by Tim Ellis
‘What does your husband do?’
‘He’s an Independent Financial Adviser. He’s been so busy lately, which is good, because he gets paid on commission, but it means he has to do a lot of work writing detailed financial surveys for his clients, researching financial products to meet their needs and so forth. He’s very good at what he does, and he obtains many clients through word-of-mouth, but it does mean he has to put in a lot of work . . . and that’s what he was doing last night. I don’t know how it’s possible, but he feels guiltier than I do. He could have made the time to take Billy to watch the carnival arrive. Gary controls his own diary and appointments and he could have shuffled his calendar about to do it. Well now, he’s cancelled everything for the next week, or at least until he finds Billy.’
Sally passed them a cup of tea each.
‘This may sound like a stupid question,’ Parish said. ‘But has Billy got any tattoos?’
‘A ten year-old boy with tattoos! No, he doesn’t have any tattoos. Why would you ask such a thing?’
‘It’s just something else we’re working on, that’s all.’
‘It’s against the law for children to have tattoos, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
After drinking the tea, they made their way out.
‘Sorry to have bothered you, Sally,’ Richards said, passing her a card. ‘And if you want to know anything about the investigation, don’t hesitate to call me.’
‘I will – thank you.’
In the car Richards said, ‘Just because she says he hasn’t got a tattoo, doesn’t mean he hasn’t got one, does it?’
‘No.’
‘He could still be a victim . . .’
‘If the tattoo and the murder are connected.’
‘You still have doubts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we going home now?’
‘Did forensics find anything relating to the circus in Adam Weeks’ bedroom?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay – go home?’
‘Yes, but park this jalopy down the road away from the house.’
‘You’re a snob. And anyway, we have two heavy boxes in the boot to carry into the house.’
‘You’ll be able to manage if you carry them in one at a time.’
‘You’re a pig.’
‘Don’t you mean an oink?’
***
Digby was doing what Digby did best – sniffing lampposts; replacing the smell with his own fragrant bouquet; barking at passing dogs; and generally making it known that he was available for chasing balls, sticks, squirrels and small to medium-sized dogs.
‘You tell them, Digby,’ Parish said. ‘Now that you’ve got that out of your system, concentrate on my problem. It’s not all about you, you know.’
But Digby had his own tortuous predicament – a Springer Spaniel named Missy. He’d sit down, show his photogenic side and refuse to budge when Missy sashayed past on the other side of the street. The trouble was – she rebuffed his every advance.
‘What’s a dog got to do, old boy?’
And they were off again.
‘I have a dead ten year-old boy and another one missing, Digby. It’s not been a good day overall. Added to that, the mother of the dead boy committed suicide, and my new second-hand car is a right-off . . . I know, we both liked that car. Well, we’ll have to see what else is out there – maybe something with a more robust roof might be the way to go.’
He waved at crazy old Mrs Mortimer.
‘Digby’s looking as handsome as ever, Mr Parish.’
‘He’s on the prowl.’
‘Well, tell him not to be prowling near my little Princess.’
Princess was a Chihuahua and far too small to interest Digby.
‘I’ll be sure to inform him of his rights.’
He just didn’t know whether the barcode tattoo under Adam Weeks’ top lip was connected to the boy’s abduction, sexual assault and murder. Barcode tattoos on humans, as Kat Wagner had said, were a metaphor for something else. They weren’t functional barcodes. Humans weren’t products – were they? And if that was the case, what was the point of tattooing one under Adam Weeks’ top lip where no one could see it? Had the boy been targeted because of the tattoo? Was it a form of communication between paedophiles? He wondered what Doc Riley would discover when she examined that barcode more closely.
And was there any connection between the gang-rape of Janice Weeks ten years ago and the murder of her son – the product of that terrible crime? He would take a look through the two evidence boxes later and see if there were any historical clues that might have a bearing on the current investigation. He would have much preferred to have questioned Janice Weeks, but that wasn’t going to happen now.
Then there was also Billy Hunter. Was Billy’s disappearance connected to that of Adam Weeks? Did Billy have a barcode tattooed under his top lip? Had he been abducted? Or, had Billy simply run away to join the circus? If he had, then why hadn’t he been found? The circus people would have to be questioned again – did they speak English? Where did they come from? A complete search would also have to be undertaken. It would be too late once they’d moved on to the next town. Was there a trail of missing children in the wake of the circus – he’d ask Richards to check that out tomorrow.
There was also the button that Toadstone’s people had found at the crime scene. How had a rare button belonging to someone from a secret homosexual society called the Order of Chaeronea found its way into that spinney? The members would also have to be questioned, and their Grand Lodge searched. No doubt there would be accusations of homophobia and police harassment, but what else could he do? The button gave him reasonable suspicion. If they had nothing to hide then there shouldn’t be a problem.
When he got back home there was a strange man in the living room.
‘He’s waiting for Mary,’ Angie said.
‘Waiting for Mary! What does that mean exactly?’
‘That’s as much as I know, officer. I called up the stairs to tell her he was here and she said to bring him in and ask him to wait. Oh! And he said his name was Abel Winter.’
‘Is she getting ready to go out?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you interrogated him?’
‘As you can see, I’m in the middle of cooking the dinner.’
‘I’ll . . .’
‘You should wait for Mary.’
‘No . . . he’s waiting for Mary. I’m going in there to find out what his intentions are.’
Richards appeared wearing a pair of old jeans, a braless t-shirt and her slippers.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are all your bras in the wash?’
‘You’re such a prude.’
‘We haven’t run his name through CrimInt, have we?’
‘And we’re not going to either . . .’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a hot date tonight?’
‘I don’t. I was looking through the crime statistics for Essex and it might just be me, but I couldn’t make any sense of the Homicide statistics. There were a hundred and fifteen murders reported for last year and a hundred percent were solved. Well, I know for certain that can’t be right, because DI Blake and DS Gilbert didn’t solve one of their murders. In fact, if I remember correctly, there were half a dozen victims in that case. And, based on the principle of “one crime per victim”, there must have been half-a-dozen unsolved homicides . . .’
‘So you thought you’d call an escort agency and get them to send round a six-pack to help you work it out?’
‘You can be so disgusting.’
Angie laughed. ‘Maybe I ought to do that.’
Parish looked at her. ‘I’m shocked. You already have a six-pack. There’s no need to be greedy, Mrs Parish.’
‘More like a three-pack. What do you think, Mary. Is it me, or is Jed getting a bit flabby round the waist?’
‘A bit flabby! I’m thinking
of buying him a wheelbarrow for his birthday. You need to get to the gym, Mr Flabby. A five minute walk with Digby just doesn’t cut it anymore.’
He breathed in, tensed his stomach muscles and patted them gently with a flat hand. ‘As hard as a rock. And don’t forget we have plenty of . . .’
Angie cleared her throat. ‘I don’t think we need to talk about that in the kitchen. Especially in front of Mary. And don’t forget we have a dog, two young children upstairs and a guest in the living room.’
‘Oh!’ Richards said. ‘I’d forgotten about him. I phoned Paul, and he said he knew someone who was good with figures. He’s a forensic accountant apparently, and sometimes does work for the fraud squad. He’ll help me get to the bottom of those statistics.’ She hurried through into the living room.
‘I’m not Mr Flabby, am I?’ he said to Angie.
‘A visit to the gym once or twice a week wouldn’t hurt.’
‘I might have to go for therapy after tonight.’ He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, removed the cap and took a long swig. ‘What’s for dinner, darling?’
Chapter Ten
Before entering AutoMove Kowalski phoned Jerry.
‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘London.’
‘Hey! That’s where I am.’
‘Are you on your way home?’
‘Yes. Just about to go into the tube station. It’s busy tonight. Do you want to travel home together?’
‘It looks like I’m going to be late.’
‘Where in London are you?’
‘Highgate.’
‘With Bronwyn?’
‘Who else?’
‘Say hi.’
‘I will.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Not yet, but I have a feeling that’s about to change.’
‘Are you coming home?’
‘That’s certainly my intention, but we’re just about to enter a place called AutoMove on Southwood Lane in Highgate. I didn’t want to disappear without trace before letting you know where I’d gone.’
‘You’re practising what you preach?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I could come over there . . .’
‘You could go home.’
‘What about Joe and Shakin’? I’m sure they’d love to help and, of course, see Bronwyn again.’
‘I think I know what they’d love to see of Bronwyn’s. No, thank you.’
‘I’ll see you at home sometime in the future then?’
‘Sooner rather than later, I hope. Give the children a kiss goodnight from me.’
‘I will.’
He ended the call.
Bronwyn peered at him in the darkness. ‘Have you finished playing happy families?’
‘Jerry says hi.’
‘And I say lo. Was she trying to palm those two weirdoes off on us?’
‘She said they’d love to see you.’
‘I bet they would! Fucking perverts.’
‘What’s the delay?’
‘I should never have brought you.’
‘You didn’t. I brought myself.’
They entered AutoMove through the main door, Bronwyn locked it again via her tablet once they were inside.
‘Are you sure the CCTV and alarms are de-activated?’
‘This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you know.’
‘I can imagine. What exactly are we looking for?’
‘I’ll know when we find it.’
It wasn’t a particularly large premises. There were two floors and they moved from room to room on both floors, but found nothing of interest. There was enough light from the streetlamps to see by at the front, and in the rooms at the back of the building they used penlight torches that Bronwyn had brought.
‘We’re getting nowhere fast here,’ Bronwyn said. ‘I’m absolutely certain this place is a front for something else.’
‘So you keep saying, but there doesn’t seem to be anything here.’
‘Or we just haven’t found it yet. People came in, but never left – where did they go? There must be a secret door somewhere, and it’s unlikely to be on the second floor.’
They returned to the Reception and began a search of the ground floor again. It wasn’t until they were standing in front of a Coke machine at the far end of the corridor that Kowalski said, ‘Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
‘Sherlock Holmes would be turning in his grave round about now.’
Bronwyn stuck her ear against the machine. ‘It’s a working machine.’
Kowalski was at the back. ‘Yes, but there’s no gap between the machine and the wall.’
Eventually, they found the catch that released the locking mechanism holding the front six inches of the machine to the back and it swung forward on hinges revealing a doorway to a set of concrete steps.
‘Seems like you were right,’ Kowalski said.
She headed down the steps. ‘I’m always right.’
He pulled the Glock-19 out of his inside pocket and followed her. Was this a TOP SECRET government establishment? He’d never heard of anything in Highgate, but then that didn’t mean much. Even though he’d been a senior police officer, he hadn’t been that senior, and his security clearance only stretched to SECRET. It was therefore entirely possible that a TOP SECRET facility might reside under a vehicle movement business called AutoMove in Highgate. On the other hand, it might have nothing to do with the government.
The corridor was arched and constructed of stone blocks. Kowalski had to stoop slightly in the centre, which suggested it was six feet at its highest point. There were lights every three feet to the right of the arched ceiling. The floor appeared to be covered in industrial linoleum, and there was a mishmash of heavy electric and other cabling running the length of the corridor at waist height. The faint hum of air-conditioning was also evident.
‘This has been professionally constructed,’ Kowalski said.
‘Yes.’
‘Also, I can see a CCTV camera up ahead with a blinking red light.’
‘Shit.’ Bronwyn shrugged off her rucksack, took out her tablet and sat on the floor. ‘Uh oh!’
‘What?’
Her fingers were moving over the tablet screen like a hummingbird searching for nectar. ‘Fuck! I should have realised . . .’
Kowalski could smell something strange. ‘Realised what?’
‘The computer network down here has been shielded. There’s no electromagnetic radiation from the cables, connections, switches or computers – it’s fucking invisible unless you’re down here.’
‘And?’
She sniffed. ‘And I think we’re just about to be gassed. See you on the other side, Kowa . . .’
***
Stick walked up to forensics and found the Reception empty. He wandered along the corridor trying the doors until he found one that opened.
The light was on, but he couldn’t see anyone.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello,’ a disembodied female voice bounced back to him.
‘I was wondering if you could help me?’
‘It depends on what you need help with.’
‘Are you any good with numbers?’
‘I can count to one hundred and do my times table.’
‘It sounds like you’re a genius.’
‘I’ve always thought so.’ A thin woman with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail, pasty white skin, three ear studs in her left ear, and wearing a grey polo neck and jeans appeared between the tables at the other side of the room. ‘Sorry, I was changing a fuse. I shouldn’t really, it’s not my area of expertise, but we all have to help out when the chips are down.’
‘Chips!?’
‘It’s a saying.’
‘Is it?’
‘So, you’re looking for a genius who knows something about numbers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who are you?’
‘DS Gilbert from the Murder Team
.’
‘Are you investigating the painted lady case?’
‘You’ve heard of me?’
‘No, but they were talking about that particular case in the coffee room. Did the killer really remove her eyeball and replace it with a glass eye?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cool. I’m Gill O’Grady by the way.’
‘Hi, Gill.’
‘Hi DS.’
Stick laughed. ‘No, I’m Rowley.’
‘DS Rowley! I thought you said Gilbert?’
‘Detective Sergeant Rowley Gilbert.’
‘Got it. Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Have you forgotten what you came up here for?’
‘Of course, the number!’ He took out his notebook, opened it up to find the number and read it out, ‘51886862055869341’
‘Uh huh! Longitude and latitude.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s my considered opinion. Long numbers that start with 51 are, in my experience, usually longitude and latitude. But let’s not take my word for it, we’ll test it by keying the coordinates into gridreferencefinder.com.’ She went to her handbag, took out a tablet and put the latitude – 51.886862 – and then the longitude – 0.55869341 – into the boxes provided and pressed GO. ‘If you hover over the boxes, it shows you how to enter the coordinates. There you are – the River Blackwater in Braintree, Essex.’
‘You’re a genius.’
‘It has been mentioned before. So, do you want to go out for a drink with me tonight?’
‘I’m flattered you should ask, but I have a fiancée.’
‘You could have a fiancée and a mistress if you wanted to.’
‘Very kind, but I love my fiancé.’
‘Okay, I’m not going to beg. You’re a bit bony for my liking anyway.’
‘Is Di Heffernan about?’
‘Everyone’s either out in the field, or they’ve gone home.’
‘Except you?’
‘Except me.’
‘Well, thanks a lot for your help.’
