by Ellis, Tim
‘Do you have a good relationship with him?’
‘I thought I did, but he seems to have been doing something behind my back . . . Or should that be – under my nose?’
A din came from the outer office.
Parish stood up and went out to see what was happening.
‘Brent Laing and Simon Poulson have gone, Sir,’ Vicki said.
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘Gone. When I said that there were police here to speak to them, they ran for it. Well, they got in their cars and drove off.’
He looked at the other two. ‘You two must be Craig Wilson and Jackie Lockhart?’
They nodded.
‘What’s it all about then?’
The woman spoke up first. ‘Horse meat. Mr Ismay said we’d get a thousand pounds extra in our pay packets each month if we did as he asked.’
‘Which was?’
‘Someone would ring us between ten at night and two in the morning. We’d then come to the factory to open up and take the delivery of horse meat, which we minced and mixed in with the beef that had already been processed.’
Wilson spoke up. ‘We didn’t see no harm in it. I mean, they eat horse meat in countries all over the world. I’ve had it myself and I didn’t turn into a fucking zombie.’
‘Take a seat,’ he said to them.
They sat down in some hard back chairs by the door.
‘Call Inspector Threadneedle again. Ask her to send a couple of cars here, and to track down Laing and Poulson. Someone should also call environmental health as well.’
‘Do you think Lorna Boyce was murdered because of horse meat, Sir?’
‘Looks like it, Richards. Although ultimately, I’m sure, it will be about money.’
***
It was five to five when Stick walked into the squad room. Xena wasn’t there. He guessed she must have gone down to the press briefing, but if she had why were the copies of the photofit on her desk? Maybe she hadn’t been able to arrange the press briefing for five o’clock. He rang Jenny Weber.
‘Jenny, it’s Rowley.’
‘Hello, Rowley. You should come up and see me instead of that horrible bitch you call your partner.’
‘She’s been up to see you then?’
‘Yes, about an hour ago. Asked me to arrange a press briefing for five.’
‘And you did?’
‘Yes. She’ll be there now. I’m just on my way down.’
‘I’ll come with you. It looks like she forgot the pictures. See you on the stairs.’
The call ended.
It wasn’t like the Sarge to forget things. He picked up the stack of photofits and headed towards the stairs.
Jenny was just coming down the stairs.
‘Hey, I heard Calvin Klein had snapped you up as a model for his latest line.’
She laughed. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
He grinned like a weird papier-mâché marionette. ‘I do, but I especially mean it when I say it to you.’
She blushed. ‘You do know I’m married with a young baby and you shouldn’t be flirting with me, don’t you?’
‘I know, but I also know that women like to feel special, especially after they’ve just had a baby. I guess your husband doesn’t make you feel special, does he?’
‘He’s a pig, like most men. What about you? Do you have someone special, Rowley?’
‘You won’t tell Sergeant Blake, will you?’
‘I wouldn’t give her the scum off the top of my fish pond.’
‘She’s not that bad.’
‘I know, she’s worse.’
‘I have a girlfriend.’
‘Good for you, Rowley. What’s her name?’
‘Jennifer. She’s a police officer as well – at Southend.’
‘That’s a fair way to go.’
‘Well, she more or less lives with me now.’
‘Does she commute back and forwards to Southend every day?’
‘Yeah . . . I know, it’s a bit of a hike.’
‘I’ll say. Maybe one of you should get a transfer.’
‘We’ve talked about it, but . . .’
‘Let me guess. Sergeant Blake?’
‘Mmmm.’
Stick held the door open for Jenny to walk into the press briefing room first and then he followed her.
‘Speaking of the Devil’s whore,’ Jenny said. ‘Where is Sergeant Blake?’
‘I thought she’d be here. Maybe she just popped to the toilet. I know . . . Yeah well, I think it’s that time of the month for her.’
‘Oh.’
Stick checked his watch. It was five past five. She was never late. Where was she?
The press were getting restless.
‘Anybody got a clue what’s happening?’
‘Don’t be silly, this is a police station.’
A ripple of laughter.
‘Sergeant Blake’s trying to make herself look beautiful for the cameras.’
‘We’re going to have a long wait then.’
More laughter.
Stick cast his eyes over them. ‘Hey, there’s no need to get personal. Some of you lot look as though you should have made an effort this morning.’
‘You’ll have to do the briefing,’ Jenny said to him.
‘Me? I’ve never done one before.’
‘I don’t see anybody else here. You must know what she was going to say.’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘Time to come out of the shadows, Rowley.’
He climbed up onto the raised platform, sat behind the table where Sergeant Blake normally sat and poured himself a drink of water. His mouth had turned into the Gobi desert. He could imagine camels and lizards roaming around in there, searching high and low for moisture.
He cleared his throat unnecessarily.
Quiet descended on the room.
‘I’m DC Gilbert. Sergeant Blake has been delayed. Last Friday . . .’ He pulled his notebook out to check the date. ‘April 5 at approximately four-thirty, a woman’s severed hand was deposited in a waste bin outside the ‘A Salt N Battered’ fish and chip shop on Hoddesdon High Street. As yet, despite exhaustive enquiries, we have no identity as to the owner of the hand.’ He nodded at Jenny, who began distributing the pictures. ‘We have managed to construct a photofit likeness of the woman we would like to question, which Mrs Weber is passing round now, and I’d be very grateful if you could publish/display it with the message that if anyone knows this woman to please be so kind as to contact us on the usual confidential number.’
The questions began.
‘Tammy Matson from the Redbridge Times. You don’t think the woman is dead then?’
‘We’re really not sure, Tammy. The pathologist seems to think she might be, but we can’t be one hundred percent sure.’
‘Joel Metcalfe from the Epping Guardian. Have you any idea who disposed of the severed hand, detective?’
‘No. There is the possibility that the person might be Jewish.’
‘What about the woman, could she be Jewish as well?’
‘Yes, she could be. She was wearing a ring on her index finger with Hebrew writing, which translated means: I have found the one my soul loves.’
‘Pansy Lupin from the Epping and Redbridge Independent. You’ve found a hand, but where’s the rest of her?’
He shrugged. ‘We only have a hand at the moment.’
‘But you’re treating it as murder, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He looked around. There didn’t seem to be any more questions. He stood up. ‘Thank you all for coming. I’m sure Sergeant Blake will be at the next briefing.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a uniformed officer enter and whisper something to Jenny.
She signalled him.
He climbed down from the platform. ‘What is it?’
‘Sergeant Blake. Somebody found her in a toilet cubicle unconscious.’
He rushed out of the door an
d ran up the stairs. People were crowded around the ladies toilet door.
‘Let me through,’ he called, shoving people out of the way. He surprised himself by raising his voice. ‘Will you let me through?’ He never raised his voice.
The paramedics were there.
Sergeant Blake was lying on the tiled floor with an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and an intravenous canula in the back of her hand attached to a clear bag of liquid. She looked deathly white.
‘Ready . . . ?’ one of the paramedics said. ‘Lift.’
They lifted her into a basket stretcher and buckled her in.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Stick asked.
‘That’s up to the doctors,’ the taller and older of the two paramedics said.
They began carrying her out.
Stick followed them. ‘Will she be all right?’
‘The sooner we get her to hospital the better.’
‘I’m her partner. Can I come with her?’
‘I don’t see why not, mate.’
He followed them out. He’d never forgive himself if she died. He was meant to be her partner, to protect her back. Where was he when she needed him?
Chapter Nineteen
First Caribbean International Bank
West Bay, Grand Cayman
The woman locked the door of the bank at twenty-three minutes to five, and began walking inland along Boggy Sand Road towards the main housing area for local inhabitants.
Oscar and Rosibel followed hand-in-hand on the opposite side of the road like tourists taking a peak at how the poor people lived.
He had lost count of the number of times he’d had to jump in the swimming pool during the day to cool down, and was glad now that Rosibel had finally put her clothes back on. Although, she wore a baggy sleeveless vest and no bra, and he could see the shape of her nipples through the thin white material. He was sure she was doing it on purpose to drive him crazy. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms, make love to her and tell her how much he had always loved her. But he knew it was never going to happen – loving Rosibel was a lost cause. His time would be better spent searching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
‘You haven’t told me why we’re following this woman.’
‘When you need to know, I’ll tell you.’
‘I’m not going to approve, am I?’
‘What you approve or disapprove of is of no interest to me.’ He wasn’t being strictly honest. His loyalty was to Mr Garcia – the man who had provided him with the many opportunities to reach his present position in life – betrayal was unthinkable and, of course, deadly. He had been tasked to find the person who had stolen Mr Garcia’s money, and that’s exactly what he would do regardless of whether she disapproved of his actions or not.
Of course, there were conflicting emotions raging inside him. Rosibel was a self-inflicted dagger lodged in his heart. In one sense, he wished he’d never brought her with him – she was proving to be more troublesome than he could have possibly imagined – yet he had been driven by love and desire. In another sense, he had grown closer to her. Before, maybe he could have walked away and lived another life, but now . . . Even though she twisted the dagger at every opportunity, he loved her beyond all reason.
The woman knocked and entered a house on Gunters Lane. Shortly afterwards, she came out holding the hand of a young girl of about six years of age. In the bank, he had seen a picture behind the counter of the woman with her daughter, and knew that he could use the child to get the information he needed.
‘You pig,’ Rosibel spat at him.
He ignored her. At least he’d had today. If there was never anything else between them – thoughts of today would keep him warm during the long lonely nights ahead.
‘You’re going to use the girl, aren’t you?’
‘I’m going to get the information I need. How I do that is irrelevant. The woman will do as she is asked, and the child will be fine.’
‘What if the woman doesn’t get the information that you want?’
He shrugged. ‘She will get it. She can do nothing else.’
‘Perverso cerdo.’
Yes, he was an evil pig, but that’s what had kept him alive for so long. Nice guys didn’t live long on the streets of Colombia.
They followed the woman all the way down Gunters Lane, hung a left into Church Street and a right into Batabano Road. At their backs, the sun was gradually sinking into sea, the more adventurous swimmers were taking a last dive into the coral reef, the sunbathers were heading back to the hotels like roasted lobsters and the beach-front restaurants were preparing for the evening onslaught.
She turned into a one-storey house with a corrugated iron roof. It was surrounded by a white picket fence, had a wooden veranda at the front and a well-tended garden with bushes and different coloured flowers.
As soon as the woman went into the house he stepped off the pavement and began to walk across the road.
Rosibel grabbed his arm and yanked him back. ‘Please don’t,’ she pleaded.
He pulled her off the pavement and carried on across the road. ‘It is the only way. Would you rather I held a gun to her head in the bank like a gangster?’
‘What will you do with them afterwards?’
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Wait and see.’
He knocked on the clean white door.
As soon as the woman opened it he barged in. There was no need to pretend. He was here to get the information – that was the limit of his interest.
She opened her mouth to scream, or shout at them to get out, or any number of other possibilities.
He said, ‘If you scream, I will kill your little girl.’ Killing children wasn’t something he enjoyed doing, but he had done it before. In a war, sometimes the innocent died – that was the way of things.
She closed her mouth.
They moved through into the living room. He signalled her to sit down. ‘Where is the child?’
‘Doing homework in her bedroom.’
He nodded. ‘What is your name?’
‘Winnie . . . Winnie Flowers.’
‘My name is Oscar, Winnie. I am from Colombia, and I have come here for one tiny bit of information, which you are going to get for me. First of all, you should not be under any illusion that I will not kill your little girl . . . What is her name?’
‘Safa.’
‘It is a beautiful name, but I will kill her without a moment’s hesitation unless you do as I say.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘What do you want?’
‘As I said, my name is Oscar. I am high up in a drug cartel in Colombia. The leader of that drug cartel has had some money stolen from him by an unscrupulous person. I want to know who that person is – it is that simple.’ He passed her the piece of paper with Mr Garcia’s bank account number on it. ‘You will go back to the bank, put that number in the computer, find the transaction that transferred money from Mr Garcia’s account to another numbered account, and write down the details of the person who has that account. I want to know their name and where they live. Do you understand?’
She nodded.
‘I will stay here with your child. The lady will go with you. If you do as I ask, then you and your child will be safe.’
‘But I’ve seen your faces.’
‘It does not matter. If you ever tell anybody what you did, or who we are . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘There are many people in the cartel. You and your child will die. Get me the information. We will leave the island. That will be the end of it, I promise.’
‘How do I know you won’t kill us anyway once I get you the information?’
‘I am a man of my word.’ He pointed to Rosibel. ‘The lady is not part of the cartel. She is here because I threatened to kill her whole family unless she helped me. She will tell you I am a man who speaks the truth.’
She glanced at Rosibel who nodded.
‘Now, enough questions. Leave now. Get the
information and return. Then we will leave you alone.’
‘Safa will want her dinner.’
‘I will feed the child. Go.’
Winnie and Rosibel left.
He stood at a window and watched them walk down the road until they were out of sight. Yes, it wasn’t the best plan in the world, but it was a plan that would work. Once he had the information, he would go back to the hotel, pack and get a taxi to the airport.
‘Who are you?’ Safa asked him.
He turned. ‘I am Oscar the chef. Your mother has forgotten something at the bank, and has had to go back there. She will return soon, and has asked me to cook your dinner.’
‘Are you a good cook, Oscar?’
‘Oscar’s lemon pancakes are renowned the whole world over. Would you like to try them.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You will not be disappointed, madam. Have you finished your homework?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Learning is very important.’
They went into the kitchen. Safa sat at the table, and he gave her a glass of lemonade from the fridge.
‘When I was a little older than you,’ he said as he collected up the ingredients: flour, eggs, salt, milk, butter, castor sugar and lemons. ‘I lived in a small village called Puente de Calamate, which is in another country. My mother’s mother taught me how to make the lemon pancakes . . .’
‘Watch closely, little Oscar.’
He tried to scrape a dollop of batter from the inside of the bowl with his finger, but she brought the whisk down on his knuckles.
‘It is all in the wrist, little Oscar. Are you watching?’
‘Yes, Abuela.’
‘Here, you try,’ she said, passing him the whisk. ‘And try not to get it all over the house, otherwise nobody will be getting lemon pancakes tonight.’
***
Cookie made her way along the corridor. The red light on the CCTV camera that were attached high up on the wall flickered as she walked. She was looking down at the blank piece of paper on the clipboard in her left hand to prevent the camera capturing a full frontal of her face. Her right hand was wrapped around the handle of the Smith & Wesson in her coat pocket.
She hadn’t noticed before, but there were coloured lines on the floor and a legend on the wall. The yellow line would lead her to the exit – follow the yellow-brick road – she smiled.
