A Little Bit Odd

By Graham Hamer

Oddball is tasked with finding out who murdered his fellow agent, Marion. He believes it is linked to the disappearance of billions of pounds from government coffers. Oddball knows that catching Marion's killers will require footwork by him, but discovering how massive sums of taxpayers' money are missing will require someone with specialised computer skills.

Harriet Lewis is such a person, but she carries the scars of her childhood abuse, which makes her hard to handle. Oddball asks Saxon to help and, much to everybody's surprise, Harry Lewis is no longer the introvert that most people know her to be. She tears through firewalls like they are tissue paper and leads Oddball to his colleague's killers while uncovering dark secrets about the missing money. In an unexpected twist, Harry discovers something about herself that she had never suspected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393274100

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Oddball hunched his shoulders against the effects of the unrelenting drizzle. It permeated everybody and everything. It was one of those cold, miserable, penetrating, grey, non-stop drizzles that soak through meagre clothing and annihilate a person's peace of mind. January had extinguished itself in a bluster of howling winds. February had sneaked in, cold as a witch's tit, with hard frosts every morning and icy draughts that chewed on exposed hands and faces. Now March had arrived and it was wet. The wettest March on record so far, the meteorologists had said on the news that morning.

Spring had not yet started to push away what had seemed like an endless winter as Oddball strode past the empty football pitches. The sour smell of mud churned up by studded boots still hung in the air - a leftover from the weekend’s games. Fifty metres further along the sodden track, Oddball passed a playground with swing sets and monkey bars. Then he spotted the blue and white police tape draped across the bushes. A lone police constable huddled in sympathy with the bare branches of the nearby yew tree as he tried to look efficient and interested.

Oddball reached into his pocket, took out a warrant card and, without a word, handed it to the uniformed constable. The constable glanced into his face to check that the photo on the card matched the man stood before him. The man in front of him stared back with deep brown, arresting eyes placed above just the right amount of cheekbone. Oddball was six foot, had a full head of hair going a little grey at the temples. Though he was wearing a long trench coat, it was clear that it was keeping dry a muscular, upright physique. Unknown to the constable, the man before him was approaching 45 and his body needed constant exercise to keep it the way it was.

There was nothing wasted in Oddball’s face. It was a determined face that told people not to mess with him, even before he spoke. He was handsome in a way that most women found sexy and attractive. He now stood ramrod straight despite the wind and drizzle. Yet his broad shoulders seemed to stand to attention in an easy-going casual fashion. It was a trick that few ever mastered.

The young constable placed Oddball’s warrant card onto his soggy clipboard. With great care, he wrote ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Mikkjáll Oddsson’, the date, Monday 11 March, and the time, 11:17am. He handed the card back and saluted.

Oddball smiled. No need for that, constable. You’ve done your job and done it exactly as you were trained.

Thank you, Sir. Much appreciated.

Oddball slid the warrant card back in his pocket. Okay, now tell me what I’m likely to see when I get to the site?

As I understand it, Sir, it’s a female body. Little or no decomposition. Recent shallow burial in the bushes just off the main footpath. The body is face up but getting it out of the ground while preserving the evidence is proving tricky, since the ground is now heavy and waterlogged.

Any visible injuries?

I’m not party to that information, Sir. You’ll have to ask D.I.Hartley. He’s the Senior Investigating Officer on this.

And what does D.I.Hartley look like?

He’ll be the only Caribbean officer on the scene. Very dark complexion. Bald as a snooker ball.

Okay. Good summary, thanks. And your name is?

Constable 358 Bennion.

Your real name. The name you use with your mates.

Terry, Sir.

Well try to keep dry, Terry. Oddball turned and began to squelch his way through the mud. Then he looked back. Why not stand under that big tree? It may not give you a lot of cover, but you’d be a lot drier than hanging around in the middle of the track like a piece of wet washing.

Detective Sergeant Barlow told me to stand on the footpath where I’m more obvious.

Okay, well I’m over-ruling D.S.Barlow. Keep as dry as you can. You can still see the footpath from there, and you can always step out to meet anyone coming. Oddball turned round and walked on, past a small pond adjacent to the footpath. The slate-grey water irritated him. After spending many winters in Special Forces, training on the Brecon Beacons in Wales, he had a tendency to disparage all things grey. And right at the moment, fearful of what he was about to find, grey suited his mood.

One minute later he could hear the portable diesel generator and see the halogen floodlights. It was only quarter past eleven but the canopy of dark clouds had reduced what little daylight was available. Twenty-five metres off the beaten track, in amongst the bushes, a large white tent, open on one side, covered an area the size of a family bathroom. Oddball walked on until he approached the bald, black, detective inspector. Bertram Hartley looked him up and down and asked, And you are?

For the second time, Oddball took out his warrant card and handed it to the other man.

Detective Chief Superintendent Mikkjáll Oddsson, Hartley said, reading from the card. He pushed himself away from the wooden fence post he was leaning against and stood up straight. He gave the card back to Oddball. What can I do for you, Sir?

You can give me a quick and dirty summary of where we are so far.

A man with a metal detector discovered the body— he checked his watch, —about three hours ago. It’s his hobby, so he says. Metal detecting that is. Not finding bodies.

Is he still here?

Yes, Sir, over there. Hartley indicated a short, bespectacled man in a sodden Parka jacket with no zip. He was less than twenty feet away but was so unremarkable that he seemed to blend into the background and Oddball hadn’t spotted him. A uniformed officer stood next to him, looking bored. His name’s Harold Rose, Hartley added.

Oddball took a second look. The man wore torn jeans and a grubby knitted jumper. It looked like an investment in a packet of razor blades might improve the space between his rheumy eyes and his weak chin. His white knuckles clutched a metal detector as if his life depended on it. What’s his story? Oddball asked.

He’s in some sort of club that pokes round trying to find buried treasure. Reckoned his machine started beeping as he swept it around these bushes. So he dug down and discovered our victim’s hand just a few inches down. He called it in and we’ve been here ever since. I’ve got a search team and canine unit covering everything in a 150 metre circumference. They’ll be finished soon, but have found nothing of interest so far except a load of used condoms in the bushes over there. Regular knee-tremblers’ meeting place for the local yoof, so my constables tell me.

Well at least they’re using condoms.

DI Hartley nodded. We should be grateful for small mercies, I suppose. The forensic team checked out the area we’re stood on, but it’s been raining for the last couple of days and I guess lots of people have passed by on the footpath over there, walking their dogs. Forensics found nothing that would give us any clues.

Dumping the body in a public place is arrogant, Oddball said. The killer felt invulnerable. Dumping it so close to a public footpath was a power trip. That arrogance could be his downfall. Oddball looked down at Hartley’s feet. So how come you are wearing forensic booties?

D.I.Hartley let out a boom of laughter. Keeps my feet dry, and saves getting my shoes ruined. He glanced down at Oddball’s feet. Trench coat and wellies. Looks like you came prepared.

Boy Scout habits die hard. I usually keep some wet weather gear in the boot of the car. Oddball paused and glanced again at Harold Rose who was shivering and looked as though he might dissolve at any moment. What triggered the metal detector? Bodies don’t set off detectors. And what about trophies? Do we know yet if the victim is missing anything?

Bertram Hartley reached into his pocket and took out a sealed evidence bag. Ladies watch. Looks like it’s gold. Rose had taken it off the wrist that he uncovered, but didn’t want to give it up. Claimed it was treasure trove until I threatened to lock his sorry arse in my coldest cell. He still claimed it was a case of finder-keepers, so I told him he had five seconds to hand it over, otherwise I would charge him with hindering a murder investigation.

Oddball took the evidence bag from Hartley and scrutinised the watch inside. He tutted to himself.

Must be worth a bit, a watch like that, the detective inspector said.

£1,639.00 to be precise.

You know her?

I’ve not seen the body yet, but I’m here because we think we know who it is, and this watch would seem to confirm it. Oddball wondered why the killer hadn't kept the watch. It had a certain value, and taking it would have reduced the chance of quick identification of the victim. He took half a dozen steps to one side and looked down as, inside the open-sided tent, the forensics team worked with infinite care to extricate the body from the soggy ground. They had already bagged scraps of clothing, ready to send for particulate analysis and they had taken samples from underneath the victim's fingernails, between her toes and from her hair. Oddball shook his head.

Hartley asked, So who is she?

Her name’s Marion Watson. She works for state security, which is why I’m about to take this investigation from you.

Bertram Hartley looked surprised, but not unhappy. Is the chief constable aware? he asked.

Oddball nodded. I have already spoken to him in case this was the lady we’ve been looking for. By all means call him if you want to verify.

So which division do you work for, can I ask?

Not important, Inspector, though everybody refers to it as N2K. I’d be obliged if you would let your search team finish and send me a copy of your notes so far. I presume that Mr Rose is not under suspicion?

Not at all. Do you want me to take him away and get a formal statement off him?

Oddball nodded. That would be helpful. From the look of him, he will tell the story of this day for the rest of his life. How he discovered a dead body. He will tell and retell it to anyone who wants to listen, and many who don’t. The man might sell his house and move away. He might get religion, or get more if he already has it. In the end, though, the poor devil will be left with just one heroic tale inside him that he will carry to the grave. Best you get it from him before he begins to elaborate, if he’s not already done so.

Inspector Hartley laughed. He understood how people’s imaginations worked. It's like your children talking about past holidays, he said. You find they have a quite different memory of it from you. Perhaps everything is not how it is, but how it's remembered.

Yes, well I’d like Mr Rose to remember things as they actually were. He can embellish the truth after he’s signed a statement. Oddball glanced around. And can you leave Constable Bennion and the copper standing next to Mr Rose behind to secure the site until forensics have finished?

No problem. If you can let me have a contact number, or email, I’ll get everything to you as soon as possible. In truth, Sir, you’re welcome to this. I’ll lay you a pound to a pinch of camel shite that the poor young lady’s demise will remain unsolved.

Oddball allowed himself a hint of a smile. I’ll double your bet on that. We don’t like it when somebody kills one of our own. Now it’s up to me to find the guilty party and give them a good talking to.

Good luck with that. If I can help, just pick up the phone. He offered Oddball his card, and Oddball gave him one of his in return. It read Detective Chief Superintendent Mikkjáll Oddsson and an anonymous gmail email address. No other details. No phone and no address.

Swedish origins? Bertram asked.

Oddball laughed and shook his head. North London. I go by the name Oddball to my friends. Feel free to use it.

And I’m Bert except when my mother visits. I’ve lived in England since I was three and Bertram is too Caribbean for me!

As the police team wrapped up their operation and drifted away, Oddball stepped to the entrance of the tent and looked down again at the prostrate body. Marion’s white mud-streaked face and twisted limbs would just add another bad dream to his recurring nightmares. After many years in Special Forces, in battlefields around the world, doing the bidding of Her Majesty’s Government, and taking care of dark deeds that would be denied if ever they were challenged, Oddball had been co-opted into a branch of the Secret Service that didn’t officially exist. Now he was tasked with getting information and, more often than not, acting on that information and making things right. He was no more a Detective Chief Superintendent than he was a milkman, but his agency had rights over everybody, including MI5 who, in theory, they reported to.

Marion, whose sightless eyes now stared at him from her sorry, shallow grave, had been Oddball’s lover and a good friend. The watch had been his birthday present to her, just a few weeks ago. It was a thank you too, for lifting him from the melancholy he felt over losing Rolien, another very dear friend. Marion was straightforward, undemanding, and uncomplicated. She worked for the same secretive agency and had been on the trail of some missing money when she had failed to report in several days ago. Fearing the worst, the agency had monitored any suspect female body discoveries and Oddball had investigated those they thought might have been Marion. Today he had hit the bull’s eye, but he wished he hadn’t.

At thirty-six, Marion was eight years younger than Oddball. She had been a hardened, experienced operative who knew the risks of the job and accepted them for what they were. But Oddball’s memories of her now, were of her girlish giggle when something silly amused her, her trusting face when they were alone together, and her wonderful body that she wasn’t afraid to give without reservation to their love-making.

The darkening sky reflected his mood and he knew he was going to insist that he take over her enquiry and sanction those responsible for her death. He spoke to the man leading the forensic team. Any idea which mortuary you’ll be taking her to?

Yes, Chief. It’ll be Hackney Public Mortuary. The Designated Individual there is Aleyne Fontenelle. That’s Aleyne as in a woman’s name. My guess is that they’ll do the post-mortem on this poor woman tomorrow, but best check with them first.

Oddball nodded his thanks. This is my card. Can you email me any forensic results as soon as you get them?

The white-clad figure read the card. No problem, Sir. Are you running the enquiry now?

Yes. And with your help, I’ll nail the bastard or bastards who did this to her.

The man looked down at the tragic body. First impressions, Sir, are that she was buried alive. Can’t be certain, but the P.M. will be able to confirm it if there is soil in the lungs. The way her limbs are twisted indicate that she put up a struggle, so I’m sure she was conscious, and aware of what was happening. Nasty way to go - suffocated by mud.

A crow squawked from somewhere in the towering treetops. Both men glanced up, then at each other. Oddball wiped some rain off his cheek. He thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and mumbled, I’ll get the bastards. Then he strode away from the scene.

CHAPTER TWO

Oddball perched on the edge of the chair in Crocker’s fourth-floor office of N2K staring out across the bleak skyline that typified the north eastern sector of central London. He wore a sharp, dark blue suit with a fine pinstripe and three buttons on each cuff, a crisp pale blue shirt, and a black tie. The tie had narrow diagonal stripes in magenta and white - old school tie, perhaps. Gold cufflinks with an inlaid shield motif flashed from his shirt, and a gold watch encircled his left wrist. His shoes were black and polished.

On the other hand, the building he was in was an anonymous brick and concrete construction that looked like a 1950s office block. Just a giant cube of architecture that no-one had bothered to put much thought into - its internal workings hidden behind tinted windows and a general outpouring of blandness. But looks could be deceptive. In fact, it was intended that looks should be deceptive. Inside, everything was comfortable and modern. Below them, there was a tech-hive - an underground network of servers several stories deep. Information was always the key to successful action, and there was information here by the boat load. That was the job of N2K - secure the information, make connections, and analyse the results.

Oddball’s boss sat opposite, behind the chrome and glass desk. Looking dapper today, she observed.

Never be deceived by exterior decorations, Crocker. Some monsters go about in suit and tie—

—and of course a Bible, she finished off for him. It was an acknowledged wisdom between the pair, who had witnessed enough religious carnage to last several lifetimes.

You’re not looking so bad yourself, Oddball said. He nodded towards her tailor's masterpiece of obsidian fabric. It was so expensive that it would have been offended to have been referred to just as a 'black suit'. It was an outstandingly simple black business suit that Crocker knew exactly how to wear to best effect. She also accessorised with style. Crocker had class - and a well sculpted body.

Who were you today? she asked. Detective Chief Superintendent Oddsson?

Yes, I had to get the police enquiry stopped. I had a word with the chief constable beforehand, just in case it turned out to be Marion. He verified my powers with Stan Cruikshank over in MI5.

Good work, Crocker said, and acknowledged a young man who knocked and entered carrying a tray with coffee, sugar and milk. Thanks Adrian, hope it’s nice and hot this time.

Just made it, Ma’am, the young man said, and backed out of the room.

Oddball chuckled. Bloody hell, is he even shaving yet?

I know, Oddball. Our office staff seems to be getting younger and younger. Thank God, we can still pick and choose our operatives. Help yourself to coffee and update me on Mia. Mia was Marion Watson’s agency code name. The theory was that if nobody knew anyone’s true identity they couldn’t compromise them if they were tortured or drugged. Oddball knew Crocker’s real name, though he wasn’t meant to, and Crocker knew Oddball’s real name, but never used it.

Autopsy tomorrow late morning, Oddball said. First indications are that she was buried alive.

Crocker tutted and moved her lips. Oddball detected the word ‘shit’ muttered under her breath. Tortured? she asked aloud.

It’s a distinct possibility but I don’t know for sure yet. I’ll attend the post-mortem and get back to you.

Crocker nodded. She would have made a good poker player, but today she struggled to hide her anger behind glasses perched on the edge of her nose. So I guess you’re here to tell me you want to take over Mia’s operation. It wasn’t a question.

You guessed right. I’d like a quiet moment in private with the bastards who did this.

I want to know what they’re up to before you dispose of them Oddball. That was what I had tasked Mia with. There are billions of pounds missing and she was trying to find out where it was going.

Tell me more.

Okay, what does HS2 mean to you?

Something to do with a massive spend of government funds on trains we don’t need.

You’ve got it. HS1 was the high speed rail line from Dover to London. HS2 is a proposed new line from London to Birmingham, with a continuation line planned to go to Manchester, Leeds and Sheffield. I’m sure they’ll dream up an HS3 in the near future.

So where are the missing billions going from?

Government coffers. Even by the standards of high-speed rail, HS2 is extravagant. Compared with high speed rail projects around the world, from the US to Spain and Japan, HS2 will be one of the most expensive, if not the most expensive, high speed rail line per mile. The first phase has a £75 billion price tag at the moment. But you know and I know that a £75 billion budget soon becomes a £200 billion spend when civil servants are signing the cheques.

Overspend I understand, Oddball said, But actually making money disappear is a bit harder. Do you have any idea how that’s happening?

Crocker stirred a sweetener into her coffee. "The simple answer is that there is no fiscal oversight. One department deals with planning consents. Another department deals with land acquisition. Yet another deals with construction, another with rolling stock, another with public relations, blah, blah, blah. There are an endless number of Whitehall slackers involved, but nobody takes responsibility for controlling overall spend. Other than signing the cheques, the Treasury washes its hands of the whole affair.

By the time it’s all done, I doubt that the taxpayer will get much change out of £300 billion. The project is awash with money because it’s a big civic dick up the posterior orifice of whichever political party pulls it off. Reputations will be made or lost based on how it all turns out. Budgets will be ignored. Overspend will be applied to other projects by the magic of imaginative accounting, and the loser will be the tax payer, as usual."

So how much is missing, and how do we even know it’s missing?

We know it’s missing because there was a whistleblower called Mike Pemberton. He worked for the Treasury and spotted some unusually large payments going out. He drilled down as far as he could, given his administrative permissions, and he found a whole lot of stuff that made him suspicious.

Don’t tell me: he got the sack for whistle-blowing.

Crocker nodded. Yes, usual thing in these cases. He was told that he should have raised the issue with his immediate superior, which he had done on several occasions. But since he talked about it to a journalist, he was fired for breaking government confidentiality.

And the journalist?

Too lazy to do anything about it. The head of Mike’s department told him that Mike didn’t understand the complex accountancy methods involved, and the journo went back to bed without bothering to dig deeper. Meanwhile, Mike, who happens to be my brother-in-law, gave me the low down and I decided to enquire further.

And how much is missing?

We don’t know. We may never know. But from what Mike tells me, it’s well in the billions already.

And Marion was trying to track down where these missing billions were going? With that much money involved, that was a high risk enquiry.

Mia knew the risks and accepted them. Crocker emphasised the word ‘Mia’ to remind Oddball that she expected people in the agency to use their agency cover names. You are the same, she continued. You’ve been in some very dangerous situations, but keep coming back for more. I’m happy to let you take over her enquiry. I don’t think Mia had actually got very far, but Saxon can access everything we know so far and I’ll authorise her to share it with you. Saxon was a sassy lady who supervised the records in the underground tech-hive.

Thanks, Boss. I’ll make sure we get closure on this, and plug the money hole too.

Crocker stared over the top of her glasses at him. Well take care, Oddball. I can’t afford to lose another agent. Good people are hard to get.

Oddball smiled. This would be a good time for me to ask for a pay rise then?

On your bike. We pay you and your counterparts more than the bloody Prime Minister.

And we earn it.

I won’t argue that. But take care. I’m sure the bad guys would have known who Mia was, and anyone prepared to dispose of one of our agents is someone to be very, very wary of.

I agree. They killed Mia with extreme prejudice. They are sending us a message to keep away from their operation.

Crocker nodded. Go get them, Oddball. As always, you’re free to go wherever you need to get results.

My sense is that it’s going to take footwork to find Mia’s killers but that it will be digital information that will be key to uncovering the money trail. For that reason, I want to bring in an outside contractor.

Crocker raised her eyebrows.

She calls herself an Internet ninja. We’ve used her before for low level digital surveillance.

"Who are