding back. ‘You’re all right?’
‘No wonder the Chief Constable promoted you to DCI.’
He tried to look down at the lower half of his left leg, but he had no strength in his neck.
‘It’s still there,’ Jerry said. ‘You look like Robocop. They kept you in the operating theatre for five hours . . .’
His mouth felt like the inside of a bear’s arse. ‘Five hours! No wonder NHS waiting times are so long. What about you? And Bronwyn?’
‘As you can see, I’m still in one piece. Bronwyn could be better, but she’s young and clinging onto what tiny bit of life is left inside of her.’
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘They’re cautiously optimistic she’ll pull through, but they’ve made it quite clear that if she doesn’t survive it won’t be their fault.’
She poured him a water and held his head while he guzzled through a straw like a man who had been in the desert for three months.
‘And you’re all right?’
‘I think we’ve agreed that I’m okay.’
He slid his right hand up to her breast. ‘More than okay, I’d say.’
She guided the stray hand back to the bed. ‘I think it’ll be a while before you even get close to my perfect body again, Raymond Kowalski. I’ve not forgotten that you wouldn’t let me go down those stairs with you . . .’
‘And what would have happened if you had?’
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘Not to me. What about PCSO Turtledove?’
Jerry bit her lip.
‘What?’
‘She died an hour ago. The explosion killed her from the inside out apparently. The doctors did all they could, but her injuries were just too severe.’
‘Crap!’ He tried to push himself up the bed, but he was fighting against a million years of gravity, enough metal in his leg to fill a scrap yard, and more than his fair share of bandages and dressings holding the left side of his body together, so he gave up.
‘Sleep is what the doctors have recommended.’
‘I have things to do.’
Jerry sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. ‘This should be fun.’
‘You’re not being very supportive. I remember a time . . .’
‘There are two armed guards outside the door. They were happy to inform me that – by order of the Chief Constable – the Heckler & Koch machine guns they’re carrying are to keep you in, not the crazed gunman out.’
‘Haven’t they found him yet?’
‘No.’
‘How come he didn’t find you?’
‘Retail therapy. I went shopping in Chigwell.’
‘Which probably saved your life.’
Jerry smiled. ‘Just remember that the next time you moan about me going shopping. And . . . I also found a beautiful skirt and jacket with matching shoes and handbag in the sales.’
‘I wasn’t . . .’
The door opened and the Chief Constable appeared in the gap. ‘Ah, you’re awake, Kowalski?’
He was in a private room that had an en suite bathroom in the right-hand corner, two double windows to his left and a high-back easy chair in the far left-hand corner.
‘Just opened my eyes, Sir.’
William Orde gave Jerry a kiss on the cheek, and then pulled a face as he bent slightly and peered at the circular metal framework surrounding Kowalski’s left lower leg, which was connected to titanium pins that disappeared through the skin and had been surgically inserted into the broken bones. ‘That looks painful..’
‘I can’t feel a thing,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you will once the drugs wear off.’
‘Thanks for the pep talk, Sir.’
The Chief Constable smiled. ‘No problem. What I really came in for was to tell you that we’ve got him.’
‘That’s great news.’
‘Well, when I say we’ve got him – I mean, CO19 have him pinned him down in a house.’
‘He’s still got the gun?’
‘Yes, and now he’s also taken a woman and a child hostage.’
‘Bloody hell! Do you know who he is yet?’
The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Are the woman and child his family?’
‘It would appear not. We have another distraught man pleading with us to save his wife and child . . . as if that wasn’t our first priority anyway.’
<
br /> ‘I’m sure the public get confused about our priorities sometimes, Sir.’
‘With money too tight to mention – who can blame them. I’m sure the rank-and-file get confused as well.’
‘What about the Commissioner’s Special Advisor?’
‘She’s not happy.’
‘She?’
‘Chief Superintendant Kim Champ . . .’
‘Fagin?’
‘You’re not meant to call senior officers by their derogatory nicknames in front of other senior officers, Kowalski.’
‘Sorry, Sir. I don’t suppose this is going to go away quietly now, is it?’
‘You got your way in the end, Kowalski.’
‘My way would have been to see all those children still alive, Sir.’
‘Of course – that’s exactly what I meant.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about PCSO Turtledove, especially as she saved my life.’
‘Yes. Not the outcome I would have wished for.’
‘Especially for Turtledove.’
‘No. But as I said, I’ll be putting her forward for the QGM – it’ll just have to be a posthumous award now, that’s all.’
‘I’m sure her family will appreciate that, Sir.’
‘Mmmm! I suppose I’ll have to replace you for at least three months. What about Parish acting up?’
‘Richards is on a three-month SCAS secondment at Bramshill, so that could work.’
‘Is he ready?’
‘Only one way to find out, but he’s on two weeks’ leave.’
‘We can cancel that. How will DI Blake take it?’
‘I’m sure she’ll be supportive.’
‘Good. At least we can keep it in-house.’
Chapter Seventeen
He called Toadstone, but was diverted to voicemail. He left a message: ‘You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you, Toadstone.’
At least he had a name – Luke Norton, but not a face. Where the hell was Toadstone? He needed a face. He had so many loose ends the case was beginning to resemble a half-finished Ordnance Survey roadmap.
There was the criminal profile from the psychologist – Gilli Allen – that he was expecting before the end of the day; he had to send the pictures of the fobs off to Doc Riley later and find out what she thought about them, but before that he needed to transfer them from his phone to his laptop; he needed to phone DS Lauren Perry to find out if the forensic people at Newcastle had found any DNA or fingerprint evidence on the journal or keepsakes, but he couldn’t do that until tomorrow, although it wouldn’t hurt to remind her that he hadn’t forgotten about their arrangement.
