The Phoenix Series Books 10-12 (The Phoenix Series Box Set)

by Ted Tayler

  “I wish you scarred the bastard, Phil,” said Callum, “but there was nothing under the fingernails to give us a clue towards his identity.”

  James, the young PC on duty outside the crime scene last night came into the office.

  “Morning, sir,” he said, “have we made any progress?”

  Callum shook his head.

  “The hit on the workman was professional, but the cover-up on the strangulation looked amateurish,” said James. “Is there any chance the workman was the target, and the homeowner disturbed the killer, making him panic?”

  “Fancy a switch to CID, James?” asked Callum. “I wouldn’t normally rule anything out this early in the game. Do me a favour. You reckon someone went to the trouble of putting the wind-up both the husband and wife to get them to find a firm to keep them safe. I wonder how he made sure the people they contracted to do the work employed that particular workman, let alone send him on that job? He died two hours earlier than the homeowner too, by the way. Our killer then continued to wait in the house. Why bother? He’d done the deed. I think he would have pissed off, don’t you?”

  “When you put it like that…”

  “Stick to what you’re good at, directing traffic,” said Callum.

  “At the risk of getting my head bitten off,” James continued, as he headed out of the office, “Bath doesn’t have many contract killers. So, whatever sparked this rush to get tighter security started outside our area.”

  Callum watched the lad disappear into the corridor towards the canteen.

  “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” mused Callum. “I need to follow up any connections between what Phil worked on with Hounsell Security Services and organised crime. The answer may lie there.”

  Callum called home. Debbie answered on the third ring.

  “How are things?” asked Callum.

  “Lots of tears,” replied Debbie, “and lots of questions, as you would expect. Please tell me you’ve found something to explain this?”

  “Nothing yet. Look, can you ask Erica if Phil kept the records from his HSS company at home? The offices they leased have been empty for a while, but when I drove past last week, I saw a notice on the window announcing a nail bar opening next month.”

  “Hold on. I’ll give Erica a shout.”

  Callum waited. He looked out of his office window. Across the street lay the building where the new Bath Police HQ was to be situated. The University had snapped up this piece of prime real estate at the back end of last year. He wasn’t keen to move. Most of his working life had been here. Maybe, it was time to look at getting out. He didn’t sign up for the rubbish they got involved in of late. His time with Phil in the Nineties was the last enjoyable decade he’d spent.

  “Callum are you there?” Debbie’s voice interrupted his reverie.

  “Sorry, love,” he replied. “What did she say?”

  “Boxes containing everything they worked on are in the garage,” said Debbie. “That’s everything completed while he worked with Wayne Sangster. Wayne kept the cases still open, plus new cases he worked on when he flew solo.”

  “I wonder where that Sangster Security Services paperwork is now? Wayne died in a fire at Halloween in London, together with his lady friend. When I saw Phil for a drink before Christmas, he told me he suspected murder. Now, twelve weeks later, he’s gone the same way. Maybe there’s a link? We’ve still got people at the house. I’ll check the garage for clues. I’ll call from there later. Can you ask Erica where Wayne lived in Bath? Let’s hope that documentation is still there and not destroyed in the fire.” Callum rang off and left the office. Fifteen minutes later, he was inside the garage at Phil’s home. It was nothing like the state of their garage at home. Theirs was crammed from floor to ceiling with stuff he and Debbie had accumulated over the years. They had no use for ninety per cent of it but never got around to taking it to the dump. It was a fine art squeezing the car into the small vacant space that remained.

  Phil and Erica parked their cars in the driveway. The garage was a workspace attached to the house; one wall held every tool and utensil known to man needed inside or outside the home. On the other wall stood the shelving that contained the items he sought.

  Typical of his old friend, every box was stacked in neat piles on the shelving. They were secured with tape and labelled by date. The HSS boxes were at the end nearest the back wall. He opened the latest box. He hoped the clue would jump out from a case they had both handled. Callum leaned against the workbench and began to read.

  Inside the house, he heard the landline. One of the forensic team answered. The internal door opened from the utility room, and a head appeared.

  “DI Wood, there’s a woman on the phone wanting to speak to Mrs Hounsell,”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “She said she used to live here, the name of Zara Wheeler?”

  “Zara? There’s a blast from the past. I’ll speak to her.”

  Callum placed the open folder on the top of the box and followed the white-suited techie indoors.

  “Callum Wood speaking. Good morning, Zara. It’s been a long time.”

  “Hi, Callum. I wish we were catching up under better circumstances,” said Zara. “I wanted to tell Erica how sorry we were to hear of Phil’s death. It came as a terrible shock. I understand you can’t say too much, but do you know how they both died yet? How was this other man connected to Phil? It’s so strange.”

  Callum didn’t miss the ‘we’ in Zara’s words. She was an ex-colleague who would be his superior now if she’d stayed in the job. She knew the protocol they followed and understood the painstaking forensic analysis going on around him as they spoke. He also knew he must be careful how much he revealed, despite the friendship they had shared while they worked together.

  “Where are you these days?” asked Callum, “where did you move to after Portishead?”

  “Not far,” replied Zara. “I still live and work on the outskirts of Bath. I got married in November. I met my husband in Bristol weeks before I resigned from the police service.”

  That explained the ‘we’ thought Callum. He was surprised he hadn’t seen Zara around the city or read a report on the wedding in the paper if she still lived locally. Ah well, some people liked to keep things under the radar.

  Zara was always the quiet one. Although Callum had suspected something going on between her and Phil, right from the night, they arrived in Bath. After they both left Manvers Street for the ‘big house’ at Portishead, he only saw them now and again. If they had an affair, it never found its way back via the rumour mill to their old office.

  “I’ll tell you as much as I’m able, Zara,” said Callum, “for old times’ sake, but promise me it won’t go any further.”

  “I promise,” she replied, pulling a face at Rusty, as he crossed his fingers.

  “They were both unlawfully killed. We have no motive for either killing at present. My gut instinct tells me the workman was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Phil was the target. We’ll go through every relevant case he worked on during his police service, together with the cases he tackled at his security services firm. Someone from his past was following Phil, making both him and Erica nervous. They were upgrading their security. The killer went ahead with the contract regardless of who he found in the home. Thank goodness Erica was at work yesterday, or the kids might have lost both parents.”

  “Where are they now?” asked Zara.

  “At home with Debbie,” said Callum, “did you know we had a son, Ronnie? He’s two now.”

  “Yes, I heard. It’s wonderful, Callum,” replied Zara. “You could have four by now if you two hadn’t ignored how you felt for so long. Is it alright to give me your home number so that I can talk to Erica? You’ve got my mobile number now, so please ring me when you find out when the funeral is. I very much want to attend. I owe it to Phil, and if you can update me on how things are progressing without getting rapped over the knuckles,
I’d appreciate it.”

  Callum gave her his home number and promised to keep in touch. He understood the nosy nature of ex-coppers; they never gave you a moment’s peace. It had been the same with Phil and Wayne. They never stopped asking for details that shouldn’t concern them anymore. Maybe, somewhere in those boxes was evidence that they asked the wrong people for more information of something they shouldn’t, and that cost them their lives?

  At Larcombe Manor, the phone call ended, Artemis sat opposite her husband, Rusty.

  “You played that well,” said Rusty.

  “Easy to show concern for Phil and his family,” she replied, “that was genuine. I’ve opened the door to allow us to keep in touch with the police investigation. Now, I need to talk to Erica.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, darling,” said Rusty. “Their search for a motive in his past offers our best chance of keeping Olympus out of the frame.”

  “It would help our cause if the fire destroyed those most recent records,” said Artemis,

  “The police might believe getting rid of the evidence in a fire, along with one of the investigators was deliberate, you mean?

  “Yes,” said Artemis, “but, it still feels wrong to be side-lining the official investigation. I feel responsible for discovering who killed Phil.”

  “Olympus will continue to search for who killed Orion and our other agent,” said Rusty. “Does it matter who gets justice for them?”

  Rusty left his wife alone in their apartment. He needed to find Phoenix; the weekend was slipping through their fingers. The time left to plan for next week’s missions grew shorter by the hour. If they worked in the orangery for two hours before they met up again with Athena, at least they could make a start.

  In the ice-house, Giles pieced together the last movements of Les Biggar and his helicopter.

  In the administration offices, Alastor and Minos awaited the scheduled news conference from the steps outside Manvers House police station.

  At Burnham-on-Sea, Geoffrey Fox packed a suitcase. He was doing it under sufferance. This Project business was far more dangerous than a charitable organisation had any right to be. He had always suspected the charity was a façade for what happened at the Manor.

  Geoffrey was no fool. His only daughter went to University, worked at Random House publishers, and then joined MI5. After experiencing life at the sharp end, she threw in her lot with a charity helping ex-servicemen. Every time he and Grace visited, a veil of secrecy was apparent. Nobody goes back to sparkling wine once you’ve tasted grand cru champagne.

  On social occasions, there were one hundred people present. Geoffrey knew how many slept in the main building. He could hazard a guess at how many the stable block held. Why did they need extensive leisure facilities in the converted cottages at the far end of the estate for that number of people?

  There must be accommodation somewhere else. Underground, perhaps? Whatever had happened in the past forty-eight hours, it must have been serious. Annabelle was adamant he stayed at Larcombe until further notice. The goons hovering over him as he gathered his things were stone-faced. He was leaving his bungalow, whatever happened.

  Geoffrey’s only regret was that Grace was missing this excitement.

  Meanwhile, over two hundred miles north of Burnham, two people were spending their day very much indoors. Hugh Fraser had arrived at Piya Adani’s home at ten o’clock. When she answered his knock, Ambrosia hid behind the door and pulled him inside. She was naked.

  “I’ve been waiting for this since we talked yesterday,” she said. She fetched the champagne bucket from the kitchen, and they went upstairs. Two bottles were now empty. Ambrosia’s head rested on his chest. The steady rhythm of her breathing told him she was asleep. He should rest too because when she awoke, he would be required to satisfy her yet again. He sighed. If only she knew. Piya was upset by his news about a colleague’s death, but she was unaware of what he’d experienced himself trying to get here today.

  Hugh had followed his usual route north via the M5 and M1. He spotted the car in front and the one following him before he travelled ten miles on the M5. The vehicles stayed with him until he joined the M1. Now with his senses on high alert, Hugh searched for the next cars to pick up the baton.

  His unwanted escort was an organised group. They were looking for more blood. Hugh had been among the first to reach Les Biggar’s body yesterday afternoon. He had gone to bed early last night despite his death, Hugh was determined not to let the Grid thwart his plans.

  It was easy to lose the lead car. He hadn’t been followed on any of his earlier trips to see Ambrosia so that they couldn’t know his exact destination. He stayed in the outside lane until the last possible second. Then, with the lead car committed to passing Junction 39 and the exit to Wakefield, Hugh swerved to the inside lane and onto the exit road.

  The driver in the second car almost collided with a car transporter as he followed suit. Hugh used his advanced driving skills to good effect. Rusty Scott would have approved of the way Hugh led the pursuing car a merry dance through the side streets. Ten minutes later, he was off on the last ten miles of the journey to Leeds with nobody in his rear-view mirror.

  Hugh parked the car a mile from Ambrosia’s house, and walked the rest, keeping watch the whole way. If his pursuers caught up with him again, he would phone Ambrosia to say he would be late. Then, he would use the silenced pistol he brought with him to eliminate whoever drove the car.

  Ambrosia stirred.

  “Getting your head down for five minutes, darling?” he asked, stroking her back.

  “Your word is my command, master,” purred Ambrosia.

  Hugh groaned. He would have to tell her the Grid’s agents were out to kill him earlier. He needed to protect Ambrosia’s anonymity by leaving here under cover of darkness. It would be wise to take an alternative route back to Larcombe. Hugh heard the ‘ping’ of a message arriving on his mobile phone, but it had to wait. It took her less than five minutes to get his attention.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Athena was eager to begin the meeting. Phoenix and Rusty were on their way from the orangery. Alastor and Minos were in the room when she arrived. Voices on the stairs showed Giles, Henry, and Artemis were not far behind her.

  Athena had tried to soothe her father when he arrived from Burnham an hour ago. Geoffrey couldn’t have his old room back, but the guest room on the opposite side of the corridor from his daughter’s apartment was acceptable. He was closer to his granddaughter.

  “I’m sorry to uproot you so soon after you moved in, Daddy,” she told him. “We need to keep you close until the danger’s passed.”

  “If I learned why things could become dangerous around here, it would help me understand the haste to wrap me in cotton wool,” he replied.

  “The less you know, the better,” she muttered.

  Athena then ushered him through to their lounge where Maria Elena looked after Hope. She left the three of them playing, and she could concentrate on the problems Olympus faced.

  The meeting room filled. Everyone was ready.

  “Giles?” Athena asked, “can you begin, please?”

  “I located the flight plan logged by Les Biggar. He made for Old Sarum, near Salisbury from his home base, near Kemble. Images I sourced via the webcam at the Cotswold airport showed a large maroon limousine parked next to the helicopter before take-off. I’ve tried to enhance the images, but it’s not possible to read the registration. There was nothing useful from Old Sarum. I assumed that the car travelled to collect the men who flew with Biggles in the helicopter. So, an agent in the ice-house is searching for the car on the roads between Kemble and Salisbury. If he can trace it, he can capture the number plate. His next task will be to see where it went after it left Old Sarum. Progress is slow but steady.”

  “Did the news conference produce anything new?” Athena asked Minos.

  “The Assistant Chief Constable informed the m
edia that one of the dead men was retired DCI Phil Hounsell who worked at Manvers Street in the past. The ACC said he had many friends who still worked there, and at the headquarters in Portishead. Mr Hounsell left a wife and two children. The identity of the second man was as yet unknown. He was white, six-foot-one-inches tall, weighed around thirteen stones, and aged between thirty and thirty-five. He had fair hair, cut short. No rings, tattoos or other distinguishing marks.”

  “That vague a description won’t help them much,” said Giles. “Which gives us a window in which to erase his links to Olympus.”

  “One reporter asked whether they found photo ID,” continued Minos, “a driving licence, a card for the homeowner to verify his identity. The ACC said there was nothing whatsoever. The reporters follow up question caused a few people to turn green. Why didn’t the police create an Identikit photo of the man which would assist the search for this man’s relatives? The ACC merely said it wouldn’t be possible in this instance.”

  “Did she give any further details on how the men died?” asked Rusty. “Apart from giving a huge hint, our man had half his face blown away.”

  “The ACC skirted around those details. Their focus centred on motive. Officers are reviewing cases handled by the former DCI involving organised crime to see whether that lay behind the killings.”

  “I’ve sown the seeds to lead them to the fire at the Wishing Well café,” added Artemis. “The police will be encouraged to look closer at who might have wanted both Wayne Sangster and Phil Hounsell dead. While they are following those wild geese, we can find the killers.”

  “Find them and eliminate them,” said Phoenix, “and continue to deflect attention from the connections between their targets and Larcombe.”

  “I’m waiting to learn when Orion’s funeral is,” said Artemis, “I wish to attend if that’s acceptable.”