Retributions: Don’t Tell Me It’s Another Bloody E-mail

By Chris Graham

An explosion in an empty bookshop, that harms nobody, is followed by a string of murders that have no apparent motive to connect them to each other. The method of killing varies between them, and apart from those who are murdered together, none of them are known to each other.

Yet all of them are being claimed by the same killer, in a series of e-mails sent to the investigating officers.

Each new murder raises more questions than answers for the police who are investigating them.

Why are they being chosen as victims?

What kind of victim will the killer choose next?

Who is targeting these people so accurately, whilst taking such extreme care to avoid any accidental victims?

And what have they all done to incur his obvious displeasure?

Read 'Retributions' to find out...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Graham
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370184491

Chris Graham

Chris GrahamBiker: Professional driver: Man with his eyes and ears wide open, and a very good imagination: that's author Chris Graham, summed up in just a few words.His work and play have brought him into contact with a wide range of people from all levels of the social spectrum. His keen eye for those little nuances of character, and a good ear for the language and speech patterns that define people so well, have allowed him to populate his writing with such a varied, recognisable, and entirely believable, cast.His eye for detail and his appreciation of 'place', as he absorbed his surroundings in the towns, villages, and the countryside that he visited, gave him somewhere for that cast of characters to inhabit.Put these together with his wide interests in many things, a few situations that really happened to either himself or people he knew, along with, of course, his own imagination, and you get the kind of plots that make his 'Lena's Friends' crime novels what they are.Get to know these, often flawed, characters. Then like them. Disagree with them. Even despair of them at times.Recognise the places, or feel as if you do, even if you've never been to them before. Understand those situations that, almost certainly, you have never been in... and some that are so normal that everyone is familiar with. But most of all, enjoy the journey that the books will take you on.

Book preview

RETRIBUTIONS

Don’t tell me it’s another bloody e-mail

A story of one man’s misguided crusade against disrespect.

Another ‘Lena’s Friends’ crime novel.

By Chris Graham

© 2016

Published by Ex-L-Ence Publishing at Smashwords.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters in this work and any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as representing or expressing the views and policies of any department or agency of any government, Church, or other body.

All trademarks used are the property of their respective owners. All trademarks are recognised.

The right of Chris Graham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold 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.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

1 - Widdershins

2 - Visitors and travellers

3 - Rituals

4 - Harvest

5 - Journeys

6 - Feelings, beliefs, and fears

7 - Artwork

8 - Then another one

9 - The error, and the apology

10 - Some answers, but more questions

11 - Passengers

12 - Discoveries

13 - Away

14 - Back on land

15 - Face to Face

16 - Closure

And Now

1 - Widdershins

Twickenham, West London 2014.

The young man cursed at the ringing phone. He’d been picking out a new tune on his guitar and the sound of the phone had disturbed his train of thought. He put his instrument to one side and picked up the handset.

Hello?… Oh Hi Mike… as it’s you, I won’t bollock you for spoiling my muse… I was writing a new number for the band… How’s tricks?

His caller sounded excited, It’s great news Tilly… Haven’t you heard?… that video’s gone viral… Dennison’s just called me, he wants to rush out a single.

What?… No… A fucking single?… He’s got to be joking, surely… Then what?… a guest spot on some kids’ TV show on CBBC or ‘Nickelodeon’?… That’s just not us… we’re not bloody ‘One Direction’ for Christ’s sake.

Kevin Tillotson, or Tilly as he was also known to his friends, was confused. He’d been a part of the band since its inception, when they’d all been students, and throughout those five years they had always considered themselves to be a serious band.

Oh come on, Tilly… Don’t you want to be big?… Make money?… Be a rock star?

I’m not sure I want to be a ‘pop’ star, Mike. We do OK, don’t we?

Their band, ‘Nommo’, did better than OK on the local circuit and sold a fair few of the CDs that they produced to sell at gigs. A new one was made every year, but they’d never really thought of cutting a single. Singles were for the charts. It wasn’t them. It wasn’t what they did.

But, we could do so much better than just OK… Really we could. We don’t have to change. We’d still be Nommo.

Nommo were essentially a live band, but as far as recording went, they were an album band, even if the albums that they made annually on their own independent label, were only bought by the fans who went to their live performances.

Yeah… but our fans?

Yes Tilly… Our fans. We’d get even more of them if we got the exposure from a single… then we could play bigger venues.

Tillotson wasn’t sure, But do our fans want to see us in bigger venues, Mike?

Well, we’re playing bigger venues now, bigger than we started out in… It used to be just boards over a couple of pallets in the corner of a pub… Then it was clubs an’ pubs with a function room with a small stage, and now it’s bigger clubs, college halls, town halls, even theatres… an’ our fans still come.

Mike was quite right. The band had a good sized, and growing, following of extremely loyal fans, but unfortunately those fans liked to feel exclusive, as if Nommo were their own little secret that they didn’t want the rest of the music listening public to know about.

They felt like a community, a brother and sisterhood, who went about their normal lives in the same world as everybody else until it was time for the next gig, when they would all come together for the band.

There were always plenty of new faces at any of the gigs, but they’d been brought along by the cognoscenti to introduce them to their special music. Most of the newcomers then came back again, seduced by the whole oneness of it all and the feeling that they were as special as the band.

They soon learnt all the lyrics and sang along to the band’s mostly self penned repertoire, getting as excited as the old stagers when a brand new number was introduced into the set. And so, the community grew.

Maybe, Mike… but our audience is as much a part of the entertainment as all of us performers on the stage. The charts? They’re for pop fans… Kiddies, for fuck’s sake. He shook his head, No… our fans don’t consider themselves to be pop fans, they’re ‘Nommo’ people.

But they’d still be Nommo people, Tills… Just there’d be more of ’em.

Tilly wasn’t sure how their loyal fans would react to Nommo releasing a single, especially if it got into the charts and became a part of the outside world.

Oh come on… Singles are made by pop stars, or those who aspire to being pop stars, Mike. Singles are for the fresh faced… or more often spotty faced… youths in ‘boy bands’, he shrugged, That ain’t us… We don’t appeal to those impressionable young teenage girls who’ve seen a bunch of talentless pretty boy clothes horses on a TV show… and now idolise them. Bloody ‘boy bands’… They’re not serious musicians like us.

No mate… But plenty of big name, an’ big earning, bands are… You’re not sayin’ all the bands that sell aren’t proper musicians, surely?

Singles and chart success might make us money in the short term, but for how long?… Eh, Mike?… Tell me that.

But the ones that are real musicians, are the ones who carry on selling… Look at the fuckin’ Stones. They’ve been coining it in for half a fuckin’ century… an’ Fleetwood Mac were makin’ a mint for years, but they both started out playin’ little venues. My dad used to go to Fleetwood Mac gigs in pubs… That’s where he met Mum.

Was this the beginning of a new era of prosperity? Or could it turn out to be nothing more than a slippery slope to the end for the band? Kevin Tillotson wasn’t sure that he was ready to ask those questions yet. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to hear the answers. He hoped that his friend had been misinformed.

Mike… are you really sure?… Us?… Releasing a single?… You sure you haven’t been on the weed?… or if it’s Dennison’s idea, then has he been indulging in the old nose candy again?… It’s just not what we’re about. Unseen by his caller, Kevin shook his head in disbelief, but Mike was already assuring him that it was perfectly true.

No, Tilly… honest… it’s not a figment of any drug addled mind… Tilly interrupted.

Hang on… You said something about a video… What fucking video. We’ve never shot a video. So where did this video spring from?… What’s fucking Dennison been up to now?

Mike explained, One of the fans shot some half decent footage at the Greyhound gig, and then bunged it on to ‘You tube’… Haven’t you seen it?… Anyway… somehow, it’s gone viral… everyone’s talkin’ about it… everyone’s talkin’ about us!… ‘Nommo’ are the new thing… Dennison’s really serious about cashing in on it with a single, an’ if it goes OK… a tour. Tilly could sense the barely contained excitement on the other end of the line as his friend continued, He says that we could easily do that… we’re experienced giggers… we do it all the time, so we don’t need to practise our live performances… We simply go out there and do it in one take anyway… we don’t need any ‘Auto-Tune’… and let’s face it, those CDs we put out needed virtually no remixing… it’s all done on the desk as we lay the tracks down… just like they used to do it in the good old days… Anyway… I’d better hang up. Dennison’s probably tryin’ to call you. You can argue it out with him, OK?… Bye, Tilly… See yer soon.

The Dennison that they’d both referred to was Roy Dennison, Nommo’s manager, though all he normally had to do was deal with the bookings and get the posters printed. Occasionally he’d have to book the accommodation and deal with interviews for local radio and press, when they were playing somewhere further away from home than the Greater London area.

Now though it looked like he was going to have to be a proper manager to the band. At least as a professional music and theatrical agent, he was in the right business.

The band themselves all had their own incomes to earn, though as only one had a ‘proper’ job with an employer, albeit his father who owned a shop, this might not prove to be a problem.

Three of the band played professionally as jobbing session musicians. The drummer was a self-employed driver, as was their regular roadie, with whom he shared the driving duties.

The band themselves could easily cope with the tour, and they already had enough suitable material in the can to select a single from, but Tilly was still unsure about taking the risk of alienating their loyal fans.

It might have worked out OK for the Stones, and for Fleetwood Mac, who’d abandoned the purity of their Peter Green days when they were essentially a blues band, for more commercial middle of the road stardom. Though even as a blues based outfit, they’d already had a few chart successes. Their kind of music was popular enough at the time.

Unfortunately though, for every Rolling Stones, and Fleetwood Mac, there were a thousand one hit wonders who no longer performed together, either live or in the studio.

Kevin Tillotson feared that this might be the beginning of the end for the Nommo he’d known and worked so hard for over the last half decade.

* * *

Bristol, West of England.

The Reverend Ian Motson stretched himself and yawned loudly, as he sat on the edge of his bed. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of striped boxer shorts and a T shirt bearing an image of Judy Garland. The shirt had been a gift from a friend but Motson would only wear it around the vicarage, or as night attire. Some things were just that one small stereotype too far, even for him.

He didn’t like to make a point of his sexuality, even though he didn’t hide it from anyone. All of his friends and acquaintances, including his parishioners, were quite aware that he was gay, though not very actively so. Any liaisons that he might have had were always extremely discreet.

Very few of his people, though, realised that he was also an atheist and had been for his whole career as a clergyman. He had never believed in God. Strangely, it had not been a problem. By keeping it quiet, he had still been able to be a popular and effective vicar for many years, providing comfort, advice, and support to his parishioners in a difficult inner city parish.

He picked up a cup from the bedside cabinet and swallowed the remaining dregs of his now tepid tea before almost jumping out of his skin with surprise at a deafening bang that shook the whole building. The bedside lamp went out, casting the room into darkness.

Ian stood up and felt his way along the wall to the bedroom door and opened it. There was a little early dawn light coming through the east facing window that allowed him to find his way to the bathroom where he lit the remains of a scented candle.

He could hear no untoward noises from within the house and there were no smells of smoke or electrical burning so he relaxed a little, assuming the bang had been outside. He initially thought it was most probably only kids with a firework. The possibility of a gunshot had crossed his mind as his wasn’t the most peaceful parish in the city, though he’d heard shots before and this had been a lot louder. He wondered then why it should have cut off the power, before concluding that the bang may have been something to do with the electricity substation just around the corner.

Holding the bannister for guidance, with the bathwater contaminated candle providing a sputtering intermittent light, he carefully made his way down the stairs to the kitchen where he kept a battery powered camping lantern for such power outages. It wasn’t till after he’d switched it on that he noticed that the digital LED display on his microwave oven was illuminated.

He reached for the switch on the wall and turned the light on, muttering a single word under his breath.

Prat! followed by, You fucking dipstick, Motson. He went back up to the still darkened bedroom, turned on the main light with the switch on the wall then went over to the bedside lamp. It was one of those that had some sort of movement or proximity sensor and only required a hand to be passed close to it to switch it on or off. He waved a hand at the lamp and it lit up. It had obviously been the shock of the bang that had caused it to turn off. He went to the window and pulled aside the thick curtains to see the glow of flames along the street and the flicker of blue flashing lights appearing from the top of the road accompanied by the first sounds of sirens.

Motson dressed hurriedly in jeans and a black T shirt, slipping his clerical collar around his neck almost as an afterthought, then ran down the stairs. Grabbing a fleece jacket from the hook in the hall, he went out of the front door to see if his presence was required. He had long ago learned that even if he himself didn’t believe some of the comforting words he gave to victims and the bereaved, many of them still got very real comfort from them. It was their own belief that really counted in these situations. If he could help them, even just by being there, then it was his duty to do so.

It was only as he began to run down the street that he realised that it was the recently re-opened ‘alternative’ bookshop that was burning. He breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that at present there was no one living in the building as the flats above the shop were being gutted. The new owner of the business, a Mr. Walter Southwell-Browne, was intending to ‘live above the store’, as the Americans would say, but by combining the two flats into one luxury dwelling, he’d be living in a little more comfort than the formerly cheap bedsit accommodation that had been there previously would have provided.

It was now apparent that even more renovation was going to be needed before he could move in, along with a lot of replacement stock for the shop. It would be a while before it would be able to supply the demand for reading matter on such diverse subjects as alternative religion, astrology, UFOs, and magic, spelled both with or without a ‘K’ on the end. They also specialised in the kind of recipe books that might appeal to the esoteric tastes of its clientèle, or to those who used the vegetarian wholefood café next door.

Already the street was beginning to fill up with early morning passers-by and curious residents, some wearing slippers and dressing gowns, other, hardier types, still in their nightwear. The couple of police officers present were having their work cut out persuading them to stay back from the wrecked shopfront.

Ian could only assume that the early morning blast that had taken him by surprise had been a gas explosion of some sort, as he could think of no motive whatsoever for anyone to want to bomb the place, especially as the premises was no longer anything to do with the local gay, lesbian and trans-gender support group. They now used a room in one of his church’s buildings for their office rather than the first floor flat over the ‘Out There’ bookshop.

The café next door, however, may have been another matter. He hadn’t been impressed when he’d eaten there at the invitation of a vegetarian friend. He could easily imagine someone dedicated to quality cuisine, or to any kind of food that tasted good, wanting to blow the place up. His visit had shown him just how much dedication to their cause some vegetarians actually had.

* * *

A tall man turned away from watching the comings and goings of the police and the fire service before walking across the road to where a mountain bike was chained to the railings. He unlocked the cycle and mounted it.

After checking the way was clear, he crossed the street again so that he was on the correct side of the road and pedalled silently away from the scene. At the end of the side street, he turned left onto the main road into the early morning traffic and was lost from sight. At least he would have been, had someone actually been watching him.

As it was, neither his presence, nor his leaving, had been noticed by anyone. He seemed to have some kind of special ability that enabled him to blend into his surroundings and mingle with those around him completely unnoticed, despite his striking physique and his military bearing.

If anyone had been paying him any attention, they just might have noticed, if they were particularly observant, that he was never facing the same way for very long, and that he would have been aware of what was going on all around him at all times.

Regardless of this, he didn’t appear at any time to be deliberately keeping watch or even to be consciously looking around him. Sometimes, the most apparently noticeable person could, with the right skills, easily become the invisible man.

* * *

Motson’s attention was caught by something flapping in the breeze in front of him. It was on the same side of the road as he was walking, right opposite the burning shop. He walked up and pulled a scrap of torn cardboard from the railings it had been impaled on, before thinking to himself that perhaps the police might have preferred it left as it was, for the scene of crime officers to examine. It was a part of the display that he remembered seeing in the front window of the shop.

The display had been showcasing a new imprint of books that a publisher had been promoting. They were all about the UFO phenomenon and other related subjects. The books had ranged from older, previously out of print titles that the publishers had obtained the rights to, through to writing by newer authors on more recent mysteries, or those that had only recently come to light. These were mostly about sightings by police or by pilots and other military personnel that had only come into the public domain after the reports had been released under the thirty year rule.

Ian smiled as he remembered an elderly parishioner who had been up in arms a year or so ago when the church hall had been hired for a series of illustrated lectures on crop circles, flying saucers, and other subjects believed by some to involve extra-terrestrials. She’d been insisting that it was an ‘ungodly’ use of church facilities, and had made sure that anyone who would listen knew how she felt about it.

Sadly, she was no longer with us, having passed on a few months later at a ripe old age. Ian had been rebuked at the time by one of his colleagues for flippantly suggesting, after officiating at her funeral, that she might get a bit of a surprise if she met her maker and he turned out to be small, and a rather fetching shade of green.

* * *

The man finished his cup of coffee and rinsed the cup out under the tap before putting it into the plastic drainer beside the kitchen sink.

He walked out to the communal hall area, where the payphone hung on the wall just inside the front door. After putting on a pair of thin disposable cotton gloves, he took a phone book down from the shelf. Dust and dead insects showered him as the clearly rarely used book trailed dry cobwebs when he removed it. Pausing for a moment, he listened. He thought he’d heard a noise coming from one of the upper flats, then realised that the sound had been coming from outside. He’d been sure the building would be empty, as the residents, all being students, were away for the break.

After looking up a number, he picked up the phone and dialled. He was answered and eventually connected to the person he’d asked for who gave him the information he required.

After ending his call he let himself back into the flat, using a supermarket loyalty card to slip the latch. He made himself another cup of instant coffee before sitting down to the computer in the bedroom where he took a memory stick, from his pocket. He put the gloves on again before turning on the machine. Within seconds, he’d logged on using the owner’s easily guessed password. He put the memory stick into the computer’s USB port then using his unwitting host’s e-mail account he sent a message that had been previously prepared and stored on the stick.

He closed down the computer, removed the storage device then finished his coffee, before taking his cup back to the kitchen where he washed it thoroughly and left it to drain. After quickly checking around the place, wiping anything he might have touched with his bare fingers, he let himself out of the flat, making sure the door had latched properly behind him.

Opening the street door of the building, he was surprised at how light it was now the Sun was up. It had only seemed like minutes ago that he’d been arriving in the pre-dawn gloom. Closing the front door behind him, he locked it with a key.

He unchained his bicycle from the railings, carefully stowing the lock in its nylon pouch behind the saddle. After zipping up his jacket, he threw a leg casually over the bike, glanced over his shoulder, and rode off into the slowly moving stream of vehicles. A few hundred yards further down the road, he stopped momentarily at the kerb and let the key to the building drop into a drainage grating. Any sound that it made was swallowed up by the noises of the passing traffic

* * *

Wilson entered the office to an unexpected cheer from his team. He saw the Superintendent step forward with an unfamiliar grin on his face.

Sorry, Nick… This was supposed to be an announcement, but this lot are better detectives than I gave them credit for.

Nick Wilson nodded, Yes sir… They occasionally have their moments. He smiled at the assembled officers, surprised that most of his team were already at their desks, Does this mean? He paused, unsure how to continue.

The Super grinned at him. Nick wasn’t sure whether it was a good look or not.

Yes Nick… Your team guessed correctly, you are now officially Detective Chief Inspector Wilson. The Super stretched his hand out to the new DCI. Wilson took it and shook it.

Thank you, Sir… I… er… he looked down at his feet, unsure what to say, before looking back up and continuing, Sorry… Yes… Just thank you. I’m sure this lot won’t let it go to my head. There was a ripple of laughter. A voice in the crowd called out mockingly.

Why not, Guv?… Why change the habits of a lifetime?… You’ll still be our same old gobby guvnor. The laughter increased.

The Superintendent simply smiled. He knew that Wilson’s outspoken manner had been partly to blame for the delays to his promotion. It was a shame as he was a good copper, but sometimes that wasn’t enough.

Right then, Nick… I’ll leave you to sort out your team… I’ve got a briefing with the Mayor’s office this morning. He turned to go, then over his shoulder, Again… Congratulations, and good luck Nick. You deserve it. As he left the room, Wilson mumbled a barely audible acknowledgement as a phone rang. An officer answered it.

Hello?… Anderson… OK Lucy, I’ll pass it over. He turned to Wilson, I guess this is for you, Nick.

DCI Nick Wilson took the phone from his colleague, DC Steve Anderson, then had one more slurp of his coffee before putting the handset to his ear.

Yeah?… Wilson speaking… what can I do for you? He listened to the caller, who’d specifically asked for him as ‘the officer in charge’, Whoah… hang on there… slow down a bit… I haven’t a clue what you’re on about, He glanced across to Anderson, raising his eyebrows and making a questioning expression whilst listening to the caller, Yes… I am the senior detective officer on duty this morning… Why?… Yes of course we have… why? He looked puzzled, OK… Hold on a second. Nick turned to Steve, Steve… what e-mail address do we use here?… This bloke wants to send us some info… specifically for us… something to do with a shop. Steve reeled off an e-mail address, Wilson repeated it to the caller then hung up.

So… what was that all about, Nick?… Some kind of headcase… d’you reckon? Nick Wilson finished the rest of his coffee before answering.

Haven’t a clue, Steve… Dunno why he couldn’t have asked you, either… just wanted the senior officer, I s’pose… some people are like that… eh?… Did you notice the strange way that he was talking, though?… Very strange choice of words, a bit, kind of, old fashioned sounding, if you know what I mean. Anderson nodded.

Yeah… kind of… err… ‘correct’. I know exactly what you mean… as if it’s not his first language, right?

Wilson agreed, Yeah… but he’s fluent in English still… and with a neutral accent. The phone rang again, the younger officer picked it up.

Hello?… Anderson… can I help? he smiled, Oh… Hi Brian… How’s it going?… What?… you sure ’bout that, mate?… OK… I’ll tell him… You’ll let us have anything you get?…Cheers, see you Brian… Bye.

Nick looked up, Brian?… Brian Osborne, from the fire station? Steve nodded, Nick continued, What’d he want?

That explosion this morning… the bookshop down near St. Paul’s… it wasn’t gas…

Wilson interrupted him, A bomb?… in a fucking hippy bookshop?… an uninhabited fucking hippy bookshop at that?… He let out a barely suppressed laugh, …they’re sure?

Steve answered him, nodding, Yeah Guv… so the Fire Brigade’s investigators reckon… at least from their initial examination… it certainly wasn’t a gas leak, the gas mains were still intact and they found some suspicious burn patterns in the debris that they’re analysing…

Nick butted in, Hang on… that call just before… He said it was to do with a shop, didn’t he?

Steve nodded, So you said, Guv.

No known drug connections, are there? Wilson was making the obvious link between hippies and drugs though the closest the shop had ever come to the world of illicit substances was the odd book on counter cultures or on growing your own cannabis and picking magic mushrooms. An’ I’m guessing there’s no local turf war that they’ve got themselves involved in… or we’d have been told about it, right?

No… not that I’ve heard of, Guv… The new owner’s certainly clean, he’s been checked out thoroughly, and historically we’ve had no suspicions of anything like that with any of the previous owners… As the shop’s name suggests, it’s not so much about getting spaced out, as about space aliens. They’re into more other worldly things like weirdo religions and them ‘ET’ conspiracies… Y’know… flyin’ saucers an’ all that stuff… with the odd bit of mysticism an’ witchcraft thrown in for good luck… The two detectives were interrupted by a PC with a sheet of paper in her hand.

DCI Wilson… Guv… e-mail for you… I hope you can make something of it… it makes no sense to me. Wilson took the sheet from her.

Cheers love… What’s this? He looked at the e-mail. On it was a circle of letters like one of those anagram puzzles from the newspapers, accompanied by a grainy photo of the bookshop that had been blown up earlier that day. The picture looked like it was taken at night at the very edge of a digital camera’s or mobile phone’s low light capabilities.

Well?… What is it? asked Anderson.

Nick Wilson looked at it. The letters in the circle were ‘G’, ‘O’, ‘N’, ‘D’, and ‘O’. He shook his head and passed it to DC Anderson.

From that weird bloke on the phone, d’you reckon?… any ideas what it’s all about?

Steve looked at it and shrugged, No… search me… fuck knows what it means, Guv. He looked again, Some kind of code, d’you reckon? Nick made a face, shaking his head.

Dunno mate… ’cept it’s obviously to do with that shop bomb… but it hardly takes Stephen Hawkings to work that much out… there’s a fuckin’ picture of the place.

Anderson grinned at him, There’s only one of him, Guv.

Nick looked across at him, Eh?… what the fuck are you on about?… one of who?

Steve laughed, Stephen Hawking, Guv… It’s Hawking, not Hawkings… there’s only one of… he was cut off in mid sentence by a flying ashtray, thrown by his old friend and superior officer, and now filled with paperclips since smoking in the workplace had been banned.

Don’t be so fucking pedantic… Constable Anderson… and you can pick up all them fucking paperclips too… You knew exactly who I meant… Twat! He grinned at the younger officer, then muttered under his breath, Bloody college boys.

Wilson picked up the phone to call the front office, he thought it was probably a long shot, but it had to be done.

Hello love… it’s Nick Wilson… Yeah… That e-mail you brought through, can you get the IT boys on it… Yeah… That’s right… you sound like you know more about these things than I do… No, you’re right, it wouldn’t take much. He laughed, Yes, if they can do a track back on it… I doubt very much that he’s sent it from his own computer, but we have to check, don’t we?… OK… Thanks love… cheers… and if you could let me know… OK?… Thanks a lot… bye.

Nick didn’t think that tracing whereabouts the e-mail had originated from was going to lead them to the bomber. He was almost certainly too clever to be caught out like that. He’d have sent it from an internet café or public library. When he voiced these thoughts, he was reminded that public libraries normally had some kind of CCTV cover, though usually only at the door. He resolved to check it out, though he was pretty certain that identifying one customer, who they knew little about would be difficult.

* * *

Ian grabbed the ringing phone as he came in the door.

Hello?… Oh… Hi Steve… How’s tricks?… You goin’ to Ken’s gig tonight? Motson had another persona, besides being a vicar. He played the electric bagpipes in a popular local Celtic rock band.

One of the other band members, Ken the guitarist, was playing a solo gig that evening in a pub just outside the city. Ian and a few other friends had planned to go along to lend a little support.

Yes Ian… or at least I’m intending to go… that’s why I’m calling you… Whereabouts is it, mate? Steve Anderson had known Motson for a few years now, after an investigation that Anderson had been involved in while still a uniformed beat Constable, had overlapped with a problem in his parish that the unconventional vicar had been trying to deal with, but in his own inimitable way.

The King’s Head… I told Tony the other day.

Yeah… It was Tony who told me Ken was doing a solo gig, but I couldn’t remember where he said it was… I tried calling him… and Lena… but I couldn’t get hold of them… I rang you ’cos I guessed you’d be going.

Motson chuckled quietly to himself, Yes… I don’t think he’d forgive me if I wasn’t there… or any of the band who hadn’t got a damn good excuse… like Sean… he’s at his sister’s wedding in Ireland, he’s giving her away.

Steve laughed, Giving her away?… You sure he’s not trying to sell her… knowing Sean,

It was Ian’s turn to laugh. He continued, Yeah… Anyway… you probably couldn’t get hold of Tony or Lena ’cos they’re on the bikes. They’ve been over to their friends’ place in Wales for the week.

Steve interrupted, Is that the couple who live in the Brecon Beacons?… That could explain things, some of those places have really shitty mobile phone coverage.

Ian clarified it, "Yeah… and they won’t be able to hear the phone with their helmets on… They’ll be on their way back