House of Mourning (9781301227112) Read online

  ‘So, you’d like to wait until she’s dead, and then you’ll do something?’

  ‘As much as I support the crime prevention initiative, it doesn’t extend to murder prevention.’

  ‘Well, it should. It’s no good preventing someone from stealing your computer if they’re going to kill you instead.’

  ‘That’s not really how it works. If she had an idea of who she thought was trying to kill her, I could send a couple of the lads round to have a word, but all she’s got is a vague notion that someone has tried to kill her twice with no hard evidence to back it up.’

  ‘The gas engineer said that someone had rigged her cooker to blow up.’

  ‘In his opinion. I’d like to see photographs and a forensic report.’

  ‘And the brake pipe had been cut.’

  ‘In the woman’s opinion.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give me the two ends so that I can get Toady to examine them.’

  She slapped his hand away. ‘And Cookie’s found some skeletons.’

  ‘You know I can’t get involved with the illegal activities of a hacker.’

  ‘Oh, it was all right when you needed her to dig you out of the mess you’d got yourself into.’

  ‘That was hardly my fault.’

  ‘And then there was that Erin woman . . .’

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to start using that against me.’

  ‘You’re not going to help me then?’

  ‘I don’t see how I can. If there was any evidence, it’s now been destroyed. I couldn’t possibly justify allocating a squad car to protect her, and as she’s not been murdered yet there’s no way I could have a detective investigate it. She needs to go to her local police station and fill out a form. Someone will look into it in due course.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘I think so.’ She closed the book, put it on the floor, switched the light off and lay down.

  Ray put his hand up the front of her pyjamas top and began massaging her breast.

  She was feeling horny herself now, but it had become a matter of principle. She took his hand out and pushed it back towards him. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I thought you might help me, and in return for that help you could have had your heart’s desire. You declined to help me though, and I no longer feel that you love me anymore.’

  ‘I do. I love you more than . . .’

  ‘More than what, Ray? More than your precious police force? More than your rules? More than your budget? More than . . .’

  ‘Yes, all of that.’

  ‘If you could only show me proof of that.’

  ‘I have hard proof between my legs.’

  ‘Come back when you have something more substantial.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Chapter Eight

  He’d followed the woman up the A104 to a four-storey block of flats in Russell Road, Buckhurst Hill, watched as she took the heavy bag into the lobby and caught the lift up to the third floor.

  There was a male security guard in the lobby, and he saw the CCTV camera high up behind the guard’s desk and another one by the lift. What type of place was it?

  The building was surrounded by palisade fencing, there were cameras on poles. He was never going to get inside without being the star performer in his own CCTV show. The police would come, watch him on CCTV, come round to his mum’s flat and lock him up for a very long time. No, he’d have to be a lot smarter than that.

  After the woman had left, he made two slow walk-pasts and two drive-pasts, he didn’t want to appear too obvious. He decided that he’d be a fool to even try to get to her room from the inside. The outside wasn’t much better either. As well as the woman being on the third floor, the walls were sheer concrete. He wasn’t Spiderman, and he didn’t have the sophisticated equipment they employed in Mission Impossible. There was really only one course of action open to him – he had to wait for her to come out. If she felt safe, she’d come out.

  He’d waited in his car, but at ten o’clock he decided that she wasn’t going to show. He drove around until he found a kebab shop, and ordered his favourite meal – a doner kebab with lots of chilli sauce and an orange juice with the bits left in.

  There were about ten youths hanging about outside the shop. Not that long ago he was one of them – a different crowd and a different place, but still a toe rag with nowhere to go, nothing to do and an unknown future.

  After he’d devoured the kebab and orange juice he waited until the youths began to drift off in pairs or singularly. The day had been a bit of a damp squib. What he needed was something to liven it up.

  As soon as he saw one of the youths go off on his own he drove past him up the road, parked up and climbed out. Then he began walking towards him.

  The Die Hard films with Bruce Willis were certainly up there with the very best, but his real favourites were the Death Wish series with Charles Bronson. He would liked to have been John McClane, but he was never going to be a cop on the side of right. Instead, he was Paul Kersey – the self-appointed judge, jury and executioner – making the streets safe for nice people like his mum.

  Yes, he killed people for a living. He liked to kill people, but to cancel those deaths out he killed someone who didn’t deserve to live, and he got to decide who that was going to be. Tonight, he’d chosen this teenager.

  He’d taken an instant dislike to the youth – the way he slouched, the hood covering most of his face, the dirty light-grey tracksuit bottoms barely covering the crack in his arse. Yeah, he deserved to die all right.

  The long double-edged commando knife hung between his shoulder blades, suspended by a leather cord around his neck. He reached behind him and withdrew the knife from the loop in the cord. Paul Kersey used to shoot his victims, but shooting people gave you away – you left a tell-tale bullet behind. When you used a knife – all you left behind was death. He had a gun – what self-respecting assassin didn’t? He’d bought it in Manchester a year ago with a hundred rounds of ammunition. It was stuffed in his belt at the small of his back as a back-up.

  As the youth drew level with him he rammed the knife into his chest up to the hilt. He liked to look into the dying person’s eyes, to steal their soul. He held the youth up with the knife until the light in his eyes disappeared and then he let him slide off the blade.

  There, it was done.

  If his mum ever came to Buckhurst Hill, the streets would be one toe rag safer.

  He left the teenager lying on the pavement and walked back to his car. He’d find a hotel that had porn movies on the TV and pay for bed and breakfast.

  Tomorrow – he’d wait for her again.

  ***

  Tuesday, April 9

  Shrek had an overnight with a girl called Apple, and enough pot to sink the Titanic. Harley was the getaway driver in her 1979 Yellow Citroen 2CV Special. Romeo was in the front with Harley listening to his iPod and banging on the dashboard as if he were playing drums for Coldplay. She was sprawled out on the back seat with her laptop trying to get some more information on Bunker 7.

  They were driving along the A12 on their way to French Ordinary Court – a tunnel connecting Fenchurch Street to Crutched Friars, which burrows under the platforms of Fenchurch Street Station. Part of the tunnel opens out into a car park, and there are locked doors in the tunnel that lead to Bunker 7.

  When she’d been trying to find out about Grace Rush and bounced off the perimeter security of a website’s server, B7 had appeared in the Python scripting language. She knew immediately what it meant and rang Annie Ritch – one of her activist friends in Group 323.

  ‘Bunker 7! You want to stay well clear of that place.’

  As far as she knew, Annie was the only one left of the original five members of the group who had gained access to the facility eleven months previously. Two had been caught and the other two had left the group.

  ‘Why?’
<
br />   ‘Look Cookie, we got in there to do some damage, cause havoc, you know the thing, but we barely escaped with our lives. Two of us didn’t make it out.’

  ‘Yeah, but you saw them again afterwards, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s the thing – no we didn’t. They just disappeared. We couldn’t go to the police. We couldn’t knock on any doors and ask questions. We just waited, but nothing happened. They never came out.’

  ‘Sounds spooky.’

  ‘Put it this way, I wouldn’t go back in there for all the weed in London.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘We simply picked the lock.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘There was an empty corridor.’

  ‘What, no security?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Weird. Then what?’

  ‘We were so pleased to be inside. We danced along that corridor as if we were going to the mad hatter’s tea party . . .’

  It had gone quiet. ‘You’re not shagging at your end, are you?’

  ‘You have a strange imagination, Cookie. No, I was just thinking about Burglar and Kitten – the two who didn’t make it out.’

  ‘Maybe they’re still in there. I mean, if they didn’t come out . . . Well, maybe they kept them prisoner.’

  ‘That’d be illegal. Without a trial, nah.’

  ‘Killing them would be illegal. Not letting them out would be illegal.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Keep going then. You were skipping down that corridor full of the joys of spring when . . . ?’

  ‘Burglar was in the lead. He shouted, “Run” – we ran.’

  ‘What, you didn’t even get out of that corridor?’

  ‘Nope – we turned and ran.’

  ‘Who was chasing you then?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Surely you saw someone? You must have heard someone shouting. Maybe they had guns.’

  ‘Didn’t hear nor see nothing. Being the newest member, I was last. Strug and Savage piled out after me, but Burglar and Kitten never made it out.’

  ‘But you didn’t even do anything.’

  ‘I know. Before we’d even turned round the door had shut. Strug tried opening it again, but it was locked solid.’

  ‘So you hung around outside waiting?’

  ‘We legged it.’

  ‘So, they could have let Burglar and Kitten out when you weren’t there?’

  ‘If that’s the case, why didn’t they come back to the base?’

  ‘I don’t know. Well, thanks for your help anyway, Annie.’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said, you’d be better staying in bed.’

  The call ended.

  It was all a bit weird. She thought the five of them had got inside Bunker 7 and caused mayhem, but they didn’t even get past the entrance corridor. She wondered what had scared Burglar. From what she’d heard about him, he was a big bloke. Oh well, Cookie and her team would do better. She hadn’t told the others about Group 323’s sortie into the bunker. Well, there wasn’t much to tell them anyway, and all she needed was a physical connection to Bunker 7’s server, so that she could download the relevant files. They’d be in and out in no time. Nobody would even know they’d been there.

  Harley pulled into the car park.

  Cookie saw a few cars dotted about in the dimmed headlights – one looked like a brand new Mercedes. Why were cars parked here in the dark? There was nothing down here – except Bunker 7, which supposedly didn’t exist.

  Romeo was still drumming for Coldplay.

  She poked him in the arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re here, lose the iPod.’

  He put it in the glove compartment. ‘Keep your sticky hands off it,’ he said to Harley.

  ‘Me? What do I want with your cheap, grubby iPod?’

  ‘It would hardly be the crime of the century,’ Cookie said, closing her laptop and slipping it in the backpack she’d brought with her. ‘Seeing as Harley’s the only one here.’

  Romeo grunted. ‘Yeah well, it’s got all my favourite tracks on it.’

  Harley laughed. ‘I don’t even like Coldplay.’

  ‘Can we focus on what we’re here for?’ Cookie interrupted them. ‘Get out,’ she said poking Romeo’s arm again, ‘and let me out.’ To Harley she said. ‘Right, it’s twenty to two now. If we’re not out by five o’clock leave without us and don’t look back. Let Charlie Baxter know to come and get us when you get back to the squat.’

  Harley nodded. ‘Will do.’

  The car park was pitch black. Thankfully, they’d come prepared with small torches. The two of them made their way to the main tunnel. The paltry lighting glimmered off the damp cobbles.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ Romeo asked her.

  ‘About what?’ Of course she was nervous. She had no idea what they were going to find in there.

  ‘Getting caught?’

  ‘No.’

  Romeo squatted outside the door and began picking the lock. He wasn’t much use in a lot of ways, but he knew how to get into places. She’d asked him one time how he knew.

  ‘Here and there, this and that.’

  ‘You’ve been in prison, haven’t you?’

  He stopped reading a Zane Grey western. ‘Young offenders institution. The things they teach you in those places.’

  ‘They wouldn’t teach you how to pick locks.’

  ‘Not the screws, the inmates. Everything I know I learnt in Rochester – the original Borstal.’

  The door clicked open.

  Annie was right. Hardly high-level security for a top secret government bunker. Maybe all the stories she’d ever heard about Bunker 7 were just that – stories.

  They slipped inside and closed the door.

  There were no lights, so they had to keep their torches on.

  There was a long corridor with a door at the end. Their footsteps echoed in the claustrophobic space as they walked.

  Her heart was thumping in her ears and she could hear Romeo’s breathing. She hadn’t noticed before, but the cold and damp had seeped beneath her clothes. She shivered.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Cold is all.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  There was the strong smell of something, but she didn’t know what.

  They reached the door.

  Romeo stared at the handle.

  Cookie shoved him out of the way and pushed the handle down.

  The door opened.

  Lights blinded them.

  There was a lot of shouting.

  She felt a sharp pain in her neck and then . . .

  ***

  ‘What do you need a laptop for?’ he asked Richards as they minced along the corridor.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ There was a small black material bag with something heavy in it hanging from her shoulder.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Your mother said that last night and look what happened.’

  ‘That courgette lasagne was lovely.’

  ‘It was the most disgusting meal I’ve ever eaten. I’m surprised I’ve not metamorphosed into something unspeakable.’

  ‘Who says you haven’t?’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  Richards blanked Carrie, knocked on the Chief’s door and went in.

  He tarried.

  ‘Don’t mind Richards, you know what she’s like.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She’ll come round. I’ll have words with her.’

  ‘It’s not necessary.’

  ‘How’s Melody this morning?’

  ‘Ooh, I have something to show you.’ She took out her phone, pressed for video recordings and passed it to him. It was a short three-minute video of his daughter in the bath. She had an infectious laugh and lovely long white curly hair.

  ‘She’s beautiful.’ He passed the phone back. ‘How are you?’

  ‘We do just fine. I told you at the outset –
I want nothing from you.’

  ‘I feel guilty.’

  ‘That’s down to you, not me.’

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t change how I feel.’

  ‘It’s enough that you know about her, and that you’re part of her life.’

  ‘If there’s ever anything.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I know exactly who to call.’

  ‘Good.’

  Richards stuck her head out of the door. ‘The Chief said to leave his secretary alone.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ He smiled at Carrie and walked into Kowalski’s office.

  Richards had set up her laptop on the coffee table. A lead ran out of the back of it into a small box, which was projecting a PowerPoint screen onto the wall. She’d taken down some of the Chief’s awards, certificates and photographs, which were now propping up the bottom of the wall.

  ‘What’s going on, Parish?’ Kowalski asked.

  ‘I wish I knew. What’s going on, Richards?’

  ‘Briefing.’

  ‘With a laptop.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m letting Richards take the lead in this investigation.’

  ‘She’s going to brief me with PowerPoint?’

  ‘So it would seem. Maybe you’ll like it.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I am here, you know.’

  ‘This had better be good, Richards. The mood I’m in, I might just throw your laptop and projector out of the window.’

  Parish helped himself to a coffee. ‘This had better be good, Richards,’ he said echoing the Chief.

  ‘It’ll be good. Are you ready?’

  Parish and Kowalski both nodded.

  ‘Can you close the blinds, Chief?’

  ‘You do know I have a heart condition, don’t you?’

  ‘Sir, the lights,’ she said cocking her head at Parish.

  Parish got up and switched the lights off.

  On the introductory screen Richards had written: The Case of the Broken-hearted Woman.

  ‘When Detective Inspector Parish and I arrived yesterday at the rear of the Chinese takeaway in Crabtree Alley, off Windmill Lane in Cheshunt, Dr Toadstone was already there with his team of forensic specialists.’

  A smiling Paul Toadstone appeared on the wall, followed by a series of photographs of the crime scene, which included the dead woman.