Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  She sat there for some time, nursing her whisky, and realised the last hour or so of travel and then the simple small talk with the barman had distracted her from the main reason she had left the house in the first place. She hoped the coalescing mental processes she had begun to experience earlier were still whirring away in the background. She did her best to relax a little, closing her eyes and allowing her mind to go blank.

  It took a little while and a few false starts – she would feel she was just about to grasp something and then her mind would jump to something irrelevant or silly like ‘must remember to buy milk’. But slowly and surely, she found she was regaining the state she had connected to back at the house, with a part of her separating from the rest and watching closely what was happening in the rest of her brain.

  Letting the process take its course, even when ordering another whisky, and feeling that the alcohol was helping her relax and therefore concentrate better, she gradually began to unravel the message her sub-conscious had been trying to convey all along.

  When it finally came it didn’t explode into existence like the thought equivalent of the big bang, or even wash over her like a wave of emotion. In fact, none of the clichéd phrases or metaphors for a personal revelation could be applied. Nothing sprang, leapt, dawned or even suddenly occurred to her. It was something more organic, that started very small and grew slowly and steadily until she could see the whole of the picture she had been trying to grasp. And once she could see it in its entirety, it was a single simple statement that had a whole series of emotional and logical attachments that held the central statement aloft, supporting and underpinning, until there could be no argument with the truth of it all.

  Marcus had lied to her, not once or twice but on several, if not many occasions. She had known it at the time or more accurately had felt it. She had realised that what he had said or not said to her hadn’t, for a whole host of reasons, rung true. His tone of voice, a certain look that crossed his face, his body language and then the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something did not quite fit between his telling of events and her memory of the day or week in question. She had ignored it all at the time, generally accepting that everyone had slightly different recollections of events and times, and that there could be a plethora of reasons why someone spoke or acted slightly out of the ordinary.

  But now her mind had started to put them all together into one coherent pattern. Long, long forgotten memories were attaching to equally obscure ones, and she could see now why she knew he had been lying to her. An immediate list of examples presented itself.

  Firstly, she would often complete his mileage returns for his expenses – it saved him time and meant he was not sitting working at home so much – and she recalled now more than one occasion when the numbers had not quite added up. She would as a matter of course Google the mileage between home and his destination, to check for any obvious errors. There were several occasions where he appeared to have done more miles than Google maps had suggested. She had even questioned him once, receiving the answer that he had had to take a detour because of an accident. Eventually, she put the inconsistencies down to her not quite getting the correct destination or that he had taken a slightly different route. But now, it seemed to her that there were too many examples for them all to be simple mistakes, so why had she dismissed them so readily?

  Then there were a number of calls between Marcus and the office – some to Sir Frederick Derringham, others to his team. They had seemed innocent enough at the time, just general office catch-ups and to-do lists for the next week, assignments and so on. These often occurred the evening after returning from a trip away as he frequently took a day off or worked from home after trips of more than one or two nights – ostensibly so he could spend a bit of time with the family. So, again, they didn’t seem out of the ordinary. She had always found it a little odd though that these calls hadn’t taken place whilst he was away. She eventually decided that perhaps he was constantly in meetings, and afterwards in informal talks over dinner or drinks or whatever, and so hadn’t had time to call the office – especially since he only seemed to manage quick, snatched phone calls to her of an evening.

  All very normal and understandable, she had thought, until details of some of those calls began to return to her. More than once she had heard him say things such as, ‘…much better thank you’ and ‘I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll be back in, hale and hearty’, a phrase she knew Sir Frederick used. A strange choice of words to use after a Foreign Office trip, and when she had thought to ask, he would say he had felt like a cold was starting or that he had had a dodgy stomach after a dinner or other such reasons for the office enquiring after his well-being. But if the office knew he had been feeling unwell then he had been in touch with them whilst away, so why the catch-up call on his arrival home? And why had he never mentioned to her that he was feeling ill on his calls home?

  There was also a conversation she remembered having with Sir Frederick himself. It was at a FO soiree for those in management roles, under the guise of a management meeting and team builder, although wives and partners were invited – something Sir Frederick had explained with a wink and a ‘Oh I’m sure we can say that we’re just keeping everyone’s peckers up’, followed by an uproarious laugh.

  She had at some point mentioned a piece of work Marcus had spent hours on, having just been away for a week in Brussels, often bringing it home to continue into the evening. She had mentioned it for a couple of reasons, partly because she had been more than a little chagrined that Marcus had been away for Melissa’s birthday so wanted to say, in a roundabout way, that she felt Marcus was sent away too often and for too long. She also wanted to let him know that she felt he worked Marcus too hard, expecting reports and follow-up information and recommendations to be completed almost immediately after the trip with an extremely tight deadline.

  Sir Frederick had looked non-plussed for some seconds after this; she had at the time assumed he was trying to remember which of the many junkets and meetings she had been referring to. Now his reply came back to her almost word for word.

  ‘Oh good Lord yes I recall, another bloody round of bloody Brexit talks and shenanigans, or should I say Schengen a gones.’ He had given one of his barking laughs at his own pun, clearly feeling the wine he had been steadily working his way through all evening. After a minute of chuckling he had continued: ‘Yes that was a bugger of a trip. Meetings until all hours of the night, the hotel couldn’t cook a decent steak to save their lives, the German interpreter was taken ill so it was a good job the old boy from the Auswärtiges Amt could speak excellent English, and the only thing it achieved was to generate more paperwork than it did solutions. I remember calling Marcus to warn him of the ridiculous amount of work he would have on his plate after my return. All for what would amount to bugger all.’

  Funny, she thought. Her memory of that conversation had until now contained the phrase ‘…after our return.’ Was this another assumption she had made that had turned out to be more than a little awry? Was her memory turning the statement into one that fitted with that assumption? Marcus had been away for that week so she had figured he and Sir Frederick must have taken the trip together. Now, with her new clarity of recollection, the obvious inconsistency became clear. Sir Frederick appeared to have made the trip alone or at least with a different team and therefore without Marcus. After all, if Marcus had been there why would Sir Frederick call him? And why had Marcus only talked about his work on that trip and not mentioned Sir Frederick at all? Most importantly, if he wasn’t there then where the hell had he been for a week? And doing what?

  These memories, now so clear and bright that they could have been of yesterday’s events, were combined and intermixed with strands of feelings and what she could only call twitches in her sub-conscious. They were telling her the little things she had picked up on at the time but subsequently ignored – subtle but pertinent changes to Marcus’ tone of voice, the looks
away from her face as he said or explained certain things, a quiet nervousness afterwards. There had been a furtiveness to his demeanour during these periods that she must have picked up on and then dismissed, or perhaps had not even registered at the time.

  These revelations, experienced over half an hour or so, brought her sharply back to the present. She realised she hadn’t noticed the bar or its patrons for that entire period and it had got a lot busier. There were now the ubiquitous office workers filing in slowly from nearby businesses, so ubiquitous in fact that she felt she recognised a number of faces from six months before. The sudden rush of noise as she came out of her reverie almost overwhelmed her. It was time to go.

  Downing her drink, she quickly exited into the chilly, late-autumn evening with still very little idea as to what to do with her new insight. One thing she did know, however, was that she would be taking things further and she would get to the truth.

  An obvious course of action would be to take her thoughts to DC Handley, but she knew he would dismiss them as being, well, obvious. Naturally Marcus had been lying to her, that was plain in the fact that he had managed to pull off a complete disappearing act, which could only be achieved with careful forethought and planning – all of which he managed to hide from Charlotte. No, DC Handley would want more than just her new-found insight. He had probably been waiting for the moment the penny dropped and she came to see Marcus’ disappearance for what it was.

  The street was busy … those office workers not heading for the bars were heading for the tube and the commute home. The bustle and noise began to irritate her as she tried to make her way back towards Embankment station. The fourth time she was jostled by a passer-by made her mind up for her, she would go find somewhere a little quieter and have another drink. It had been years since she had had the time or the freedom to go out by herself. She needed to give herself more time to think and formulate a plan of action.

  She was about to settle for the bar she had just been in, busy though it was, since it was still only 10 yards behind her and she would likely still get a seat by herself. Then she thought of a couple of places where she knew FO staff sometimes went after work – they were both much quieter than the surrounding pubs and bars, predominantly because they were off-street. Their entrances were closely guarded secrets – hidden up small alleyways, unlikely to be found by passing trade – while the bars themselves were situated on the first floor, one above a gents tailors and the other above a fried chicken outlet. Both were more like exclusive clubs than bars – all wood panels, discreet booths, table service and an unspoken agreement between all patrons that there would be no unnecessary noise. The exclusive members-only feel was reflected in the prices, another reason they retained an air of quiet seclusion in the heart of the overcrowded, heaving city.

  Her feet had already adjusted her course and she allowed them to lead the way, keeping her head clear for further contemplation. Her starting point near Embankment station put her closer to the two venues than the Foreign Office, making the walk only five minutes or so. She had already decided on which of the two she would visit; Marcus had mentioned it more frequently and so she assumed he went there when he did stop for a drink before heading home. Her logic was that this would be the bar where she was more likely to ‘bump’ into one of his colleagues, those that knew him best at work, those that might let slip some information – information that could provide a more solid foundation to her thoughts.

  She now craved the insight she simply couldn’t get through her own cognition – it had to come from somewhere else, another viewpoint or perspective. The people that Marcus worked alongside would very probably see a different man to the one who returned home in the evenings. And, more importantly, perhaps know if or when he had used the freedoms afforded a senior manager to cover other activities.

  As she walked, she affirmed and reaffirmed the belief that she – without any training or understanding of the processes required, and without the authority of the likes of DC Handley – would be able to unpick and unlock these workplace secrets. By the time the last corner was being turned she held every conviction that she would meet just the right colleague, that particular person who had covered for Marcus once too often, or who was jealous of his freedom of movement and noticed he wasn’t always on company business as he claimed, or some other combination that would unlock the whole affair.

  Snarling internally at the unintended pun, she pulled open the lower door that led to her chosen hunting ground.

  ‘04

  DCI Pearson’s head ached. His back felt like it would never straighten out again and his eyes were so bloodshot he had begun to believe that someone had taken sandpaper to them. It was fast approaching midnight and he had been in the office since eight that morning – 16 hours of reading files and collating information. He had nearly given up several times, but knew he was getting somewhere. He’d needed to call round a number of other forces to track down investigating officers and request additional information. He’d waded through hundreds of scene of crime photographs and lengthy PM reports as well as forensic evidence reports. The forensic reports had been sent to his own team to contrast and compare, while the PM reports had gone to the pathologist.

  Sitting back in his seat, ignoring the roaring protests from his head and back, he looked over at the board on the far wall. It was, he admitted it himself, a little old-fashioned now to be using a board to pin information, photos and any other material pertinent to an investigation. But Pearson liked to have one – it allowed him to visualise several incidents and their potential connections. Now, with the weight of information that had come through to him, he realised he would need a bigger board. A smile crossed his face as he thought of Jaws and the famous line about needing ‘a bigger boat’. I know how you feel Officer Brody, he thought, I’m drowning here too.

  He puffed out his cheeks and put his hands behind his head as he stared at the board trying to correlate the information up there with the new information he had collected throughout the day. There were some connections between them and he had placed these files to one side for the time being. Those that appeared to have similarities also had inconsistencies, but these could be put down to differences in the direction each investigation had taken or simply the language used by the report’s author.

  He had suspected a single killer had been involved in two murders he’d worked on back in 2001. The cases remained unsolved and there had been no further murders on or around his patch that bore the same hallmarks. Then, by chance, he had come across another case in Kent a couple of months ago. He happened to be good friends with a DI down there and they met for a pint or two one evening. His mate had been bothered by a previous case that he’d been unable to solve. When he outlined the details Pearson’s ears pricked up, and he immediately saw the similarities between the three cases. They had discussed the particulars for the rest of the evening and by the time he left the pub Pearson was convinced he was looking at a serial killer operating in and around London.

  Unfortunately, other unrelated cases and a generally overwhelming workload had prevented him from doing anything further with that information. Months had now passed since that meeting with his DI friend, but his inability to solve the murder of those two women in London and the case in Kent still ate away at him. They would fill his thoughts when he should have been focusing on other things. Finally, yesterday, having found it hard to think of much else and needing to resolve the issue, he had gone to speak with his boss. Although sceptical, his boss had eventually admitted there was the possibility that it was the same man and had given Pearson the next day to work through the cases afresh.

  And so that morning, at eight o’clock sharp, he had begun the process of tracking down any similar cases in Greater London and the home counties. He found two more – one earlier and another later than the three he already had. He tried looking for a locus, a central point where the killer was likely to be based, but that proved to be unfruitful since
the killer could be anywhere in the Greater London area. His enthusiasm had waned a little then, at the thought of 12 million or more potential suspects.

  His next port of call had been MO – were there enough similarities between the cases to call them a series? Were they looking for one man or was it two or (heaven forbid) more men committing very similar crimes in different areas of the country? He decided to start from the premise that it was one man (or woman, he couldn’t yet rule that out) and try to find enough in the evidence to show a consistent MO.

  That had been relatively straightforward, he thought, stubbing out another cigarette and taking a swig of cold coffee. The one clear similarity was the lack, or confusion of, evidence. The forensics were all over the place as far as he could tell: bits from one person, DNA from someone else, semen from yet another. This, though, was starting to be telling. All the cases were the same in that respect and that could be seen as an MO. The lack of forced entry was also consistent across all five cases. Other similarities were the physical appearance and social standing of the five victims.

  All of the victims’ final movements had, as far as possible, been traced. Two had told friends they were going out on a date on the night they were killed, two had left work and were never heard from again, and the final one had been on a day off work. No real similarities there. After various public appeals, some witnesses had come forward to say they thought they had seen the women who had been out on dates. This had allowed the investigating teams to trace some grainy CCTV footage of the women waiting in bars – presumably for their mystery dates. But in both cases the women had taken calls on their mobiles and then left. They couldn’t be traced after that. They had nothing on the other three.

  By three in the afternoon, and with the beginnings of what was to become the mother of all headaches, Pearson had begun to consider that there could well be other murders around the country. The London and home county cases were committed cleanly and effectively – they were clearly the work of an established and practised killer. There would have to have been other killings – he had to have developed his methods. But Pearson’s searches had turned up nothing else within the search parameters he had set himself. And so, he’d turned to the arduous task of calling other major forces around the country. This started to bear fruit.