CXVI The Beginning of the End (Book 1): A Gripping Murder Mystery and Suspense Thriller (CXVI BOOK 1) (20 page)

Pauline was relaxing in the jacuzzi
when Simonstone knocked quietly on the bathroom door and informed her that
Jonathan Plant had arrived unexpectedly and was waiting downstairs in the
lounge.

“Is there a problem?” Pauline called out as she
stepped from the tub, grabbed a towel and quickly dried herself.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Pauline put on her dressing gown and went down to greet
Plant.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” she said, sitting
next to him on the sofa.

“I’m only here tonight; it’s more of a stopover. I’m
flying out to South Africa tomorrow afternoon, but I thought I could use this
opportunity to check and see how things are going and, most importantly, how
are you?”

Pauline smiled affectionately. “No doubt you’ll have
noticed the increase in protection officers.”

“I’m suitably impressed. The Queen doesn’t have this
many people protecting her. I don’t think I need worry about your safety now.”

“Maria Barnes came to see me this morning. Woods has
had a heart attack and is off the case. Detective Chief Inspector Foster has
taken over.”

“So I heard. I understand they’ve found the care
worker who abused Gerrard’s mother; he was living in Barrow-in-Furness at a
private care home that specialises in brain injuries.”

“Blueberry Woods?”

“You know it, then.”

Pauline explained about Gerrard’s charity donations
and his special affection for the centre. “How strange that the man who abused
his mother was living there. I wonder if he knew.”

“He must have done,” Plant said.

“How come you know all this?”

“I keep my ear close to the ground.”

“Come off it, Jonathan. Where are you getting the
information?”

“That’s not important. I’m trying to keep up to
speed with developments so that we can react and be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Pauline asked, sitting up
straight.

“Anything.”

She repeatedly shook her head and put her hand to
her mouth, gently pulling at her top lip.

“They’re going to France tomorrow to speak to Ramírez,
so she too will be protected.”

She sighed. “Is Albion Bedford involved?”

“Yes, indirectly.”

“I was feeling better today, safer and slightly more
relaxed. Now I’m unsettled and frightened.”

“There’s no need to feel frightened. You’re well
protected and other people are patrolling the area looking out for you. By
tomorrow all the people who we think might be in danger will be under police
protection… And they have someone they’re trying to apprehend.”

“Who is it?”

Plant pulled out a photograph from his jacket pocket
and held it up. “I don’t have a name, but Gerrard obviously came into contact
with this individual which is why it’s extremely important if you can recollect
seeing them together or meeting this man?”

Pauline took hold of the photograph and studied it.
“I’m sorry; I’ve never seen him before.”

“I’ll take that back then,” he said, grabbing the
photo out of her hand.

“Why didn’t Sergeant Barnes ask me if I knew him?”

“This photo has only just surfaced and the police
didn’t have it until this afternoon.”

“Then why didn’t they e-mail or fax it to me?”

“I don’t know, perhaps they’ve been too busy.”

“Jonathan, if you don’t start treating me like an
adult and tell the truth, I’ll ring Barnes right now and ask her why.”

“The police don’t have the photograph. Alright?”

“But you do!!! What the hell’s going on? You’re
withholding information and I’m not having any part of that. If you know who
the killer is then you need to ring Maria now. Either you do it, or I do.”

“It’s not that simple.”

She stood and went over to the phone.

“What are you doing?” Plant strode across the room,
but she was already keying in the number. He snatched the phone out of her
hand. “Alright, I’ll get the photo to the police, but you’ll have to trust me; they
mustn’t know where it came from.”

“Why, does it contravene the Official Secrets Act?”

“Yes it bloody well does,” he snapped, looking
exasperated.

She walked back over to the sofa and flopped down.
“Are your buddies at the Diplomatic Service,” she smirked, “conducting their
own investigation, separate to the police?”

“No, we’re working together, but. . .” He stopped
and looked perturbed. “We’re working together, but sensitive complex issues
have to be handled delicately.”

“I’m in danger because of you!” she said, every word
containing ice cold conviction.

Plant walked over to the window, looked out and
slowly turned to face her. “That’s what we think.”

“Well thanks for sharing that with me. I’ve been
going half-crazy trying to understand why Gerrard would want to have me killed
and all the time it’s your fault I’m in danger. The police don’t know that do
they?”

“No, but Woods suspected it. And please don’t say
anything; it doesn’t affect the investigation and we’re trying to assist them
without disclosing that fact.”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and I’m not
sure where that leaves me. If you look at what the papers are saying about
Gerrard. . .”

“Pauline, Gerrard commissioned a number of murders,
there’s no getting away from that fact. The people we suspect to be at risk are
being protected, the only difference is we believe you’re at risk because of
me, and the police believe you’re all at risk because of Gerrard.”

“You said Woods suspected it though. Is that why
he’s had a heart attack and is now off the investigation?”

“Don’t be silly; he had a heart attack due to the
stress he was under.”

“Let’s be clear here. Gerrard didn’t know you, but
whoever he hired does, and they want to harm me to get at you. Is that the
truth?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake! Why did I ever get involved
with you?”

“Look, nothing is going to happen to you. I’ll make
sure of that. We’ll catch the killer and then things can return to normal. You
have my word.”

Barnes arrived at the Coronary
Care Unit at 9.20 p.m. She pressed the call button on the door and one of the
nurses came to see what she wanted.

“Is it okay to have a word with Greg Woods?” she
asked, holding up her ID.

The nurse allowed her in and checked she knew which
room to go to. When she arrived Woods was busy on his laptop.

“Hello,” he said. “Did you know that when pancreatic
cancer first develops, it rarely causes any symptoms and therefore you only
notice changes when the cancer has become relatively advanced? It’s difficult
for GPs to diagnose, as the symptoms may be vague and can be caused by other
conditions. However, they’ll look at your eyes, the colour of your skin to
check for jaundice, test your urine for bile and take a blood sample. They may
also examine your abdomen to feel for any swelling in the area of the liver.
After this, you’ll normally be referred to a specialist who’ll ask you about
your general health and any previous medical problems, then examine you,
arrange blood tests, chest x-rays and scans to help make the diagnosis.”

“Feeling better, are we?”

“They’re letting me go home tomorrow. I’m bored out
of my skull, so I thought I’d do some preparatory work looking into Gerrard’s
illness.”

“You might like to read this. It’s the report from
the laboratory. Dudley tried to kill you.”

Woods took the document and skimmed through it.
“Bastards,” he said, placing the report in the bedside locker. “I’ll keep that
if you don’t mind. So, how’s it going?”

She spent twenty minutes relaying the day’s events.
When she’d finished Woods appeared to be mulling over what she’d told him.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Why would Gerrard
donate millions in order for Blueberry Woods to provide the best possible care
to Zielinski, and then arrange his murder?”

Barnes smiled. “I agree. I don’t think Zielinski’s
in danger at all.”

“No. And when I pushed Faulkner-Brown about Plant
knowing the killer and vice versa, he wouldn’t comment. Neither would he
comment on Pauline being in danger because of Plant rather than Gerrard.”

Barnes nodded again. “I too have doubts about
Pauline needing protection. Maybe it’s Plant that’s in danger.”

Woods leaned back. “He was the one who insisted
Pauline needed protecting; perhaps that was to throw us off the scent.”

“But if neither Pauline nor Zielinski are in danger,
and Plant is, that still leaves one other who needs protecting.”

Woods sucked the air in through his teeth and then
exhaled deeply. “We need to work that one out, Maria. I wonder if Hilton Dudley
knows the answer.” He smiled, “I bet he was infuriated when he couldn’t get in
touch with you this afternoon.”

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “I’ve brought you a
present,” she said, handing over the phone and sim cards. “Don’t use these
anywhere near home, and always select a different location. I’ve made a note of
your three numbers, and here’s a list of mine; I suggest we use the top number
until one of them has been compromised, then we move on to the second set of
numbers and so forth. We need to agree how and when we’ll contact each other.”

“Have you done this before?” Woods asked, scowling.

“No.”

“You seem pretty clued up.”

“I’m trying to avoid detection, that’s all.”

“Okay, what’s a good time for you?”

“If we aim to switch them on between 7.00 and 8.00
p.m. we can pick up any messages and answer any calls during that time slot. We
can also periodically check for messages throughout the day, dependent on where
we are and who’s with us.”

Woods nodded in agreement. “I don’t want you to
place yourself in any danger. Do you understand?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I can look
after myself?”

He smiled. “You’ve done fantastic today; what are
you planning for tomorrow?”

“I’m checking out the people who’ve worked for
Albion Bedford. Is there anything you want me to do?”

“I intend to speak to Gerrard’s oncologist and run
checks on the pathologist who undertook his post-mortem. I’ll text if I need
anything.”

“Right, I’ll leave you in peace. I’ll ring you with
an update tomorrow evening. I’ll be out running between 7 and 8. Make sure
you’re away from the house and the phone’s switched on.” She looked at her
watch. “Felix needs feeding; I’d better dash.”

It was 10.40 p.m. when Barnes
arrived at her flat. She went inside and placed her hand on the light switch. She
froze.
Someone’s been in here
. She didn’t switch on the light and stood
stock still, waiting a couple of minutes to let her eyes accustom to the low
light levels. She quietly slipped off her shoes and then crept stealthily
around each of the four rooms analysing every minute detail. Satisfied she knew
what had been touched, she tiptoed into the kitchen and silently removed her
toolbox from under the sink unit cupboard. She selected one small flat blade
and one small cross blade screwdriver and went back to the light switch in the
entrance lobby.

 She carefully unscrewed the cover plate and slowly
eased it forwards.
Ah, there you are
. She repeated this process on the
light switches in the lounge, kitchen and bedroom, and she also took apart the
television remote.
Five listening devices; someone has been busy. Well
Felix, we’d better give them something to listen to
.

She crept back into the kitchen, unplugged her
digital radio and took it into the lounge, collecting the television remote on
the way. She plugged the radio in near the entrance door and held it up next to
the listening device in the light switch; she also held the remote with the
same hand. Finally she turned the radio volume control to maximum and with her
big toe flicked on the plug. The noise was phenomenal. She chuckled with
delight, imagining the person with earphones listening in at the other end -
first hearing slight movements, and trying to turn up the volume to monitor
what was going on, and then being deafened by the blast from the radio. After
ten seconds she turned the radio off.

Sorry,
she thought, thinking about the
neighbours. She then removed all the listening devices, and, after stamping on
them, threw them in the bin.

Night, night Hilton, sleep well
, she said to herself as she snuggled
under the duvet.

Friday 1
^st
June –
Saturday 2
^nd
June.

Madame Laurent drove into the
school car park at 7.30 a.m. and was surprised to see her secretary’s small
blue Fiat already parked in the far corner. Simone Laurent, the headmistress,
always arrived early at the start of each day, preferring to check everything
at the school was in order prior to the arrival of her staff.

As she stepped from the car she squinted in the
early morning sunlight and looked towards the Fiat noticing it was parked in an
odd position, as though it had been abandoned. She then saw a figure slumped inside.
She walked briskly over and was perturbed to find Patricia Gomez asleep in the
driver’s seat. Gomez was usually smartly dressed, and often appeared younger
than her age. Today her appearance was totally out of character; she was
dishevelled, her hair unkempt and her complexion pale.

Laurent tapped on the window with her car keys. “Hello,”
she shouted.

Gomez did not respond. She tapped again, only this
time much louder. Finally Gomez stirred, looking far from compos mentis.

“Are you alright, Patricia?”

Gomez appeared anything but. She shook her head and
her eyes looked glazed.

“Patricia, open the door!” Laurent demanded.

Gomez tried in vain to take hold of the handle and it
took three attempts before she finally succeeded.

“What’s the matter?” Laurent asked, sounding
concerned. The overwhelming aroma of alcohol filling her nostrils answered the
question: her secretary was completely paralytic. There were empty vodka bottles
scattered around in the back of the car and Gomez was unable to make any sense
or coordinate her movements.

Laurent shook her head in disbelief. She encouraged
Gomez to step out of the vehicle, and, struggling with the weight, managed to hold
her up against the side of the car momentarily, before she slid onto the floor,
rolling over and groaning in the process. Just as Laurent was losing patience
she noticed another vehicle driving into the car park. It was Marie Maunsell,
one of her teachers. Laurent left Gomez writhing about and rushed over to
Maunsell.

“Can you help me, Marie?” She explained the
situation and said she wanted to get Gomez into the Fiat’s passenger seat and
drive her home. “Could you follow us and then bring me back here?”

Maunsell agreed and together the two women struggled
to get Gomez off the floor. Then, frog-marching her around the car, they
unceremoniously bundled her into the passenger seat.

“She’s completely out of it, Madame,” Maunsell said.
“Has she driven to school in this state?”

“I’m not sure. Look, there are empty vodka bottles
in the back. I hope to God she didn’t drive like this.” Laurent pulled the
seat-belt tight around Gomez’s ample frame, clipped it in, then climbed into
the driver’s seat and drove the seven miles to the outskirts of Montpellier and
her secretary’s small cottage. Maunsell followed close behind.

Throughout the journey Gomez slipped in and out of
consciousness and when they arrived at the cottage she was still incapable of
walking. Consequently the two women had difficulty getting her from the vehicle
to the front door. While Maunsell pinned Gomez against the wall, attempting to
keep her upright, Laurent fumbled with the bunch of keys, trying to discover
which one fitted.

Eventually, Gomez was steered into the cottage,
which, to Laurent’s horror, stank of spilled alcohol. The threadbare carpets
and bare plaster walls were an indication of an uncared for property.

“Just look at the state of this,” Maunsell said.
“I’ve never seen a house in such a mess.”

The two women guided Gomez into the bedroom and laid
her on the bed.

“Oh my goodness,” Laurent said, spotting at an
assortment of sex toys on the sideboard and a variety of whips and restraints
hung by the wardrobe.

“Now we know what she gets up to on an evening,” Maunsell
said, looking perturbed.

“I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s get her into bed
so she can sleep it off.”

They undressed her and covered her with the duvet.

“I can’t have her turning up at work in this
condition,” Laurent said. “I’ll have to speak to her when she’s sobered up. I’d
appreciate you not saying anything to anyone at the school. I’ll ring her this
afternoon to see how she is.”

As they left the cottage they checked the windows
and doors were locked and posted the keys through the letterbox.

When Barnes walked into the
Incident Room it was later than normal, because she had spent the early part of
the morning sorting out a few additional security features at her flat. McLean
and Dudley were already there; Jacobs was on his way to France; Foster was in
Woods’ office and West was still on sick leave.

“Good morning, Maria,” McLean called out, as she
went over to her desk.

She appeared not to hear him. “Sorry, did you say
something?” she asked.

“I said good morning.”

“I’m sorry, I’m a little deaf. There was a massive
power surge last night at my flat and everything came on at full volume.” She
glanced at Dudley. “I think I’ve burst an eardrum.”

Dudley frowned.

The opportunity presenting itself was too good to
resist and she seized it. “Pete, have you seen the new vending machine on the
top floor? It does some fantastic coffees. You can get essence of
anthracyclines, paclitaxel and mitoxantrone with a sprinkling of interferons, and
just a hint of interleukin-2.” She grinned at Dudley. “Could I get you one,
Hilton?”

“What are you talking about?” McLean asked, looking
bewildered.

Dudley stood up abruptly. “I need to go out,” he
said, pulling his jacket off the chair and promptly storming off.

Barnes looked at McLean. “Poor Hilton, perhaps he
didn’t have much sleep.”

Foster appeared. “Ah, Maria, have you got a minute?”
he asked, gesturing that she should come to the office.

Barnes entered and settled on one of the stools.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday.”

“No problem,” she replied. “I’ve been thinking about
Zielinski.”

“Oh yes?”

She relayed her thoughts on why she considered him
not to be in danger.

Foster smiled. “I agree with you.”

“I’m not sure Pauline’s at risk either; from what
I’ve discovered, I don’t think Gerrard would want to harm her.”

“This might sound callous, Maria, but as she’s
paying for her own protection, I’m not too concerned. The problem we have is,
who is in danger?”

“I’ll keep digging,” she replied. “Do you know where
Dudley has gone?”

“I thought he was out there.”

“No, he just stormed off without saying a word, but
it doesn’t matter, I’ve got lots to be getting on with.”

Foster pondered. “Listen, Maria, I think placing you
under him was a big mistake. Just between you and me, I think he’s a waste of
time. I’ll tell him from now on you are reporting to me. Greg was right; you’re
a good detective.”

Bingo
. She blushed. “That’s fine by me.
If it’s okay I’ll start by checking out the people who’ve worked for Albion
Bedford.”

Foster nodded.

Dudley was once again in the
Hepworth Gallery speaking to Faulkner-Brown. “You told me to stop fretting
because you were going to concentrate on her. Well, you didn’t do a very good
job did you? She knows exactly what was in the coffee and has obviously worked
out what happened. What if she goes to the Chief Constable with the evidence?
And how long did bugging her flat last? Less than four minutes I was told. I
understand the poor chap listening in has perforated eardrums!”

“You’re losing control. You’re trained to deal with
these situations. For Christ’s sake, she’s twenty-eight years old and five-foot
nothing.”

“She’s got evidence I tried to murder Woods!”

“And whose fault is that?” Faulkner-Brown snapped,
sounding annoyed.

“I went straight to the room to retrieve the carton,
but everyone piled in and it was utter chaos. Barnes was staring at it, so I
couldn’t nonchalantly stroll over and pick it up. I was dispatched to get the
defibrillator and when I returned it had disappeared. Everyone who’d been in
the room claimed to know nothing about it. I even checked the bins.”

“Calm down. Obviously she took it and had it
analysed; we’ll need to find out where. I’ll check her movements and phone
conversations.”

“I spent yesterday evening in the flats overlooking
the Incident Room, knocking on doors, asking if anyone had been filming from
there. No-one knew anything about it, so I’m still unsure if it was her or
Woods who filmed me in the offices.”

“You need to get a grip. If she’d intended showing
the evidence to Matt Holden he’d already have it and I’d be the first to know.
I wonder if it’s Woods or the Russians she’s working with. There’s no point
placing her under surveillance; she’d easily spot a tail, especially when it takes
her seconds to discover her flat’s bugged.” Faulkner-Brown paused. “I’ll set up
surveillance on Woods and if that doesn’t bring anything to light we’ll assume
she’s with the Russians.”

“And what if she is? Trying to eliminate Freddy
Williams will be a piece of cake compared to dealing with them. Have you
considered the possibility that he may have defected?”

“He’d never do that.”

“When he was in Russia, are you absolutely sure he
wasn’t double-crossing you?”

“He wasn’t, and that’s why I’m sure he’d never
defect; we all know what went wrong, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. Now,
go back to work and do what you’re supposed to be doing; let me worry about
everything else.”

It was eighteen minutes past noon
when Foster came out into the Incident Room to update the detectives on Chris
Jacobs’ progress in France and the search for Ramírez.

Barnes, McLean and Dudley were the only ones in.

“Chris is in Lodeve with a couple of gendarmes at
the address where Ramírez was supposedly living. She’d initially changed her
identity to Patricia Gomez and lived in Algeciras, Spain, before marrying Pierre
Dupont and settling in France. Unfortunately one of the neighbours says the
Duponts separated in 2009, when Pierre took their daughter to live in Toulouse
with his mistress. The neighbour doesn’t know where Gomez stroke Ramírez went; apparently
she’d taken the breakup badly and been hitting the bottle, then she disappeared.
Chris and the gendarmes are trying to trace Pierre Dupont and he’s going to
ring back later this afternoon with an update.” Foster turned to Dudley.
“Apparently, the neighbours say another English policeman was there first thing
this morning asking the same questions. Any idea who that might have been?”

“The killer?” Dudley suggested.

Barnes shook her head. “The killer will know exactly
where Ramírez is; prior to striking he’s been watching the victims for weeks
and he’s unlikely to be at the stage we’re currently at. I’d wager it was one
of the guys in the black Maserati Quattroporte, trying to get to Ramírez first.
What do you think, Hilton?”

Dudley glanced first at Foster and then at Barnes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said unconvincingly.

Foster winked and smiled at Barnes.

It was late afternoon. Madame
Laurent was trying to contact Patricia Gomez and was about to replace the telephone
receiver when Gomez finally answered.

“Hello Patricia. It’s Madame Laurent. Are you
feeling any better?”

“I feel so ill Madame. I’ve a tremendous headache
and I’ve only just crawled out of bed.”

“Do you remember me bringing you home this morning?”

“No! Was I ill at school?”

Laurent explained and Gomez kept repeating she could
not remember any of it.

“What did you do yesterday evening, Patricia?”

“I think I might have had a drink, but I can’t
remember. The house’s a tip and I don’t know how I ended up at work. I’m really
sorry Madame. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Patricia, I thought you’d got the drinking back under
control. Obviously you’ve relapsed, you need to get help. You must go and see
the doctor.”

“Madame, I haven’t had a drink in months. I’ve no
idea what went wrong yesterday.”

“Patricia, you must go to see the doctor. I can’t
have you turning up at work in that condition. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame. I’m sorry for what happened. I’ll make
an appointment and get things back on track.”

“Good. I’ll speak to you first thing on Monday
morning - and no alcohol this weekend.” Laurent ended the call.