by Ray Clark
“We’ve now discovered that two of the victims each had a paper scroll accompanying them.”
“I never saw one on Michael Foreman,” said Rawson.
“None of us did. It was stapled to his back.”
“Stapled?”
“Yes,” said Reilly, “four, one in each corner of the scroll, and they were heavy duty. I reckon whoever did it wanted the scroll to stay where it was because they were embedded into bone.”
A few of the team winced and sucked in breath.
“What do they say?” asked Sharp.
“They’re biblical references.”
“Great,” said Thornton, “we’re not dealing with a Bible basher as well, are we?”
“I’m going to let Sean explain them.”
“Hang on a second,” said Rawson, retrieving his phone from his jacket.
“What are you doing?” asked Reilly.
“I’m going to record it and translate later.”
Reilly stuck two fingers up as the rest of the team cheered. When the noise died and the tension dropped, Reilly stood at the front.
“They are from The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, as described in the last book of the New Testament. It’s the revelation of Jesus Christ to John the Apostle. The chapter basically tells of a book, or a scroll in God’s right hand. It’s sealed with seven seals. The Lamb of God opens the first four of those seven seals, which summons four beings that ride out on white, red, black, and pale horses.
“Now, interpretations differ in most accounts, but the four riders are seen as symbolising Pestilence, Famine, War and Death. The vision is that the four horsemen are to set a divine upon the world as harbingers of the Last Judgment. One reading binds the four horsemen to the history of the Roman Empire, an era that followed The Book of Revelation being written. In other words, they are meant as a symbolic prophecy of the subsequent history of the empire.”
“So who was wearing what?” asked Sharp.
“When we found James Henshaw this morning, his scroll represented Famine; extreme scarcity, especially of food.”
“Guess they got that one right,” offered Rawson.
Reilly nodded. “That refers to the third horseman, who rides a black horse. He’s popularly known as Famine, because he carries a pair of scales. He’s trying to show us the way that bread would have been weighed during a famine. Other people see him as the ‘Lord as a Law-Giver’ and what he’s holding are scales of justice.”
“So what do the DPA have to do with all this?” asked Frank Thornton.
“Probably nothing,” said Reilly. “This says more about the person who has them. He’s picked out a method of killing and made it fit with what he wants. Whether or not he’s trying to send a message is another matter.”
“Maybe he isn’t,” said Sharp. “He might just be trying to throw us a curveball, send us in another direction that’s not relevant.”
“Sir?” said Anderson. “You shared that quote with us this morning, so we brought it into the conversation with Rosie Henshaw, asked if she or any of the DPA were religious.”
“And no doubt she said no.”
“Pretty much,” replied Thornton. “It wasn’t emphatic, as if she was trying to protest too much. She said that not one of them had a religious bone in their body.”
“No surprise there,” said Gardener, nodding to his sergeant to continue.
“Michael Foreman took the guise of the first horseman, Pestilence.”
“So what killed him?” asked Briggs.
Reilly glanced at Gardener, who hesitated, knowing his answer would cause a shitstorm. “HN-3.”
“Pardon,” said Briggs.
“Nitrogen mustard, sir.”
Gardener went on to reveal exactly what Fitz told them. What it was, how it affected Foreman; that it was not a Hazchem scene, and why, and the possibility of where it could have come from. He then asked Reilly for the Pestilence interpretation.
Reilly nodded but Briggs stopped him in his tracks and he took over himself. “The origin isn’t clear. Some translations of the Bible interpret plague, disease, or pestilence in connection with the riders in the passage following the introduction of the fourth rider; ‘Authority was given to them over a fourth of the Earth, to kill with sword, and famine, and plague, and by the wild animals of the Earth.’ But it’s a matter of debate as to whether the passage refers to the fourth rider, or to all four of them together.”
“Where did you learn about that, sir?” asked Gardener.
“The wife,” said Briggs, “she’s into all that shit.”
Another round of laughter told Gardener what his team thought of the biblical angle. Aware of the time and eager to move things along, he said, “I don’t want to pour cold water all over the biblical theory but it’s something else we will have to consider and take note of. There could be something in that book of revelation that might point us in the right direction. The other thing we have to do is feed it into HOLMES and see what it throws out.”
“Given what you’ve just told us, we need to talk to Porton Down,” said Briggs.
“Good luck with that one,” said Gardener.
“We’ve juggled around the people we know who could be in the frame for this,” said Bob Anderson, “but considering what we’ve just heard, how likely is it that any of these people would have access to anything from Porton Down?”
“Which puts someone else in the frame altogether,” said Thornton. “Someone we don’t even know about.”
“Basically, is that someone now playing God, comparing the death of the Hunters to the four horsemen?” asked Bob Anderson.
“It’s very possible?” said Gardener. “We need to answer all these questions. Someone needs to speak to Porton Down, using whoever’s help we need to get that information.”
“That might be tough,” said Briggs. “But I have a contact in the Force Intelligence Bureau.”
Gardener knew the FIB assessed all intelligence that came in, before sanitising it to make sure it didn’t compromise anyone.
Sensing that was everything, Gardener addressed the team. “Okay, guys, sterling effort from everyone. We still have a lot to do and once again, time is against us.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s meet back here at nine tonight.”
As the team dispersed, Gardener waited while Briggs left the room and called his partner over.
“Something else came to mind during that incident room session but rather than bring it up, I wanted your take on it.”
“Go on,” said Reilly.
“We’ve neither seen nor heard anything of Roger Hunter recently?”
“Not since the funeral. He did say he was putting the house on the market for a stupid price to get a quick sale before returning home.”
“And where’s home?”
“He never actually said.”
“What he said was very little,” replied Gardener. “He also implied that he worked in government but he didn’t say what.”
“Which could be anything.”
“He made it sound like we’d have to upset quite a number of apple carts to get the information.”
“Are you thinking he’s responsible?”
“I have no idea,” said Gardener. “If anyone has a motive, he does. Maybe it’s worth checking to see if the house has sold; if not, is he still around? If he is, update him on what we’ve found, and find out if he knows anything more. But more importantly, we might need to upset one of those apple carts because we could really do with finding out more about him. If only to clear him and perhaps make sure he isn’t on the list either.”
Chapter Forty-two
Ablutions complete and bathroom duties finished, Anthony was back in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He still didn’t feel clean. How could he? The guest house was a dump, with little in the way of hygiene standards. The sheets in his room hadn’t been changed. Who was he kidding? The bed hadn’t even been made. He was sharing a bathroom down
the corridor with Lord knows how many other people, where he actually had to clean the bath before he jumped in.
About to think things through, a news anchor from the TV on the wall led with the story of a man who had died in horrific circumstances in the centre of Leeds yesterday. Anthony wouldn’t have bothered too much but he heard the words hit and run.
Jumping off the bed he increased the volume.
“The victim, known as Michael Foreman, was seen wandering around Bond Street in a very distressed state…”
A picture of Michael appeared on screen and Anthony nearly collapsed. His legs weakened, and he felt pins and needles in his arms and the ends of his fingers.
The news crew were talking to eyewitnesses, whose accounts were moving. Michael had been wandering around, searching for help, screaming out in pain – almost blind.
What the fuck had happened to him? thought Anthony, staring at the screen.
The Calendar news team confirmed the police had been on hand very quickly and the whole scene was cordoned off whilst they dealt with the incident. It appeared that Michael Foreman had died pretty soon after, leaving the scene in an ambulance. The police were appealing for more witnesses to come forward. They had not revealed what Michael had died of.
Anthony couldn’t believe it. He felt hollow, and cold, and close to breaking down. What the hell had happened to their lives? They had had everything: successful business, nice homes, flash cars. More money than they could ever have spent. One mistake. One mistake was all it had taken to ruin everything.
Anthony grabbed his bottle of lager, taking a deep, long swig, thinking over his day.
As he’d suspected, the owner of the guest house knew someone who knew someone who had a car that was surplus to requirements. Fifty pounds cash with no questions asked and he’d had the keys and the car before ten o’clock.
He’d actually started with Michael’s apartment in Skipton. He wasn’t surprised when the caretaker informed him it had been emptied, and that the police were calling on a regular basis. It was the same story at Zoe’s riverside apartment. When he dropped by Rosie’s house in Ilkley, the police had actually been there. He’d seen them enter the house from the opposite side of the road.
What in God’s name was going on? How much did the police know? More to the point, who was responsible for the carnage? Who had killed Michael?
There were two prime suspects as far as he could see. Zoe Harrison or James Henshaw.
Rosie claimed James had never made it to Brussels. Maybe he hadn’t. What if James had had a change of heart, decided he didn’t like what had happened, wanted to fix things?
The same could be said of Zoe. She was completely fucking ruthless when it came to business. The cold-hearted way in which she disposed of Ann Marie was unparalleled.
Anthony swigged more lager. They could both be in it together, though it was a long shot. Zoe and James were complete opposites.
It was still possible that they could have ripped him off and fucked off.
But why would James do that? He had a wife and family – more to lose.
Another thought hit Anthony. Was it Rosie? Was she responsible for the mess and the destruction?
Anthony’s thoughts were then dealt another serious blow, when three faces appeared on the TV screen, wanted in connection with the hit and run of David Hunter, and the death of his wife, Ann Marie, in Burley in Wharfedale three months previous.
They had pictures. And he recognised them all: Zoe, James, and himself.
He lowered his head and covered his face with his hands. It could be all over now.
How long did he really have left before the net closed in on him?
Desperate for answers, Anthony suddenly had a light-bulb moment, one that was worth hanging on to.
The DPA safe cyber forum address where they could be contacted if all else failed.
It had to be worth the risk.
Chapter Forty-three
Rosie opened the front door to the sound of the bell and immediately saw red.
“Brought the cuffs, have you?” She stretched out her arms and held out her hands. “Ready to cart me away?”
Both officers pulled out warrant cards. One was very smartly dressed in a jacket, shirt and tie, trousers, and for some bizarre reason a hat with a hole in it. The other wore a bomber jacket and jeans.
“Mrs Henshaw.” Gardener held up his card.
“This is police harassment.” Rosie walked off, leaving the door open, as she had earlier in the day for the other two.
Gardener and Reilly followed. Rosie ended up in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.
She immediately jumped up, wandered over and removed lemonade from the fridge, took a glass from the cupboard above her head and poured one out.
“Would you like one?”
“Please,” said both officers in unison.
When all three were seated, Rosie went on the attack again. “I’m really sick of this. I’m not the criminal here, but you lot are treating me like one. I haven’t done anything and you’re just hounding me. I’m just pleased my children are having a stay over. Why aren’t you out there catching real criminals – like my husband?”
“It’s your husband we’ve come to talk to you about, Mrs Henshaw,” said Gardener. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Weeks ago, when he left here for a meeting in Brussels.”
“A meeting that he never made.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And you haven’t heard from him in that time?”
Rosie sighed, drinking lemonade.
“No. He sent one or two emails at first. Then they dried up and I heard sod all.”
“And you didn’t think that odd?” asked Reilly.
“Of course it was bloody odd, but what could I do about it? I made calls and sent emails but they all went unanswered. Next thing I knew I had Michael Foreman ringing me up, asking for James. Then Anthony Palmer.”
“You’ve had no contact with Zoe Harrison?”
“No. Not that I’m bothered. And then I find out that Michael Foreman is dead and two officers come here and accuse me of it. Well, don’t worry because I’ve already been on to my solicitor. I’ll be speaking to him first thing in the morning. I probably should have spoken to him weeks ago.”
The two detectives glanced at each other with expressions that Rosie couldn’t read but doubted it was anything good.
“What is it now; found another one dead?”
“Mrs Henshaw, we’re not accusing you of anything,” said Gardener. “Perhaps I can explain something to you that might help you see it from our point of view; your husband and his business partners were involved in the hit and run back in February, in which a man was killed. His wife also ended up dead. It seems that all the people in the car went missing shortly after the accident. We’ve established that – apart from your husband – they left the country but have since returned. Until now, they haven’t been seen, but they are dying in mysterious circumstances.”
Rosie clamped her hands to her mouth. What did he mean, they are dying in mysterious circumstances?
“Oh my God. The man who died was Anthony Palmer’s uncle? And he killed his own aunt?”
“It’s looking that way.”
Rosie stared across the kitchen for want of anything better to do, trying to put her thoughts together; trying to rationalise them, especially when her instinct told her that whatever these two were there for would be of no benefit to her.
“As yet, we don’t know,” said Gardener, “but it puts us in a very awkward position where you’re concerned.”
“Why?”
“We’re not sure whether to treat you as a possible suspect…”
“Or what?” asked Rosie, preferring not to hear an answer.
“Or the next victim, which is something we’d like to prevent.”
“What the hell do you mean, next victim? Have Zoe and Anthony been found dead as well as Michael?”<
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Once again, the two detectives glanced at each other.
“As yet, we haven’t found Zoe Harrison or Anthony Palmer,” said Gardener.
“So what are you–” Rosie stopped mid-sentence, the implication of what they were saying becoming all too evident.
“It’s James, isn’t it? You’ve found James.”
“Mrs Henshaw, is there anyone you’d like us to call to come and stay with you?” asked Gardener.
“Just tell me.”
“We could call a Family Liaison Officer to come and stay with you,” said Reilly.
Rosie felt her insides swell up to twice their normal size. Her legs turned to jelly and her hands suddenly felt numb. She felt sick, and they hadn’t even told her anything yet.
The tears rolled down her cheeks. All the time she had spent cursing James for what he had done, explaining to the children that he was on business and would be back soon, and that secretly she was wishing him in hell.
They do say be careful what you wish for.
“Please… what’s happened?”
“I’m really very sorry,” said Gardener, “but we think we may be the bearers of bad news. We discovered another body this morning in Butts Court.”
“Is it James?”
“Mrs Henshaw, does your husband have any distinguishing marks anywhere on his body?”
Rosie was answering on autopilot. “He has a birthmark, on his right thigh.”
Gardener nodded at Reilly.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
Rosie remembered the email from James earlier in the day. “Wait a minute, no, it can’t be. I had an email earlier today.”
“An email?” asked Reilly. “What time was that?”
“Eleven o’clock this morning.” After she’d said that she felt stupid, it wouldn’t be anything but morning, they hadn’t reached eleven at night. “How can that be?”
“You’re sure it was from your husband?”
Rosie wasn’t. “I thought it was… at first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when I reread it and thought about it afterwards, it didn’t sound like James.”
