Through a Glass Darkly (9781301753000) Read online

  Through a Glass Darkly

  (Parish & Richards 10)

  Tim Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  All places, locations and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual places, locations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.

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  To Pam, with love as always

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  A big thank you to proofreader James Godber

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  For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

  (1 Corinthians 13:12)

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  Chapter One

  Sunday, April 14

  Viktor eased the lever clockwise on top of the trephine. It had been many years since anybody had operated the contraption.

  ‘Do you know that the word "trepan" comes from the Greek word trypanon, which means “auger” or “drill”? No, I don’t suppose you do. Well, I can tell you that trephination has a long and venerable history.’

  Mathew Pitt was strapped into Gruesome Gertie – the nickname given by death-row inmates to the Louisiana State Penitentiary electric chair – that Viktor had purchased from America. Of course, it wasn’t hooked up to the electricity, and neither was it the actual chair that had sat in the Red Hat Cell Block and been used to execute eighty-seven unfortunate souls, but it was an exact replica – even down to the stains.

  Pitt’s eyes bulged, resembling something with a Latin name that one might plant in the garden during late March or early April. Positioned on the top of his head was number fourteen in Viktor’s collection – the trephine.

  He had leased the building on Snakes Lane Industrial Park in Woodford Green specifically for the storage of his growing collection of medieval medical instruments, but then he’d found a complementary use for the space. There was certainly no point in owning a collection if you couldn’t admire the ingenuity of each instrument’s design, marvel at the workmanship involved in their construction, and revel in their effectiveness when fully utilised as intended.

  The winch seemed slightly stiff – so he squeezed a small amount of WD40 into the screw hole.

  ‘Oh, don’t be too concerned, Mr Pitt. You’ll feel nothing. I know very well how to carry out this surgical procedure. Yes, something those idiots you sent to assess me couldn’t grasp. I know you are only an administrator, but I have a vast and extensive knowledge of medieval medical instrumentation. They would surely have understood my gift for surgery if they had only seen this collection.’ He waved his arm to take in the display cases, boxes and cupboards scattered around the room. ‘Well, I can assure you Mr Pitt, each one of your minions will experience my collection at first hand – just as you have done.’

  The thin steel tube in the brass collar revolved within the metal framework as he turned the handle, and the fine serrated razor-sharp teeth at the end of the hollow tube began to cut into Mr Pitt’s skull beneath the flap of skin Viktor had cut away earlier.

  ‘Yes, trephination dates back to 400 BC. Even the great Hippocrates understood that you could use it to relieve the pressure on the brain after head injuries. Imagine that, Mr Pitt – I’m following in the footsteps of Hippocrates. That’s where the Hippocratic Oath comes from, which is probably something else you didn’t know.’ He began chanting the oath – like a prayer – from memory:

  ‘I swear to fulfil, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant;

  I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow;

  I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism;

  I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug;

  I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery;

  I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God;

  I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick;

  I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure;

  I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm;

  If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.’

  He dabbed at his eyes with a tissue from his shirt pocket. ‘Oh yes, I remember every last word. Until recently, I lived by those words. I imagine you’re thinking that I’ve violated the oath in innumerable ways, aren’t you? Well yes, I have. But it’s your own fault, not mine. One day, people will understand that in medicine you have to sacrifice a few eggs to make an omelette as my mother in Latvia used to say . . . You’re one of those eggs by the way, Mr Pitt. I have nothing against you personally, but a doctor must practise and hone his skills. One day, I’ll be the very best surgeon there ever was. I’ll have money, celebrity status and . . . Well, I’m sure you understand that my ambition knows no bounds.’

  He gave the winch one final turn and felt the bone give way. ‘There we are,’ he said, bringing his face level with Mr Pitt’s. ‘You should feel a lot better now.’ He removed the trephine from the top of Pitt’s head, put it in the washbasin and took out the circular piece of bone from the skull. ‘In medieval times, physicians once believed that when a hole had been cut into the skull it would banish lewd thoughts, curtail unhealthy cravings and invigorate one’s brain – is it working for you, Mr Pitt?’

  Viktor looked into Pitt’s eyes again and smiled. ‘I think you’ll be glad to hear that we’re done. We’ve come a long way in such a short time. I hope you have learned as much from all I’ve done to you as I have?’

  It was time to end it. He needed another subject to continue with his experiments. He took a syringe from the worktop – which contained a barbiturate and potassium solution of his own design that he’d prepared earlier – and injected it into the anterior jugular vein. Mr Pitt already had enough
Rocuronium Bromide in his system to paralyse an elephant, and the addition of the remaining cocktail constituted a lethal injection.

  Within minutes Mr Pitt was dead. Viktor unstrapped him from Gruesome Gertie, collected up all the body parts littered about the room and filled two black plastic bags.

  He checked his watch – nearly two in the morning. He needed to go home and get some sleep – he was on duty at the hospital at eight o’clock.

  ***

  Wednesday, April 17

  ‘I hate romcoms,’ Richards said. She reached up and pressed for assistance.

  He was trying to read the report the Chief had given him on the murder. It had been translated into English and it was hard going. ‘Do something else then.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should. We’ve paid good money to sit on this plane, the least they could do is show a decent film.’

  ‘We didn’t actually pay any money for this flight. The Army are funding the trip.’

  ‘Yeah well, they could have paid to let us fly first class.’

  ‘Only transatlantic flights have first class sections.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Did you see a first class section when you came onto the aircraft?’

  ‘I might have done.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I might take a look later.’

  ‘You do that.’

  The stewardess arrived. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Can you show another film, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid Exit Strategy is the only film we’re showing on this flight, Madam.’

  ‘I don’t like romcoms. You haven’t got something like Psycho, or Se7en, or maybe The Silence of the Lambs?’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed Madam, but there are children on the plane.’

  ‘I bet most of them have already seen those films anyway.’

  ‘Was there anything else, Madam?’

  ‘Can we be upgraded to first class?’

  ‘I’m sorry, there is no first class on this plane.’

  Parish grinned at her.

  ‘What’s for lunch?’

  ‘Roast beef, Madam.’

  ‘On a Wednesday?’

  The stewardess walked away.

  ‘I think you’ve made a friend for life there,’ Parish said.

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Only another four hours to go.’

  ‘I’m bored. My backside has gone to sleep and I think my legs have swollen to twice their normal size.’

  ‘We’ve only been on the plane for half an hour.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to get that long-haul blood clot problem, do you?’

  ‘Deep vein thrombosis – no. Have you read your copy of the report yet?’

  ‘Twice.’

  ‘Thoughts?’

  ‘There’s not enough information to have thoughts and I hate reading pidgin-English. Why aren’t we staying in the officers’ mess?’

  ‘They didn’t think it was appropriate for us to be fraternising with all his friends, and I tend to agree.’

  ‘That’s not the real reason though, is it?’

  ‘You’re not an officer. Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘I think that’s stupid. They could have made an exception for me.’

  ‘We’re talking about three hundred years of tradition, and you want them to discard it and let a nobody into their mess?’

  ‘So, that’s what you think of me, is it? I’m just a nobody.’

  ‘That’s what they think of you. After your mother, I think you’re the most wonderful person in the world.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘Is there an echo in here?’

  DI Xena Blake was still in a critical condition on a ventilator in King George Hospital. DS Gilbert was working with his stand-in partner DC Isolde Koll from Shrub End in Colchester, and Angie was still easing her way back into work.

  At Richards’ insistence he’d paid a professional to translate the German report that they’d discovered in the briefcase at the Wembley Excess Baggage warehouse. Each page was found to be a list of the contents from one of six containers being shipped from Rouen in France to Berlin in November 1944. Items included blankets, bandages, lamps, mess tins, helmets and so on. In the context of the brown envelope addressed to him, and the piece of paper with Orvil Lorenz and the name-pairs on it, the translated pages meant nothing. Historically, the six pages were interesting, but he wondered why it had been hidden in a secret compartment of the briefcase.

  The Chief had called him in yesterday morning. ‘Pack your bags.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘The British Army have put in a request for a senior detective from Essex to fly out to Cyprus. I’m pleased to say, they’re funding the trip.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say it was a busman’s holiday?’

  ‘I was thinking of going myself, but with Jerry doing her course, her parents threatening to leave and the new Chief Constable breathing down my neck . . .’

  ‘So you thought you’d send your best friend Jed Parish to lie in the sun and drink Cypriot beer for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘If you’re not back here by the end of the week I’ll come and get you myself. A woman has been raped and murdered and another three are missing. You’ll hardly be lying in the sun.’

  ‘Still, I could get a tan, which is becoming increasingly impossible in this country unless you visit a tanning studio regularly.’

  ‘The Cypriot police have arrested a British officer from the Essex Regiment for the murder. He’s serving with the tri-service headquarters at Episkopi.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Exactly. He says he didn’t do it. The Cypriots say they’ve got evidence that he did. You’re to fly out there and find out what’s going on.’

  ‘What if he did kill the woman?’

  ‘Then that’s what your finding will be. The Army aren’t asking for a cover-up. They want the truth as much as we do.’

  ‘Are you sure? Isn’t that an oxymoron?’

  ‘No, you’re thinking of military-intelligence.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  ‘The Army will assist you in every way they can.’

  ‘Okay. What about the Cypriot Police?’

  Kowalski shrugged. ‘No idea, but I can imagine they won’t be too happy about a Brit’ detective arriving to tell them how to do their jobs.’

  ‘Great. What are you doing about Richards?’

  ‘You can take her with you, if you want. I know that without her you wouldn’t be able to find a corpse in a graveyard.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  That was yesterday.

  They’d boarded the flight at seven-fifty this morning and Cyprus was two hours ahead of the UK, which meant they’d land at two o’clock. Now, here he was sitting on a British Airways flight to Larnaca International Airport and Richards had a face like a smacked arse. She was fed up because she couldn’t go to the wedding on Saturday that she’d bought a new dress for.

  A light came on in his head. ‘It’s not just the dress, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Of course. I’m beginning to see through the murky haze now. He was going to be there, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I have no idea who you’re talking about.’

  ‘And you shall know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’

  ‘I bet that’s a saying, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Paul would have known who said it if he’d been here.’

  ‘John 8:32. Come on, out with it. You know you’ll feel better if you unburden yourself.’

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘Okay, let me tell you the truth according to Jed Parish. All through Saturday he’s giving you the glad eye and licking his lips in a provocative manner. In the evening, after a few drinks, he approaches you and tells you how beautiful you look and how sorry he is, that he made a terrible mistake
by choosing his wife and child instead of you. You have another drink. You begin to soften. You think that it’s him turning your knees to jelly. It’s not – it’s the drink, but you’re too drunk to know the difference. He wants you both to consummate your love all over again. It’s what you went to the wedding for, what you were hoping for all along. He kisses you, tells you he can’t live without you. You give in. You take him to your room, because he didn’t book one himself thinking that he could save money if he hooked up with you . . .’

  A teenage boy in the seat in front of Richards stuck his head above the headrest. ‘Hey, don’t stop, Mister. It was just beginning to get interesting.’

  Richards laughed. ‘He always tells a good story.’

  ‘A story rooted in fact. Am I right? Or, am I right?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I knew it. It’s a good job you’re here with me. And don’t think I’m ever going to let you go out on your own again.’

  ‘I knew this is how you’d react if you found out.’ She reached up and pressed for assistance again.

  The teenage boy stuck his head above the headrest again and said to Richards, ‘I’m available if you’re interested?’

  She elbowed Parish in the ribs. ‘Now see what you’ve done.’

  The same stewardess arrived. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’d like to sit somewhere else please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam, there are no spare seats.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. I can’t sit here anymore. I bet there are spare seats in the cockpit.’