by Tim Ellis
‘I hope you’re right about this, Parish.’
‘I am right. I just hope we’re in time.’
***
‘Are you worried we won’t find out who the murdered woman is?’ Stick asked her.
‘Worried? Don’t talk rubbish.’ She was petrified. Her clear-up rate had taken a real battering lately. She was sure that the Chief was just looking for an excuse to transfer her to traffic.
They arrived at Coppice Court and bumped into an Indian man carrying an old battered briefcase coming through the door.
It took five minutes before someone came to talk to them. They spoke to a Polish carer called Irena Putzki.
‘Two men in dark suits come to see Freda Robinson. They leave. I not go up to check on her for half hour. She dead in her chair when I get there.’
Xena’s brow furrowed. ‘Has the doctor pronounced her dead?’
‘Yes. He say she die of natural causes.’
‘I’d like a post mortem.’
‘You must speak to doctor and family.’
‘She hasn’t got any family.’
‘Doctor must give permission for post mortem.’
‘I think she’s been murdered,’ Xena said.
Stick stared at her. ‘Murdered! What makes you think that?’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that two men in black suits turn up, and then half an hour later she’s found dead?’
‘The doctor has said she died . . .’
‘You don’t think the spooks have drugs to make it look like death by natural causes?’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘But nothing. I want a post mortem.’
‘You must speak to doctor,’ Irena said.
‘Get him here then.’
‘He has gone. You pass him on way in.’
‘Tell him to come back.’
‘You wait. Maybe an hour, maybe more.’
‘An hour or more. We have work to do. I want to see him now.’
‘You wait, or I call security.’
Stick intervened. ‘Even if the doctor agreed to a post mortem, it would be extremely unlikely that we’d find out anything today.’
Xena sat down in a chair. ‘Bastards.’
‘Who?’
‘All of them.’
Stick sat down next to her. ‘The Albert Embankment?’
‘I hope you’re ready to die?’
‘Where you lead, I follow.’
She half laughed. ‘You’re a numpty.’
They drove the half hour through Roydon and Epping Green to the nearest tube station, which happened to be Epping and caught the next train to Mile End on the Central Line, switched to the District Line and alighted at Embankment. The tube journey took them an hour and a half.
It was four-thirty when they entered 85 Albert Embankment at Vauxhall Cross and rang the bell on the counter of the large marble-floored reception.
‘Yes, Madam?’ the young smooth-skinned receptionist asked. She wore a blue jacket and skirt with a white blouse, and looked for all the world like an air stewardess. Xena expected the pilots to walk by at any moment.
Holding out her warrant card she said, ‘I’d like to see someone about the Deep Freeze Expedition to the Arctic in 1969, please.’ She wondered if what she’d really said was: “Please send someone down to kill me and my partner at your earliest opportunity.”
‘Do you have a name for me, Madam?’
‘No.’
‘A department?’
‘No.’
‘The Deep Freeze Expedition from 1969?’
‘Yes. It was run by a company called Arctic Exploration – APEX for short.’
‘APEX?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Please take a seat, I’ll see if I can locate someone who’s that old.’
The two of them shuffled towards the seats by the enormous glass panel window besides the revolving door and waited. Stick had the framed photograph in his hand that Xena had made him carry.
‘Me?’ he’d asked.
‘You think a senior officer who’s operating at “below average” in your own words, should carry it?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You think I’m shilly-shallying, don’t you? Malingering? Neurotic? A hypochondriac?’
‘I never would.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘We’re still alive,’ Stick said after a handful of minutes, as they waited and watched people come and go.
‘A temporary condition only, I’m sure.’
After three quarters of an hour, a fresh-faced man with blond German hair, blue eyes and a jaw that had been carved from quartz metamorphic rock.
He shook hands with them both. ‘My name is John Smyth with a y.’
The corner of Xena’s mouth creased upwards involuntarily. ‘Of course it is.’
He ignored her.
‘You want to see someone about an Arctic Expedition in 1969?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve checked our files during that year and there’s nothing about a Deep Freeze. Can you give me any more information?’
Stick butted in. ‘The expedition leader was Dr Martin Fuchs. They had their base camp on Elizabeth Island. Twenty people went out there, but only two people came back.’
‘Let’s for arguments’ sake say that we did know something about this expedition, what would your interest be in it?’
Xena carried on. ‘A woman has been murdered. She was wrapped in a brown poly tarpaulin with APEX stencilled on one side. Only six of these were made. Four were lost in the Arctic and we’ve accounted for the other two.’ She grabbed the photograph from Stick. ‘We were told that twenty people were part of the Deep Freeze Expedition, but this photograph shows twenty-three. We were told that two people came back, but we don’t believe that anymore. We’d like to know who else came back?’
He held his hand out for the photograph.
Xena made no move to give it to him.
‘I promise you’ll get it back.’
She handed him the frame.
He stood there examining it. ‘Mmmm! And all you want to know is which other member or members of this expedition returned to the United Kingdom?’
‘Yes.’
He passed her the photograph back and said, ‘I’ll check the records again with the new information you’ve provided.’
They were left alone again.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Stick asked her.
She looked round. ‘From the vending machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it do hotdogs?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’d like a hot chocolate and a hot dog with mustard.’
‘It doesn’t do hot dogs.’
‘Are you going to let that stop you from fulfilling my order?’
‘There’s a hot dog stand outside, isn’t there?’
‘For a detective, you’re not very observant.’
‘I really don’t want to leave you in here on your own. I’ll come back and you’ll have disappeared. When I ask the receptionist where you are, she’ll say you were never here, that I arrived on my own. I won’t believe them, so they’ll show me the CCTV footage, and you won’t be there – in any of the recordings . . .’
‘You come up with that crap just so you don’t have to buy me a hot dog? You’re a cheapskate. Go and get me a fucking hotdog before I waste away.’
Before he came back, she hid round a corner.
He sat down and began eating her hot dog.
‘Hey, that’s mine,’ she said as she reappeared.
‘I’m sorry – who are you?’
‘Very funny.’
He held out the remains of the hot dog towards her.
‘If I wasn’t so weak from starvation, I’d eat that and your arm up to the elbow. Go and get me another one. In fact, make that two. And make sure you have change for my hot chocolate.’
After two hours, Smyth came back with a n
ame and address on a scrap of paper. ‘At great personal expense . . .’ He held out the paper.
Xena grabbed the half that was on view, but he held onto the other half.
‘As I said earlier, there are no records of a Deep Freeze Expedition to the Arctic in 1969, but this person might be of interest to you.’ He released his grip on the scrap of paper.
‘Very kind.’
‘And don’t come back.’
She glanced at the name and address: Mark Gosper. 5 Grange Lane, Roydon. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary.’
As they left the building Stick said, ‘I can’t believe we’re still alive.’
‘Don’t be a moron. You don’t think they’d kill you in their own reception, do you? One day, when we’re least expecting it, we’ll wake up dead.’
‘As long as there’s no pain involved.’
‘How did you ever make it into the police force, Stickynuts?’
‘I don’t know.’
At the start of the return journey, Xena rang the Duty Sergeant and arranged for a squad car to go and arrest Mark Gosper, but when they arrived he was dead. Forensics were called in, and it was subsequently discovered that the headless corpse was Polly Stratford – Gospers’ girlfriend, and that she had a tattoo of a blue flower on her right shoulder. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best she could hope for. At least it was a case she could move to the “closed” pile, and that had to be good.
***
Richards had the list of suspects folded up in her back pocket. She and Sally Prentice began their detective work by knocking on the first suspects’ door on the even side of the corridor – Darryl Winston (3302) who worked in SCAS.
The door opened, and a wet beefcake was standing there with a thin towel wrapped loosely around his hips.
He smiled. ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
‘Is that so?’ Sally said.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Sally?’
Richards was struggling to shift her eyes above his waist. She was sure he was getting an erection while they were talking to him.
‘Cigarettes,’ Sally said. Do you have two cigarettes?’
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I didn’t know you were interested, Darryl.’
‘I only smoke e-cigarettes now. Trying to treat my body better than I have been doing.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘But you could both come in and try my e-cig. I have different flavours for it.’
‘I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing anymore, are we?’
He grinned. ‘Oh, I think we are.’
They moved along the corridor.
‘If you change your mind . . .’
They turned back, and saw that the towel had somehow unravelled itself and his penis was on full display.
‘That’s the smallest one I’ve ever seen, Darryl,’ Sally said, turning away.
He waved it at her and closed the door.
‘I might just go back and have a second look,’ Sally said. ‘You could come as well, if you want. We could make it a threesome.’
Richards’ face reddened. ‘I don’t think so. It was like a snake – as thick as my wrist. That’d never fit inside me, and he might want me – you know . . . to do other things.’
Sally laughed and knocked on Paul Knott’s door (3304), who worked in the National Police Library as a librarian.
The door opened. A thin freckled man with glasses and ginger hair was standing there. His teeth were misshapen and he suffered from body odour.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Paul. Do you smoke?’
‘Yes. Am I in trouble?’
‘No. I just want a cigarette. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get some.’
‘Just a minute.’
Sally glanced at her.
Richards shook her head. It wasn’t blinking eye.
Paul returned with a whole packet of cigarettes. ‘Here, I have lots. I buy them from a man who takes regular trips to Belgium.’
‘Thanks, Paul.’
‘You’re welcome. You wouldn’t like to . . . ?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
They moved further up the corridor to 3312 and knocked on Patrick Nunn’s door, who also worked in SCAS. There was no response.
Richards crossed off Darryl Winston and Paul Knott from the list, but left on Patrick Nunn.
Next, they knocked on 3314, which housed Ray Doubleday – another SCAS employee.
As soon as the door flew open, Richards knew. ‘It’s you,’ she said, but in that moment Doubleday grabbed Sally’s hair, pulled her into his room and put a knife to her throat. ‘Come in ladies. I’ve been expecting you.’
Richards opened her mouth to scream.
Doubleday shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
She had no choice but obey. If she hadn’t, what would Doubleday have done to Sally?
Doubleday shut the door with his foot once she was inside.
What was going on? Doubleday was blinking eye, a voyeur, a peeping tom. In a way, she was flattered that he found her attractive. Why did he have a knife at Sally’s throat? She was finding it hard to wrap her mind around what was happening.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to understand Detective Constable Mary Richards. All you need to do is exactly what I say, and everything will be just fine and dandy. Lie on the bed face down and spread your arms and legs out.’
‘I won’t.’
He pushed the knife into Sally’s throat until a droplet of blood oozed out of the cut and dribbled along the blade. ‘You will.’
She did. ‘What are you doing? You’re a pervert who watches naked women sleeping. Why are you holding a knife to Sally’s throat?’
‘You have no idea, do you?’
‘No idea about what?’
He pushed Sally over to the wardrobe. ‘Open it.’
She did as he ordered.
‘Take out five ties. Tie Constable Richards’ wrists and ankles to the bed, and one round her mouth to shut her up.’
He hovered over Sally with the knife as she complied with his instructions.
‘Sorry,’ Sally said.
‘Don’t be.’ She felt slightly vulnerable. Her arms and legs were spread-eagled, and she was glad she wasn’t wearing a skirt.
He grabbed Sally’s hair again. ‘Into the bathroom,’ he said, forcing her towards the en suite, and shutting the door behind him.
Richards felt sick. What was he doing to Sally? What was he going to do to her? Who was he? She heard a thump, and then running water. ‘Oh God!’
The bathroom door opened. ‘One down, one to go.’
She tried to scream, but Sally had done a good job tying the tie around her mouth.
‘But I think I’m going to have a bit of fun with you first.
She struggled against the ties, but they just seemed to tighten around her wrists and ankles.
‘You and I have met before, Mary Richards.’
She stopped struggling and stared at him – he wasn’t familiar to her. What was he talking about?
‘They call me The Family Man, which is very apt. But I don’t seem to be very lucky with families. We were introduced at a function. I was with Carrie.’
Oh God, she thought. He’s going to kill me.
***
Toadstone wasn’t thinking about how he and Mary would live happily ever after, he was only thinking that he had to get there to save her life. He knew deep down inside that she could never love him. He wasn’t good enough for her, and never would be.
He looked over the driver’s shoulder at the speedometer and said, ‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘We’re doing a hundred and thirty miles an hour already.’
‘You could increase it by twenty, couldn’t you?’
‘Are you sure you want to, Dr Toadstone?’
‘I’m sure.’
Outside was a blur.
He didn’t care. Mary Richards was the only person who mattered. If he was to lose his life to save hers, then that’s what would have to happen.
It would be a lie to say he wasn’t scared – he was petrified. But he also knew that he was more scared of letting Mary down. She needed him. He was the only one who could save her. If he failed, life wouldn’t be worth living anyway, and he may as well die himself.
As the Lamborghini entered Bramshill through the high wrought-iron gates he phoned DI Parish. ‘I’m nearly there, Sir.’
‘Listen carefully, Toadstone. Go onto the main building and see ACC Erica Hewitt. I’ve arranged for her to have headshots of all the staff available . . .’
‘But . . .’
‘You can do this, Toadstone. You’ve seen all the E-fit pictures, and now you have to pick out Luke Norton first time – no mistakes. Richards’ life depends on you getting it right.’
‘No pressure then.’
‘None at all. If Richards dies because you couldn’t do it, I’m sure she won’t blame you. Angie won’t blame you. I won’t blame you, but you’ll blame you. You’ll make your life miserable. Life will never be the same again.’
‘I’ll do it, Sir. We’re here. I’ll call you when I know what’s happening.’
‘Okay.’
The ACC was signalling for him to follow her.
‘Dr Toadstone?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Come with me.’
He sat in front of a computer and ran through the photographs one by one until he found Luke Norton. He had no doubts that Ray Doubleday was Norton. ‘That’s him.’
The ACC checked his personnel file and looked at the clock. ‘He should be in his room – 3314 at this time of day.’ She pressed a buzzer on her desk, and a CO19 officer came in. ‘Room 3314, Shaw.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
She turned back to Toadstone. ‘Go with them, Dr Toadstone. Make sure they’ve got the right man.’
He nodded.
They made their way over to the accommodation building and ran up the stairs to the third floor.
Although he’d been working out in the gym, he hadn’t really been doing aerobic work and was out of breath after running up three flights of stairs.
Inspector Shaw signalled for one of his team to smash down the door with a hand-held battering ram.
