‘Oh it’s you,’ the plump ginger-haired receptionist said when he produced his warrant card. ‘I’m surprised you’re still a police officer, never mind an Inspector.
‘I said as much to him only this morning,’ Richards said.
He wasn’t going to stand there and be insulted. ‘Hello, Astrid. I’m surprised you’re still a receptionist with your talent for insulting law-abiding people.’
‘Just wait here a minute,’ she said, and disappeared through a door at the rear of the reception.
Richards looked at him. ‘I wonder what that’s about.’
He shrugged. ‘No idea.’
She returned with two other women – one tall and thin, the other small and fat.
‘I’d like you both to meet the real Detective Inspector Parish,’ Astrid said, holding her palms out as if she’d sculpted him herself from Italian marble.
The two women sidled up to him and began prodding, poking and pinching the skin of his right hand that he’d left on the counter.
‘Do you mind?’ he said snatching his hand away.
‘You haven’t got a recent picture, have you?’ the short woman asked.
‘Why do you . . . ?’ Richards began to say.
‘No I damned well haven’t,’ Parish said, feeling his face going red.
Astrid smiled. ‘Whenever we see a picture of you in the papers we cut it out and pin it on the dartboard, but you’ve not been in the papers much recently, and the picture we have of you is unrecognisable with the amount of holes in it.’
‘That was a long time ago, Astrid.’
‘They’ve added you to the “Welcome Pack” that new staff are given, you know. They’re told to notify a senior member of staff if you’re ever spotted in the building. So, what is it you want before I call security?’
‘I’m always surprised at the warm welcome I get here, Astrid. I’d like to see someone from social services, if you’d be so kind.’
‘You’re here to wreck someone else’s life?’
‘Most definitely. That is what I’m good at, after all.’
Astrid picked up the phone.
They heard her say, ‘Yes, he’s really here . . . in the flesh . . . in reception.’ She put the phone down and stared at them. ‘You’re like a Yeti. People have heard the stories, but no one has ever seen one, and they don’t actually believe you exist. They said they’d send a hunter with a shotgun down to see what it is that you want. Can you wait over there by the door, so that we don’t have to breathe the same air?’
He half-smiled and shook his head in disbelief as he shuffled back towards the door like a leper.
‘I think Astrid is being a bit cruel, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘You’re not as bad as she’s making out.’
‘Thanks, Richards. It’s nice to have you on my side.’
‘Oh, I don’t know if I’m on your side.’
‘Detective Inspector Parish?’ a black South African woman asked.
‘Yes.’ He shook hands with the woman who said her name was Zithulele Mokoka, and introduced Richards.
‘How can I help?’
Richards passed her the court order.
‘Fannie Binetti . . . Mmmm.’ She looked at them. ‘Can you give me some background?’
‘As far as we know,’ Richards said. ‘Fannie was twelve years old when she was raped, and thirteen when she gave birth to a baby boy on April 12 1993, which was immediately taken away to be placed in foster care prior to adoption. We’d like to know who the father of the baby was if that information is recorded in the file, the name of the adoptive parents and any other relevant information contained in the file.’
‘We don’t really have the staff to . . .’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Parish said. ‘Find the staff. If necessary, DC Richards and I will extract the information from the file ourselves.’
She turned on her heel. ‘Follow me.’
As the social worker began walking towards the lifts, a camera flash went off in his face. The short fat receptionist had taken a photograph of him.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’ll keep us entertained during the long summer days.’
Parish was about to go after her, rip open the back of the camera and expose the film, until he realised that she was wielding a digital camera, and they didn’t have exposable rolls of film. Instead, he would’ve had to have stood there and discovered how the camera worked, scrolled through all the pictures until he found the one she’d taken of him and then pressed “delete”. Doing that just didn’t have the same forcefulness behind it as ripping out the film from a roll.
Richards took his arm and they followed Miss Mokoka to the lifts. ‘I told you we should never have come back here.’
‘I was only doing my job, Richards.’
‘I know. Maybe in time they’ll forget.’
They were asked to wait in the social services reception area. There was a tearful young woman with a black eye being consoled by an older woman who appeared to be her mother. Further along the row of chairs were a young couple with a toddler running back and forwards screaming at the top of his voice for no particular reason.
‘I’m gonna fucking kill you if you don’t sit down and shut up, Frankie,’ his mother said through a mouthful of chewing gum.
The father stretched his legs out, the boy went sprawling face down along the linoleum-covered floor and began crying.
‘Now look what you’ve fucking done, Gary,’ the mother said. ‘You can fucking sort him out now. I’m going out for a fag.’ She stomped out, and the father scooped the boy up off the floor and popped a toffee in his open mouth.
There was also a spotty teenager dressed in a black tracksuit, black trainers and a back-to-front baseball cap slouched on one of the chairs texting someone on the latest iPhone.
During the fifteen minutes they were sitting there waiting, a mishmash of people with a whole array of issues came and went. Most appeared to be young women with desperation in their eyes, and anything from one to four children.
Miss Mokoka eventually came out brandishing a piece of paper. ‘Sorry for the wait, but we’re up to our eyeballs in there.’
Parish scanned the information contained on the paper. ‘Do you have a card, just in case we need to ask you anything else?’
She took the paper back and wrote her name and number on the top of it. ‘Can I get back to work now?’
Parish didn’t bother answering, but turned to leave.
‘I wish we never had to come back here again,’ Richards said on the way down in the lift.
Parish grunted. ‘Some wishes never come true, Richards.’
His phone rang.
‘Hello, Chief. You don’t . . .’
‘Get over to the Cat & Mustard Pot in Buckhurst Hill, there’s been a double murder there . . .’
‘Richards and I don’t usually get . . .’
‘One of the victims is Lorna Boyce.’
‘Crap! What the hell was she doing in a pub when I specifically told her to stay in the refuge?’
‘You know what this means, Jed?’
‘Do you want me to speak to Jerry?’
‘I don’t think that will help.’
‘We’re on our way there now. I’ll give you a ring when I know what happened. Briefing will have to be tomorrow morning now.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
He ended the call.
‘Is Lorna Boyce dead?’ Richards asked.
‘Apparently so.’
***
‘Hello, Ray. Don’t think . . .’
‘Lorna Boyce is dead.’
She was just on her way back into the lecture room to listen to Professor Charles Coulthard explain the significance of Rylands v Fletcher (1868) to the law of tort. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Julie Wilkinson waiting to ambush her again. She’d given Julie the slip at lunch, walked along the riverbank and found a quaint pub that served a very nice Spaghetti Carbonara.
‘Oh, Ray.’
‘I sent Parish & Richards to see her this morning. They were on the case. I’ve just spoken to Jed and he told her specifically to stay in the refuge.’
‘Where was she killed?’
‘In a pub called the Cat & Mustard Pot not far from the refuge.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
Julie had crept closer to her so that she could hear what was being said. All the other students had gone into the lecture hall and the corridor was otherwise empty.
‘Just a minute, Ray.’ She turned to Julie. ‘What do you want?’
‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Well, I don’t want you waiting for me. Please go away.’
Julie pulled a face and went into the lecture hall.
‘Who was that?’
‘A crazy woman who wants to be my friend.’
‘You’ve got enough crazy friends.’
‘I know.’
‘So, we’re all right now, are we?’
‘Yes, we’re all right, Ray. If Lorna didn’t want to be saved, there’s nothing anyone could have done about it.’
‘Some people are like that. They walk into the burning building even though you tell them not to.’
‘You still need to find out who killed her, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Parish is going to ring me with an update when he gets there.’
‘There’s still Cookie.’
‘Go on.’
‘Remember, I told you Cookie was investigating the people where Lorna worked and that she’d found some skeletons.’
‘What have I got to do now? Pretty soon, I’ll be taking orders from you.’
She laughed. ‘If you hadn’t noticed, you already do.’
‘You’re turning into your mother.’
‘I’m not that bad.’
‘Ha! Even you admit she’s bad.’
‘You tricked me.’
‘What mess has Cookie got herself into?’
‘I don’t know. She’s not answering her phone.’
‘Maybe she’s turned it off.’
‘That’s what Charlie said. We’re going to give it until the end of the day. He has some back-up numbers he’s going to try, but we might have to save Cookie next.’
‘You’ve got the wrong idea about what I do, Jerry.’
‘Wouldn’t it be so much better if you had the chance to save people from being murdered?’
‘I don’t know, I’d have to think about that one. Listen, I have to go now. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Okay, Ray. I love you.’
‘And you know I love you, darling.’
The call ended.
Nobody said that helping people was going to be easy. Some people just didn’t want to be helped. If Lorna had cared about her own life, she’d have stayed in the refuge like she and Parish had told her to – stupid woman. Well, now she’d paid the price for her stupidity.
She crept into the lecture hall.
Julie signalled for her to sit next to her in the middle three rows from the back.
What was wrong with the woman? She walked down the aisle and slipped into a seat on the end of a row.
‘Thank you for joining us, Mrs Kowalski,’ Professor Coulthard said.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed.
Julie Wilkinson squeezed past her and sat in the next seat.
***
How long had she been crawling along this metal ducting? It seemed like she’d been in here forever. She was hungry and thirsty; dirty and smelly; but most of all – she was scared.
It was all right controlling situations, events and people via a keyboard or a mouse, but wading through the blood and guts wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be.
During her travels, she’d peered through three more vents. Two had been into rooms similar to the one she’d already looked into, and the other one had accessed a corridor. She’d seen people – white-coated people, people in military uniforms carrying guns, and people in suits.
Yes, she was scared. Who wouldn’t be? They’d already gang raped her and then tried to kill her, and they had killed Harley and Romeo.
A third of her desperately wanted to get out of this duct, scurry back to the squat, lock herself inside and never come out again. Another third wanted to run riot in Basement 7, portioning out punishment like an avenging angel. And then there was the final third of her, the third that wanted to curl up in a ball where she was and simply go to sleep like a frightened child.
The third of her that wanted revenge was the overriding emotion. It kept rearing its ugly head like a gargoyle squatting on her shoulder and whispering in her ear.
‘Those men raped you.’
‘Nobody does that to you.’
‘You have to kill them.’
‘It’s your fault Romeo and Harley are dead.’
‘You have to kill the men responsible.’
‘Romeo and Harley deserve to rest in peace.’
‘You have to make it right.’
‘You have to kill those men.’
It wouldn’t shut up. Nag, nag, nag all the time in her ear. She knew it was right. In the end, she had no choice but to listen to what it was saying.
There were other considerations as well. If she climbed into a corridor, they’d spot her immediately. She’d noticed CCTV in the corridors, and she didn’t really look the part with her multicoloured hair and strange baggy clothes. Admittedly, she looked more normal than she usually did without her piercings, but still nothing like the people she’d seen wandering about.
She needed to exit through a vent into an empty room. At least then it would give her time to get her bearings. Also, if someone came in unexpectedly there would be furniture to hide behind or under. The trouble was, what if the door was locked from the outside? What if she couldn’t get out? What if . . . ?’
If she listened to her inner doubts she’d never leave the safety of the duct. The next vent she came to she was going to climb out of – as long as it was a room, and there were no people inside, and . . . She could see shadows and shapes through the vent. There was very little light and it was devoid of people. She hesitated – a hundred reasons not to go into that room jumped fully formed into head.
The vent gave way as she pushed on the metal with her foot. It seesawed against the wall hanging by one screw. Holding her breath, she waited but nobody came to investigate.
Pushing her feet out first, she crawled down the wall like Spiderman. She had no idea where the floor was and hung by her hands hoping it wasn’t too far. When she let go and dropped, it took her completely by surprise to discover that the distance to the floor was only a couple of inches. Her knees buckled and she grunted as she jack-knifed backwards into a steel cabinet. She was making more noise than a baby giraffe trying find its feet and slid to the cold tiled floor to wait for them to come and get her.
Nobody came.
Okay. She stood up and began feeling around. A sliver of light knifed under the door from the corridor, so she made her way over to it and tried the handle – the door opened. She peered through the crack into an empty corridor and closed it quickly.
Okay. It hurt to breathe. Why did it hurt to breathe? Because she wasn’t – she was holding her breath. Stop holding your breath stupid. She took in a gulp of air and began breathing normally.
Okay. Her heart thrashed about as she found the light switch and the lights came on. She waited, but nobody came. The room was a locker room, and through an archway were three showers. A shower – a warm shower – would have been heaven, especially as she was filthy and smelled of urine. Was she in the male or female shower room? She opened the door again and craned her neck to look at the sign – “Ladies Shower Room” – Thank God for that.
Okay. She began opening lockers. Some were empty, some had clothes hung on the pegs inside, and some contained white coats. A white coat! Yes, that was the answer – she needed to blend in, become one of them. Dare she? Moving into the shower room she turned on a shower – it soon ran warm. She couldn’t blend in looking and smelling like a tramp. What choice did she have?
Okay. Quickly, she stripped off her clothes and bundled them into an empty locker, found shampoo on top of a locker and soap in the shower room. The spray colours came out of her hair easily and mixed together with Romeo and Harley’s blood, her own urine, the layers of filth she’d picked up from the duct and swirled down the plughole.
Somebody entered the locker room.
Oh God! She was naked. She held her breath and tried to cover herself up.
‘Sorry,’ a woman called. ‘I forgot my asthma spray.’
A locker door opened and closed.
And then she was gone.
Okay. She quickly rinsed herself and turned the water off. Crap! No towel again. Where was Shrek when she needed him? There were towels hung on radiators in the locker room – she helped herself. Now to find some clothes that would fit her and hope the owner didn’t come in while she was stealing them – a skirt, blouse and flat shoes – still no panties and bra, but the clothes thief couldn’t have everything she supposed. God, she hadn’t worn a skirt since before the flood. Next, she brushed her hair back into a hardly-worth-mentioning pony tail, found some make-up and made herself look almost human, and . . . inside the bag was a mobile phone – no signal – crap, a bunch of keys and a hundred pounds in a purse. She finished her transformation off with a white coat and slipped the swag into the pockets.
Okay. She was ready for her grand entrance. Except . . . the white coat had a name badge on it with a picture – Nancy Goyette – a middle-aged black woman. After rummaging through the lockers again she found a badge belonging to a youngish-looking white woman – Vicki Looney. Yes, that about said it all. She was as crazy as a loon doing what she was doing all right. There was no resemblance between them, and if anyone looked too closely they’d raise the alarm for sure.
Okay. She checked everything was tidy and . . . a clipboard. Anybody who was anybody carried a clipboard. She found one on top of a locker with some blank sheets of paper attached to it. Now she was ready.
Okay. She took a deep breath and opened the door . . .