The Electrician's Code (6 page)

“I just don’t see a motive anywhere.” Dorland slammed the visor against the top of the car roof.

“The only reason I can see is if on his father’s death, money goes to him. Again, we will have to ask the solicitor for that information. Most likely it goes to the cousin. I wonder if he had any contact with Doc?”

“Tomorrow, first thing, we should visit the solicitor. I hope the rest of our team or forensics have found something.”

Chapter Eleven

F
ive minutes before five, a knock sounded at the door and Sophia rose to answer it. Through the peephole, she saw a tall, blond woman nervously inhaling a cigarette while rocking back and forth on her heels. While almost sure the woman was here to replace her, she couldn’t be certain. What if it was a neighbor? Placing the chain on the door, Sophia opened it a crack.

“Yes?”

“Let me in,” the woman replied, pushing on the door. The chain held it in place.

“Who are you?” Sophia asked, stepping back; the woman reeked of smoke.

“Who are you?”

This wasn’t going well.

“Who sent you?” Sophia asked.

The woman placed her hands on her hips and replied, “Foxton.”

“All right.” Sophia closed the door and released the chain. The woman dropped her cigarette on the hall carpet and stomped down on it with the sole of her high heel boot. Then, she helped Sophia open the door again with a stronger than necessary push.

“What are you doing? Why didn’t you let me in? Sheesh. I shouldn’t have to stand in that rat infested hall.”

“I’m sorry. I’m new at this.”

“Clearly.”

“Well, anyway, I’m Evans, Sophia Evans.” Sophia held out her hand.

“Carla Rose.” Carla didn’t shake. Instead, she went toward the kitchen.

Sophia followed her and watched as Carla poured herself a cup of coffee. Out of her handbag, Carla produced a bottle of cough mixture, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig.

She looked at Sophia. “I feel a cold coming on,” she said. Next, she fished around her bag for her pack of fags, pulled a lighter from her draw-string jacket, and lit up another.

“We can’t open the windows in here.”

Crystal came into the kitchen.

“This is Crystal Priestly.”

Carla ignored her and pushed past them into the living room. Crystal looked at Sophia curiously.

“What’s with her?” she signed. “Should she be smoking in here?”

Sophia shrugged.

“When did we get all this new equipment? This is nice stuff. Look at these monitors, they’re so thin now.” She pressed a few random keys on the keyboard.

“They belong to us.” Sophia quickly locked her computer. “It’s very new and very expensive. It’ll have to stay here tonight but you won’t be able to access it.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Sophia said slowly and deliberately, “they’re ours and unrelated to the case you’re working on.”

“Then why are they here?”

“Ask Foxton.” Sophia started shutting down all her computers. She didn’t think Carla capable of hacking any computer. She wasn’t even sure the woman could operate a computer that wasn’t already turned on. “Will you be working alone?”

“No. Carlie should be here any minute.” She flicked ash onto the floor.

“You’re working with a girl named Carlie and your name is Carla?”

“We’re both Carla but she agreed to be Carlie so it wouldn’t be confusing.”

“Why didn’t they just put you with someone else?”

Carla shrugged and blew smoke toward the ceiling. The room was quickly filling with smoke.

“The smoke alarms will be going off.”

“Nah,” replied Carla, waving her hands about as if it would improve the situation. “No batteries. I took them out ages ago.”

A knock at the door sounded again. This time Carla went for it and returned with an Asian woman wearing a track-suit and large cardie. In her hands, she held a file-box.

“You must be Carlie,” said Sophia. Again holding out her hand. This time the woman moved the box over to one arm and shook. “And this is my partner, Crystal.” Sophia nudged her friend with her elbow and Crystal held out her hand.

“What’s wrong with her?” Carlie asked.

“She’s deaf.”

“So what is she doing here?”

Sophia was glad Crystal couldn’t hear the remark, as it was, she was upset enough by it. Crystal finished collecting everything that the two of them could possibly carry out. Including the mobile phone she had been working on all afternoon.

“Everything is ready. Our notes are here,” said Sophia, pointing. With that, Sophia grabbed Crystal’s arm and pulled her from the flat.

Sophia waved good-bye to Crystal and climbed into Liam’s car, pulled the seat forward, and backed the car out of the car park. She had only been in his car a few times and she was not happy that now Liam had an excuse to see her after work hours. Nor was she impressed with the music stations programmed into his car radio. However, within a few seconds, she almost forgot she wasn’t driving in her comfortable leather seats and made her way through the streets toward home.

Somehow, however, she found herself in front of Marcus Master’s residence. Or previous residence. A new family—husband, wife, and two small boys—had moved in only three weeks ago. She pulled across the street from the flat and looked in the windows of Marc’s old study. Though the curtains were drawn, Sophia could see the silhouette of a woman walking about in the room. The woman gestured wildly with one arm. Then paused. Then gestured wildly again.

Sophia couldn’t understand her obsession. Why did she continue to come? Surely, she never expected him to be there, to run out and greet her like in the past. He was gone. She knew that deep inside, but still, there were times when she wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps she didn’t watch him die. Perhaps she didn’t shoot him. Perhaps the case just ended and she had to say her good-byes. But, she knew the truth; the horror couldn’t be re-written. In her dreams, she could still see the shock in his eyes when he turned around to look at her.

“Sophie,” he had said. That’s it, one word. How could life be over so fast?

No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop the bleeding, she couldn’t call him back. She couldn’t take back the fact she was now a murderer. And she knew what they said, it gets easier after the first. She had seen many officers recover after missions, but she didn’t feel like them. She wasn’t meant for the field. She wasn’t meant to kill people. Especially Marc.

The woman walked out of Marc’s flat with a large retriever and headed down the street. Did she know a man, in fact many men, had died in that house?

Chapter Twelve

T
heo scanned his newly set up incident room. Tables with computers and phones zig-zagged throughout. Staff had pinned maps and photos to the boards on the wall. Why did he feel the rooms were getting smaller? Soon the team would be looking to him for direction and he didn’t have anything really concrete to go on. Who murders an old man in front of his house? What possible reason could the killer have?

He stepped up to the whiteboard and scanned the photos: the knife, the note, and the face of Doc Tipring. Doc’s eyes stared back at him, lifeless, hollow. Did he suspect he would die that morning fetching the paper? He looked at the note again and wrote the words down in his notebook. Why did Doc have it in his pocket?

“Shite.”

Theo turned around to see Dorland staring down at the floor. In his hand, he held the remains of his coffee mug—the handle.

“Bloody cheap . . .” Dorland said as he stepped back from the dark brown stain on the carpet and brushed off his trouser legs. “Well, don’t all just stand there, will someone get me some towels?”

They all looked to Theo, and he pointed to one of the ladies standing near the door.

“Yes, of course,” she said, crossing her arms, “because I’m a woman, I’m expected to clean up the messes around here.” She stomped off.

Gathering his team in the incident room was simple, explaining to them what they needed to do for the case was more difficult because he himself was not sure which route to take. “All right, everyone, stop staring at the bloody floor and let’s get this case solved. It should be easy, a man goes to collect his morning paper and is stabbed. Who did it? Why did they do it? Any thoughts?”

He looked round the room. Everyone looked from the stain to their shoes. Dorland sat down.

“What no one?” asked Theo. “Then we need more information, don’t we? Did the man have a wife? Kids? If so, where do they live? There are the pieces of art. Are they important to the case? We also need to find anyone who could’ve possibly had a motive. The nurses who cared for him would most likely know. His sister said he lost his leg due to an infection from a work injury. I want that confirmed. Where are we with the CCTV footage? Were there any cameras in the area?” He fired a lot of questions at them and the members of his team wrote the questions down like madmen.

“I put my money on the nurse,” Dorland said as he came and stood by Theo at the whiteboard.

“Why?”

“Although she truly appeared distressed and saddened by the whole event, it could’ve been an act. She had access and may have a motive we haven’t yet uncovered.”

“Well, until we uncover it, it’s all speculation,” replied Theo. “The nurse said Mr. Tipring rarely left the house, had no friends or family visits. Which makes me think, why would the nurse kill him outside? She could’ve easily killed him inside the house and who would be the wiser. No one would’ve noticed if he never retrieved the paper. She could have retrieved the paper herself later.”

“Perhaps it would look suspicious if she murdered him in the house, but who would suspect her outside?”

“It is far riskier to murder someone outside a house than inside, Dorland.” Theo turned to him and continued, “Especially on the street of a highly populated neighborhood. I need you to work with the team, find out whatever you can about our victim, his art, his career. Dig, people! The victim may have had many nurses and I want you to find all that were employed to care for him in the last year or two. Someone saw something this morning, even if they don’t realize what they saw. Make sure you talk to everyone on the street, twice if you have to. Go through their statements carefully. Compare them. I want to know what our killer looks like and I want to know today, people.”

With all the assignments given out, Theo walked back down the hall to his office. The past two years, his office went from neat, even pristine, to a rat’s haven. The five level bookshelf against the left wall did not contain many books, mainly piles of papers on various shelves. At the start, he knew what each pile contained—case notes, budget allocations, and varied forms—and would add to the piles accordingly. However, over time, he would forget and add papers and case notes without being sure what was underneath. Only recently, in an effort to save paper and store information electronically, piles were added to his sofa when a corrupted database forced officers to re-enter their work. His boss had given various ultimatums—have the papers cleaned up by such and such a day—but the deadlines passed without result. Each time he entered his office, he couldn’t ignore the mounting problem. What he needed was motivation. And a filing cabinet. And a secretary.

Even the piles on the faded green sofa threatened to crush him.
What do they say? If you haven’t looked at something in over a year, you probably don’t need it?
He felt that way, he should throw it all into the bin. He could always re-type a file he needed, couldn’t he? He sighed and went to sit down. The seat squeaked out a response. Rolling forward to turn on his computer, he crushed a few papers under the wheels of his chair.

Opening a search engine, Theo typed the words
Why Run Backwards You’ll Vomit
and waited to see what the Internet could tell him. It surprised him that the phrase was well known, a mnemonic used for indoor telecommunication wiring.

There was a knock at the door. Dorland walked into the room and shut the door behind him. “Have the trees been shaving in here again?”

“Always a witty response with you, smart arse. Don’t make me make this your next assignment.” Theo’s arm swept the room. “Have you found something for me, Dorland?”

“As far as I know, Mr. Tipring has never been married nor had children. He worked as an electrician under the name Tipring Electricians, but I believe he worked alone. He wasn’t rich but made enough for a single man to live comfortably.”

Theo nodded. “So really, we have nothing. I hope CCTV gives us something. Did you know, Dorland, that Why Run Backwards You’ll Vomit helps telecommunication personnel remember the colors white, red, black, yellow, and violet when they’re wiring a house? The sequence of second group colors can be remembered with the mnemonic: BOGBRuSh, which stands for blue, orange, green, brown, and slate. It’s part of a twenty-five-pair code.”

“It’s a code?” Dorland asked. “That’s funny.”

Theo knew Dorland mentioned the code because of Sophia Evans. In his last major case he had to seek out the help of Miss Evans and it had complicated his life, not only his professional but personal. “Well, it’s probably unrelated to our case anyway.” He closed his browser and sat back. He hadn’t thought about Sophia in almost a month. Well, almost. After that case with her, the capture of the librarian serial killer, he had an almost weekly urge to ring her up or stop by her flat. He didn’t need the reminder, not when the situation with his wife had taken a turn for the better—she had agreed to see the neurologist. Perhaps she could get her memories back.

No, he had to push Sophia from his mind.

Chapter Thirteen

A
t half past six, Sophia stood outside her Sands End flat with the keys in the lock and debated going inside. Perhaps she should stay in her father’s old flat down the hall. Her father used to live there until he desired a larger place to live with his girlfriend. It sat scarcely furnished and perfect for her to work on assignments without worrying her friends or family would stumble on anything. And right now, her flat was a disaster.

Since Marc’s death she had lost the desire to clean and tidy. She let her dirty clothes carpet the floor and her unmade bed. The dishes piled up beside the sink. Unopened letters littered the worktop and coffee table. It was better to stay at the other flat because a cluttered room distracted her; she couldn’t think with a mess anywhere in the house. She blamed the state of her flat for the shit she felt every time she came home. Not the fact she was . . . alone.

Unlocking the door, she kicked off her shoes in the doorway and they bounced off the back of the sofa. She went around the sofa and plopped down with a thud. From her bag she retrieved her mobile and texted Liam:
Don’t come. Will contact you tomorrow about the Merc.
She could take his car back to the flat in the East End the next day. Besides, she’d rather not see him now.

That was when she noticed. No letters or books cluttered her tables. She rose and looked into her kitchen. No dishes were in the sink. The house was spotless. What the hell?

Only one person would have the nerve to have her flat cleaned without her permission. Grabbing the phone off the charger, she entered the kitchen and pressed the button down on the electric kettle. After scooping a spoonful of ground coffee into the French press, she headed toward her office.

A button blinked on her cordless phone.

“Darling,” the message said, “it’s your father. How are you? Don’t be upset about the flat, I know you like your privacy but when I came to check if you were still alive, I worried I wouldn’t find you under that mess. Elda did a good job, eh? She’s amazing, that woman. I’ll have her come round more often if you like. Ring me, will you? Donna’s thinking of having a dinner party and she wants you to come. Please come this time. It’s this Saturday. Love you, darling, and don’t forget: ring me.”

“Oh, Dad,” Sophia said aloud. She had only seen him twice after Marc died but he rang her up two or three times a week. Although she had no desire to dine with him and his girlfriend, she was glad he cared enough to invite her. She smiled and erased the message.

What an exhausting and boring day. How many more days would she have to endure this? Did she have to endure this? Surely she could put her foot down. Her time was worth more than this. Sure, she wasn’t in her bosses’ best books. But they were coming round. Already they realized the shooting wasn’t her fault. It was a team effort. She couldn’t be expected to foot such an important mess-up alone. She wasn’t a trained agent. And it could explain why Liam was punishing her for the cock-up.

The kettle button popped up behind her and she made herself a cup of coffee and headed toward her bedroom to catch up on the episodes of East Enders. How could the lives of the crazy characters on the show be a comfort to her? Surely her life wasn’t more complicated than that?

Crystal constantly asked her why she didn’t just agree to a dinner with Liam. It was the principle and that he drove her mad. Marc made her want to laugh, whereas Liam left her wanting to cry and rock in the fetal position. Marc had intelligent conversation. Liam only wanted to talk about work. Work. They had to work together and she had to be able to trust him. Besides, he didn’t invite her to dinner because he loved her. He just felt guilty for forcing her into a relationship with Marc which turned out horribly wrong.

What she needed was a new case. Not a surveillance mission but another case that utilized her skills. She needed a new case like her Yuri—the Russian who sent her encoded letters, who used her skills as a cryptanalyst. But she had to wait until she received the go-ahead from the powers above—the shrinks that had to sign the release forms—before they would hand her anything new. In the meantime, she would have to be satisfied with watching a boring woman tweet and crochet.

Unless . . . unless she could occupy her time with cases of her choosing. Hopping off the bed she went over to her laptop and went over the files of a newly deceased Maddock Tipring that Crystal had emailed.