by Ellis, Tim
She skipped a few of the files, because she was bored rigid. Delta12 was another failed mission to oust Libyan leader Colonel Muammar Gaddafi. Duluth concerned pilots flying missions to prop up the regime of Bashar al-Assad by carrying cash from Russia, and weapons and explosives from Iran. It had always been understanding that the British Government supported the rebels not the Assad regime.
Epsilon was mildly interesting because it described a series of five genetic experiments on monozygotic twins in the early nineties at St Winifred’s Maternity Home in Heybridge by someone called Dr Orvil Lorenz.
She skipped some more files. Gamma54 described a current mission to destabilize North Korea and their nuclear program . . . Mmmm! Very interesting – not. She wrote a program to search for Grace Dingle or Grace Rush and made herself coffee and toast while it went about its business.
The search took twenty-three minutes and found the name Grace Rush in a file with the codename Mustard64. In 1964 Grace Rush was born Ava Rosenholz in East Germany. She was the daughter of a Stasi officer, whom she betrayed in 1989 before the official collapse of the Berlin Wall. She was smuggled out of East Germany, given a totally new identity and relocated to England at the age of twenty-five. Well, that cleared that mystery up.
She dipped into the copied emails, but apart from a couple of messages from a Ruth Völker, at the Defence Geospatial Intelligence Fusion Centre relating to Epsilon5 and someone called Jed Parish, she quickly reached her boredom threshold.
Maybe in the future she’d read the files properly, but she doubted it. She’d keep everything in the online vault just in case, but the people who would be interested in the files and know what to do with the information contained in them would be Group 323 – she’d send them copies anonymously, and then sit back and watch the shit hit the fan.
***
They heard a train rattling along the Cheshunt to Broxbourne railway line beyond the playing fields of Turnford School as they walked from the car park towards the reception.
Richards was driving, so Parish had rung ahead and arranged an appointment with the Headteacher. He explained what they were looking for to save time when they got there.
Polly Hubery – the Headteacher – met them in the lobby and escorted them into her office. She was thin, had lank brown hair to her shoulders, designer oblong glasses and a mouth that sloped downwards. There was another woman sitting in there waiting for them. She was older, with grey hair, a fat face and a patchwork quilted jacket.
‘I’ve only been here for eighteen months, but my deputy – Claire Brimacombe – has been here thirty years and remembers Fannie Binetti. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘No, we’re fine thank you,’ Parish said.
They looked at the deputy.
‘Yes, we saw the terrible news that Fannie had been murdered.’
‘It hasn’t been released to the press yet, but Rene Hollitt was also found murdered in the same manner this morning.’
‘How awful,’ the Headteacher said.
Brimacombe continued. ‘The two girls were in a gang called The Poison Girls, and believe me, they were poison. They terrified everybody, staff included.’
Richards pulled out the Polaroid picture. ‘We have a picture with five girls in it.’
‘Yes . . . as well as Fannie and Rene there was also Yolanda Lusko, Gayle Turell and Elena Ottenad. I got the feeling that Fannie and Rene were the ringleaders.’
Richards wrote down the names in her notebook.
Parish said, ‘We think the killer knows these girls, and the only connection we’ve discovered between them is the gang that all five girls were in. What I’m about to tell you is confidential and hasn’t been released to the press yet . . .’
Both women nodded.
‘The killer is carving a broken heart on their abdomen pierced with an arrow. On one end of the arrow he puts their initials, and on the other end we’re assuming his initials – GH.’
Claire Brimacombe took a sip of her drink. ‘GH? Those initials don’t ring any bells, but we might not be talking about the same year group. I also don’t recall any incidents out of the ordinary from around that time. There were lots of incidents believe me, but none involving a GH.’ She opened up a laptop that was sitting on the coffee table beside her. ‘I’ll go into the SIMS database and identify children since . . . Well, the girls started the gang in Year 9 – always a troublesome year group – so that would have been 1990. I’ll do a search from Year 7 at that time – 1988, to Year 11 – 1993 by the time they left, and see who we come up with.’
The database query didn’t take long.
‘Here we are,’ the deputy said. ‘Eleven names. Two in Year 7, three in Year 8, one in Year 9, four in Year 10 and one in Year 11. You’ll want all the relevant details such as date of birth, parental details, address and so on . . . ?’
‘Yes please,’ Parish said.
She pressed the “Enter” key with a flourish. ‘There. I’ll just pop to the staff room to get the printout and then you’ll have what you came for.’ She stood up and left the Headteacher’s office.
Richards and Parish stood up as well.
‘We’re very grateful for your help,’ Parish said.
‘I hope you catch whoever is responsible for these ghastly murders,’ Miss Hubery said.
Claire Brimacombe returned with the names and handed them over as if they were a list of MI5 agents.
They made their way out.
‘What do you think, Chief Constable?’
Richards smiled. ‘Not that old potato again? Instead of driving around aimlessly, I think we should go back to the station and do our homework. We ought to find out who these men are now, where they live, where they work and so on. If the killer is one of them, we’ll find him.’
‘Well done, Little Miss Detective.’
Richards grinned as she headed towards the station. ‘We ought to visit DS Blake in hospital, you know. Take some flowers and a bunch of grapes.’
‘Isn’t it a bit soon? And she’s a DI now, anyway.’
‘Really? We ought to congratulate her as well then. I would say the sooner the better, because if we leave it too long it’ll be noticeable.’
‘We’ll go this afternoon. You buy the flowers and grapes.’
‘You give me the money to buy them then.’
‘Haven’t you got any of your pocket money left?’
‘The amount I get paid, it could fall under the category of pocket money.’
‘Gilbert has been promoted to Sergeant as well.’
‘Everybody’s getting promoted except me.’
‘How many years do you have on the force?’
Her face reddened. ‘It shouldn’t be about length of service, it should be about the quality of the individual.’
‘It is.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything. Except . . . correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you fast-tracked onto the Crime Investigator’s Development Programme four years before you should have been?’
‘That’s different.’
‘I don’t think so. That was a significant promotion. And won’t you be a Detective Constable by the end of the year?’
‘But . . .’
‘Did you know that humans are the only creatures who refuse to be what they are?’
‘Is that another saying?’
‘Albert Camus – a French Nobel prize winner who invented the philosophy of absurdism. What I’m saying is that it’s all right to be dissatisfied with your lot. As George Bernard Shaw said: As long as you have a want, you have a reason for living – satisfaction is death.’
‘I’m still not getting promoted, am I?’
‘No.’
***
‘Good morning, Sarge,’ Stick said as he went into Xena’s room. He’d asked Isolde to wait outside until he called her in. He had something to do first.
‘What’s good about it?’
‘You’r
e alive.’
‘I want you to get my mobile phone from the nurses.’
‘Oh! Why would that be?’
‘So we can ring each other.’
‘What for?’
‘Somebody’s got to be in charge of the investigation.’
‘We’ve got a new DS who’s taken over.’
‘I bloody well knew it. I have a minor bout of hormone realignment and they replace me with a younger model. Who is it?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’
‘Yes.’
She pulled a face. ‘The world has gone crazy. So, it’s dead men’s shoes, is it?’
‘Except you’re not dead.’
Her eyes creased to slits. ‘They’ve given you your own numpty, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, she’s outside waiting for me.’
‘I bet she’s pretty, isn’t she?’
‘Very pretty.’
‘So, I’m surplus to requirements now, am I? I’ll get out of here, they’ll put me on light duties until I can hobble about unaided, and then they’ll transfer me to a place where there’s a dog, a pub and an old man with bad breath and a red nose.’
‘Seems likely.’
‘Well, thanks for nothing, partner.’
‘The least I could do.’
Xena turned her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. ‘You know where the door is.’
‘I have some more information.’
‘I’m not in the mood anymore.’
‘DC Koll is only here for a month or so while you’re off sick.’
‘How does that interest me?’
‘We’re still partners.’
She opened her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I can work with a numpty who’s the same rank as me.’
‘You won’t have to. You’re now a DI.’
‘You do know that when I get out of here you’re going to die an agonisingly painful death?’
‘I know, but it was worth it. Congratulations, Inspector Blake. The Chief is coming in this afternoon to tell you officially.’
‘And you thought you’d take the opportunity to wind me up this morning when I’m loitering at death’s door?’
‘Yes.’
‘I still need my phone. Now that I’m a DI it’s even more important I take control of . . .’
‘Sorry. I’m in charge now. You’re off sick. In fact, DC Koll and I have probably solved the case now anyway. So, all you need to do is lie back and think of England, Ma’am.’
‘You can stop calling me that for a start. I think I might have to refuse the promotion if you’re going to call me that. Well, come on then DS Stick, tell me how you’ve solved it.’
‘Jennifer and I will come in tonight. I’ll let you know then.’
‘Maybe I should start looking for another partner.’
He called in Isolde. ‘This is DC Koll. She’s going to be my partner until you stop taking things easy.’
‘Hello, Ma’am,’ Koll said shaking Xena’s free hand. ‘I hope you get well soon.’
‘Never mind that crap. You’d better look after him while I’m ill, or you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘I’ll look after him, Ma’am.’
‘And stop calling me that.’ She turned to look at Stick. ‘If you’re not going to get my phone, then you can sod off and leave me alone.’
He grinned like a Halloween pumpkin. ‘Have a good day, Inspector.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Do you still have access to Esteben Garcia’s bank account in the Cayman Islands?’ Rosibel asked him.
They had booked into the Prince Regent Hotel in Woodford Green and were in Oscar’s room.
He paced across the deep-pile carpet. ‘Why?’
‘I thought you were high up in the drug cartel.’
‘I was.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder how you made it to such an exalted position without a ladder.’
‘Don’t think you can insult me with impunity now that I am no longer . . .’
‘You have to forget what brought us here. It does not matter that someone stole Mr Garcia’s money anymore. We have to act quickly. The Colombian police will send people after you – us. We must become different people, and to do that we need money. You have to transfer funds from that account into another account which we can then use to buy new passports and other documents.’
‘I would be a dead man if I stole Mr Garcia’s money.’
‘Mr Garcia is dead, Oscar. And you will be a corpse also if you do nothing.’
Again, she was right. He was a fugitive from the Colombian police, the cartel and from his own country. There were people out there looking for Oscar Gamboa and Rosibel Caballero.
‘I’m sorry, I should not have brought you with me.’
‘And yet you did.’
He looked at the floor. ‘I love you, Rosibel.’
She took his hand in hers. ‘I know you do, Oscar. I am not blind. I have seen you watching me. I hate you with every fibre of my being for what you have done to me, but against my will I feel something deep inside when you look at me.’
His heart began racing, and he looked into her eyes. ‘So, there is a chance for us, Rosibel.’
‘We will take one day at a time, and see where that leads us.’
He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she pushed him away.
‘I did not say you could maul me.’
He looked at his hands. ‘I’m sorry. My excitement got the better of me.’
‘Now is not the time. You know we are not safe here. We must find a bank and you must transfer the money across. Without money we can do nothing. Then, we must find another hotel in the city that will not ask for our passports. From there we can obtain the documents we need, and then we can go far away where no one will ever find us.’
He nodded. All his dreams were coming true. Was it possible that he could share a life with the woman he had always loved?
She followed him out of the room, and they made their way to reception to book out.
***
Richards fed all the eleven names into the database and cross-referenced them with the electoral register. Two of the men had records – one for assault, and the other was serving a five-year sentence for robbery, which left nine.
‘We should interview this one first,’ Richards said passing him a sheet of paper.
‘And why would that be?’
‘His name is Gary Haslam. He works as a swimming pool cleaner for Hydro Leisure Ltd in Chigwell. Also, he was in Year 7 when she was in Year 9, which makes him two years younger than her.’
‘I see. You’re adding two and two together to make five.’
‘I don’t think so. Paul finding the chlorine and bromine on the back of Fannie Binetti was helpful after all.’
Parish made a noise with his mouth. ‘Maybe, but you’re still making the assumption that GH is who he is now.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’
‘Because nothing in life is that simple. He will have changed his name.’
‘Huh! We’ll see. What are you going to give me if I’m right?’
‘More to the point, what are you going to give me if you’re wrong?’
‘I won’t be.’ She rang Hydro Leisure Ltd to find out where Gary Haslam was, and told them not to contact him under any circumstances unless they wanted to be arrested for perverting the course of justice.
When she put the phone down she said, ‘He’s in work, and this morning he’s cleaning a swimming pool and jacuzzi at 7 Pembroke Drive in Goff’s Oak.’
‘And you think we should go and ask him a few searching questions?’
‘I do.’
‘Okay, let’s go then.’ As they were walking along the corridor he grabbed her arm. ‘Just so long as you can live with the consequences of being wrong.’
‘I’ll be insufferable when I’m proved right, you know.’
The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘Same as it ever was then.’
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***
It had happened twenty years ago. He’d been eleven years old, and they’d cornered him in an alleyway on the way home from school. There had been five of them: Fannie Binetti, Rene Hollitt, Yolanda Lusko, Gayle Turell and Elena Ottenad, and they called themselves The Poison Girls. Yes, they had definitely been poison. They’d made his life a misery before that fateful day, and then afterwards he was no good to anyone.
They were two years older than he was, and they’d terrorised him day in and day out. Rene had found out he liked Anne Rankin – a shy girl in his class, and told the others. Fannie and Rene had been the gang leaders, but each of the five had taken a turn in scarring him for life. They’d cut a heart in his stomach with a knife. At one end they carved the initials AR, and at the other – GH.
As he lay crying and bleeding in the alleyway, he swore to himself that one day he’d make them suffer as he had suffered.
He’d been too embarrassed to ever tell anyone what had happened. Even his mother had never known.
***
‘I see patterns,’ DC Koll said when he began briefing her about the case in the incident room before they went to visit Xena.
‘We haven’t been able to find a pattern yet,’ Stick said.
‘I can see a pattern.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, you’ve been working on the assumption that the woman’s story in the nail bar was a lie – what if it was the truth?’
‘She lied about her name – Ethel le Neve – as well.’
‘That doesn’t mean everything else is a lie. If the story is a lie, then there is no pattern. All have are a number of disconnected facts, and that’s why you’ve not been getting anywhere.’
‘It’s a good job DI Blake isn’t here.’
‘I don’t mean any disrespect, Sarge.’
He smiled. It would take him a while to get used to being called “Sarge”. ‘None taken. Well, not by me anyway, but DI Blake would have been a different kettle of fish.’
‘It’s a good job she isn’t here then, isn’t it?’
