by Ellis, Tim
An attractive receptionist wearing a very tight white jacket and trouser suit over a figure that could have been chiselled from marble said, ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘I’ve come for the spa.’
The name etched in gold on her burgundy badge was Edie Golden. ‘I see, Sir. You’re in the spa now. Have you any idea which of our wonderful treatments and activities you would like to partake?’
His brow furrowed. He had no idea.
She came round the counter and guided him to an easy chair. ‘Please take a seat, Sir.’
Once he was sitting down she passed him a leaflet. ‘This is a list of all our treatments and activities. Please take a moment to browse through the list and decide which ones you’d like to partake. I shall be just over there if you have any questions.’
He glanced down the list. Some of them he could eliminate straight away. There was no way in hell he was having his nails coloured; the Hopi ear candles sounded painful; he was sure he didn’t need any Botox injections in his lips, eyes or jowls; the exfoliation sounded disgusting; no hot scalp massage for him; detectives were advised not to glow in the dark, so he didn’t opt for the skin brightening; the pre-natal treatment would have been wasted on him; and as for the algae detoxifier . . .
‘Have we decided yet, Sir?’
‘The deep tissue muscle massage . . .’ He licked his lips. ‘Will you be doing the massage, Edie?’
‘Not today, Sir. But I’m sure you won’t be disappointed with the experience.’
He smiled. ‘. . . The age-defying facial . . .’
‘A good choice, Sir.’
He wondered what she meant by that. ‘The hydro pool, the sauna and the ice fountain.’
‘In two hours, you’ll feel like a new man, Sir.’
‘I bet you say that to all the men, Edie.’
‘You’re right, Sir – I do, but in your case I mean it.’
She led him to the massage room. He stripped off his clothes, wrapped a towel around his waist and lay on the table. What would his masseuse be like? Someone with a body like Edie’s, but with fewer clothes on. Did they do the special? He’d heard about the special from the lads at the station, but the only person who’d ever given him a special up to now was Jerry.
He heard the door open and felt a stirring down below. God! That’s the last thing he needed – an erection when he turned over. He could imagine the conversation:
‘What have we here, you dirty little boy?’ she’d say.
His voice would be a whimper. ‘Sorry, Miss.’
She’d hit it with a rhythm stick. ‘You little pervert. Where do you think you are?’
He felt strong hands knead his neck and shoulders.
‘Good evening, Sir,’ a man’s voice said. ‘My name is Colin McPhail. I’m your masseur this evening. I hope you enjoy the experience.’
***
Tuesday, April 17
Seven year old Billy Crockett opened his eyes.
Wind billowed the curtains and rattled the old metal windows. The orange street light outside the house threw nightmarish shadows on the ceiling and walls. He was about to pull the quilt up over his head when he noticed a man with yellow eyes sitting on the edge of his bed.
He opened his mouth to scream.
The man held a finger up to his lips and said, ‘If you make a sound I’ll kill your mum.’
He closed his mouth and gritted his teeth as the tears filled his eyes. ‘Are you the bogeyman?’ Billy asked.
The man showed his rotting yellow teeth, pretended to doff a hat he wasn’t wearing and gave a slight bow. ‘At your service, Billy Crockett.’
‘Are you going to hurt me?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but I know a man who will if you don’t do exactly as I say.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘And so you should be. Come on, we have a ways to go.’
‘What about my mum?’
‘She won’t be coming with us.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes, Billy. It’s your turn.’
Billy climbed out of bed, put his blue fleece “Transformers” dressing gown on and slipped his tiny hand inside the bogeyman’s enormous hairy shovel of a hand.
Together, they walked along the landing and down the stairs.
The man left his business card on the hall table next to an imitation art deco porcelain lamp of a lady dancing, opened the front door and guided Billy out through the front door to an old rusty white van parked just along the street.
The bogeyman eased the rear door of the van open.
Billy looked up at him. ‘Can I sit in the front with you?’
‘You won’t cause me any trouble, will you?’
‘No, I’ll be as good as gold.’
‘Then, Billy Crocket, you can come up front and ride shotgun to hell with me.’
***
‘What’s in the envelope?’ Richards asked when she saw it sitting on his desk.
They’d just arrived and hadn’t even sat down yet. He shrugged out of his coat. ‘Wait while I turn on my x-ray vision.’
He’d got up at five and put his running kit on.
Digby had jumped into the warmth he’d left behind and snuggled beneath the quilt.
‘Hey,’ he hissed at the dog. ‘Get the hell out of there. We have some running to do.’
Digby wasn’t having any of it and adopted his hangdog expression.
‘Are you crazy?’ Angie asked.
‘What?’
‘Digby obviously doesn’t want to go running like his stupid owner. Go away and let us both get some sleep.’
Stupid owner! So, that’s what she thought of him now? It was true – familiarity breeds contempt. And, how come he’d ended up with a dog that didn’t want to run five miles at five in the morning? How had his life come to this? He shrugged, went downstairs and let himself out through the front door.
It was still dark. In fact, it wouldn’t start getting light until at least six o’clock.
He started off slow and remained at that speed. He was nearly thirty-two, past his prime for sure and wasn’t planning on competing in the Olympics or the World Championships. His aim was to run twenty-six miles and earn some money for charity – which charity? He’d have to give that some thought.
His muscles ached. According to his ideal height-weight ratio, he was still carrying a couple of extra pounds – seventeen to be exact, but who was being exact? He couldn’t believe he was a stone overweight. For Christ’s sake! If he turned sideways he could hardly see himself in the mirror. His clothes hung off him now and he looked as though he’d raided the charity shops for suits that belonged to a tramp suffering with gigantism.
He tried to lope along like Steve McQueen running from the natives with poison-tipped blow darts in Papillon – although McQueen had been chewing coca leaves. He tried to control his breathing, didn’t ball his fists or pump his arms, forced his mind to think of anything other than the pathetic limits of his obese body.
And those thoughts inevitably turned to the files in the Smith box.
After the evening meal they’d sat in the living room and stared at the box that Richards had deposited on the coffee table like an elephant.
‘Do you want me to open it?’ Richards asked.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Little Miss Curious, but haven’t you already opened the box?’
‘I had a minor peek inside.’
‘I’d be very interested in knowing the quantitative difference between a minor and a major peek.’
Angie stood up, lifted the lid off the box and took out the four files.
‘These are old medical records from the maternity wing at St Winifred’s Hospital in Epping,’ Angie said. She sat back down, put the files on her knee and looked at the cover of each file. ‘Epsilon 1, 2, 3 and 4. Where’s Epsilon 5? Who the devil is Dr Orvil Lorenz? And why are they classified as “Top Secret”?’
Parish and Richards shrugged.
‘What d
o we know about Epsilon so far?’ she asked.
Richards jumped up. ‘Wait,’ she said, running out. She banged up and down the stairs like a herd of elephants and came back with her notebook. ‘Okay, this is what we know . . .’
‘I knew she’d have a list somewhere,’ Parish said, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Do you want me to continue?’
‘Come on, Mary,’ Angie said. ‘Never mind about old grumpy.’
‘Written on the white envelope in blue ink – that was found in the safe of that burnt out hotel room in America – was: Detective Inspector Jed Parish and he was referred to as Epsilon 5 . . .’
‘That’s not strictly true, Agent Richards,’ grumpy said. ‘Epsilon 5 was written under my name, it didn’t actually state that I was Epsilon 5.’
‘What he said,’ Richards continued. ‘Using the Paddington Station left luggage ticket contained in that white envelope, we finally opened the briefcase at Wembley Storage Depot and found a piece of paper inside with the name Orvil Lorenz at the top and a list underneath:
E1: Gabriella/Gideon
E2: Rufus/Roscoe
E3: Mary/Molly
E4: Sebastian/Simeon
E5: Zara/Zachary’
Angie grunted. ‘Those names are written on these files as well.’
Richards continued. ‘There were also lines drawn through E1 to E4 on the piece of paper. In fact, the only one that didn’t have a line through it was E5: Zara/Zachary.’
‘Which suggests that E5 is still active,’ Parish said.
‘Maybe the others are all dead?’ Angie speculated.
‘Don’t forget about the old German file we found in a secret compartment of that briefcase with . . .’
Richards pulled a face. ‘I was getting to that, grumpy. It had a swastika on the front and six pages written in German inside. When we had those pages translated we found out that each page was a list of the contents from one of six containers being shipped from Rouen in France to Berlin in Germany in November 1944. The contents included blankets, bandages, lamps, mess tins, helmets and so on.’
‘I had a phone call this morning,’ Parish said.
Richards’ brow furrowed. ‘That’s not very interesting when we’re about to open the Epsilon files at last.’
‘I see. So you don’t want to know what Günter Kappel told me?’
‘Who . . . ?’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘That was the name of the translator, wasn’t it?’
‘Ah! So you do want to know what he said?’
‘You’re lying. He didn’t say anything.’
‘Have you ever heard of the Enigma machine?’
‘What a brilliant name – No.’
‘I have,’ Angie said. ‘It was . . .’
‘The Germans used it to encrypt and decrypt top secret messages during the Second World War.’
‘Oh God! I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Do you?’
‘Kappel thinks that those six pages are encrypted messages.’
‘He knows some people . . .’
‘And they’re going to put those six pages through the machine?’
‘Who’s telling this story?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you only telling me now when you received that phone call this morning?’
‘I forgot all about it.’
‘You weren’t going to tell me, were you?’
‘Excuse me,’ Angie said.
Richards poked his thigh with her finger. ‘We should ring Kappel up and ask him what he’s found out.’
‘He said it would take a few days.’
‘But it might not. We should . . .’
‘. . . Be patient,’ Parish finished for her.
‘Is that all we know, Mary?’ Angie said.
‘Don’t forget that WikiUK were going to publish details of the Epsilon experiments before the website was shut down and Cally Flinders killed, so those experiments must have been authorised by the government.’
‘I think we’ve known that all along,’ Parish said.
‘I’ve had a quick look through these medical files and it’s going to take some time to understand what they contain . . .’
‘But . . .’
Angie thrust one of the files at her. ‘Take a look if you don’t believe your own mother, Mary Richards.’
Richards took the file, opened it at a random page and began reading. ‘What does . . . homologous recombination mean?’
Angie took the file back off her. ‘I’ll let you know when I find out myself.’
‘If your mother doesn’t understand what’s written in those files, then there’s not much chance we’ll fare any better,’ he said to Richards.
‘But . . .’
So that was how they’d left things. Angie would try to decipher what was in the medical files, Günter Kappel would phone him when they’d fed the German papers through the Enigma machine, and Richards would find out what she could about Dr Orvil Lorenz, and who had signed the box out from the evidence store and cluttered up Parish’s desk.
Now, as he sat at his desk he said, ‘All this running is making me dehydrated. Didn’t you say something about a coffee?’
‘I said nothing about a coffee, and I have a cure for your dehydration – stop running. Mmmm! The envelope is addressed to you personally. Have you ordered something?’
‘No.’
‘Are you expecting something?’
‘No.’
She leaned across the desk and began poking and prodding the package. ‘It feels like there’s a box inside.’
‘One of these days you’ll be an asset to the police force.’
‘One of these days?’
‘Yes. I’m sure a day will come when you’ll put your brain into gear before your curiosity.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning, nosey – that it could very well be a letter bomb.’
She yanked her hand away. ‘Oh! You’re just teasing me.’
‘I would never do such thing.’
‘You say that so convincingly that I almost believe you.’
He smiled and turned the envelope round to read the address label. ‘Uh huh!’
‘What?’
‘Computer-addressed sticky label produced on a laser printer – no DNA.’ He turned the envelope over. ‘Sticky flap – no DNA.’
‘Why do you want DNA?’
‘I don’t particularly, but I might if there’s something strange inside.’
‘Define “strange”.’
‘A finger, an ear, a penis, a . . .’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘We’re in the “disgusting” business.’
‘Well, are you going to open it?’
‘I’m wondering whether to call the Bomb Squad.’
‘Is there a Bomb Squad in the building?’
‘Haven’t you seen them practising in the car park with their robots?’
‘No.’
‘You walk round with your eyes shut.’
‘You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so gullible.’
‘I am not.’
He cautiously peeled the sticky flap back and peered inside.
‘What?’
‘Oh God!’ he said. ‘RUN’
Richards jumped up.
He roared with laughter.
‘I’m never going to speak to you again.’
‘That would be great. And when will the silent treatment begin?’
‘Pig.’
He took a pair of latex gloves out of his desk drawer and put them on.
Richards laughed. ‘We must be the only people who open their mail wearing plastic gloves.’
‘The silent treatment didn’t last long.’
‘Huh!’
He slid the box out and opened it.
Richards wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh God! What is it?’
‘It looks like a tongue.’
Sh
e leant forward. ‘That’s disgusting. Is there anything else inside the envelope?’
He tipped the envelope up and shook it. ‘No.’ Then he turned the lid over and found two sets of numbers written in pencil:
51 44 41.1666
-0 02 15.2216
‘What do they mean?’
‘Didn’t you ever do latitude and longitude at school?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure you went to school?’
‘You know I did.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder why there are enormous black holes in your knowledge.’
‘What do they mean then?’
‘Latitude of a point on the Earth’s surface is the angle of the dangle between the equatorial plane and a line that passes through . . . Are you with me so far?’
‘You’re making it up?’
‘Moi?’ He smiled. ‘Go up to forensics, tell Toadstone what’s arrived in the post and that we’d like him to come down and remove said disgusting body part from my desk.’
‘Do you think the tongue belongs to a dead body?’
‘Have you seen the blood in the bag?’
‘Yes.’
‘The person wasn’t dead when it was cut out.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘Is that even possible? Have you tried to pull your own tongue out?’ She tried, but her fingers kept slipping off her tongue.
‘I’m sure if someone wanted to slice your tongue out, they’d find a way.’
‘Is it a man’s?’
‘Have you been to forensics yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get your fat arse moving . . . And talking of fat arses, don’t forget you need running shoes and a tracksuit if you’re going to start training with me for the London Marathon when you’re ankle’s better.’
She waddled along the corridor towards the stairs. ‘As if.’
Yes, as if he didn’t have enough on his plate with the discovery of Sally Bowker’s body in Hangman’s Wood. It was obvious that the tongue belonged to a dead adult – male or female he had no idea, but the numbers were probably a location. He’d just have to find time to go there and see if there was a dead body at the end of the rainbow. Why was it addressed to him? Had they picked his name out of the Yellow Pages under “Essex Murder Detectives”? Or, did the killer know him personally?
