by Ellis, Tim
Usually, he stood in front of others wearing a suit of metaphorical armour. It protected him from their sticks and stones. But when he stood in front of Maureen Threadneedle, he was always naked.
Threadneedle’s face lit up as if a celebrity had been drafted in to switch on the festive lights. ‘DCI Kowalski! I haven’t seen you since Peter Pan was a boy.’
‘I don’t usually have much opportunity to come down here.’
‘Is that so? And yet, here you are . . . “down here” – dancing with the devil.’
‘I need your help.’
Maureen laughed.
He knew he probably should have phoned her from John O’Groats, or sent her an anonymous email.
‘I see, so you come “down here” after years of stony silence and say, “Hey Maureen, sorry I’ve been neglecting you, but I need your help. Well, you can . . .’
‘My wife’s gone missing.’
‘And who could blame her.’
‘No, she’s been taken.’
‘And you arranged it? And now you’re going through the motions, so that nobody suspects it was really you who got rid of her. Then, when everything settles down, you’ll come back here and ask me to marry you . . .’
‘You have some strange fantasies, Maureen.’
‘How do you think I can help you, DCI Kowalski?’
‘There was a time when we used to call each other by our first names, Maureen.’
‘History is not my specialist subject. Well?’
He told her about the media campaign being put in motion by the Chief Constable’s press office, and gave her the three pictures of Jerry, Julie Wilkinson and the unknown woman driving Jerry’s car.
‘This is all very nice, but . . . ? Ah! The penny’s dropped. This media campaign includes a telephone number, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the whole of the European Union will be calling Hoddesdon Police Station with information and sightings of any or all of these women, and you expect me to pick up the phone?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as . . .’
‘You’ve got a nerve, Kowalski.’
‘So, you’ll do it?’
‘There’ll be a price to pay.’
‘I expected as much.’
‘Can I trust you? Or, should I get you to sign an IOU?’
‘You can trust me.’
‘You don’t even know what I’m charging for my services yet.’
‘I’ll pay anything.’ He knew he’d just made a deal with the devil, but he didn’t care. If he found Jerry alive, Maureen Threadneedle could have his soul for all eternity. ‘You tell me what you want – it’s yours.’
‘It’s a done deal then.’
She spat on her hand and thrust it forward.
They sealed the deal.
‘You’ll be hearing from me, DCI Kowalski.’
He trudged back upstairs. His next stop was forensics. He needed to find out if they’d discovered anything in Jerry’s car.
Richard Buswell looked up from what he was reading as Kowalski walked through the swing glass door into reception.
‘Chief Kowalski,’ he said. ‘Carrie said you were on your way up, but she didn’t say you were visiting Scotland first.’
‘I made a bad decision to go via Operations – now I’m in hock to the devil.’
‘Albert Camus once said that “Life is the sum of all our choices”.’
‘I guess he was right. So, did you find anything useful in Jerry’s car?’ He was resigned to Buswell providing him with a negative response.
‘A DNA familial match.’
‘Really?’ He felt the weight on his shoulders shift slightly.
‘Yes, but it’s a weird one.’
‘Go on?’
‘We have a Harry Hawkesby on the database. He’s there because he volunteered a sample to Cheshire Constabulary during the hunt for a serial rapist. It’s weird because he has no family – biological family that is. His parents – lived in Shropshire and died in a fire when he was two years old. He was placed with foster parents, and not long afterwards adopted by the Hawkesby family who lived across the county border in Great Boughton, Chester.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Still there. Has a job as a car mechanic in the town centre.’
‘What were his parents called?’
‘Missy and Larry Needle
‘Unusual name. So, his real name is Harry Needle?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can understand why he prefers Hawkesby. Do you have anything else on him?’
‘No, that was all the information he provided with the sample. I did do some detective work though . . .’
Kowalski’s brow furrowed. ‘I’ll let it go this one time.’
‘Very generous.’ He passed Kowalski a slip of paper. ‘Shropshire County Adoption Team. Address, post code, telephone number, but . . .’
‘I’ll need a court order to access the files.’
‘You’ve done this before, Chief.’
‘A couple of times. Thanks for your help, Buswell.’
‘We aim to please.’
He walked down to the squad room. The only person there was Judy Moody, and she was as helpful as a hole in a bucket.
‘Are you busy, Judy?’ As soon as the words spilled out of his mouth he wanted to reclaim them.
‘Ha! That’s the question of the century, that is. Am I busy? There was a time when you could sit and chat . . . Do you see anybody chatting now?’
He opened his mouth to make a feeble response, but she continued talking at him as if his voice had shrivelled up and blown away in the wind.
‘There was a time when someone would write down everybody’s order and take a trip to the bakers along the high street for the vanilla slices, Eccles cakes, angel cakes, slices of banoffee pie, Battenberg slices, chocolate cake . . .’ She licked her lips. ‘. . . Fat rascals, fondant fancies . . .’
‘I think I get the idea,’ he interrupted.
She looked at him as if the station cat had dragged him in from the canal. ‘I don’t think you do, Chief Kowalski. There were six of us then. How many do you see now? I’ll tell you, shall I? One. Yes, I’m the last of the good-time girls . . . that’s what we used to call ourselves, you know. Mind you, in those days you could have a good time. Not now. No . . . not by any stretch of the imagination. Now, it’s all performance objectives, occupational goals, value for money, skill portfolios and a million other jargon-oriented pieces of drivel that de-humanises people. Work used to be fun and enjoyable. I used to come here with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step, but not now . . . No, not now. Now, I have to force myself to get out of bed at gunpoint . . . And, do you know what?’
‘What?’
‘You’re the one who’s made it like this. So, what do you want?’
‘I need you to write out a court order for me . . .’
‘Ha! Did I say I was busy?’
‘You did, but . . .’
‘Did I tell you how I’m doing the work of six people? Did I tell you about the repetitive strain injury in my wrist, my tennis elbow and my irritable bowel syndrome, which are all caused by the amount of work expected of me here? Did I tell you . . . ?’
‘Will you do it, or not?’
‘I see. When things don’t go your way you become aggressive. Next, you’ll be telling me you’re going to replace me with a younger, faster, sleeker model. Well, my answer to that is – go right ahead. I’ve been reading up on constructive dismissal . . .’
He turned on his heel and headed towards the door.
‘That’s right, walk away. It’s difficult hearing the brutal truth, isn’t it?’
He stood in the corridor with his forehead resting against the wall and his eyes closed. His hands were shaking.
Once he’d calmed down he went back in.
‘Back for more?’
‘Do you want to know what the brutal truth is, Judy?’
‘Not
really.’
‘My wife was kidnapped on Thursday. Our four children haven’t seen their mother since Thursday morning, and all you can do is bleat on about how you’re treated like a slave . . .’ Tears jitterbugged down his face, his teeth ached from clamping his jaws together and his balled fists were developing cramp. He turned to go again before he did something he knew he’d regret.
‘Give me the details,’ she said.
He turned back to her and imagined that the blood vessels were popping all over his face. ‘I don’t want to . . .’
‘I didn’t know your wife was missing. I thought it was just a normal run-of-the-mill request. I don’t want people thinking they can take advantage of me.’
‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that, Judy.’
He gave her the details. She said she’d phone him when it came through. He told her that he was on his way to Chester and that she’d probably need to fax the court order to a number in Shropshire the following day.
‘I don’t normally do faxes, but I’ll make an exception seeing as I made you cry.’
‘You won’t tell anybody about that, will you?’
‘It’ll be our little secret.’
He went home, informed Matilda and Bert about the familial DNA and what his plans were, packed an overnight bag and set off towards the M25. It would take him about four hours to reach Chester.
At least now he had something to grab onto.
Chapter Three
Just in time!
Nana Rodriguez had served her country well. And she’d already passed Ruth the name of the computer technician who had stopped the cascade distribution and destroyed the files – some tidying up to do.
Another job for that idiot Brightmore. Mind you, his rough sex gone wrong idea for explaining the deaths of Cally Flinders and Jack Rankin – the Right Honourable Member for Tintagel South – was a touch of genius. Although she’d never tell him that. For all intents and purposes the man was a complete fool. One minor success did not a secret agent make.
She’d really thought the Epsilon files were going to be revealed to the world. It was bad enough that some of Britain’s dirty washing had been aired in public, but the Epsilon files would have sunk the proverbial battleship – so to speak. Sir Peter owed her one – that was for sure. In fact, she should step out of the shadows to receive her life peerage and take her seat in the House of Lords – “Baroness Völker of Feltham” sounded very nice indeed – thank you, your Majesty.
Now what?
She thought she’d finished with the Epsilon experiments, but through no fault of her own they’d come back to bite her in the gluteus maximus. Now, she had to make sure that “Epsilon” was nothing more complicated than the fifth letter of the Greek alphabet.
Every copy of those files had to be destroyed, and she wondered who might still have copies of them? Group 323! Did they make copies before they passed the files on to WikiUK? It was so easy to make copies these days. Who was the person who had managed to sneak into Bunker 7 and steal the files in the first place? And what about Nana Rodriguez – had she kept copies for insurance purposes? At least Parish didn’t have a copy – that would have been a disaster of epic proportions.
She rang Brightmore.
‘Mmmm?’
She could hear crumbs falling on the floor. ‘Are you eating?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Get in here.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
He was eager to please – she’d give him that.
A knock.
‘Come.’
He waited until she signalled for him to sit.
‘There are people who are trying to bring down the government of the United Kingdom, Brightmore.’
He pursed his lips and nodded as if he knew every one of them personally.
‘At the time, we . . . I did what was required to protect our country. With the benefit of hindsight, some people might look back and argue that certain decisions were . . . illegal. We were at war. We still are at war. The decisions taken by certain people in power today will more than likely be considered illegal in another fifty years time. It is the way it is, Brightmore.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘I need you to tie up some loose ends for me.’
‘Loose ends are my speciality.’
‘If you fuck up – you’ll become a loose end yourself.’
‘I understand, Ma’am’
‘Make sure you do, Brightmore. I want you to find out who stole the files from Bunker 7 . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Sorry . . .’
‘To do that, you first need to find Group323. When you have, ask them politely who gave them the files, and then kill everybody – including the thief.’
‘Consider it done.’
She passed him the post-it note that she’d written the GCHQ computer technician’s name on. ‘There are two loose ends at GCHQ. He is one of them. The second is a woman called Nana Rodriguez, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You need to find out if she has a copy of the files.’
‘Do you want her death to look like an accident?’
Nobody knew Nana was involved with the files – not even Sir Peter. ‘How she dies is not important.’ She thought about how young and beautiful Nana was. ‘Maybe a random rape and murder.’
‘You have the right person for the job, Ma’am.’
‘I certainly hope so, Brightmore.’
He sat there staring at her.
‘You can go now.’
He stood up and backed out rubbing his hands together. ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
***
They headed south along the A10 and joined the M25 at Waltham Cross.
Parish put the disc into the DVD and they listened to Sally Bowker’s desperate phone call again.
‘I feel like crying,’ Richards said.
He re-played the phone call. ‘I know, but there’s no time to cry. Sally would want us to catch her killer before he has the chance to kill another child.’
‘I know.’
‘This time, listen to it objectively.’
They listened in silence.
‘Where does the man live?’ Parish asked when it had finished.
‘In a house.’
‘Do you think the house belongs to the removal man?’
‘It might.’
‘But is it likely?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How many children has he taken so far?’
Richards pulled out her notebook. ‘Including Sally, eight – from all over the south of England.’
‘That we know about. Are those the ones where he left his calling card?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll need to plot the locations on a map when we get back to the station. So, he’s abducted seven children. Has he taken them for his personal use?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re not using much of your grey matter today. Do you think he would have room for seven children in his house?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What’s he doing with them then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s three times you’ve said “I don’t know” now.’
‘Are you keeping count?’
‘I wasn’t, but I am now. Why does he call himself “The Removal Man”?’
‘I . . . Because he removes children from their houses.’
‘What do removal men do?’
‘Move the contents of one house to another house.’
‘Do they re-locate their own contents?’
‘Well no, they . . .’
Parish glanced at her. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s hiring himself out.’
‘Good.’
‘The business card is like . . . advertising. He’s taking the children to order, isn’t he?’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What about t
he infinity symbol?’
‘Maybe it’s the symbol for a paedophile ring.’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘Paedophiles are telling him which children they want, and he goes into their homes during the night and takes them.’
‘See, you’re not as dense as you like people to believe.’
‘I don’t need a fan club when I’ve got you.’
‘Those tiny butterflies are paedophile code for “Child Lover”.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I know a lot of things you don’t know.’
‘You could have said earlier.’
‘Does he kill the parents every time?’
‘No. He killed Sally Bowker’s parents because they woke up – they were found at the bottom of the stairs. He also killed a single mother three months ago in Bishop’s Stortford – probably for the same reason.’
‘Good.’ He tried to sound like a little Belgique man speaking English. ‘Now the little grey cells are – how you say – working.’
She half-laughed. ‘You sound nothing like Hercule Poirot.’
‘I beg to differ. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m over six-foot tall and exceedingly handsome, I could pass for Hercule Poirot any day of the week.’
‘Now you come to mention it, there are certain resemblances – the paunch, the way you shuffle along like a penguin, the bald patch at the top of your head . . .’
‘There you are then. I might swap my warrant card for an equity card.’
‘You should do it today. Me, mum and Jack would come and watch you make a fool of yourself.’
‘And Digby?’
‘And Digby.’
They laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ Richards said.
‘Is anything we do funny?’
‘Not really.’
‘Not at all. If we didn’t laugh – we’d cry. It’s the way we keep some perspective on life and death. We’re like sewage workers swilling about in the excrement of humanity. It’s our job to unblock the pipes and keep the sewage flowing.’
‘They should use you on the police recruitment adverts.’
