Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Get her out of here,’ Xena said to Hignett.
‘I’ll need to take her to the hospital to get the head wound checked out, Ma’am.’
‘Do what you want with her.’ She was only concerned about Stick now. ‘Just so long as she ends up back at the station to be formally charged.’
‘Will do, Ma’am.’
The ambulance arrived shortly after Hignett had bundled Paula Milburn down the stairs. Xena heard the siren long before two paramedics clattered up the stairs with a holdall full of spells, potions and juju charms.
‘My name’s Greg, let me in,’ the young male paramedic with blond hair said, moving her gently to one side. Under different circumstances she might have bandied a few choice words with him, but not today. Today he had to focus on keeping Stick alive.
She looked around the room and saw four pickling jars with screw lids sitting on the mantelpiece like grizzly ornaments. Inside each one was a human body part – a heart, a pair of eyeballs, a pair of hands and a tongue.
Greg and his female partner worked quickly and efficiently. Between them they inserted two intravenous cannulas – one in the back of each of Stick’s hands – and connected up bags of Hartmann’s Solution to the Venflon butterfly valves. The female forced the liquid from one of the bags into his vein within a couple of minutes, and then replaced the bag. While she did that, Greg was busy sealing the knife wounds as best he could and checking Stick’s vital signs.
‘Charge the defibrillator at two hundred,’ Greg said to his partner.
She plugged it into a wall socket, while he flipped Stick over onto his back, tore open his shirt and stuck gel pads on his chest..
‘It took a few valuable seconds for the mobile defibrillator to charge, but eventually she said, ‘Ready,’ and passed him the paddles.
‘Clear,’ he said, and shocked Stick.
Stick’s back arched like the Severn bridge.
Greg checked Stick’s pulse, shook his head and said, ‘Increase it to three hundred.’
The woman passed him the paddles again.
‘Clear.’
When Greg checked Stick’s pulse this time, he nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get him to the hospital before we lose him. God knows what damage those knife wounds have done to his insides.’
Xena realised that tears were streaming down her face and she’d stopped breathing herself. She took a deep breath, and realised that Stick was the only person in the world she cared about.
The paramedics lifted Stick onto a fold-up stretcher, threw everything on top of him and made their way down the stairs.
She followed them down.
‘Are you coming with us?’ Greg asked.
‘I’ll follow in the car. I have a couple of phone calls to make first. Don’t let him die, Greg.’
‘We’ll do our best.’
Xena grabbed the car keys from Stick’s trouser pocket, and then stood back as the back doors were slammed shut and the ambulance sped away with the blue lights flashing and the sirens blaring.
She would have liked nothing better than to have gone with Stick and made sure Greg kept him alive, but she had some tidying up to do.
First, she phoned the Chief.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, DI Blake?’
‘We got her, Sir.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘But she got DS Gilbert.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She must have jumped him from behind as he entered the living room of her house. He had at least six stab wounds in his back.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘No, Sir. Barely alive, I’d say. The paramedics have just taken him to King George Hospital in the ambulance.’
‘Bloody hell, Blake. Did you go into the house without back-up?’
‘We knocked – twice, but there was no answer.’
‘You know that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘I know, Sir. It’s my fault. Back-up arrived just as we were going up the stairs to the second floor of the town house. I stopped to talk to one of the officers, but Sergeant Gilbert carried on up the stairs.’
‘You know there’ll be an inquiry?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about the woman?’
‘PC Hignett had to hit her a couple of times with his baton to stop her stabbing DS Gilbert any more than she had, so he and his partner have taken her to the hospital to get her injury checked out, and then they’ll bring her to the station where she’ll be formally charged.’
‘No mistake?’
‘She has the body parts in pickling jars on her mantelpiece. I’m just about to ring forensics.’
‘Okay, Blake. Do the minimum to get things moving, and then go to the hospital – I’ll see you there.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And good work, Blake.’
‘Gilbert did the good work, Sir. All I did was let him down.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Twenty-twenty hindsight is a wonderful thing, but it’s only good for teaching us the error of our ways.’
She phoned the Duty Sergeant, told him what was happening and asked for a police presence. Then, she explained the situation to the duty forensic officer, and told her to get off her arse and arrange for a team to attend the crime scene.
Next, she called Jenifer. ‘Get over to King George Hospital – Stick’s been stabbed.’
‘Oh! Is it bad?’
‘There’s no point in lying to you. Yes – it’s bad.’
‘Oh God!’
‘I’ll see you there.’
‘I’m on my way. Thanks for calling me, Ma’am.’
Did she need to call anybody else? Her head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, ball bearings and Styrofoam. She couldn’t lock the front door of Paula Milburn’s house, and there was a danger of someone wandering in off the street and contaminating the crime scene. The chain of evidence would be laughed out of court.
She knocked on next door where Stick had helped himself to the rock, but nobody answered. She tried the other side. A young woman in her twenties answered the door. She had piercings in her nose and top lip; bright red hair and matching lipstick, and a torn t-shirt showing a cleavage that Xena could only dream of. A snot-nosed toddler clung to her leg like a limpet mine.
‘Yeah?’
She decided that there was no point in asking this woman to help her. ‘Never mind.’
‘I hate the way people make snap judgements about me based on the way I look. I have a Master’s degree in biological medicine and work in the medical research laboratory in Harlow. What do you want?’
Xena produced her warrant card. ‘I need someone to make sure that nobody enters the house next door, and if necessary sometime in the future swear to that in court.’
‘Why?’
‘The woman’s been arrested. She nearly killed my partner, the front door is broken and it’s now a crime scene.’
‘What’s wrong with you guarding it?’
‘I need to get to the hospital to see if my partner is going to make it or not.’
‘How long?’
‘No more than half an hour. More police and a forensic team are on their way.’
‘What’s the hourly rate?’
‘You can . . .’
‘Well, what do you expect from someone who looks like me?’
‘I apologise for stereotyping you and jumping to erroneous conclusions.’
‘Apology accepted. Yeah, me and Tommy can do as you ask. Tommy likes nothing better than kicking his football against next door’s garage door. Give me a couple of minutes to cover my tits up.’
‘Yes, that would be advisable.’
‘I saw you looking.’
‘Only out of envy.’
‘Everyone thinks I’ve got a nice pair, that’s why I show them off.’
She went inside, put Tommy in a padded jumpsuit and wrapped herself in a fur-lined coat. ‘Okay, you’re free to go.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tamsin Denby.’
‘Thanks, Tamsin.’
‘No problem.’
‘And don’t go into the house yourself.’
‘I know the rules.’
Xena hoped she did. She climbed into the car and set off to the hospital.
***
He walked down the stairs to the mortuary and found Doc Riley up to her elbows in the slimy internal fluids of an old man’s chest.
‘I suppose you’ve heard, Doc?’
‘Heard what? We don’t hear much down here. Very few people come to visit, but you can hardly blame them. There’s a stigma attached to the dead and the mortuary, which hasn’t been helped by the spate of zombie movies, let me tell you.’
‘My son Jack has been abducted.’
‘Surely not?’
‘From the crèche upstairs.’
‘That’s awful. I’m sorry for prattling on.’
‘Don’t be. What’s awful is that the person who took him is my twin sister.’
‘Can you tell me what these genetic experiments were about?’
‘Dr Orvil Lorenz was looking into the possibility of there being a genetic basis for good and evil. I don’t know why, but four of the five sets of twins were considered failures. Zara and I were the fifth twin pair. I was the control, while Zara was the experimental twin. She was considered a success.’
‘Based on recent events, I would say so. Okay, let me take some samples.’ She stripped off her rubber gloves and washed her hands. Then she took two blood samples from him, and wiped a swab around his mouth. ‘There, that should do it.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. It all seems a bit far-fetched if I’m being perfectly honest.’ She waved the samples she’d taken in his face. ‘The proof will be in the pudding.’
‘I understand.’
He was in the corridor on his way back upstairs when his phone began vibrating.
‘DI Parish?’
‘Do you want to see your son again?’
‘For someone who’s meant to be intelligent, that’s not a very intelligent question.’
‘Catch the lift up to the top floor and then call me on this number. If you tell anyone where you’re going, your son will die.’
The call ended.
What choice did he have? Afterwards, he’d be held to account, but for now he had one choice only – follow Zara’s instructions.
He walked to the lift, stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor. No wonder DCI Miller and her team couldn’t find Zara, she was still inside the hospital.
On the fourth floor he called the number.
‘Find the stairs to the roof, and then come up and join me and Jack.’
The call ended.
As he followed the signs to the stairs, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Would she let him have Jack back unharmed? He doubted it. Why go through this elaborate charade if she wasn’t planning to take his son from him? Maybe trying to do this on his own was a serious error of judgement. Maybe he needed snipers from CO19. It was all too late. Whatever happened, he would have to live with his decision.
He stepped out onto the roof.
The freezing wind smacked him round the face and tunnelled its way beneath his clothing. He wasn’t dressed for standing on roofs in the bleak midwinter.
He could hear a helicopter somewhere overhead in the darkness and the wind whistled in his ears.
Now what?
His phone vibrated.
‘You took your time,’ Zara said.
‘What do you want from me? Where’s Jack? Where are you?’
He heard laughter, but it wasn’t the sound of laughter – it was the sound of evil.
The noise from the helicopter grew louder, and then that’s all he could hear. Now was not the time for it to land on the roof.
Unless . . . Unless there was a CO19 officer on board.
But where was Zara?
He had to shield himself from the downdraft of the rotor blades.
Then the black helicopter came into view just beyond the edge of the roof.
And as it did, he knew exactly who was piloting the helicopter.
The face of evil stared down at him.
Then an arm shot out of the open window. The hand at the end of the arm was holding the ankle of a young boy.
Horrified, he watched as the hand opened and the child fell – not onto the roof – it plummeted past the roof and onto the concrete below.
He ran to the edge of the roof and saw his son lying on the ground below. People began gathering around his dead son and staring up at the roof.
All he wanted to do was join Jack.
Why?
Why had she killed his son?
The noise from the helicopter faded.
He crumpled to the ground and cried, and knew that his soul had been broken in two.
***
Stick was still alive when she reached the hospital. They’d taken him straight to the operating theatre and the surgeons had been working on him for a couple of hours by the time she arrived.
While Jenifer was sitting on a chair in the corridor dabbing at her eyes, she was pacing up and down the chequered linoleum like a caged wolf. She’d expected the Chief to be here, but he wasn’t. Maybe he’d been waylaid by something more important. Although she couldn’t imagine what might be more important than the life of one of his officers.
‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ Jenifer asked.
How the hell did she know? Was she a doctor? No, she wasn’t a fucking doctor. ‘Of course he will,’ she said, sitting down next to her and putting her arm around Jenifer’s shoulders.
‘Why did she stab him?’
Stop asking me stupid questions. I have no idea why the crazy bitch stabbed him. ‘Why does anybody do anything, Jenifer?’
The doors to the operating theatre opened and an Asian man in blue scrubs came out and stood in front of them.
‘Are you the next-of-kin of Mr Gilbert?’ he asked Xena.
‘No, Miss d’Arcy is,’ she said, indicating Jenifer. ‘Well, is he all right?’
‘We’ve done all we can.’
‘What does that mean?’ Jenifer asked.
‘It means that it is up to him now. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.’
Xena’s brow furrowed. ‘Give us a percentage on his chances of survival, Doc.’
‘I’d say fifty-fifty.’
‘You’re not being very helpful.’
‘I can’t predict the future, my dear.’
The operating theatre doors opened again. Stick was wheeled out on a trolley connected up to tubes and wires. Nurses hovered round him like angels of death – or angels of life.
She and Jenifer followed, like mourners following a hearse.
***
She’d bought everything new.
First, she went into a department store and found new clothes that would do for a couple of days. They weren’t the type of clothes she would normally be seen dead in, but they’d just have to do until she had time to do some serious shopping. She bought a black bra and boxer shorts, a black Iron Maiden: Aces High t-shirt, a pair of faded worn jeans and a leather studded jacket. A male shop assistant kept eyeing her up, but she didn’t know whether he wanted to report her to security or have sex with her in the changing room. In the end, she decided that someone who didn’t have the bottle to do either wasn’t worth her time.
After she’d paid for the clothes, she went to the ladies and put the new clothes on. The old clothes she left next to the washbasins – someone might like them.
Next, she bought a new pair of boots at a shoe shop and placed the old ones on top of a litter bin in the street.
She bought the same-sized rucksack, but with more pockets and zips. Then she went into an electrical shop and bought a new laptop, tablet and phone. She’d already wiped the hard drive of her old laptop; there was nothing on the tablet; and she crushed her phone underfoot.
As far as she was concerned, she was bug free. Unless, of course, they’d embedded a microchip inside her when they were repairing the gunshot wound. If they had, then she was screwed.
It was too early to make her way to the cemetery. So she found a cafe with free wifi, ordered a coffee and decided to check out the two people that Jerry Kowalski mentioned in her phone call – Ruby Kerr and Robert George de Lacy.
Ruby Kerr was a part-time prostitute who was murdered in her home at 22 St Paul’s Road in Camden on September 11, 1971. After sex, the man she’d been with, had slit her throat open from ear to ear while she slept and then left. Nothing had been taken from the house and the police were unable to identify a motive for the murder. The investigation quickly ran out of steam, and the case remains unsolved to this day.
Robert George de Lacy had a public school education, and joined the 3rd Lancer Regiment in 1968. He served in the regiment for three years, the last year of which was spent in London, and he left in the rank of Captain in 1971. Whereupon, he became a Labour politician and was elected to Parliament . . . He was now Lord de Lacy, sitting in the House of Lords and Chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee.
Did de Lacy kill Ruby Kerr? Was her murder what this was all about? Did the police know about the connection between Kerr and de Lacy? She doubted it. But what was the key for? If Ruby Kerr died on September 11, 1971, then it was unlikely that anything relating to her or her death had been the reason for the D-Notice, the subsequent cover-up and the MI5 cockroaches still being involved.
Oh well! She’d soon find out.
***
‘What the hell’s going on, Inspector?’ DCI Miller said as she burst through the door onto the roof.
He didn’t look at her, and he didn’t bother getting up. ‘He’s dead. My son is dead.’
‘You mean this?’
Something hit him in the darkness. He reached out and felt his son. Only it wasn’t Jack – it was lifelike dummy. ‘Jesus!’
‘Tell me what happened,’ Miller said.
He pushed himself up, sat on the wall and told her what had transpired.
‘You were meant to call me?’
‘She made it perfectly clear what would happen to my son if I did. What would you have done?’
‘We’re not talking about me. So, if your son isn’t on the concrete below, where is he?’
‘She must have taken him with her.’
‘The helicopter pilot was taking a break up here. Where’s he?’
Parish shrugged.
Miller called more people up onto the roof.
They carried out a thorough search and found the pilot dead from a knife wound to the neck.
On a locked cupboard door was a hand-printed note:
UNTIL NEXT TIME
ZACHARY
When they forced open the door they found Jack wrapped in a blanket and fast asleep inside.
‘Oh God!’ Parish said, picking up his son and holding him as if he’d never let him go again.
‘Who’s Zachary?’ DCI Miller asked.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Which you’ll be telling me before the night has ended, so that I can make a detailed report to the Chief Constable.’
***
She caught the tube from Liverpool Street to Victoria on the Circle Line. It took her thirty minutes. Then, she had to catch an overland train from Victoria to West Norwood, which took her a further thirty minutes. After she left the station, she walked up Knight’s Hill, crossed over the A215 and climbed the metal fence into West Norwood Cemetery. Using the torch she’d bought, and the map of the location of Plot 376, she threaded her way through the dark and eerie cemetery.
The crypt was like a small stone house on Plot 376. It boasted a sloped roof, urns on plinths, Grecian pillars and three steps leading up to a metal door.
There was a keyhole in the door into which she inserted the key, and she wondered why a crypt door needed to be locked. Was it to keep those inside from straying back into the world of the living, or to prevent the living from encroaching on the domain of the dead?
She turned the key, heard a click and the door opened.
Taking a step forward, her foot found fresh air. The torch slipped from her hand, skidded across the floor and blinked out. She stumbled forward into the crypt, unable to stop herself until her hands squelched through what felt like a rotting melon. She was in a crypt, and she had a good idea that it wasn’t a rotting melon. It was a rotting corpse and it stank to high heaven.
There was a small back-up torch in her rucksack. The trouble was, her hands and forearms were covered in slime. After feeling around, she found some material. God only knew what it was, but she was able to wipe the slime from her hands and arms. Then, she shrugged off her rucksack and found the torch.
As soon as she switched the small torch on she felt sick to her stomach. As well as a single stone tomb, which she guessed belonged to George Harbottle – if it belonged to anybody at all – there were also, at the very least, twenty women’s bodies in various states of decomposition in the arched alcoves stacked one on top of the other.
She looked more closely – some of the corpses were fairly recent. And those that she could see clearly had gaping wounds in their throats.
At last the penny dropped. Robert de Lacy was a serial killer who was also a Peer of the Realm, and MI5 had been clearing up after him for five decades. He was one of theirs in a position of power.
George Harbottle, as an undertaker, had been paid to dispose of the bodies, and where better to dispose of dead bodies than in a crypt hiding in plain sight – in the middle of a cemetery. As far as anybody knew these women had simply disappeared year in and year out, and nobody had joined up the dots.
What proof did she have that de Lacy was responsible? A tenuous connection of Ruby Kerr buying a swagger stick for him in 1971.
She looked all round the crypt. The bodies appeared to be stacked seven high, and there were three stacks. She also found a square hole with a Union Jack tea caddy wedged into it. Inside the caddy she found a stack of Polaroid photographs with the names of the women and the date that they’d been raped and murdered written on the back of each photograph. There was also a small Beretta handgun at the bottom of the tin with bullets in the magazine.
After she’d had the Glock taken from her, the Beretta was exactly what she needed. She put the gun in her jacket pocket and the tea caddy full of the photographs in her rucksack. Now she had enough evidence to prove Robert de Lacy was a serial killer.
‘Well, well, well,’ a man said, blocking the doorway of the crypt. ‘What have we got here?’
She nearly collapsed and died where she was standing from the shock.
‘What have we got here?’ Another man’s voice said.
The first man moved to one side to reveal the second man. ‘I think we have an interfering bitch called Bronwyn, or whatever she’s calling herself these days.’
They both wore suits and ties, with the collars of padded jackets pulled up against the freezing wind outside.
The man at the front had a gun, which was considerably bigger than the Beretta she’d just acquired.
‘You said we’d find her here, and here she is.’
‘I’m a fucking genius.’
‘You’re a fucking cockroach,’ Bronwyn clarified for him.
‘She’s not very pleasant, is she?’
‘Not very pleasant at all. What do you think of our little collection of bodies?’ he directed at Bronwyn.
She didn’t say anything, but she moved her hand cautiously up the pocket containing the Beretta.
‘Well, you’re going to have all the time in the world to provide us with a considered opinion.’
She pulled the trigger twice in quick succession.
The first man collapsed and fell forward like a felled tree.
The second man tried desperately to retrieve his gun from beneath the zipped-up padded jacket.
Bronwyn pulled the Beretta out of her pocket, aimed and fired.
The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
The man smiled.
She dropped to her knees, grasped the first man’s gun and fired as the second wrenched his gun free.
The smile disappeared, and he crumpled in a heap on the stone floor.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ she said out loud. She was beginning to feel like Lara Croft: Tombraider.
Once her heart had stopped thrashing about, she dragged the two men into the crypt; helped herself to their guns, money and credit cards; took a series of photographs with the camera in her new phone and locked the crypt door on the way out.
She would liked to have gone home to bed, but not only did she not have a home or a bed, she didn’t have the time to sleep either – she wanted to catch the early morning news.
Aftermath
Friday, December 12
‘Is that you?’ Stick said when he opened his eyes at two forty-five in the morning.
‘Of course it’s me. Who else would it be? You’ve got a lot to answer for, Stickamundo.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be, putting us through the mangle. What possessed you?’
‘I thought you were following me.’
‘And because of that stupid thought, I’m in deep shit.’
‘I’ll take the blame.’
‘Damned right you will. I’ve already told them it was your fault.’
‘You haven’t, have you? You’ll take the blame and you’re already on a warning from the Chief.’
‘Jenifer is here.’
‘Where?’
‘Sleeping in the chair. She got so fed up of waiting for you to kick the bucket that she decided to grab forty winks. And have you heard her snore? Like a pig that’s found a store of truffles in the forest.’
He reached out his hand and squeezed hers. ‘Thanks for being here.’
‘I was passing.’
‘You’re the best partner I ever had.’
‘Yeah well, don’t go thinking the feeling’s mutual.’
‘I won’t.’
***
She sat up in bed as Ray came in carrying a cup of tea on a saucer. ‘This is an unexpected surprise.’
He threw a newspaper down on the bed. ‘Is that anything to do with you?’
She looked at the front page of the newspaper. There was a full colour photograph of Lord de Lacy, Chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee. The headline read:
IS THIS MAN A SERIAL KILLER?
‘I’ve been here with you, darling.’
‘Don’t try and play me like a cheap balalaika. I know this is your doing.’
She pushed the strap of her satin nightdress off her shoulder. ‘I have some time on my hands.’
‘If it wasn’t you, then it was Bronwyn.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know anyone by that name.’
‘They’ve found a crypt in West Norwood Cemetery stuffed to the rafters with female bodies.’
‘How awful.’
‘And they’re saying that MI5 carried out the Baker Street Robbery to steal a key.’
‘A key?’
‘To the crypt.’
‘Oh.’
‘Not only did the crypt contain a mountain of bodies, but there was also a stack of photographs with the names of the victims and the date they were murdered on the back of each photograph in de Lacy’s handwriting and two dead MI5 agents.’
‘Someone made it very easy for the police then.’
‘Someone?’
‘Well, as I said: It was nothing to do with me.’
‘So, I don’t suppose you and your toy boys will be getting Top Student?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come to bed?’
‘I’m not very happy, Jerry.’
‘I could change that.’
He stripped off his clothes.
She smiled. She’d soon have him humming like a cheap balalaika.
***
Thursday, January 15
Christmas and New Year had come and gone. Life had returned to normal. If, the life he had, could be called normal.
He’d been suspended during the investigation by Professional Standards. They’d decided that although he’d interfered in an active investigation that wasn’t one of his own, there were mitigating circumstances. As such, he had no case to answer. They’d also found that there was absolutely no proof of any sperm samples belonging to the Nazi war criminal Josef Mengele having been produced, or smuggled into England . . .
‘But you have the original and deciphered documents that prove . . .’
‘I have nothing, Richards. Günter Kappel and his helpers are dead; the M4 Project never existed; and anybody who’s anybody will call the original document a forgery and the deciphered text an elaborate hoax.’
‘But you still have the hospital files from the first four Epsilon experiments.’
‘Yes, but I don’t have the file for Epsilon 5, do I? And that’s the only one that matters.’
She sat down on the chair in the kitchen and screwed up her face. ‘You have nothing, do you?’
‘No. It’s time to let it go now.’
‘But she’s still out there.’
Yes, Zara Roche was still out there, and he knew that one day they’d meet again. But for now there was no proof that Zara Roche was anything other than Israel Voss’ adopted daughter. Doc Riley found no markers to differentiate between the DNA found on the bodies and the samples that he’d provided. The only conclusion to be drawn from that finding was that both belonged to DI Jed Parish. Doc Riley, however, was more circumspect and falsified the post mortem reports to expunge any mention of a DNA match to Parish.
Nobody in the government had any details – or so they said – of the Epsilon Experiments, and there was certainly no evidence linking him to those experiments if such experiments indeed took place, and that was beginning to look more like a fabrication than anything else.
It was just simpler to accept the findings of Professional Standards and move on with his life, because otherwise he would always be known as the son of Josef Mengele, and that was something he couldn’t accept.
So, he was back to work on Monday. Richards would be glad. All she’d been doing was tidying up, completing reports, filling out forms and generally making a nuisance of herself in an empty squad room.
DI Blake had also been suspended during an investigation, and DS Gilbert had been in hospital after being attacked – it was like an epidemic.
Well, normal service would be resumed on Monday.
***
The investigation by Professional Standards found that she had no case to answer. Back-up had arrived before Stick was stabbed by that crazy bitch Paula Milburn. However, it was made clear to her in no uncertain terms that the only reason she wasn’t being strung up naked by her short and curlies and put on display outside the station was that nothing she could or couldn’t have done would have changed the outcome.
PC Hignett had been on hand to save her bacon and DS Gilbert’s life, which would have been the case had she have called for back-up before entering the house. Her continued existence in the police force was due to an accident of timing only, and any further transgressions of a similar nature would be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.
‘You’re leading a charmed life at the moment, Blake.’
‘Yes, Chief.’ She thought it best to keep her answers brief and to the point. Circumnavigating her way through the fallout of Stick being attacked had been a nightmare of epic proportions. She was glad it was all over, and she was also glad that Stick had come through the ordeal in one piece and would be back at work on Monday.
‘But the wheels have a habit of coming off charmed lives.’
‘I’ve learned my lesson, Chief.’
‘You must think I fell out of a cuckoo’s nest. People like you never learn from your past mistakes. You’ve got away with it once, twice, a dozen times . . . Now, you think you’re invincible. You’re not invincible, Blake. Sooner or later you’re going to kill yourself, your partner or a whole heap of passers-by . . .’
‘No . . .’
‘Yes, Blake. You’re a disaster looking for a place to happen, and I feel as though I’m stuck in a time loop. Nothing seems to change. I keep repeating the same warnings and advice over and over again.’
‘No, this time it’ll be different, Chief.’
‘Get out, Blake. Next time, I’ll be packing your bags and waving you off at the station myself.’
‘I promise, there’ll be no next time, Sir.’
She made her way out.
The Chief’s secretary didn’t look up from the report she was pretending to read.
Fuck! Was she really stuck in the revolving exit door? She had to change her life and change it soon.
####
About the Author
Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, and now lives in Cheshire with his wife and three Shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then, he settled in Essex, and worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write fiction full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.
Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com/
Also, come and say hello on his FB Fanpage:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Tim-Ellis/160147187372482
####
Genghis Khan
Warrior: Path of Destiny
Warrior: Scourge of the Steppe
The Knowledge of Time
Second Civilisation
Orc Quest
Book I: Prophecy
Harte & KP
Solomon’s Key
Parish & Richards
A Life for a Life
The Wages of Sin
The Flesh is Weak
The Shadow of Death
His Wrath is Come
The Breath of Life
The Dead Know Not
Be Not Afraid
The House of Mourning
Through a Glass Darkly
A Lamb to the Slaughter
Silent in the Grave
In the Twinkling of an Eye
A Time to Kill
Deceit is in the Heart
The Fragments that Remain
Quigg
The Twelve Murders of Christmas
Body 13
The Graves at Angel Brook
The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf
The Terror at Grisly Park
The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard
The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (Novella)
Tom Gabriel
Footprints of the Dead
Whispers of the Dead
Stone & Randall
Jacob’s Ladder
The Gordian Knot
Josiah Dark
Dark Christmas (Novella)
Inigo & Tig
As You Sow, So Shall You Reap (Novella)
Cyrus Kane
An Ill Wind (Novella)
Collected Short Stories/Poetry/Anthologies/Non-fiction
Untended Treasures
Where do you want to go today?
Winter of my Heart (Poetry)
With Love Project – The Occupier
The Killing Sands (Anthology)
Raga Man (Short Story)
The Writer’s A-Z of Body Language (Non-fiction)
Summer of my Soul (Poetry)
Also planned for 2015/2016:
Mortis Obscura: Scavenger of Souls (Farthing & Trask 1)
The Timekeeper's Apprentice
Orc Quest Book II: The Last Human
The Sword of Damocles (Stone & Randall 3)
The Song of Solomon (Harte & KP 2)
Dark Matter (Josiah Dark 2)
The Corpse at Highgate Cemetery (Quigg 8)
Chains of Illusion (Cyrus Kane 2)
Souls of the Dead (Tom Gabriel 3)
The Kisses of an Enemy (Parish & Richards 17)