by Ellis, Tim
‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Richards.’
***
The corridor was empty, and she tried not to walk like a burglar looking for swag. She belonged here. This was where she worked as a top scientist in the field of . . . what? What did they do here? Where was she going? She’d turned left, but maybe she should have turned right. She was conscious of the CCTV cameras. Somebody was sitting in a security office somewhere watching her. If she hesitated, or looked as though she had no idea what she was doing or where she was going they’d spot her. The eagle-eyed security officer would point at the computer screen and say, ‘We’ve got a bogey at four o’clock.’ They’d send a SWAT team for her.
She turned a corner and came face-to-face with a soldier holding a rifle across his chest. He was standing outside a metal door with a frosted glass window.
Oh God! Now what?
The door had a card-swipe access box attached to the wall. As far as she knew she had no card in her pockets to swipe through the machine.
‘Well, are you going to open it for me?’ she said to the soldier.
The soldier looked confused. ‘I thought . . .’
‘Sometime today will do.’ She was bluffing. Did it show in her face? Could he hear the fear in her voice?
‘Sorry, Miss. I’m new to this. Only started yesterday.’ He used his card to open the door.’
‘That’s all right,’ she said, touching his hand and fluttering her eyelids. I didn’t realise you were new.’ She saw his name sewn above the breast pocket of his combat jacket. ‘What time do you get off, Colonel Moore?’
He grinned, and his face turned bright red. ‘I’m only a private soldier, Miss. I get off at eight o’clock.’
She pulled the door open. ‘I might see you around then.’
The door closed behind her. She was in another corridor. More CCTV. Now what? She walked purposefully ahead until she saw “Assistant Director of Operations” stencilled on the frosted glass of a door – she knocked. No response, so she tried the handle – it was open. She slipped inside.
Her heart was going to explode. Blood would splatter everywhere. It would take a team of specialist cleaners a week to get all the blood off the walls, the ceiling, the floor – out of every nook and cranny.
The light was already on. The computer was hibernating. When she nudged the mouse the login screen lit up and informed her the ADO had locked the computer. All she needed was the password. She looked around. On a pinboard next to the desk was a post-it sticker with DF1996GB2003 written on it in pencil. She typed it in the password box – she was in – it was that simple.
In where though? The last time she had tried to access this system she’d bounced off the firewall. She would loved to have sat there with a coffee and her feet up wading through everything there was to discover on the system, but she guessed she didn’t have much time.
She glanced at the date and time in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. It was still Tuesday, but she’d lost nearly a whole day – it was three-fifteen in the afternoon.
The interesting thing about firewalls was that they were designed to keep people out, not prevent them from getting out. She changed the password, accessed an online vault she’d been wondering what to do with, highlighted everything in the C, D, E, F and G drives and dragged it all into the vault . . . copying . . . copying . . . copying . . . sixty-three minutes to copy . . . please do not shut off your computer . . . copying . . .
Files – with codenames in alphabetical order – leapt into the vault one after the other like lemmings following their biological urge to migrate: alpha33, buckshot, chopstick, commando, cudgel, delta12, duluth, epsilon, everest, evergreen, foxfire, gamma54 . . .
Opening up another window, she went straight into the ADO’s email account and dumped all the folders into the vault as well, and then she locked the computer. She had a quick look around. It was a very tidy office with a stack of manuals in a bookcase, a decanter of something with a couple of glasses . . . she got up, poured herself a drink and threw it down her neck – it was port – Mmmm. Very nice. Thank you ADO. She’d forgotten how thirsty she was. The liquid slid down her insides and made her feel warm and fuzzy.
She checked the drawers of the desk and found a handgun. She’d learned about weapons with the others in Group 323. This one was a Smith & Wesson M&P45. She released the ammunition clip and checked the amount of rounds by pressing down on the first bullet – it hardly moved. She had a full clip of ten rounds with one in the chamber. Now she didn’t feel so vulnerable and naked. She slipped the gun into the pocket of her white coat.
It was time she went. Where? – She had no idea. What she did know was that she was going to find a man with rotting teeth, piggy eyes and a broken nose.
Chapter Eighteen
After waiting an hour and fifteen minutes for the gas leak to be repaired, they eventually got back to the station at ten to four. While Stick returned to the Ink Depository on Legra Avenue to see if the owner had any information on the tattoo, Xena told Judy Moody to produce fifty copies of the photofit, and then went up to see Jenny Weber in the press office to organise a press briefing for five o’clock.
‘It’s a bit short notice, Sergeant Blake.’
‘Are you saying you can’t do it?’
‘I’m not saying that at all.’
‘Then what are you saying? Can you do it, or can’t you? It’s a very simple request, after all.’
‘I can do it.’
‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘Always a pleasure dealing with you, Sergeant Blake.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I hate coming up here. The sooner they get someone who can do the job properly, the better.’
She opened the door to leave.
‘Have a nice day,’ Jenny shouted after her.
She was having a shitty day. The pain in her stomach was getting worse. She had a headache the size of the Chief’s monthly pay packet, and she’d run out of painkillers. There was a stash hidden under the floorboards in her flat, but she’d gobbled up the ones she’d brought with her today already. She made a detour into the toilet. After swilling her face, she went into the far cubicle of the three available and sat down on the toilet lid.
A couple of minutes peace and quiet ought to do the trick. She swivelled sideways so that the cistern wasn’t pressing into her back and closed her eyes.
Behind her eyelids she watched as the blackness enveloped her, and the harder she stared into the murky haze the easier it was to make out the horses and their riders. She’d seen them before – many times – in her nightmares. They were the four horsemen of the apocalypse – harbingers of her death. They were galloping towards her, but this time she couldn’t get out of their way.
***
‘I’ve just remembered, you didn’t tell me what was on the paper the social worker gave you at Redbridge social services.’
Richards was driving. They were on the way along Buckhurst Way into Hillside Avenue and Winton’s food processing factory on the Woodford Green industrial estate.
‘The father wasn’t recorded in the files, but we have an address in Billericay for the couple who adopted Fannie Binetti’s son.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘No, I think we’ll go after we’ve been to Winton’s.’
‘We’ll be late home.’
‘Being a detective isn’t a nine to five job, you know.’
‘I know. We’d better let mum know we’ll be late.’
‘There’s no hurry. I might change my mind after we’ve been to Winton’s.’
‘Do you think the killer works at Winton’s?’
‘Lorna Boyce would have recognised him.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘I think he’s set himself up as a paid assassin. Someone at Winton’s paid him to kill Lorna Boyce.’
‘He’s not very good, if that’s really what he is.’
‘He got the job done, didn’t
he?’
‘But he’s going to get caught.’
Parish shrugged. ‘Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. He could travel to Vladivostok for cosmetic surgery, Marseille for a new passport and become a totally different person. We might never catch him.’
‘You inhabit a fantasy world. I bet he lives in a filthy one-bedroom flat in Barkingside, eats microwave meals and watches Eastenders. The police will knock on his door, he’ll give himself up and confess everything without talking to a lawyer.’
‘Who’s fantasising now?’
They pulled into the industrial estate and parked up outside Winton’s.
‘Ring Jerry,’ he said to her.
‘Why?’
‘We want to know everything she and this Cookie know before we get to Winton’s. There’s the four workers getting extra pay – what exactly does that mean? Who are the four workers? How much extra pay are they getting? Is it going through the books? Are they paying tax on it? What are they getting the money for? Then there’s the three directors with skeletons in their cupboards. We want to know what those skeletons are.’
Richards made the call and put it on loudspeaker.
‘Hi, Jerry. It’s Mary Richards.’
‘Just a minute. I’m on the tube on my way home. Okay. What is it?’
‘Can you tell us everything you know about the four workers who are getting extra money and the directors’ skeletons at Winton’s?’
‘That’s all I know.’
‘You don’t know which four workers?’
‘I know nothing else.’
‘Hi Jerry, it’s Jed.’
‘Hi, Jed.’
‘What about this hacker called Cookie?’
‘I think she knows more, but she’s not been answering her phone all day. I’m a bit worried about her.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Oh well, we’ll just have to run with what we’ve got. Have you spoken to Ray recently?’
‘Not since lunchtime.’
‘We’ve got a picture of the killer, and I expect he’ll soon be in custody.’
‘That’s great. Do you know why she was killed yet?’
‘No, not yet. We’re at Winton’s now. Hopefully, we’ll get some answers.’
‘Will you let me know what happens?’
He hesitated. ‘How about I ring Ray and let him know what we find and he then tells you?’
‘I understand. Thanks for your help, Jed.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, Jerry.’
‘Like me, you did everything you could. She chose to ignore our advice, We couldn’t do anything about that.’
The call ended.
‘Let’s go,’ Parish said climbing out of the car.
They made their way through the main gate, past the toilets and dressing rooms to the main office.
‘Yes?’ a woman asked. She had lank blonde hair, heavy bags under her eyes and a low-cut sleeveless dress revealing an inappropriate amount of cleavage.
Parish showed his warrant card. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Is it about Lorna?’
‘I asked first,’ he parried.
‘Sorry. Well, Lorna’s not here, so I suppose you want the manager – Mr Mabry. He’s somewhere in the factory. I’ll put a call out.’
‘Thanks.’
She went to a microphone, pressed a button and said, ‘Mr Mabry to the office, please,’ twice. She came back to them. ‘He shouldn’t be too long. Can I get you a drink of coffee or tea?’
‘No, we’re fine thank you,’ Parish said. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Vicki Norfolk. I’m a clerical assistant. There are two of us.’ She pointed to another older woman with curly greying hair, oval glasses and a double chin. ‘That’s Joanna Penn.’
Joanna smiled and waved at them.
‘The other woman . . .’ she pointed across the office to a mixed heritage woman with long black crinkly hair, a nice smile and a brightly-coloured top. ‘That’s Suzanne Thompson – the accounts clerk.’
Suzanne smiled.
‘We have a part-time financial assistant called Elaine Allen, but she’s not here this afternoon.’
‘And the manager?’ Richards asked writing everything down in her notebook.
‘Mr Terry Mabry. We also have an office manager – Lorna Boyce, but I don’t know where she is. Is that why you’re here?’
‘Yes,’ Parish said. He didn’t want to reveal Lorna Boyce’s demise until after he’d spoken to the manager. ‘Any other managerial staff like directors?’
‘Well, there’s Mr Ismay – the Executive Director. He has a big office upstairs, but he’s not in today.’
‘You sound surprised he’s not in,’ Parish said.
‘I am. He’s always in. Mr Mabry rang Mr Ismay’s home number, but there was no answer.’ She gave half a smile. ‘We’ve lost two people now.’
A seriously obese man with a bald head and a beard – looking deathly white and struggling to breathe – came in through the office door.
‘Mr Mabry . . . ?’ Parish began.
Mabry held his hand up, snaked his way past them through the desks and cabinets to a small office on the right with large glass panels.
‘Give him a few minutes,’ Vicki said. ‘He needs his oxygen. Mr Mabry is classified as disabled. He doesn’t often go out of his office, but when he does he has to use his oxygen mask afterwards.’
They waited until Mr Mabry called for them to go in.
‘Sorry about that,’ Mabry said, dabbing beads of sweat off his face with a handkerchief. ‘What can I do for you?’
Parish showed his warrant card again. ‘We’re here about Lorna Boyce.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘I’m sorry to say, she’s dead.’
‘My God. How . . . ?’
‘She was murdered, Mr Mabry.’
Mabry went a notch whiter, and shook his head. ‘The world today is not a nice place.’
‘I’m sorry to have to say this, but we think that someone here paid to have her killed.’
Mabry’s mouth dropped open like a malfunctioning castle drawbridge. He grasped at his oxygen mask, which was attached to a large black and white bottle via a regulator containing dials and knobs, and turned one of the knobs fully on.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine that anyone here would want to kill Lorna. What possible reason could they have?’
‘That’s what we’re here to find out, Mr Mabry. Do you feel able to answer a few questions?’
‘Ask away. I know I look as though I’m knocking on death’s door, and I probably am, but this is my normal condition.’
‘Do you know about the four workers who are getting extra money on top of their wages?’
He stared at them. ‘I’m sorry. Who? How much? Have you got their names?’
‘No. All we know is that four workers are being paid extra.’
He pressed a button on his desk. ‘Ask Suzanne to come in will you, Vicki.’
Suzanne appeared at the door. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘What can you tell me about four workers getting extra money on top of their wages, Suzanne?’
She looked at the floor and shuffled her feet. ‘I was told not to say anything.’
‘By whom?’
‘Mr Ismay.’
‘He authorised extra pay without running it past me?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’m astounded. We have a wage structure . . .’ He pressed the button again. ‘Vicki, try Mr Ismay’s home number again.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Vicki’s disembodied voice came through the speaker system.
‘Go and get me the details, Suzanne. I want to know everything.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Suzanne left to follow Mabry’s instructions.
‘I’m astounded,’ he said again. ‘I can’t understand why Mr Ismay would authorise something like that without discussing it with me first. I’m the manager for God’s sake.’
&nb
sp; ‘You have three directors, I believe?’ Parish said.
‘Yes, that’s right. Mr William Ismay is the Executive Director and has an office upstairs. Mr Hastings Shipton and Mrs Grace Dingle are non-Executive Directors. They don’t have offices, but attend board meetings every so often.
Vicki buzzed through. ‘Still no answer, Mr Mabry.’
‘Thanks Vicki,’ he said. ‘I have no idea where Mr Ismay is.’
Suzanne came back with a double-entry accounts books and placed it on the desk. She had obviously been crying. ‘Am I going to lose my job now, Mr Mabry?’
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen at the moment, Suzanne. There will obviously have to be an investigation.’
Suzanne left in tears.
Mabry opened up the book and scanned the information. ‘Yes, you’re right. Four of the workers are getting an extra one thousand pounds each a month on top of their wages. It’s been going on for about four months.’
‘Any ideas what the extra money is for?’ Parish asked.
‘None at all.’ He pressed the intercom button again. ‘Vicki, I want to see Brent Laing, Craig Wilson, Simon Poulson and Jackie Lockhart, and I want to see them now.’
‘Yes, Mr Mabry.’
They heard Vicki hurry out of the office.
‘I can only think they’re doing something illegal,’ Mabry said. ‘Why would Mr Ismay ask four of his workers to do something illegal? A thousand pounds is a lot of money on top of their normal wage. It would be hard to resist. You don’t think Mr Ismay hasn’t come in today because he knew you were coming, do you?’
Parish pulled a face. ‘That’s a good point, Mr Mabry.’ He said to Richards, ‘While we’re waiting, ring Inspector Threadneedle. Ask her to send a squad car round to Ismay’s home address and pick him up for questioning if he’s there.’
Richards nodded and went out into the main office. To get the address and make the call.
‘What’s Mr Ismay like?’ Parish asked.
‘He’s sixty-seven and lives alone. He had a wife, but she left him – I don’t know why – none of my business. He has three adult children – two boys and a girl. I have no idea where they are. He’s been the Executive Director here for over ten years since old man Winton retired, and he gets paid a director’s salary as well as the dividends at the end of the financial year.’
