Chapter Three
Just in time!
Nana Rodriguez had served her country well. And she’d already passed Ruth the name of the computer technician who had stopped the cascade distribution and destroyed the files – some tidying up to do.
Another job for that idiot Brightmore. Mind you, his rough sex gone wrong idea for explaining the deaths of Cally Flinders and Jack Rankin – the Right Honourable Member for Tintagel South – was a touch of genius. Although she’d never tell him that. For all intents and purposes the man was a complete fool. One minor success did not a secret agent make.
She’d really thought the Epsilon files were going to be revealed to the world. It was bad enough that some of Britain’s dirty washing had been aired in public, but the Epsilon files would have sunk the proverbial battleship – so to speak. Sir Peter owed her one – that was for sure. In fact, she should step out of the shadows to receive her life peerage and take her seat in the House of Lords – “Baroness Völker of Feltham” sounded very nice indeed – thank you, your Majesty.
Now what?
She thought she’d finished with the Epsilon experiments, but through no fault of her own they’d come back to bite her in the gluteus maximus. Now, she had to make sure that “Epsilon” was nothing more complicated than the fifth letter of the Greek alphabet.
Every copy of those files had to be destroyed, and she wondered who might still have copies of them? Group 323! Did they make copies before they passed the files on to WikiUK? It was so easy to make copies these days. Who was the person who had managed to sneak into Bunker 7 and steal the files in the first place? And what about Nana Rodriguez – had she kept copies for insurance purposes? At least Parish didn’t have a copy – that would have been a disaster of epic proportions.
She rang Brightmore.
‘Mmmm?’
She could hear crumbs falling on the floor. ‘Are you eating?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Get in here.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
He was eager to please – she’d give him that.
A knock.
‘Come.’
He waited until she signalled for him to sit.
‘There are people who are trying to bring down the government of the United Kingdom, Brightmore.’
He pursed his lips and nodded as if he knew every one of them personally.
‘At the time, we . . . I did what was required to protect our country. With the benefit of hindsight, some people might look back and argue that certain decisions were . . . illegal. We were at war. We still are at war. The decisions taken by certain people in power today will more than likely be considered illegal in another fifty years time. It is the way it is, Brightmore.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘I need you to tie up some loose ends for me.’
‘Loose ends are my speciality.’
‘If you fuck up – you’ll become a loose end yourself.’
‘I understand, Ma’am’
‘Make sure you do, Brightmore. I want you to find out who stole the files from Bunker 7 . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘Sorry . . .’
‘To do that, you first need to find Group323. When you have, ask them politely who gave them the files, and then kill everybody – including the thief.’
‘Consider it done.’
She passed him the post-it note that she’d written the GCHQ computer technician’s name on. ‘There are two loose ends at GCHQ. He is one of them. The second is a woman called Nana Rodriguez, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You need to find out if she has a copy of the files.’
‘Do you want her death to look like an accident?’
Nobody knew Nana was involved with the files – not even Sir Peter. ‘How she dies is not important.’ She thought about how young and beautiful Nana was. ‘Maybe a random rape and murder.’
‘You have the right person for the job, Ma’am.’
‘I certainly hope so, Brightmore.’
He sat there staring at her.
‘You can go now.’
He stood up and backed out rubbing his hands together. ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
***
They headed south along the A10 and joined the M25 at Waltham Cross.
Parish put the disc into the DVD and they listened to Sally Bowker’s desperate phone call again.
‘I feel like crying,’ Richards said.
He re-played the phone call. ‘I know, but there’s no time to cry. Sally would want us to catch her killer before he has the chance to kill another child.’
‘I know.’
‘This time, listen to it objectively.’
They listened in silence.
‘Where does the man live?’ Parish asked when it had finished.
‘In a house.’
‘Do you think the house belongs to the removal man?’
‘It might.’
‘But is it likely?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How many children has he taken so far?’
Richards pulled out her notebook. ‘Including Sally, eight – from all over the south of England.’
‘That we know about. Are those the ones where he left his calling card?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll need to plot the locations on a map when we get back to the station. So, he’s abducted seven children. Has he taken them for his personal use?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re not using much of your grey matter today. Do you think he would have room for seven children in his house?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What’s he doing with them then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s three times you’ve said “I don’t know” now.’
‘Are you keeping count?’
‘I wasn’t, but I am now. Why does he call himself “The Removal Man”?’
‘I . . . Because he removes children from their houses.’
‘What do removal men do?’
‘Move the contents of one house to another house.’
‘Do they re-locate their own contents?’
‘Well no, they . . .’
Parish glanced at her. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s hiring himself out.’
‘Good.’
‘The business card is like . . . advertising. He’s taking the children to order, isn’t he?’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What about the infinity symbol?’
‘Maybe it’s the symbol for a paedophile ring.’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘Paedophiles are telling him which children they want, and he goes into their homes during the night and takes them.’
‘See, you’re not as dense as you like people to believe.’
‘I don’t need a fan club when I’ve got you.’
‘Those tiny butterflies are paedophile code for “Child Lover”.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I know a lot of things you don’t know.’
‘You could have said earlier.’
‘Does he kill the parents every time?’
‘No. He killed Sally Bowker’s parents because they woke up – they were found at the bottom of the stairs. He also killed a single mother three months ago in Bishop’s Stortford – probably for the same reason.’
‘Good.’ He tried to sound like a little Belgique man speaking English. ‘Now the little grey cells are – how you say – working.’
She half-laughed. ‘You sound nothing like Hercule Poirot.’
‘I beg to differ. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m over six-foot tall and exceedingly handsome, I could pass for Hercule Poirot any day of the week.’
‘Now you come to mention it, there are certain resemblances – the paunch, the way you shuffle along like a penguin, the bald patch at the top of your head . . .’
‘There you are then. I might swap my warrant card for an equity card.’
‘You should do it today. Me, mum and Jack would come and watch you make a fool of yourself.’
‘And Digby?’
‘And Digby.’
They laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ Richards said.
‘Is anything we do funny?’
‘Not really.’
‘Not at all. If we didn’t laugh – we’d cry. It’s the way we keep some perspective on life and death. We’re like sewage workers swilling about in the excrement of humanity. It’s our job to unblock the pipes and keep the sewage flowing.’
‘They should use you on the police recruitment adverts.’
‘I’ve only just acquired my equity card and already I’ve stolen the part of Hercule Poirot from David Suchet and been handed a ten-year contract to recruit police officers. You might want to grab the opportunity of being my agent now while I’m still a relative unknown.’
Richards’ eyes opened wide. ‘I could get you in the Big Brother house, on I’m a Celebrity Get me Out of Here . . .’
‘I don’t think I could eat those bugs.’
‘Are you a man or a mouse? This is your career we’re talking about.’
He nodded. ‘True.’
‘There are hundreds of programmes you could go on – Celebrity Pointless, Celebrity Mr & Mrs, Celebrity Cube, Celebrity Coach Trip, Celebrity Mastermind, Celebrity Chef . . .’
‘But I’m not a celebrity.’
‘Neither are the other people who appear on the shows.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Trust me – I watch a lot of television.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Because I haven’t got a man.’
‘Ah! That’s what it’s all about?’
She stared out of the side window. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do.’
‘Marcus hasn’t phoned me.’
‘Mucus is not the one for you.’
‘He could be.’
‘I didn’t want to tell you this, but Maddie said he was seeing another woman.’
‘She’s a lying cow, and you’re making it all up.’
‘You know that’s not true.’
‘I hate men.’
‘You hate the wrong men.’
‘I hate you.’
‘That’s because you know I’m always right.’
‘Maybe I should settle for Paul.’
‘Paul has Maddie now.’
‘But he really wants me.’
‘But you don’t want him.’
‘Maybe I do now.’
‘No you don’t. You’re just jealous because he has Maddie and you have no one.’
‘That’s not a nice thing to say about your adopted daughter.’
‘I know.’
They were silent for a while.
‘So, let’s get back to the case,’ he said. ‘Where is the special room located?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Four. How did Sally get out of the room to be able to use the phone?’
‘He must have left the door open.’
‘Does he live alone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Five. Yes you do.’
‘Well, I suppose he must if . . . He hasn’t got a cellar. The special room must be on the ground floor.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Sally got out of the room and found the telephone. If the room had been in the cellar, she wouldn’t have been able to do that.’
‘Okay, so what do we already know?’
‘The removal man is hiring himself out for money . . .’
‘Is he a paedophile?’
‘I think he must be. If he wasn’t, the people who hire him probably wouldn’t trust him.’
‘If he is a paedophile, he might be someone who is already known to us?’
‘Needle in a haystack,’ Richards said. ‘There are so many of them.’
‘True. Let’s say he is hiring himself out for money. Who are the people hiring him?’
‘Paedophiles.’
‘Yes, but Sally Bowker’s death has given us a clue.’
‘It has?’
‘She was taken in Wells-Next-The-Sea in Norfolk.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she end up in Hangman’s Wood?’
‘You’ve lost me.’
If the removal man is taking children to order, then how are the paedophiles ordering the children?’
Richards screwed up her face. ‘Still not there.’
‘One of these days your face is going to stay like that.’
‘Then I’ll never get a man.’
He ignored her. ‘Tell me what happens when you go shopping.’
‘Am I with my mum?’
‘You can take your mum with you if you want, but I’m not there – I’m at home watching the football.’
‘Men are all the same.’
‘Well?’
‘We walk into the shop. Sometimes the assistant pounces on us, but we try to avoid them – we simply want to wander round and look at the items, feel the quality, try the clothes against us in the mirrors, maybe compare prices, imagine how it feels against our skin, make sure it isn’t too difficult for a man to take off . . .’
‘I hope your mother isn’t doing that.’
‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘All right, do you think the removal man has a shop full of children?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘How can the paedophiles choose the ones they want then?’
‘Ah!’
‘Do I hear cogs and wheels clunking inside your head?’
‘I think maybe you do.’
‘What clue has Sally Bowker’s death given us then?’
‘The paedophiles aren’t local to where the children live.’
‘Exactly. There’s no physical shop that the paedophiles can stroll into to look and inspect the goods on sale, they don’t walk along the road to the park or the local school and see the child they want, so . . .’
‘Online.’
‘We’ll need to check . . .’
‘All the victims are in a shop.’
‘Go on.’
‘Of course, they don’t know they’re in a shop. They don’t know that they’re the goods on sale, and they also don’t know that paedophiles are wandering around the shop looking at the goods on sale.’
‘I knew you’d get there if we persevered.’
‘I bet all seven children were members of the same online site.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right, Richards.’
‘I’m right.’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘Nothing springs to mind.’
‘You forgot to say how brilliant I am.’
‘That thought never even crossed my mind.’
‘You’re the young Anakin Skywalker – my apprentice, and I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi – your mentor and father model – initiating you into the secrets of the Jedi knights and guiding you along the path of light.’
‘You live in a fantasy world.’
He came off the M25 at Stifford, joined the A13 and followed the signs along the A1012 and Lodge Lane to Hangman’s Wood.
When he swung onto the dirt track leading to the crime scene they were met with a wall of reporters, television crews and thrill-seekers.
‘How do they get here before us, Obi-Wan?’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think you need to call me that in public. What about “Master”?’
‘As if.’
He was about to get out of the car when his phone vibrated.
‘Parish.’
‘Hi! Yes. It’s Günter Kappel.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I translated your German report.’
‘Oh yes. Just a minute.’
He put his hand over the receiver and said to Richards, ‘Go and introduce yourself to DI Gold. Ask her to meet me here. We’ll do a joint press briefing and . . .’
‘Who’s on the phone?’
‘Need to know.’
‘I need to know.’
‘What you need to know is that if you don’t do as I’ve told you there’ll be repercussions.’
‘Are they like echoes?’
‘Don’t say one word to the press, and if any of those photographers ask you to take your clothes off . . .’
‘You’re just the strangest person.’
‘You’ll be telling me next that none of them have offered to provide you with a full photographic portfolio.’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘You’re so naive, Richards.’
‘I’d be less naive if you told me why you don’t want me to listen to your phone conversation.’
‘Close the door on your way out.’
He waited until he could see her hobbling towards the crime scene tape.
‘Okay, Mr Kappel, what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve had a thought.’
‘Is that a new experience?’
‘Ha, ha! Yeah, I’ll have to remember that one. No . . . about your documents. I had the feeling that you expected them to say something else.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Well, look – I don’t want you thinking you didn’t get your money’s worth.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that at all.’
‘Still . . . Anyway, I had this thought.’
‘So you’ve said.’
‘Those documents were classified as Top Secret and that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Why would the Germans classify the contents of six boxes as Top Secret?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘That’s what I’m saying – they wouldn’t. Especially considering what the contents were.’
‘Well, thanks for sharing . . .’
‘No . . . there’s more.’
‘I see.’
‘It could say something else.’
‘I thought you’d translated it.’
‘Yes, but the original German text could have been in code.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Have you heard of the German Enigma machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going out on a limb here, but you could ask GCHQ to decrypt the original document for you.’
‘If the government – and I use that term loosely – knew that you’d even touched the document, you’d probably wake up dead. My advice to you, is to bury all your memories relating to that document so far down in your subconscious mind that not even Sigmund Freud could recover it.’
‘I’m happy to do that, but hear me out first. You might want to know that I know some people, who know some people, who might know a person on the M4 Project.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s a project to break original unbroken enciphered four rotor Enigma M4 messages that were published in the journal Cryptologia using distributed computing.’
‘You’re not listening . . .’
‘Yes, I am, Mr Parish. These people work under the radar . . .’
‘That’s hardly true if they’re publishing . . .’
‘No, you misunderstand – they don’t publish anything. Someone else published the encrypted messages, they just decrypted them.’
‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘I kept an electronic copy of the documents, so . . .’
‘WHAT?’
‘I keep a copy of everything I translate. Don’t worry – they’re safe.’
‘Have you been listening to me, Mr Kappel?’
‘I’ve been listening, but I’m willing to take the risk – are you?’
‘How much?’
‘Nothing.’
‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch.’
‘Unbroken Enigma documents are so rare. Being able to work on them is – in itself – its own reward.’
‘Who are these people?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘How many of them are there?’
‘Two.’
‘If I agree to what you’re suggesting, then no one else is to have access to, or knowledge of, those documents.’
‘That goes without saying.’
He grunted. ‘I thought that you not keeping copies of my documents would go without saying, but I was clearly wrong.’
‘I apologise, I should have made that clear.’
‘Yes, you should. And while we’re on the subject – there’ll be no communication or publication of any encrypted or decrypted information to anyone else without my specific authorisation.’
‘I understand.’
‘I hope you do, Mr Kappel, because I don’t want to be responsible for anyone dying – least of all me.’
‘I’ll be in contact.’
The call ended.
Could the German report be in code? It would certainly explain why it had been classified as Top Secret. He should have thought of that. Maybe – in a dark recess of his mind – he had, but finding out that the pages were merely content lists from six boxes shipped from Rouen in France to Berlin in Germany in November of 1944 had given him an excuse not to pursue it any further.
The decision was his. Richards was out of the loop. There was no pressure. When Kappel came back to him, he’d decide what to do for the best.
And then, of course, there were the Epsilon files ticking away like a bomb in the box under his desk. Was he ever going to be free of his past? He was beginning to feel like Odysseus trying to reach Ithaca after the Trojan War, but being denied safe passage by the vengeful gods.