If she’d still had her torch she would have been able to see the grill and what she was doing, but she didn’t have her torch and she couldn’t see a damned thing. It was pitch black, and all she could do was use her sense of touch. She tried pulling the grill downwards, but all that achieved was lacerated fingertips from the sharp edges of the metal.
As far as she could determine there were no screws holding the grill in place. She ran her fingers all around the edges, but couldn’t find anything that felt like the head of a screw. So much for Plan A. She’d just have to follow the ducting to its source if she could.
She began shuffling forward with one hand on the metal and the other stretched out in front of her. What she didn’t want to do was to walk into a wall and knock herself out, or worse – break her nose.
A thought came to her. She retraced her steps. Found the grill again and tried sliding it every which way – it moved.
‘Oh God!’ she said under her breath.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but despair was beginning to get a foothold on her thoughts, and she knew all about despair with a father who had physically and sexually abused her.
The grill slid away from her easily now, and slipped through her fingers. She nearly sent it clattering to the floor, but managed to trap it against the wall with the back of her wrist and guide it safely down. That’s all she needed after making it this far – a stupid mistake that would alert the men she was coming for them.
As she pushed her head up through the oblong hole and into the duct, she felt a rush of cool air on her face. There were no voices now. Maybe the two men only had football in common and they’d exhausted their conversation.
The sharp edges of the opening were level with her neck, and now that she’d gained access to the duct she wondered how she was going to climb into it. What she needed was a stepladder, a chair or maybe somebody’s shoulder to push her arse up, but she had nothing. Neither could she jump from a standing position or pull herself up with her arms.
She had an idea. It was risky, but there was nothing else. It was either that or start walking, and she reckoned she only had one shot at it. She stood the grill on its edge and put her foot on the other end. It was a good eighteen inches in length, and if she could have raised herself that high she would have been nearly in the duct.
What she was going to do was use it as a step into the duct. She had to push herself upwards with her foot and pull with her hands and arms. It would mean two things. First, if she could hold on, her legs would be dangling from the opening. Second, the grill would clatter on the floor and tell everybody she was coming. She had an idea about the second though.
Taking off Romeo’s waistcoat she spread it out on the floor underneath the grill. Now, when the grill fell, it wouldn’t make so much noise. She got herself in position again, but struggled to coordinate her arms and legs. Her brain said jump, but her left leg wouldn’t leave the ground and her right leg refused to push off from the grill.
Once in school – during a Physical Education lesson – all the class were required to do a high jump over a proper high jump bar onto a large thick mat. First, they were shown how to do the Fosbury Flop like a proper high jumper by one of the older girls, and then they were told by the PE teacher – Mrs Flinders – to try it. She was looking for people in her class to represent the school year in high jump at the school sports day. She could count on no hands the number of kids that made it over that bar. She’d never laughed so much, except when it was her turn. She ran straight into the bar and made her ear bleed.
Now, she was trying to get over that bar from a standing position – couldn’t be done. Her left leg was somehow stuck to the ground. Somebody had sneaked up while she wasn’t paying attention and put superglue under the trainer.
What now? Was she going to stand here a quarter-in and three-quarters-out of a ventilation duct in the dark like a one-legged dancer until she starved to death? She either had to make a leap of faith or start walking.
This time.
No, next time. She’d just take three deep breaths and go on the third breath.
Now!
The very next time. She’d pretend she was reaching up for a pear from a pear tree.
Jump!
This time. It would definitely be this time. Think of that man’s face. Think of him laughing at you. Think of him raping you. Think . . .
She jumped, and pushed up with her hands and elbows. The grill barely made a noise when it fell. The edge of the opening was pressing on her bladder and she desperately wanted to pee. Her weight made the ducting creak, and she wondered if the brackets would hold everything together.
Now what? She wondered how all these secret agents and such like did what they did. Sneaking around in pipes and ducts was bloody hard work and made you look stupid. She was just glad there were no cameras about to capture her ignominy.
There was nothing inside the duct that she could use to pull herself up – it was as smooth as a baby’s bum. Once she had got herself into the duct she’d have no trouble sliding along. It would be like a bobsleigh run, but without the bobsleigh.
She tried to use the wall as leverage, but it was at an angle to her right and her feet barely reached it. Next, she tried twisting, but nearly fell out of the opening. The only tools she had were her hands and arms. She needed to push and rock – a bit like a walrus on the beach – push and rock, push and rock. The only thing missing was the snorting and bellowing noises that a walrus made. She farted instead, and then felt her face burning up.
If ever she had the temerity to imagine herself as a lady in the future, all she would need to do was think of her current predicament and that ought to bring her feet back down to earth.
At last, she managed to slither inside the duct. After getting her breath back, she began pulling herself forward – slowly, quietly.
Soon, she reached an air vent. From close to the ceiling she could see into a room, which appeared to be empty. A small lamp had been left on. She could see tables, desks, computers, chairs and laboratory equipment such as a large microscope and a tray of test tubes. Was the room part of Bunker 7? The man had said she’d got into a secret government facility, and therefore hadn’t he confirmed Bunker 7 existed? What was secret about the facility? What did they do here? Did she really want to find out?
Should she climb into this room? It was only the first room she’d come to. She was safe inside the duct. If she left it, and went into the room she’d be in danger again. Also, she had no idea where she was in relation to anything else. She decided to explore further along the ducting. She could always come back if she needed to.
***
He carried on eating and drinking.
Lorna Boyce and the other two women stood by the door looking for a place to sit. When a table became vacant they descended on it like a plague of locusts in search of their next meal.
He was in no rush, but he was in a bit of a quandary. The client had said, “Make it look like an accident,” which was all well and good, but how could he create an accidental death in a pub?
She was laughing and joking with her friends, but looked around the pub warily for any signs of danger. Even though her gaze came to rest on him for a moment, she didn’t know him – there was no light of recognition in her eyes.
A waitress appeared and took their food and drink orders.
What should he do?
An accident! What type of accidents occurred in pubs? Slipping on a wet floor – he could hardly break her neck with the amount of people in the pub. A drug overdose – he didn’t have any drugs on him. In fact, that method of killing someone was expensive, and he liked to keep his costs to a minimum. Suicide – there were too many people to arrange a hanging or to cut her wrists. Also, he’d have to knock her out first and that would lead to suspicious circumstances. He could set fire to the pub, but there was no guarantee that she would die in the fire. The same could be said for an explosion, and he didn’t know enough about explosives yet to be confident of it working. Poison – he didn’t have any. Again, he knew very little about poisons. A fight – he’d end up in the middle of it.
No, nothing he could think of, or had the resources for, would work. An opportunity had presented itself, but he couldn’t take advantage of it.
One of the women got up and headed towards the toilets. She wasn’t too ugly. He licked his lips. The other two saw him eyeing her up and began giggling and chattering behind their hands. And why wouldn’t they? He was a reasonable looking guy and they were middle-aged slappers. They’d be lucky if he gave them a knee-trembler round the back of the pub. He could probably accommodate all three of them one after the other – no problemo.
As much as the thought appealed to him, and they looked like they were all up for it, he couldn’t. He’d have to murder all three of them, and he didn’t really go in for mindless killing. Terminating Lorna Boyce was a job, but the other two didn’t deserve to die simply because they saw his face.
He looked away. He didn’t want to give them the impression that he was interested. Under different circumstances he would have enjoyed having sex with three complete strangers – wham bam thank you mam. He’d been devoting so much time to his business that he hadn’t given any thought to sex or women for quite a while. In fact, it had been over six months since he’d had sex, and that was a drunken fumble in the back of his car which was hardly worth mentioning.
It crossed his mind though that Lorna Boyce was here hiding from him. In other words, she was in a place where nobody knew her – not even him. If she did get killed . . . Well, these things happened – didn’t they? It was an act of God, an unforeseen event – an accident.
He knew exactly what he was going to do, and how he was going to do it. He finished his pint – which had been very nice and another one would have gone down a treat – went to the bar and paid his bill. He then strolled to the toilet – not because he needed a piss, which he did – but to check out where the ladies toilet was.
Thankfully, there was a bit of a corridor that was out of sight of the main bar unless you were looking directly down it, which terminated in an alarmed fire exit. The ladies was on the right at the end. He returned to the bar, ordered a small orange juice and waited.
All three of the women were drinking pints of beer, and it wasn’t long before Lorna Boyce headed down the corridor to empty her bladder. The other two women were eating, laughing and talking. He took a last sip of his orange juice, moved so that he was looking along the corridor, slid his knife from its sheath and hid it beneath his jacket.
Lorna came out of the ladies.
He went to meet her.
She moved to her left to get past him.
He moved to his right as if he’d had the same idea.
She smiled. ‘Sorry.’
He smiled and rammed the knife into her heart.
She opened her mouth as if to scream.
He put his hand over her mouth and walked her back into the ladies toilet.
She was already dead as he backed her into one of the two cubicles and sat her on the toilet.
After locking the door he jumped over the side of the cubicle and went to leave, but as he opened the door a pretty young woman his own age was coming in.
‘Oh!’ she said.
At the same time as he reached his left hand around the back of the woman’s head and pulled downwards, he stabbed the knife upwards into her throat. He then gripped the back of her hair and smashed her face into the washbasin.
It was all over in a handful of seconds.
Tom Steel walked out of the ladies toilet without a backwards glance. He didn’t see the young woman wet herself and thrash about on the tiled floor as she had a seizure. And as she choked on her own tongue, he was already walking along Russell Road towards his car.
***
‘You’re keeping secrets from me,’ Xena said as she flicked through her notebook.
Stick was driving. They were on their way to No.3 Saffron Close in Wollensbrook to see Mr Robert Roberts – the secretary of Hoddesdon’s Chamber of Commerce – to get a copy of the seating plan for last Saturday night.
‘I’m sure I’m not.’
‘I’m sure you are. I have written evidence here in my notebook, and you know very well that anything written in a police officer’s notebook is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth – so help you God.’
‘Have you been watching one of those legal dramas on the television?’
‘I don’t own a television.’
‘I find that hard to believe, Sarge.’
‘I was thinking of coming round to your house to watch television with you and Jennifer. Have you got Sky?’
‘I have Sky, but who’s Jennifer?’
She stuck her bottom lip out. ‘You know everything about me, but I know nothing about you. I have a list of questions which require answers.’
‘A list of questions? About me? How interesting.’
She made a noise with her mouth. ‘A list of questions is only interesting if you know the answers.’
‘What questions have you got on your list?’
‘What did you do in Special Ops?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘You know very well that my time in Special Ops is covered by the Official Secrets Act. What else is on your list?’
‘How come you were headhunted to become a detective? What’s so special about you?’
‘You just want to know why I was headhunted and you weren’t.’
‘I’m appalled that you would even think that of me.’
‘And anyway, that’s two questions not one. Next?’
‘Who’s Jennifer?’
‘Anything else?’
‘How much money have you got?’
Stick craned his neck to look at her notebook. ‘That’s not even on your list.’
She closed the notebook. ‘It’s all on my list. Keep your eyes on the road, numpty.’
‘Why don’t you come round to my house on Friday night?’
‘You’ll tell me everything?’
‘No, but we’ll get an Indian takeaway and we can watch television together. I have some very good wildlife documentaries that I’ve recorded, but haven’t had chance to watch yet.’
‘You can’t hold out on me forever, Stick. One day I’m going to find out everything there is to know about you.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘So, you are keeping secrets from me?’
They pulled up outside Robert Roberts’ thatched roof cottage. It had a picket fence and a circular window in the attic like a porthole.
The old man who answered the door was in his early seventies, and boasted a head of silver hair that had been parted just above his left ear. He wore a red dickey bow, but the rest of his clothing was all in different shades of green. Xena thought he blended in with the environment very well.
‘Very nice house,’ Stick said like a prospective buyer when Mr Roberts had ushered them inside.
The living room had a wooden floor, a variety of sofas, chairs and antique ornaments, oak beams on the ceiling and a white rug beneath the coffee table. He directed them to seats in a corner flanked on two sides by Georgian windows.
‘Handed down through the family,’ he replied. ‘Sadly, I have no one to leave it to.’
‘No children?’
‘A long time ago. My wife and I had a daughter called Sophie. Unfortunately, she died of smallpox in 1973. The last diagnosed case was 26 October 1977.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘As I said, a long time ago. I’ve preferred to live alone since my wife Lucy died . . . over twenty years ago now. Strange how life twists and turns along the way. Anyway, pardon my manners. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘No . . .’ Xena started to say.
Stick spoke over her. ‘That would be very kind – tea please.’
‘We haven’t got time for tea and biscuits every time we stop to torture a suspect,’ Xena said when Mr Roberts had left them alone.
‘Sometimes . . . it’s good to be nice to people.’
‘Is that an old wives’ tale, or something?’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re going to buy me lunch as soon as we leave here.’
‘It doesn’t mean that we can’t sit and keep him company for a little while.’
‘You’re confused, numpty. We’re murder detectives – at least I am – not two do-gooder volunteers with “Help the Aged”.’
Mr Roberts came back in carrying the tray of refreshments and placed it on the coffee table. ‘Should I be mother?’
Xena rolled her eyes.
‘I take one sugar, please,’ Stick said. ‘Sergeant Blake . . .’
‘. . . takes two sugars,’ Xena finished for him.
The corner of Stick’s mouth went up. ‘Oh! I thought you didn’t want a drink.’
‘Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you?’
After they had their drinks and a chocolate digestive each, Xena got right to the point. ‘Seating plan?’
‘Ah yes,’ Mr Roberts said. ‘It is why you came here after all, isn’t it?’
‘There’s no rush, Mr Roberts,’ Stick said.
Xena grunted. ‘Yes there is. I’ll look at it while you’re interrogating the suspect.’
Mr Roberts put his cup down, stood up and left them alone again.
‘Will you stop messing about,’ Xena said, thumping his arm. ‘You keep forgetting that I’m the Sergeant and you’re the numpty. If I want the seating plan, I get the damned seating plan. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Mr Roberts returned with two A3 sheets of paper stuck together on the back with tape. ‘Here we are. The original seating plan with the changes that I had to make because of the Heller’s.’
‘Get the picture out, Stick,’ Xena said.
Stick opened the file and passed the artist’s impression of the woman to Mr Roberts. ‘Have you any idea who that is?’
He stared at the picture and shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry. So, this is why you want the seating plan, is it?’
‘The woman is missing . . .’ Stick began.
Xena kicked his foot.
He moved it. ‘. . . and she told the technician who was doing her nails last Thursday that she was on the top table at your dinner on Saturday night.’
‘Did she now?’ He looked at the picture again, and then left the room.
Xena nudged Stick with her elbow. ‘You didn’t have to tell him everything . . .’
Mr Roberts returned with a photograph album. ‘Let’s put some faces to the names on the top table, shall we?’ He re-located the tray from the coffee table to a sideboard, took the seating plan off Xena and laid it out on the table. Next, he began to pull photographs from the plastic album sleeves. ‘The top table seated fourteen people. There was, of course, the Mayoress – Victoria Crawford, and her husband – Andrew.’ He passed Xena the photograph.
Xena pulled a face and placed the picture above the names on the seating plan.
‘I can do that if you want,’ Stick said, reaching a hand out.
Xena snatched the picture away from his grasping hand. ‘I don’t want.’
‘Then there was the President and his wife – Group Captain (Retired) David Morgan and Vivienne.’ He handed the photograph to Xena, who placed it on the seating plan in the required position. ‘Next, was Paul and Stacey Sharplin. Paul owns Sharplins’ Butchers on Hoddesdon High Street. Then there was Jimmy Zhou and Chao Ma. Jimmy runs an import/export business. Mainly Chinese furniture, but pottery and artwork as well.’
‘He has a look of the Triads about him,’ Xena said.
Mr Roberts laughed. ‘Don’t they all? Then there was Troy Murray and Shelley Meechan. Troy has a hairdressing salon and Shelley is a model.’
Xena showed Stick the photograph that Roberts had passed her. ‘Do you think her nose is too big?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You men are all the same.’
‘Stephen and Melanie Nelson are next. Melanie runs a women’s plus size clothes shop called Pigalle’s in Hoddesdon precinct.’
Xena tapped her finger on the picture of the model Shelley Meechan and said, ‘She looks like she might model plus size clothes.’
‘Finally,’ the old man said. ‘I decided to take the place of the Hellers myself because it was such short notice to start changing everybody round.’ He proffered another photograph. ‘That’s me with my friend Bridget Brownlee.’
‘I thought you lived alone,’ Xena said.
‘I do. Bridget is merely a friend.’
‘I see,’ she said, glancing at Stick. ‘Well none of those fine upstanding people look anything like the woman in the picture. What about the Hellers?’
Roberts flipped over a few pages and withdrew a photograph. ‘That’s Mathew and Prunella Heller,’ he said passing the picture to Xena.
Xena shook her head. The Hellers were a middle-aged couple closer to fifty than forty. ‘No,’ she said to Stick. ‘I suppose everything the woman said must have been a lie. Come on . . .’
‘Are there any more photographs from Saturday night?’ Stick asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Roberts said. ‘One of our members has his own photography studio, so he organises a trainee to come along and take photographs throughout the evening. We get a copy of the photographs for free, but if the other members want copies then they’re charged seventy-five percent of the normal price. Very generous in these austere times.’
‘I would say,’ Stick said. ‘Would you mind if I took a look at the other photographs?’
‘Of course not.’ He passed the album to Stick.
Xena pulled a face and said, ‘What the hell are you looking for? Remember, the woman was dead by Friday night, so she wouldn’t have been at the dinner.’
‘I know.’
He looked through the album and then stood up. ‘Thanks very much for your help, Mr Roberts.’
‘Sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for.’
‘Unfortunately, it’s a process of elimination. We’ve just eliminated another false lead thanks to you.’
He showed them out.
‘It’s a process of elimination . . .’ Xena mimicked as they climbed into the car.
‘Well, it is. Should we go and have lunch now?’
‘About bloody time, numpty.’