by Tim Ellis
There was uproar. Questions were shouted at him.
‘Fifteen children?’ someone said. ‘Bloody hell!’
He held up both hands for quiet this time. ‘With the exception of Amy Linton, none of the other bodies have been transported to the mortuary yet, so we know nothing about them. That’s all for now, but I shall try to give you more at the briefing this afternoon.’
He turned to walk back to his car, but someone said, ‘Inspector?’
It was Catherine Cox from the Chigwell Herald.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Cox I…’
‘You did the right thing coming back and briefing us. Some of them were turning nasty.’
‘Thanks for telling me…’
‘He was working on the Amy Linton case, and I think he knew about some of the other children.’
‘Masterson you mean?’
‘Yes. When we were at Galleyhill Wood this morning, and you’d found Amy Linton, he whispered to me, “They’ll find more bodies, you know,” but when I asked him what he meant he wouldn’t say anymore. Do you think that’s what got him killed?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Cox, but we’ll certainly investigate the possibility. Thank you for letting me know.’
Catherine Cox touched his arm as he turned to go. ‘Would you care to go out for a meal one evening?’
Richards opened her mouth to speak, but Parish signalled for her to keep quiet.
‘I’m flattered, Miss Cox. Six months ago things might have been different, but now unfortunately I’m in a long-term relationship.’
‘Oh well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. If it becomes a short-term relationship you know where to find me.’ With that she moved back to the press area.
In the car Richards said, ‘Do you think Masterson was killed because of what he knew, Sir?’
‘It certainly looks that way. When we find out what he was working on, we’ll know who killed him. After we’ve been to Galleyhill Wood we’ll go to the Hoddesdon Mercury. It shouldn’t be too difficult to discover what he was investigating.’
‘What did you mean by “Unfortunately” when you were talking to that female reporter?’
‘For her, Richards.’
Chapter Six
John Linton struggled to push himself up from the cold kitchen floor. He’d decided to spend the night there. It had been a long time since he’d slept on the ground, it reminded him of his army days. The kitchen clock told him it was five thirty-five in the morning. Time to get back on track. The weight would drop off him now that he’d stopped drinking beer and he was moving about again, but the advantage of being a sniper was that you didn’t need to be fit – all he needed was one good eye and steady hands, and he had both. He put his arms up as if he were holding his rifle and closed his left eye…
Money – the bank! He didn’t have a clue how much money he had. Did he have any? He’d left the finances for Maggie to sort out. In fact, he’d left everything for Maggie to sort out. What a fucking useless husband and father he’d been. Well, now it was time to redeem himself, to show Maggie that the man she married was still here, and to give Amy justice so that she could rest in peace.
Maggie would have split the money in half before she left. He’d come out of the Army with a lump sum of £40,000, and been on disability benefits due to his weight and the eczema, plus other handouts he’d left Maggie to sort out. As far as he knew it was all just sitting there waiting for Amy to come home.
Well, Amy wasn’t coming home now, so he planned to use the money to fulfil his objective. He needed a car, a sniper’s rifle with a dedicated telescopic sight, and a million other things he couldn’t think of right now.
He stripped his filthy stained clothes off and let them fall to the kitchen floor. He then went up to the bathroom to brush his teeth, shave, and shower. It was a new day, and he had a lot of planning to do.
***
‘Have you got a name for it yet, mum?’
The three of them were sat at the kitchen table. Parish had been for a shower, fed Digby, and taken him for a walk. Now, he was eating toast with a thick layer of honey, and drinking coffee with one sugar that tasted like dishwater.
‘Give us a chance, love, I’ve only just found out I’m pregnant. It takes some getting used to, you know. Remember, the last time I was pregnant was twenty-one years ago with you.’
‘Are you sure thirty-six isn’t too old to have a baby? By the time you have it you’ll be thirty-seven.’
‘I’ve got a check-up tomorrow with Dr Land to be on the safe side, but stop making thirty-six sound like a hundred and six.’
‘What do you think, Sir?’
‘About what?’
‘About my mum being pregnant?’
‘If I say that I’m overjoyed you’ll say that I don’t care about your mum, that all I want is an heir to carry on the family name. If I say it’s too risky for her to have a baby that she shouldn’t have it, your mum will say I don’t love her anymore. So, I’m overjoyed and worried at the same time.’ To Angie he said, ‘Do you want me to come with you to the doctors?’
‘You’ve got enough on your plate with these dead children and that reporter. I’ll arrange for a scan, you can come with me to see him then.'
‘Him? You can’t know it’s a boy already, mum?’
‘I can, a woman knows these things.’
‘So, what about the name Albert?’
‘You’re not too old for a clip round the ear, Mary Richards.’
‘Come on Richards, let’s get out of here before Social Services come and take you into care.’
‘Algernon, Spencer, Morley, Norbert…?’
Parish kissed Angie and pushed Richards laughing out of the kitchen as she suggested progressively more ridiculous boy’s names.
***
Maggie hadn’t stolen his money. Although it had taken him a while to find that out. He’d lost his card, and even if he’d found it he wouldn’t have been able to remember the PIN number.
About thirty reporters were camped outside the front of his house. He had to go out the back way, push his way through the overgrowth, which resembled the Amazon jungle, and force open the rusted metal gate to reach the back passage that ran along the length of the houses.
Then he had to walk to the village because Maggie had left him without cash for the bus or a taxi, and that had taken him all morning and frequent stops to catch his breath. He was really out of shape. Thankfully, he’d had the foresight to take his passport with him, and he was able to find out that he had £33,000 in his bank account. He withdrew the £3,000, and was forced to order a new debit card and PIN number, even though he didn’t think he’d need it.
There was a second-hand car dealership in the village, and he bought a dark red 1999 Mazda 323 1.5 GLX Estate with 110,000 miles on the clock for £1,200 and also organised a year’s fully comprehensive insurance with them, which cost him £230. His thinking was that the car shouldn’t stand out. It didn’t need to last very long because once he’d killed the bastard who’d taken Amy he was going to join his beautiful daughter, and that it should be street-legal just in case the police had the audacity to stop him.
He was a bit rusty, and his driving was erratic as he made his way along the back roads towards the A10, but once he was travelling towards Tottenham on the dual carriageway he felt his old confidence return. When he reached White Hart Lane it was as if he’d been driving every day of the past eight years. He turned off and found a pub in a back street, parked up and went in. He’d had a mate in the Army – Benny – who came from round here who’d said, “You want anything that isn’t quite legal, find a pub, look for the guy sitting in the corner drinking orange juice who gets visitors and phone calls.”
At six foot one and 370 pounds he was an imposing figure, but he needed a haircut and some new clothes. All he could find to fit him this morning was a pair of jogging bottoms and an old Army rugby shirt. He ordered an orange juice and glanced around furtively. It wasn�
�t long before he spotted the man in the corner booth that Benny had described. This particular man had flabby pasty skin, badly thinning hair, and wore reactive glasses. He waited twenty minutes, finished his orange juice, and walked over to the man’s booth.
As soon as he came near, a thin man in another booth with long black hair and a black leather jacket stood up and barred his way.
‘Yes?’
‘I want to buy something.’
The thin man glanced at the other man who nodded. He thought he’d walked onto the set of a television drama when he was patted down and checked for wires.
Linton grunted as he wedged himself into the seat opposite the man.
‘You should lose weight,’ the man said with a heavy East European accent.
He guessed the man came from Russia. The sunlight stabbing through the frosted window turned the man’s glasses black and Linton was unnerved at not being able to see his eyes.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘What is it you want to buy?’
‘A gun.’
The Russian gave a short laugh. ‘What does a man like you know about guns?’
John leaned forward. ‘Looks can be deceptive, I used to be in the Army. I know a lot about guns.’
‘What type of gun do you want?’
‘A Glock 17 with a full magazine and a silencer.’
‘I might be able to acquire one of those, but how do I know you’re not the police?’
‘Do I look like the police?’
‘It’ll cost you five hundred pounds?’
‘Three?’
‘You English, always haggling like women at the market. You want a gun, I have one for five hundred pounds.’ He shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it?’
‘That’s not all I want?’
‘Oh?’
‘Let me have the Glock for four hundred, and I’ll tell you what else I want.’
The Russian lit a cigarette. He had a small mouth and nose, his ears were too close to his head, and a double chin had developed. Linton thought the man sitting across from him was probably in his late thirties.
‘Those things will kill you.’
The man gave another short laugh. ‘I like you, English. Four hundred then, but it better be worth my while?’
‘I want an Arctic Warfare Magnum long range sniper’s rifle with five hundred .338 Lapua Magnum LockBase B408 bullets and a Schmidt & Bender PM11 10x42 telescopic sight.’
The Russian made a whistling noise with his mouth and looked across the room at the man in the leather jacket. ‘So, you do know about guns? Are you going to start a war?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘No, my friend, but a weapon like that… It will be difficult to obtain…’
‘You can either get it or you can’t?’ John moved as if to force himself out of the seat.
‘Seven thousand pounds.’
‘Five and half?’
‘I hate you English. Six thousand two-fifty – my final offer?’
‘As long as it comes in the metal transit case with the scope, mount, butt spacers, bipod, spare mags, sling, and cleaning and tool kits.’
The Russian nodded. ‘I can give you the Glock now, but the rifle… Thursday afternoon?’
‘I’ll take the Glock, and I’ll collect the rifle tomorrow afternoon, say two o’clock?’ He pushed £1,000 across the table.
‘You have a way with words, my friend.’ He signalled for the man in the leather jacket to come over, and then he whispered to him in Russian.
They sat there in silence until leather jacket returned with something wrapped in a blue plastic bag. He passed it to the Russian who slid it across the table to Linton.
Linton took the Glock out of the wrapping, eased the magazine out and checked that it was full, released the safety and slid the bolt action back. The silencer sat in the wrapping. He nodded, put the gun back in the blue plastic and eased it into the waistband of his joggers.
‘Tomorrow afternoon then,’ he said.
‘Till then, my friend, and leave the Glock at home, we don’t want any misunderstanding.’
John had the idea that he’d bring the Glock with him when he came to collect the rifle, just in case they decided to double cross him, but these guys obviously weren’t amateurs. If he wanted the rifle, he had no choice but to trust the Russian.
***
Galleyhill Wood had turned into something resembling the living arrangements at an open-air concert. There were camper vans, 4 x 4’s, caravans, tents, lean-tos, and people stretched out in deckchairs and other foldaway seats. A card school was running on a rickety old camping table. There was a hot dog van, an ice-cream van, Chubby’s Food on the Move, Coffee in a Jiffy, Tasty Taters, and a number of other mobile entrepreneurs.
‘Oh God, Sir, look at that,’ Richards said leaning towards the front windscreen to take it all in.
Unable to get near the entrance to the original gravesite, Parish stopped on the side of the track. It was nine-fifteen.
‘The more I see of people the more I like animals, Richards,’ Parish said pulling out his mobile. He found the station number in his phonebook and dialled.
‘Duty Sergeant?’
‘Kristina, its Parish?’
‘Hello, Sir. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m at Galleyhill Wood. We’ve got a media circus here. I need a group of your people to move them on, about ten should do it?’
‘Walters and Boscombe are there, what the fuck are they doing?’
‘Can’t see ‘em,’ Parish said.
‘Probably sat on their arses watching the world go by. Okay, leave it with me, Sir. I’ll have the bailiffs there in about half an hour.’
‘Thanks, Kristina. I owe you.’
‘You say that every time, but you never pay up.’
‘I’ll buy you lunch in the canteen soon.’
‘You know how to treat a girl, Sir. I can’t wait.’
The call ended.
‘I suppose we’ll have to leave the car here and walk,’ Parish said.
‘You do know that you can’t flirt with all these women now that you’re going to marry my mum and be my dad?’
‘You make it sound as though I have a harem, and for your information nosy that was not flirting that was being friendly. Kristina’s a work colleague who does a lot of favours for me, and sometimes its good to say thank you. And anyway, don’t you talk to me about flirting; you’re the queen of flirting. Right, we have work to do.’
Stepping out of the car, he had to avoid a puddle of water beneath the door. Richards climbed out the other side and they headed towards the police cordon.
Somebody spotted them walking along the path and word quickly spread.
‘Inspector, can you give us any more news?’
‘Do you know the names of the other bodies?’
‘Have you found any more graves?’
A picture was thrust in his face. ‘This is a picture of my son who went missing in 2002. Is he one of the children you’ve found?’
‘Has any of the bodies got long blonde hair?’
‘We’ve set up a photograph board of our missing children, can you take a look and tell us if you’ve found any of them?’
Parish ducked under the tape and held it up for Richards. The two uniformed coppers – Walters and Boscombe – jumped up from their collapsible chairs when they saw Parish.
‘Sorry Sir, didn’t see you coming,’ one of them said.
‘That’s because you were taking it easy in non-issue chairs and not doing your job, but don’t worry I’m sure Sergeant Jackson will remind you what your job is when you get back to the station. Now, get rid of the chairs and stand here pretending to be policemen.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ the taller of the two said. ‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘I’ve sent for the bouncers to move this lot on. After they’ve gone, make sure anyone else understands that the wood is closed to the public until further notice.’
&
nbsp; ‘The press as well, Sir?’
‘Especially the press.’
They walked along the metal path to the first gravesite.
‘What about those mothers and fathers, Sir? All those missing children? Did you see the flowers?’
‘What about them?’
‘Well… We could collect the pictures, get contact addresses, and…’
‘Don’t you think we’ve already got those?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You suppose correctly, Richards. All on the database, and… we need to obtain DNA samples, take dental x-rays, create facial likenesses, and match other evidence before we start talking to parents and relatives. We’re not Social Workers, Victim Support Officers, or bereavement counsellors – we’re detectives if you’d forgotten. Remember what I said about locking your emotions away?’
‘I know, Sir, it’s just… I feel so sorry for them. You’ll be a father soon, you should have more empathy.’
He stopped. She overshot him and had to turn round.
‘You think I can’t empathise with these people?’
‘I didn’t say…’
‘I told you, I’ve locked all those slivers of kryptonite up in a lead-lined box. If I didn’t I couldn’t do the job.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. ‘You have to do the same, Richards. Everything about dead children – not just these particular children – but all of them will tear you apart, and destroy your life if you don’t learn to be dispassionate and objective. What’s it going to be, shall I ask the Chief to put you on admin’ duties, or can you become as cold-hearted as me?’
Her lip quivered. ‘I’ll be cold-hearted just like you, Sir.’
