The Wages of Sin (P&R2) Read online

  ‘You know what she’s like. She knew you’d be angry if she went on her own, so she dragged me along, but I was merely a chaperone.’

  Richards came along the corridor. ‘Mr Jeffers is ready to brief us… What’s wrong, Sir?’

  ‘DI Kowalski tells me that you wouldn’t let him accompany you into the buildings.’

  Staring at her hands she said, ‘There weren’t any problems, Sir.’

  ‘If I’d thought she was in any danger…’

  ‘You wouldn’t have known, because you didn’t go in with her. In future, Ray, you’re not to listen to a word she says. You’re the DI, Richards is a trainee and lower than a snake’s belly.’

  ‘But, Sir…’

  ‘Shut up, Richards, I’ll deal with you later.’

  ‘Are we clear, Ray?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, sorry, Jed, I misjudged the situation.’

  ‘Right, Richards, let’s go and hear what Dan’s got to say for himself.’ He set off along the corridor towards the incident room.

  ‘Is that it, Sir?’

  He stopped, turned, and put his hands on his hips. ‘No, that isn’t it, Richards. I don’t want to keep Dan or the Chief waiting while I deal with you, but afterwards… afterwards you’ll wish you’d never met me, never wanted to become a trainee detective, never taken the file off me, and never…’

  ‘…fixed you up with my mum?’

  He opened the door into the incident room. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Dan, minor problem with the temporary staff. I hope Constable Richards has been looking after you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Inspector. When I’m involved cracking a code I have limited needs. Mary directed me to the canteen, the kitchen, and the toilet. What more could a man want?’

  ‘Good, so how are things going?’

  ‘Ah… Not too bad, but it’s a slow process.’

  Parish sat down at the table where Dan’s computer processed silently. ‘Sit down, Richards.’ To Dan he said, ‘Please explain?’

  ‘The killer has used a substitution code.’ He flipped to a clean page in his large notebook and wrote out the alphabet with spaces between each letter on a row, and lines between the rows. ‘Here we have our own alphabet. Now, if I substitute a number for each letter, I can use numbers to write a message.’

  ‘But only you could read it,’ Richards said. ‘Without knowing which numbers had been substituted for each letter, the message wouldn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Well done, Mary. Yes, you’re right. The person receiving the message needs to know the secret key to enable them to unscramble it.’

  ‘Have we got the secret key?’ Parish said.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not… and that’s why it’s a slow process, I’m trying to find that key. Although, my top-secret computer is making things considerably easier, there is still some work to be done. Unfortunately, from what I’ve managed to decrypt, there are a number of layers of substitution.’ He turned to another page in his notebook – full of notation in pencil – and began pointing to lines of letters. ‘First, the killer starts with his plaintext message – whatever that might be – and he substitutes each letter for another letter in the alphabet to form a cipher. Now, sometimes this substitution code is reasonably uncomplicated. That is, it follows a logical pattern - one letter is replaced by the one following or preceding it – an A becomes a B or a Z.’

  Parish nodded. ‘So far so good. Are you keeping up, Richards?’

  ‘Of course, Sir, I’m not stupid.’

  ‘That’s something we’ve still got to talk about. Carry on, Dan.’

  Richards pouted like a naughty child.

  ‘Unfortunately, your killer is a bit more sophisticated with his substitution code. I’m working backward from the ciphertext to the plaintext. Sometimes, there is one layer between the two, but sometimes, as in this case, there are a number of layers. This is the beginning of the first layer:

  YROMHRQDYVOYDKWZQVBKVPQHUK

  ‘Mmm, not very helpful.’

  ‘Without the key, it is exceptionally difficult to crack a cipher with a number of layers, but as I said we’re making headway, or at least the computer is. I should have the complete first layer by tomorrow morning, and then we’ll start on the next layer.’

  ‘You don’t know how many layers there are?’ Richards asked.

  ‘No. What the computer is doing is analysing the text based on letter frequencies. The program is going through the alphabet based on the frequency of letters in the English language until it finds a solution to the whole string. E is the most used letter, then T, then A, and so on. It also analyses digrams and trigrams and works out the probability of word matches.’

  ‘See Richards, this is cryptanalysis, not what you were doing with the messages in your bedroom.’

  Dan looked at Richards. ‘You thought you’d have a bash at solving them yourself, Constable?’

  Richards’ face turned red. ‘I was only looking at them, I wasn’t really trying to solve them.’

  ‘Stop re-writing history, Richards,’ Parish said.

  ‘You’re so mean, Sir, you said you wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘Like your profession, Inspector, we also suffer our share of armchair experts, but I’m afraid that cryptanalysis long ago by-passed the amateur puzzle sleuth. Now, not only does one need knowledge of linguistics, but also of pure mathematics such as integer factorisation.’

  Parish checked his watch. It was twenty-five past five. ‘Thanks very much for explaining where you’re up to, Dan. I have another meeting to go to now, but Constable Richards will run you back to the hotel, and then pick you up at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Am I not coming to brief the Chief, Sir?’

  ‘No, you’re running Dan back to the hotel, driving back here to sign the pool car back in, and then I’ll take you home.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Do I have to repeat myself, Constable?’

  She looked at him with a hurt expression. He hadn’t called her “Constable” since the first week they’d started working together. ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you in the morning, Dan.’

  ‘I’m sure that tomorrow will produce the first plaintext message.’

  ‘Oh, one last thing before you go, Dan.’ He pulled out the photographs of the graffiti tag from the two crime scenes. ‘Have you any idea what that means?’

  ‘Ah… Now I can be of some use. Exodus 3: 13-15. “I Am That I Am.” Thus spoke God to Moses when asked for his name. It is a Hebrew Tetragrammaton for the name of the God of Israel – YHWH – the modern pronunciation is Yahweh.’

  ‘Is that what I missed at the crime scenes, Sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was in no mood to be pleasant to Richards. The more he thought about what could have happened to her, the darker his mood became. He’d let her get away with too much, because she was such a lovely person, because he was living with her and Angie, because she cared about people. Well, it was time to put her in her place, time to rein her back in before something did happen and he had to explain to her Mother why he hadn’t looked after her.

  ‘So, it is religious then,’ Richards said close to tears.

  ‘Thanks, Dan. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Good night, Inspector.’

  Ignoring Richards, he left the incident room.

  ***

  ‘Come in, Parish.’

  He opened the door. ‘One of these days you won’t know it’s me knocking, Chief.’ He sat down and helped himself to a coffee from the pot on the table.

  ‘You’re talking about the day that hell is scheduled to freeze over, aren’t you? Where’s Richards?’

  ‘In the shit, that’s where Richards is.’ He told the Chief about her visiting the crime scenes with Kowalski while he was off.

  ‘Surely you should be talking to Kowalski?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve spoken to Kowalski, but Richards thinks she
can get anything she wants by batting her eyelashes. Well, I’m bringing her back down to earth. Call it a lesson in humility, Chief.’

  ‘Don’t crush her enthusiasm, Parish. She’s young, eager to please, and I would say she’s a rough diamond that just needs cutting and polishing to shine like a star.’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Chief, I won’t destroy her enthusiasm. I just don’t want her to think she can do what she pleases, and then get herself into trouble. She has to realise that I’m in charge, and she can’t go putting herself in harm’s way unless there’s a damn good reason. How did the outpatient’s appointment go?’

  The Chief gave a laugh. ‘Richards wouldn’t let me go into the consulting room on my own in case I got bad news and then came out and lied about it.’

  ‘She’s got a nerve. So, what did you do?’

  ‘I had to let her come in with me.’

  Parish grunted. ‘And I bet she gave the doctor the third degree?’

  ‘The way she interrogated him, I think he thought he’d been brought in for questioning in relation to a serious crime.’

  ‘So, are you still clear of the cancer?’

  ‘I’m still clear. He checked for lumps and bumps, and took blood samples for analysis, but I feel good.’

  ‘That’s excellent, Chief.’

  ‘I saw the press conference, and I think they appreciated your honesty. How’s it gone today?’

  He described his visits to the two crime scenes, showed the Chief the photographs of the Tetragrammaton, and told him what Dan Jeffers had said.

  ‘Looks like the same coloured paint, and the same handwriting. You think the killer wrote these?’

  ‘I’m almost certain. It’s too coincidental that they should be at both crime scenes.’

  ‘Which then suggests that there’s a religious motive to these murders?’

  ‘Possibly, but I don’t want to jump in with both feet. Before we start looking for a religious nut, I think we should find out what the messages say. Hopefully, Dan will solve the first one tomorrow, and then we’ll know where we stand.’

  ‘Dr Jeffers is only here for two days isn’t he?’

  ‘We might have to extend his stay, but if he does have to go back to GCHQ maybe he can take the second message with him and fax us the plaintext when he’s solved it. It could certainly save us some money in hotel costs. He doesn’t really need to be here to help us.’

  ‘I like the idea about saving money, Parish. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.’

  ‘As for Richards, I don’t know yet how she got on…’

  The Chief held up his hand to stop Parish talking. ‘I know exactly how she got on, she told me this afternoon on the way to the hospital. She says she’s reduced the released prisoner list to three suspects, she sent the Graphologist photocopies of the messages, and the woman will be coming into the station at ten in the morning.’

  ‘I didn’t…’

  ‘No, but I said she could fax the copies over. Let’s face it, they’re just gobbledegook until they’ve been decrypted.’

  ‘I suppose so… At least Richards asked for your permission before she faxed the messages.’

  ‘She’s not all bad, Parish.’

  Parish drank the last of his coffee and stood. ‘So, that’s where we are at the moment, Chief. Moving forward, but not very fast or far.'

  ‘Thanks for coming in, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Goodnight, Chief.’

  ***

  Richards sat at her desk waiting for him and looking like a child banished to the naughty corner.

  ‘Sir…’

  ‘Stop talking, Richards and listen.’ He sat on the edge of her desk. ‘Imagine if you will a dark and rainy night. I let myself into 38 Puck Road in Chigwell with a feeling of dread, because I have to tell your Mother that you’re lying on a stainless steel table in the mortuary.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I have to tell her that it’s my fault you’re lying there all bloody and cold, your clothes in tatters, defiled, gutted like a fish… That Doc Michelin can’t force himself to look at your broken body.’

  ‘Sir…’

  ‘…And all because I didn’t train you properly, I didn’t stress the importance of a back-up, of following orders, of asking for permission, of thinking about the consequences of your actions…’

  He went quiet.

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ she said so softly he thought he was hearing things.

  Turning, he banged the table with his fist and made her jump.

  ‘If you ever…’

  ‘I won’t, Sir.’

  ‘Right, that’s an end to it. Let’s go home.’

  They walked along the corridor, down the stairs, and across the car park to his car.

  ‘You won’t tell my mum will you, Sir?’ Richards asked once they were in the car with the doors closed and the engine warming up.

  ‘I won’t tell your mum, and I hope I never have to tell her anything bad has happened to you either.’

  ‘Was Terry Reynolds okay, Sir?’

  ‘Yes he was. So, you found out where I went?’

  ‘I’m a trainee detective, aren’t I?’

  ‘By the skin of your teeth after today, Richards, by the skin of your teeth.’

  ***

  Trevor Naylor threw the empty whiskey bottle against the living room wall of his five-bedroom detached house in Collier Row on Hog Hill Road, but instead of it smashing the bottle bounced, fell onto the carpet, and rolled under the antique sideboard.

  The LCD HD-Ready 50-inch flat screen television droned softly in the background – some stupid murder mystery in a quaint village.

  He took a swallow of the whiskey in his glass and stared at the photograph of his wife Katie and their two children – seven-year-old Chloe and ten-year-old Christian. The bitch had taken them and left three months ago because he’d forced her to have sex with him. Fucking bitch, that’s what wives were for, wasn’t it? Who was she to refuse him anything? Didn’t he bring home the bacon? If he wanted to do something different, then it was her duty to accommodate him. A man had marital rights, didn’t he? A good beating never hurt his mum. She looked after his Father, made him happy, did whatever he wanted. Women today had too many rights, too many airs and graces. They needed to be put back in their place. Men were kings in their own castles, and women had to understand that, or suffer the painful consequences.

  Well he’d show her. The private detective he’d hired had said he was following a lead. He’d find them, and then he’d remind her who the king in this castle was. After all the years they’d been married, all the times he’d hit her and apologised. Surely she must have known that he loved her, that she’d break his heart if she left. And taking the children – that was the final nail in her coffin. After he’d finished with her, no one would recognise she was a woman, never mind his wife. The bitch was dead meat.

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her for fuck’s sake. He’d said to her on numerous occasions, ‘If you ever leave me, I’ll find you, and kill you.’ Yes, he’d given her ample warning. What type of man would he be if he didn’t follow through on his promise? As for the kids, well he couldn’t take them with him to wherever it was he was going – the little bastards would be a millstone around his neck. The Americans called it collateral damage. Those fucking Americans had a name for everything. He’d find another woman, have more kids. Women were two a penny anyway. He’d be better off on his own, more freedom, less chance of being found, and more chance of disappearing.

  First though, Katie and the kids – and let’s not forget Parish. That snivelling bastard would get his that was for sure. Nobody stabbed Trev Naylor in the back and lived to brag about it.

  He took another belt of the neat whiskey, but he was holding the glass so tight it smashed. The liquid sprayed over his shirt, a sliver of glass pierced the ball of his thumb, and blood oozed from the wound.

  ‘Shit!’ The thought of Parish always made him so fucking a
ngry. He got up and went through to the kitchen. The place was a pigsty. Katie should be here cleaning up after him. Instead she’d run away, and the house looked and smelled like a landfill site. Oh, he’d make her pay. Before he killed her, she’d wish she were dead. She’d beg him to end the pain, terminate her life.

  The doorbell rang. He wrapped the tea towel around his bleeding left hand, and went to answer it.

  Lucy had long blonde hair, blood-red lips, and wore a leather coat that barely hid the young voluptuous body underneath. He licked his lips, and thought of the advantages to Katie and the kids not being there.

  ‘Trevor Naylor?’

  ‘Come in, Lucy, I’ve been waiting for you.’

  Yes, there were certainly advantages to being single. He needed a shower, and Lucy could scrub his back like Katie used to do. Then he’d show her who the man of the house was. He was already getting a hard-on at the thought of what he was going to do to her.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday 3rd March

  Parish’s mobile vibrated on the bedside table and Digby growled on the floor next to the bed. He opened his eyes and stared at the digital clock. It was three forty-five. Angie was on night duty, so he switched the light on. Sliding out from beneath the quilt, he sat up and picked up his phone.

  ‘Parish?’

  ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of…’

  ‘Get on with it?’ he said to the faceless female voice at the other end in despatch.

  ‘Sorry, Sir. A woman has gone missing.’

  ‘At quarter to four in the morning?’

  ‘Her boyfriend has been trying to find her since one o’clock.’

  ‘Okay, give me the details?’

  After the call had ended he went into the en-suite bathroom and washed his face, brushed his teeth, and spiked his hair with gel. He then returned to the bedroom, and put yesterday’s clothes on. With Digby following him, he eased onto the landing and shut the door.