‘Well, what did she have to say for herself?’
They were in the squad room, and considering it was Monday morning there weren’t many people about.
Stick pulled out his notebook and sat on the opposite side of the desk.
‘You had to write it down?’ Xena rubbed her hands together like Fagin. ‘I’m looking forward to this.’
‘The hand was wrapped in pages from the Jewish Chronicle newspaper dated Thursday, March 28.’
‘Is that when . . . ?’
Stick held up his hand. ‘Can you wait until the end of my presentation to ask questions, please?’
‘Get on with it, numpty.’
‘The owner of the hand is female and between twenty and thirty years old. Under the middle fingernail she discovered human blood and skin. No DNA match was found, but . . .’
‘Is this going to take long? Only I have a colonic irrigation in half an hour.’
‘Did you know that the Victorians thought we should go three times a day.’
‘You’ll be going much more than that if I stick my boot up your arse.’
Stick continued. ‘The blood and skin come from a person who suffers from a rare blood disorder called Ornithinaemia. They have high levels of the amino acid ornithine . . .’
‘I feel like poking a sharpened pencil through my eyeball and wiggling it about in my brain until all feeling has gone.’
‘People with this disorder could suffer from psychomotor retardation and epileptic episodes.’
‘So we’re looking for a wheelchair-bound slow-witted Jew who has epileptic fits?’
‘I would say so.’
‘I would say so,’ she mimicked. ‘What I need to know numpty, is whether the hand comes from a dead or a living person. Just because we’re the proud owners of a hand does not mean there’s been a murder. All this information is riveting stuff, but if there’s been no murder it’s of no interest.’
‘The hand was sent to Dr Paine at the hospital.’
‘I suppose that now we’ve got to waste more time going to the hospital?’
‘We could have lunch there if you’d like?’
‘You’re paying.’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘Is that it then?’
‘No, there’s more.’
Xena leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms. ‘They’ll be serving midnight snacks if you don’t get a move on.’
‘The nails had been painted using nail art.’ He passed her a photograph of an enlarged painted nail. ‘That’s the design.’
It was a flower in different shades of crimson red and pink.
‘Very nice.’
‘Di seems to think . . .’
‘Oh, it’s “Di” now, is it? You’ll be telling me next that . . .’
‘I don’t think we need to climb into the sewers, Sarge.’
‘Well, that’s where you’d be if you went with that heifer. Sloshing about up to your neck in . . .’
‘So Di seems to think that the woman had a manicure either the same day that her hand was amputated, or the day before.’
‘Okay, that’s a reasonable lead. We could hawk this photograph round the local nail-painting shops and see what we come up with. That is, of course, if she’s local.’
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’
‘Well, it could be that someone from Manchester dumped the hand outside the fish and chip shop on Friday.’
‘Why Manchester?’
‘Or Lincoln, or Newcastle, or Burton-on-the-Hole, or Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.’
Stick laughed. ‘You never said you knew how to say that.’
‘You never asked, and the opportunity to speak it out loud has never presented itself before. Carry on, muttonhead.’
‘There was also a bit of a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.’
‘How much of a bit?’
‘A little bit.’
‘Enough to identify what it was?’
‘No, but Di seems to think . . .’
‘That bitch does far too much thinking for my liking. Next time you see her, tell her we’re the thinkers . . . Well, I am at least . . . and she’s a gormless gobshite.’
‘I don’t think I’ll say anything of the sort. Anyway, she seems to think that it’s either a name or a word.’ He passed her another photograph, and began pointing at the ink marks. ‘See here and here . . .’
Xena snatched the photograph away. ‘I’m not a complete moron, you know.’ After examining the picture she said, ‘Next.’
‘The hand was sawn off using a high-powered saw.’
‘Interesting.’
Stick’s brow furrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Are you hiding more pictures in your grubby paws?’
He passed a stack of about ten photographs to her.
She examined them one by one until she found what she was looking for. ‘Here,’ she said holding up one of the photographs. ‘What does that tell you?’
He took the picture back off her and peered at it more closely. ‘No, I’m not getting it.’
She sighed. ‘Look at the cut.’
After a while he said, ‘Ah! There’s no jagged edges. It’s a straight cut.’
‘And?’
‘If the woman had been conscious . . . or alive . . . it would probably have ragged edges.’
‘Your head’s not completely empty then.’
He grinned. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Have you ever thought of Hollywood?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I hear zombies are big out there at the moment.’
‘No, I like working with you.’
Xena snorted. ‘You’ve escaped from the psychiatric hospital, haven’t you?’
‘Di found one last thing – a gold ring. There’s a picture of it.’
She found the photograph. ‘Mmmm.’
‘It’s a Jewish wedding ring, but it wasn’t on the marriage finger, it was on the index finger. The writing means: Matsati et sheahava nafshi.’
‘Zombies aren’t meant to be funny.’
‘Which in English means: I have found the one my soul loves.’
‘Sentimental garbage.’
‘You don’t believe in soul mates?’
‘I don’t believe in love – period.’
‘They say there’s someone for everyone, you know.’
‘Who appointed you the station’s agony aunt? And keep your dirty hands out of my knickers drawer. Right, are we done?’
‘Yes.’
She took a swallow of her lukewarm coffee. ‘So we’re looking for a Jewess aged between twenty and thirty years old with her left hand missing. She had her nails manicured and painted last Thursday or Friday; has a tattoo on the inside of her wrist that could be either a name or a word; and she wore a gold wedding ring on her index finger engraved with Hebrew writing.’
‘That’s a lot to go on.’
‘She wore a wedding ring, but was she married?’
Stick checked his notes. ‘I would say not. The wedding ring is on the wrong finger, it’s also more likely that a single woman would pay to have a manicure and her nails painted . . .’
‘Or a rich woman.’
‘Yes, one of those too.’
‘The tattoo?’
‘It used to be that only prostitutes or such-like had tattoos, but now it’s a fashionable accessory.’
Xena leaned forward, put her elbows on the desk and placed her chin in the palms of her hands. ‘You seem to know a lot about prostitutes.’
‘I know nothing about prostitutes.’
‘The guilty always say that.’
Stick scratched his head. ‘I was thinking about the high-powered saw.’
‘And?’
‘Well, where would someone find one of those?’
Xena shrugged. ‘A woodwork shop? What I know about high-powered saws you could write on the back of a Penny Black.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a saying.’
‘Oh!’
‘Doc Paine might have some idea about what type of high-powered saw was used.’
Stick smiled. ‘That’s a good idea.’
‘I’m full of them.’
‘Then there’s the killer with the blood disorder who reads the Jewish Chronicle.’
Xena pulled a face. ‘The person with the blood disorder might not be the killer, and there no evidence that he reads the Jewish Chronicle.’
‘But . . .’
‘He could simply have used it to wrap the hand in – like they do with fish and chips.’
Stick squinted. ‘I can’t imagine the Jewish Chronicle has a wide readership.’
‘How many Jews live in Hoddesdon?’
‘I don’t know?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Exactly what?’
‘Exactly you don’t know whether the Chronicle has a wide readership or not.’
‘It’s a minority newspaper.’
‘Says you. Everybody in Hoddesdon except you could read the Jewish Chronicle.’
‘How do you know I don’t read it?’
‘Do you?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve let you wind me up long enough now. Get your coat and let’s make a move. You’re driving.’
***
‘Yes?’
‘Lorna, it’s Jerry Kowalski.’
She’d had her shower. Her mum was out shopping, and her dad was pottering about in the garden trying to make some sense out of what they’d planted out there. She still had on her flimsy dressing gown with just a pair of lace knickers on underneath, and really ought to have got dressed before she made the phone call, but she was comfortable and there was no one else about.
‘Oh, hi.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. It’s not the Ritz, but at least I’m safe.’
Jerry wondered whether Lorna had ever stayed in the Ritz. Based on what she’d seen and heard about the woman, she doubted it. ‘You’ve not told anyone where you are?’
‘No. I said I wouldn’t.’
‘I’m just checking.’
‘Has that Cookie found out anything?’
‘No, not yet. Her first search turned up nothing.’ She didn’t want to say that “nothing” was actually another word for “boring”. ‘She’s now checking the people you work with, Winton’s owners and its directors.’
‘I’ll lose my job.’
‘They won’t know that Cookie is investigating them.’
‘I hope not. Surely, no one at Winton’s would want to kill me.’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out. You’re the office manager, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do?’
She laughed. ‘Manage the office.’
Jerry laughed as well. ‘How many people are in the office?’
‘Five. There’s the accounts’ clerk – Suzanne Thompson; her part-time assistant – Elaine Allan; and the two clerical staff – Joanna Penn and Vicki Norfolk.’
‘And you makes five?’
‘Except . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s the manager. He’s got an office of his own off the main office, but he’s my direct boss.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Terry Mabry, but he’s a fat old man with breathing problems. In a fight to the death I’d probably win.’
‘Okay. Has anything happened at work recently that seemed odd?’
Listening to herself asking questions like a detective, she wondered whether she could get a job in Ray’s team. Maybe, when she reached “Criminal Law” in her studies, she could use this scenario as a case study. Although, with Cookie breaking the law by hacking into people’s private records, probably not. She guessed the Law Society wouldn’t appreciate a case study entitled: “How I broke the law”.
‘I don’t think so. It’s just been business as usual.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Put simply – meat, game and poultry come in one door, we cut, process and package it into something else, and then ship it out of another door to hotels and food outlets all around the UK.’
‘How many people work there?’
‘About a hundred and fifty.’
‘Nothing unusual about them?’
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know. Does anybody stand out from the crowd?’
‘There’s Jack Warnock . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s got a six pack that stands out. What I’d like to do to him would probably get me arrested.’
‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’
‘I am. I just don’t know what you want me to say. Apart from the two attempts on my life, nothing has happened. I live a boring life.’
‘Okay. We’ll just have to see what Cookie finds out.’
‘What if she doesn’t find out anything?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
‘How long do you think I’ll have to stay here?’
‘I suppose as long as it takes.’
‘Only, I have no clothes. I also need to let work know what I’m doing, and . . . I know I don’t have much of a life, but there are people who care about me . . .’
Jerry could empathise with Lorna. Having recently had everything she cared about snatched away from her, she readily understood what she must be going through. ‘Let’s give it until the end of today, and then we’ll decide what to do.’
‘Okay. Thanks again for your help, Jerry.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She could hear Lorna sobbing.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Cookie will find some answers.’
The call ended.
What if Cookie couldn’t find out who was trying to kill Lorna? She couldn’t hide in the women’s refuge under false pretences forever. Sooner or later she’d have to go back to her life.
Jerry could only do so much. She had a life of her own as well, and that life at the moment was a stack of law books in front of her. She pulled her dressing gown over her breasts – just in case her dad came in by mistake – and re-read the case law of Carlill v. Carbolic Smoke Ball Co (1893).
***
José
María Córdova International Airport
Rio Negro, Columbia
1:52pm
They were sitting at La Casa Café on the concourse waiting for the call to board the plane. It wouldn’t be long now before they were taking off over the Magdalena Valley. The flight would take seven hours and ten minutes with a refuelling stop at Miami International Airport. It was going to be a long journey, but at least they were travelling first class.
He smiled at the idea of Oscar Gamboa ever travelling first class. Only a handful of years ago he’d been running barefoot through Puente de Calamate.
‘What?’ she snapped at him.
‘Nothing.’
‘It can’t be nothing if it made you smile.’
‘I was thinking of my childhood.’
‘Where?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You grew up in Puente de Calamate?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I don’t remember you. Should I?’
‘No. I was a nobody.’
‘You’re still a nobody.’
The corner of his mouth rose slightly, but he didn’t take her bait. He knew he was a nobody in her life. If the plane crashed into the mountains on take-off, would anybody care about him? Would anybody miss him? Mr. Garcia could easily replace him with someone who followed orders just as well. Apart from an elder brother who had a small farm in the Cauca Valley whom he hadn’t seen for seven years, there was no one else. His parents and a younger sister had died a few years ago. Without the los cambios cartel behind him and a gun in his hand he guessed he was still a nobody.
‘Which school did you go to?’ she asked him.
He took a sip of coffee. ‘School was for the other children.’
‘You can’t read or write, can you?’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Not really. I suppose it explains why I’m here, and who you are.’
‘It doesn’t explain anything.’
‘Then why do you do what you do?’
‘Looking for a hard-luck story for your editor?’
‘I was . . .’
‘What? Feeling sorry for me? You know nothing about my life – let’s keep it that way.’ He finished his coffee and heard their boarding call. ‘Let’s go.’
They made their way to Gate 12, handed over the boarding passes and walked over the connecting bridge to the plane.
The first-class seats were spacious and provided ample leg room. He was pleased there were only two seats in a row After stashing their hand luggage in the overhead compartment they sat down. He let Rosibel take the seat by the window.
Maybe he’d sleep most of the way.
‘What happens when we arrive in the Cayman Islands?’
‘We get to work.’
‘No, I mean . . . sleeping arrangements?’
‘Why? Have you had a change of heart already?’
‘I’d rather sleep with the Mandingas himself.’
He thought he was the “Evil One”. Her heart didn’t seem to be softening towards him. ‘We’ll be sleeping in separate rooms.’
‘You’re not worried that I’ll do something?’
‘Something stupid, you mean? No. And if you’re thinking that with me dead everything will turn out all right – think again. I have a phone call to make at the end of each week. If I fail to make any one of those calls . . .’ He left her to imagine the consequences.
‘Vete al infierno.’
When it was time for Oscar Gamboa to make his final journey, he had no doubt that the Evil One would be keeping a place warm for him.
Take-off went without a hitch, and the plane managed to climb over the Nevado del Ruiz volcano.
Rosibel gripped the arms of her seat until her knuckles were as white as the clouds shrouding the Andes mountain range visible through the window, and he could see her mouthing a prayer:
My holy Angel Guardian, ask the Lord to bless the journey which I undertake, that it may profit the health of my soul and body; that I may reach its end, and that, returning safe and sound, I may find my family in good health. Do thou guard, guide and preserve us. Amen.
Eventually, the seatbelt light went out. The stewardess arrived proffering flutes of champagne, two Ferrero Rocher and a catalogue containing a host of duty free designer items available for purchase.
They both declined.
Once, as a teenager with something to prove, he had drunk himself senseless and spent two days in the local hospital. Since that time he had never touched another drop. In his line of work, losing possession of your faculties was likely to get you killed, and he had a keen sense of survival.
Rosibel stared out of the window.
Adjusting the seat into a reclining position, he closed his eyes. He wasn’t particularly tired, but without conversation and the ability to read or write there was nothing else to do. Seven hours was a long time to do nothing. There was the radio or a film on the overhead television screen, but he had never taken to either.
He felt a blanket being spread over him and guessed it was the stewardess, but when he briefly opened his eyes he saw that it was Rosibel and didn’t know what to make of that.
Would it be possible to get Mr. Garcia’s money back? Would Rosibel Caballero ever love him? Would his life ever be the same again?