CXVI The Beginning of the End (Book 1): A Gripping Murder Mystery and Suspense Thriller (CXVI BOOK 1) (21 page)

Foster was out when Jacobs’
update came through and it was Barnes who picked up the call.

“Hello, Maria. Things haven’t gone as well as I’d
hoped; we traced where Pierre Dupont was living in Toulouse, but we arrived
there only to discover he’s away on holiday, camping somewhere in the South of
France. The gendarmes have organised a search for his vehicle. In the meantime
we’re trying to trace Ramírez under her original name and that of either Patricia
Gomez or Patricia Dupont. Unfortunately there’s a national strike here today
and all the government agencies and civil servant offices are closed; consequently
it’s proving difficult to get reliable information. So far we’ve come up with
nothing; I’m hoping things will improve tomorrow. In addition there’s the
possibility that she’s gone back to Spain so I’ve asked the Spanish Police to
speak to her parents and also to search for her under those three names. I’m
not expecting to hear back from them until tomorrow morning.”

“Any more news about other English policemen
involved in the search?”

“No, but I’m getting the distinct impression I’m
being followed. I keep spotting a silver BMW three series with a couple of guys
in it; I’ve asked the gendarmes to pull it over and check it out.”

Barnes thanked him for the update and confirmed she
would pass the information on to both Foster and McLean, deliberately omitting
Dudley from the list. Jacobs then ended the call.

She looked down at her watch, it was 5.48 p.m. She
needed to go home and prepare to go out running at seven; she would be altering
her route this evening and running mainly across open fields where there was
good all-round visibility.

Woods was in the White Rose
Shopping Centre located off Junction 28 of the M62 motorway. He strolled
through the busy shopping mall with his wife Pamela, while closely keeping
track of the time. At exactly 7.00 p.m. he made an excuse of wanting to look in
Carphone Warehouse and he left Pamela in Debenhams, agreeing to meet up later
in the fast food area.

When safely inside the store he positioned himself
so he could watch the passing shoppers while pretending to browse. He then took
out the unregistered phone that Barnes had provided him with, switched it on
and called her unregistered number.

“Hello,” he said, when the call was answered.

“Did you get my text?”

“Yes, no names, no locations, I understand.”

“Good, it’s important that neither the calls nor the
text identify anyone.”

“Are you sure you haven’t done this before? You
appear to be awfully clued up on things.”

“It’s common sense, that’s all. Now let me update
you.” She spent ten minutes bringing him up to speed with the day’s events,
being careful not to mention names or locations.

“We’ll have to agree some codenames,” he said,
“otherwise this is going to become extremely difficult.”

“I’ll write some suggestions down and when we next
meet you can have a look and let me know if they’re okay, but it’s. . .”

“Important that I destroy the piece of paper and
remember the names.”

“Well yes, that’s obvious. What I was actually going
to say was it is better if we still keep names and places to a minimum.”

“Understood.”

“Do you want anything from me?”

“Yes, please can you get the name and number of the
undertaker from two years ago?  In addition, I’d like to know if anyone of the
same gender and similar age went missing around that time; in particular, if
they’d also been diagnosed with a certain terminal illness. Do you understand
where I’m going with this?”

“Yes. I’ll have to hand that information over to you;
it’s too risky texting or discussing it. I’ll arrange to see you somewhere
tomorrow evening.”

“Just a minute,” Woods said, sounding concerned. “I
think I’ve spotted a shadow. I’ll have to go; take care.” He ended the call and
stared out through the store window at a tall thin man in a grey suit who he’d
spotted wandering around outside the shop. “Have you got a rear exit?” Woods
asked the store manager, flashing his ID, “I need to get out quickly; someone
I’m following has disappeared and I think they’re making a run for it.”

“Yes sir, follow me.” The obliging young man let
Woods out and locked the door behind him. Woods then sprinted around to the
front of the complex and stopped by the entrance to the supermarket, from where
he had a clear view of the Shopping Centre main entrance but was obscured from
people in the car park. He took out his normal mobile and telephoned his wife,
saying he’d been taken dizzy and gone outside for some fresh air; he asked her
to meet him by her car.

As Pamela hurried out of the building he spotted the
tall thin man in the grey suit together with another suited man following her.
He stepped behind the column to hide as the two men walked by the supermarket
entrance close behind his wife. When she reached the car she looked frantically
around and her phone rang again. “Hello darling, where the hell are you? Are
you alright?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll
explain later. I’m currently walking up the dual carriageway towards the
motorway. Can you come and pick me up?”

She jumped into the car and set off as the two men
dashed back across the car park to a black Audi A3 and sped off after her.

Woods noted the number of the Audi and waited a
couple of minutes before ringing his wife for the third time. “Everything’s
alright sweetheart. I promise you there’s nothing to worry about, but two guys
were following me. Just drive straight home. I’ll get the bus and I’ll see you
later.”

“Don’t you want me to come back and fetch you?” she
asked.

“No, do as I say,” he insisted, “I’ll be home as
soon as I can.” He terminated the call and ran across to the bus parked at the
stop. Without looking at its destination he jumped on board and held up his ID.
“Where are you heading, pal?” he asked the driver.

“Town!”

“That’ll do,” Woods said, sitting behind the driver.

It took him over ninety minutes to reach home and as
he walked down towards the house he spotted the black Audi A3 parked at the
side of the road not far from his property; he quickly ducked out of sight into
one of his neighbour’s gardens. Then, seeing a house brick — used to prop open
the gates — he picked it up, and, crouching, made his way slowly along the
conifer hedged boundary, out of sight of the men in the Audi.

When he was parallel with the car he burst out
through the hedge. BANG! He smashed the driver’s door window, reached in,
grabbed the driver by the collar and pulled him half out of the vehicle.

“The next time you two arseholes want to follow me
it won’t be a new window you’ll need, it’ll be a new face. Tell
Faulkner-Fucking-Brown that if he wants to keep working with the West Yorkshire
Police he’d better stay away from me. Understood?”

The passenger jumped out, but stopped stock-still
when he saw Woods holding his colleague’s head precariously against the side of
the door jamb. “Take it easy,” he said, “we’re only keeping watch.”

“In case someone puts crap in my coffee again?”
Woods barked.

“Let him go, please.”

“I make my own decisions; I don’t listen to people
like you.”

“Please, let him go and we’ll leave.”

Woods slowly released his grip and stepped back as
the man fell out of the window down to the floor. His partner rushed over,
picked him up and dusted him down.

“Beat it,” Woods growled.

The two men got back in the car and drove slowly
down the road.

Saturday 2
^nd
June.

I must be dreaming
. Gomez half opened her eyes and
saw moonlit trees surrounding her; she shivered as a sudden wave of cold air
wafted over her. Similar to the feeling of regaining consciousness after an anaesthetic,
she was slowly becoming aware of her surroundings. Puzzled, she lifted her head
and gasped as she realised she was sitting in her car wearing only her
underwear. It was dark. Her head pounded, her tongue seemed glued to the roof
of her mouth, she was dehydrated and felt woozy. An unpleasant smell filled the
air and, looking down, she saw encrusted vomit in her lap and on her legs. Nausea
gripped her. She wound down the window to get some fresh air but the cold blast
set her head spinning. In an instant she drifted off to sleep, only to awaken
seconds later. She shook her head from side to side and slapped her face trying
to come round.

She looked around inside the car,
Where’s my
dress?
It was nowhere to be seen. She glanced outside; again no clothing.
She saw she was parked in woodland, in a deserted, unmade parking area
surrounded by shrubs and trees.
What time is it?
Sheer panic began
sweeping over her as she tried desperately to remember how she’d arrived there.

She fought to stay focused and then the sudden
desperate urge to urinate took over; she opened the car door and stepped out,
but her legs were unable to support her and she stumbled backwards and fell
into the shrubbery. Awkwardly crouching, she managed to pull her pants down and
urinate. She had fallen near nettles, accidentally placing her hands on them,
and they were stinging as she crawled back towards the car. Dizzy and unsteady
she managed to clamber back in and close the door.

It was dark, and she estimated that it was around
4.00 a.m.; she needed to get home before she was seen. She turned the key in
the ignition; the car fired into life. She pushed down the clutch with her bare
foot — it felt cold — and engaged reverse gear, but her foot was muddy from the
escapade outside and it slipped off. The car shot backwards, jolting into a
tree. She knew she was hopelessly drunk, but her focus was to get home. She
slammed the clutch back down and selected first gear, driving kangaroo-style
out of the parking area and down the lane. She had no idea whether she was
heading in the right direction; she just needed to keep going.

When she reached the main road she instinctively
turned right, instantly feeling a surreal awareness that she was veering from
side to side. She tried to correct her direction, but each time overcompensated,
making the task impossible. The fresh air rushing in through the half open
window was helping her stay awake, but she was freezing cold and shivering.
Suddenly she realised the car’s lights were not lit, so she fumbled to switch them
on, immediately illuminating the road ahead. The relief was an adrenaline boost
as she recognised where she was: around five miles from home. All she needed to
do now was concentrate on driving and get there safely.

About two miles further down the road she reached a
small suburb with a set of traffic lights where she needed to turn right.
Focus,
and slow down
, she repeated to herself through the haze of drunkenness. She
tried to concentrate and position the car correctly approaching the lights, but
the junction appeared before she was ready. She swerved around the corner,
ignoring the red light and crashed over a bollard. The sounds of shattering
glass and metal grinding on concrete filled the car as it bounced over the
bollard’s base. It lunged back onto the road, but the steering felt heavy.
Gomez pressed on, not wanting to stop.

A
vicious cycle of nausea came and
abated, but finally Gomez felt she must vomit. As she drove she retched violently
in the foot-well and the stench of freshly spewed alcohol and the sensation of
warm puke swilling around her bare feet caused her to repeat the experience.

Undeterred, and in an effort to maintain concentration
and keep awake, she continued driving, leaning forwards and shaking her head
from side to side. She managed to drive approximately four miles without seeing
another vehicle, but her luck ran out when two bright headlights appeared in
the distance.
Please, not the gendarme.
She was lucky; it was the
milkman with his early morning delivery. As the two vehicles approached each
other Gomez crouched down trying to avoid being seen, but this made her driving
more erratic, and the image of the milkman staring at her in astonishment
became etched in her mind.

About a mile from the cottage Gomez started to think
she might manage to get home without further mishaps; but as she rounded a
right-hand bend she clipped the kerb and spun the vehicle. The car stalled. Frantically,
she tried to restart it. After four attempts it fired back into life, although,
as she drove off, there was a loud shredding sound coming from the underside. She
carried on regardless.

As she drove into her driveway she caught the garden
wall and the car shuddered to a halt. She quickly pulled the keys out of the
ignition and staggered to the cottage door, praying no-one was watching as she
fumbled with the keys; eventually she slammed the door shut behind her.
Exhausted, freezing, covered in vomit, she grabbed a coat which was hanging up
behind the door, wrapped it around her and staggered into the bedroom.

Saturday 2
^nd
June.

At 9.15 a.m. Madame Laurent
pulled up outside Gomez’s cottage and saw her secretary’s blue Fiat —
resembling a write-off — parked in the driveway. The front offside tyre was
completely flat, the bumper bashed in, one of the headlights smashed, there was
a large amount of damage to the rear and there were dints, scrapes and scratches
along both sides. Laurent raised her eyebrows and walked up to the front door.

She knocked and waited. Nothing. She knocked louder
and this time she shouted for Gomez to come to the door. Eventually the door
opened a tiny fraction, with Gomez hiding behind it. It was dark inside, so
Laurent struggled to see through the gap, but recognized Gomez’s voice when she
said hello.

“Good morning Patricia. I need to speak to you; may
I come in?”

Gomez hesitated, but agreed, and slowly the door
opened.

“Goodness, Patricia, what’s happened?” Laurent
asked, seeing Gomez in a dark brown scruffy overcoat, which was grasped tightly
at the waist to prevent it opening; her hair was untidy, her bare legs, feet
and ankles muddy, she smelled of vomit, and her complexion was pale and spotty.

“I can’t remember Madame. To tell you the truth the
past couple of days have been a complete blur.”

“You look dreadful. And what have you done to your
car?”

“I’ve no idea. I woke up this morning in woodland
and it was like that.” Gomez walked unsteadily towards the living room, holding
on to the walls, while Laurent closed the door and followed her in.

“Please excuse the mess, Madame,” Gomez said,
looking around the room. “I haven’t had time to clear up.” She flopped onto the
sofa.

Laurent looked around disapprovingly at the empty
beer and spirit bottles scattered around the floor, and, on seeing the ankle and
wrist restraints fixed to the coffee table legs, she scowled. “Patricia, I’m
sorry to have to do this, but I’ve come to tell you that you are being
suspended from school. As from today, you’re not allowed on the premises. There
will have to be a full investigation into the allegations made against you.”

Gomez looked confused and shook her head. “Why
Madame, what’s happened?”

“I’ve been sent information about sexual activities
that you’ve been participating in, and I’ve viewed footage on the internet.”

“No, Madame. I’ve done no such thing.”

“Patricia, I’ve viewed the footage; it was taken in
your bedroom and in here!” She pointed at the coffee table.

Gomez appeared dumbfounded.

“You must understand that I cannot tolerate this
sort of thing being linked to one of my employees.”

“Madame, I haven’t done anything. I swear to you.”

“I suggest you take a look at this.” Laurent handed
over a piece of paper with a web address on it. “What if one of the parents views
it and recognises you? The scandal would be dreadful. You need to get your
drinking under control and stop participating in sordid behaviour. Have you made
an appointment to see your doctor?”

Gomez shook her head. “I haven’t had time to see him
yet,” she said feebly.

“It’s essential that you receive urgent medical help
and intervention. Do you understand?”

Gomez nodded.

“Would you like me to call the doctor and get him to
come out here now?”

“No, Madame. I’ll get myself cleaned up first, and
go later this morning.”

“Right, I’ll let you know when the enquiry is. Until
then, I don’t want you in school.” Laurent shook her head and, without saying
another word, walked straight out of the cottage, closing the door behind her.

Gomez sprawled out on the sofa in
a daze, trying to come to terms with what Laurent had said. Eventually, she
pulled herself up, went over to her laptop and turned it on. It took several attempts
before she finally keyed in the correct web address; the page downloaded. A few
seconds later, footage shot in her bedroom started playing. Her jaw dropped. She
watched in horror at herself undertaking an array of explicit sexual acts. She
was mortified. It was clear that at the time she had been extremely drunk or
high on drugs, and as she watched she started to have flashbacks; deep in her
memory there were vague recollections of the sexual acts taking place and a man
encouraging her.
Oh my God, this is Gerrard Crean’s doing!!!

When the sequence ended she stared in shock at the
blank screen. She felt ashamed, distraught, but most of all angry. One thing above
all else was crystal clear: she would never work at the school again. She needed
to leave France and go home to Spain.

She went into the kitchen, picked up her mobile and
keyed in her mother’s number. “Hi, Madre, please can you come? I’m in trouble.”

“What is it? Have those men found you?”

“Yes Madre. I need to leave now, and come home with
you.”

“If I set off within the hour, it’ll be around
midnight by the time I arrive. Does that give you enough time to sort things
out? I can stay with you tonight and we can leave first thing tomorrow
morning.”

“Yes, please hurry, and bring Padre to help. I’ll
start packing now.”

Gomez ended the call. Her head still felt fuzzy, but
she was having hunger pangs; she could not remember the last time she had eaten
a proper meal. Therefore she decided to make a black coffee and cook breakfast.

Jacobs’ update came into the
Incident Room just after eleven o’clock and Foster was there to receive the
call.

“Morning,” Jacobs said. “We’ve discovered two Patricia
Gomezes living here in France and three in Spain, all with the same date of
birth as the one we’re after. In addition there are also three Patricia Duponts
living here. The Spanish Police are checking out their Gomezes’ and we’re
starting with the Duponts’. The gendarmes are either telephoning, or, if that’s
not successful, arranging for colleagues to knock on doors. We should have
answers re all eight women by early afternoon.”

“Keep me up to speed,” Foster said, replacing the
receiver. He went out, updated the others and noticed Barnes feverishly working
away on her PC. He went over to check on progress.

“Oh, sorry… I didn’t see you. I was engrossed in
this.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve checked all those who’ve worked for Bedford
and found nothing of note. However, a couple mentioned that he did a lot of
work for Crean in Russia, becoming friendly with former Komitet Gosudarstvennoy
Bezopasnosti members.”

“What?”

“The KGB. He also had dealings with the SVR, and the
FSB.”

“Oh.” Foster said, unsure what to make of it. “Is
that significant?”

Barnes madly scribbled down notes from the screen.
“It could be, perhaps I need to revisit Mr Bedford.”

“Do that,” Foster said. “Now, where’s Dudley?”

“Probably in France,” Barnes sniped.

“Aye, he’s gone to the laboratories,” McLean piped
up.

“What’s he doing there?” Foster snapped.

“Something about a lab report.”

Barnes looked up and then at her watch. “I, err,
need to pop out for an hour or so; there’s someone I’ve got to see urgently.
I’ll work into the night to catch up.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Foster said
reassuringly. “You’re working non-stop as it is.”

She acknowledged the comment and took her coat from
the rack. She went down to the car park, getting one of the pool cars, and
headed out towards the motorway.

Woods waited, sitting on the
bonnet of his car listening to the constant droning of passing motorway traffic.
His unregistered phone was switched on and he reread the text he had received
at ten o’clock while driving home from the hospital and his appointment with
the cardiologist.

Important:
Can I see you today at 11.30 a.m.

The
place where
9.80665m/sec squared

 is relevant,
and lovers meet to chat.

It must be here,
he thought, glancing at his
watch; then hearing the sound of car tyres coming up the lane he spotted
Barnes. She drew up and parked alongside his car.

“What happened yesterday evening? Were you being followed?”
she asked.

Woods nodded. “Don’t worry, they won’t be doing that
again; we had a friendly chat with a house brick and they agreed to leave me
alone. They’re nowhere to be seen this morning.”

“They tried to bug my flat.” She explained about the
listening devices and the digital radio.

“How did you know they’d been in? Did you spot
something they’d moved?”

She shook her head. “I knew the second I went to
flick on the light.”

“How?”

“The screws in the light switches are slot screws
and I have them all in the vertical position; one, so dust doesn’t collect, and
two, so I know if they’ve been tampered with.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Woods said, pulling a
strange look. “We both need to be vigilant and on guard.”

Barnes then mentioned Dudley had gone to the
laboratories. “He’ll be looking for the report on the coffee. I dropped a few
subtle hints that I knew about it. Don’t worry though, the report was written
up on the guy’s personal laptop, there’s no record of it on their systems.”

Woods stroked his chin. “Maria, maybe you should’ve
played along and not drawn attention to the fact you knew about it.”

“I disagree,” she replied indignantly. “Now they’ll
be worried about what I’m going to do with the information; it’ll unsettle them.
They could start making mistakes and ultimately assist us.”

“It’s a dangerous game you are playing. The stakes
are incredibly high.”

“Do I look bothered?” she said.

Woods shook his head. “No… And that’s what worries
me. So, what have you brought?”

She handed over two folders full of papers, saying,
“I suppose protocols are out of the window now.”

Woods smiled. “I know, but needs must. So what’s
this?”

“The name and address of Crean’s undertaker; a list
of codenames for you and I to agree on; the post-mortem report on Crean, and
finally a report on a missing person who disappeared on the day that Gerrard Crean
died.”

“You have been busy.”

“No more jokes about working through the night,
please. The missing person is Kevin Jarvis; he was from Cumbria and he’d been
diagnosed with pancreatic cancer two and a half years earlier. And he’d
supposedly won £3.5m on the lottery a month before mysteriously disappearing.”

Woods’ ears pricked up. “You’re joking.” As soon as
he said it he realised the mistake. “Sorry, I know you’re not, it was just a
figure of speech.”

“A figure of speech is an expression that uses. . .”

“I know, Maria, I know. Just tell me what you’ve
discovered.”

She tweaked her nose. “I’ve checked with Camelot and
they say no-one with that name won a substantial amount of money at that time.”

“Does he resemble Crean?”

“There was a missing persons report on the internet
which was published in his local newspaper together with a photograph — it’s in
the folder — but he’s five-foot-ten, green eyes, brown curly hair and looks nothing
like Crean.”

“I spoke to Crean’s oncologist yesterday and it’s quite
possible that he could have fraudulently obtained a false diagnosis by using a
substitute, who was already suffering with the disease. The substitute could’ve
had the blood tests and scans on his behalf. All he needed was the referral and
to know the name, address and date of birth of the person who was supposed to
be having the tests. This would clearly fool Crean’s GP and oncologist.”

“Pauline wasn’t present when any of the tests were done;
I asked her that this morning when I rang about the undertaker,” Barnes
interjected. “But she’s absolutely positive it was Gerrard in the mortuary; she
identified his body.”

“Maybe it was him, pretending to be dead. What was
the name of the pathologist?” Woods asked, fumbling through the paperwork.

“Dr Nugunda,” Barnes replied. “I’ve saved the best
till last. He’s a really shady character if ever I’ve seen one. He has an
offshore account that was set up in December 2010, exactly one month after
Crean died. There’s only been the one deposit: £750,000. Enough to buy a
fraudulent post-mortem report, perhaps.”

Woods looked astonished. “Crean isn’t dead, is he?”

Barnes shook her head. “If we find him, we find the
killer.”

Woods stood thinking. “Maria, I’m going to ask you
to bend the rules even further. And I know what I’m asking you to do could get
us both sacked, but I’ll take full responsibility and protect you to the hilt.”

“You don’t want me to mention any of this to
Foster,” she said, undeterred.