by Ellis, Tim
‘So?’
She referred to her notebook. ‘The owners are the same people who bought Hammersmith Harriers Football Club – It’s a group of four Americans who each have a twenty-five percent stake: Zachary Tyler, Annette Steedman, Nicholas Polk, and Zara Lewis. What I don’t understand is how these foreigners can come along and start buying up pieces of our country. England is more like a fucking multinational corporation. Maybe the police force is owned by Bahrain or a Russian Oligarch from Siberia. Maybe we work for a man who sells snake oil in Mumbai. What do you think, Sir?’
‘You don’t want to know what I think. Have you got a contact number for one of them?’
‘Frye said that contact is always made through Eddie Jenkins, who runs a management company called Sanctuary Holdings Limited. His number is: 02075 813237.’
‘It’s a London number.’ He was expecting an American number, maybe the plot next to Disneyland.
‘Yes. Only Jenkins rings the owners direct.’
‘Okay. Did you . . . ?’
‘Hello?’ a woman interrupted.
Well, he thought it was a woman, but he wasn’t exactly sure, and decided to reserve judgement until she took her mask off. He waited, but she didn’t remove it.
Kline glanced at him and pulled a face.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Caroline Griffies, the Assistant Manager.’
‘I see.’ God she was ugly. Her head was misshapen, one eye looked left, the other right, and she had a better moustache than he could ever grow. A horror theme park was exactly the right place for her, but she should have been on the night shift.
‘Where’s Mr Frye?’
Kline grinned. ‘He got himself locked in the cleaner’s cupboard, and we can’t find the key until tomorrow morning, so in the meantime we need you to help us.’
‘There are spare keys.’
‘Do you want to step up to the plate, or do you want to let Mr Frye out of that cupboard?’
The penny dropped. ‘Ah!’ She smiled, but it was more like a silent scream. ‘Mr Frye won’t have anyone to shout at in that cupboard. Tomorrow morning seems a bit soon. Maybe we could keep him there a little longer.’
‘Maybe we could,’ Quigg said. ‘So, are you all right with being the acting manager?’
‘Oh yes. I should have been the manager anyway. I was passed over because of the way I look, but I can do the manager’s job standing on my head.’
He stood up. ‘Take a seat Miss Griffies. Detective Constable Kline will tell you what we need . . .’
‘Me?’ Kline said.
‘I’ve got to ring the Chief.’
‘I could ring him.’
‘And if you did, what would you say?’
‘Oh you know, this and that.’
‘You just get on with your list.’ He turned to Miss Griffies. ‘There’s a restaurant here, isn’t there?’
‘Of course. Along the corridor, behind reception. There are signs.’
‘I’ll see you in the restaurant at seven o’clock.’
‘I should get fucking danger money.’
Constable Coveney walked through the door. ‘We’re here, Sir.’
‘Excellent.’ He followed her outside, and stood at the top of the steps looking down at the mobile command centre and Perkins’ two forensics trucks all lined up as if the Queen was due to do a drive-past. ‘Very nice, Coveney. I had the feeling you might do something stupid because I’d told you to move.’
‘I’m not that childish, Sir.’
‘I’m glad about that. Tell me you’ve got the coffee and hobnobs on?’
‘Ready and waiting.’
The light was beginning to fade, and the generators were humming softly outside. They walked down the steps and into the incident room.
He flopped down on a seat. The interior of the “Mobile Command Centre” – to give the truck its proper name – was large enough for half a dozen officers, but usually housed more. In the centre of the floor was a two-foot wide worktop on four stainless steel pedestals that ran most of the length of the inside. At the far end was a large-screen television hung on the wall, with the kitchenette to the right. On either side were worktops, above and below, which – apart from gaps to sit and put your legs under – were storage cupboards. The computers on the worktops were already connected by satellite to the Hammersmith system, and from there to the police network – they were fully operational.
Constable Amies thrust a mug into his hand.
He took a sip.
They were all staring at him and grinning.
‘You remind me of the three witches in Macbeth,’ he said.
‘How’s your coffee, Sir?’ Coveney asked, rubbing her hands together as if she’d just put the last eye of bat in the cauldron.
‘Salty. I would have expected Bovril with salt, not coffee.’ He handed the mug back to Amies. ‘Is that it now? Have you had your revenge, or will there be more?’
‘I don’t think there’ll be any more, Sir,’ Coveney said.
‘I am glad. Can I have a proper mug of coffee now, and stop hiding the hobnobs.’
While Amies made him a proper coffee he said to Coveney, ‘I’d like you to find out what you can about the Waterbury Asylum for the Criminally Insane.’
‘Okay, Sir. We go off shift soon, but I’ll pass it on to my replacement.’
‘Who’ve we got?’
‘Diane Cheal, Claire Simcox, and Amanda Lay.’
‘I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘And you’re not going to either, Sir. Inspector Wright has told us all that we’ll lose our jobs if we lose our knickers.’
‘I’m hurt and confused.’
‘Yeah, she said you’d say that.’
He smiled, and took out his mobile phone. How had he got this reputation as a Lothario? There was a time, not too long ago, that nobody knew him. He’d kept himself to himself, kept his head below the parapet, and worked hard. It had started with Duffy. Yes, it was all Duffy’s fault. She must have spread the word that he was easy, that he could be taken advantage of. He must have a sign on his forehead advertising his availability.
He pressed the Chief’s number.
‘Quigg?’
‘Chief?’
‘Quigg, is that you?’
‘It depends if you’re the Chief, Chief.’
‘I’m the Chief, Quigg.’
‘Then I’m Quigg, Chief.’
‘Have you rung me for a reason, Quigg?’
‘I thought I’d let you know what was going on.’
‘Mrs Bellmarsh has just made the dinner, Quigg. Can you ring back in an hour?’
‘Does it take you an hour to eat your dinner, Chief?’
‘It’s not just about eating, Quigg. We have guests. Now that one is a Commander, one must be seen to be entertaining. I have the Deputy Assistant Commissioner here with her partner . . .’
‘Partner?’
‘Don’t ask, Quigg. It’s a brave new police force out there.’
‘If you say so . . . I suppose one should call you Commander now, shouldn’t one?’
‘One should, Quigg.’
‘Okay, I’ll ring you in an hour, Chief.’
He ended the call.
***
He was sitting in his five year-old Ford Ka outside the refurbished church on Godolphin Road in Shepherd’s Bush. When he was a DS, he’d been able to afford a good car. Now, he could barely pay the insurance premiums on the scrapheap he was forced to drive.
The bastards had done a number on him all right. They’d sacked him for gross misconduct after he’d accessed Kline’s personnel file. As a consequence, he’d forfeited his right to a pension, and a lump sum pay out. He’d left with a month’s pay – that was it. The commendations and awards counted for nothing in the final analysis – the bastards had dropped him like a dead weight. And Monica had done the same. Well, she had to die. She knew too much.
Now, he was paying through the nose to l
ive in a one room hovel in a building that should have been condemned years ago. He could have thrown in his chips and returned to Wales, but he had unfinished business here.
Unfinished business with Quigg. It was his fault, and Mr Mervyn Jones – night security guard with the Cross Border Financial Services Authority in Fulham – was going to make him pay. Like for like, that’s what they said. A tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye. Well, Quigg had taken away his job, his woman and his life. Jones was going to do the same to him.
He’d thought about killing Quigg, but that wouldn’t have satisfied his desire for revenge. Quigg had to suffer, that’s what revenge was all about in his eyes. He was going to take Quigg’s job and then his life, but first – there were three women pretending to be Quigg’s harem holed up in this old church he was sitting outside.
Three women! How did Quigg do it? He smiled. That was a stupid question. And it wasn’t just any three women off the street. These were lookers for sure. He wouldn’t have minded any one of them himself. Or, all three. Quigg was a greedy bastard.
He watched as Duffy and the other pregnant one came out of the church and climbed into a Mercedes. He laughed out loud. He’d never fucked a pregnant woman before. Maybe . . . Yes, he was going to take everything away from Quigg – everything.
***
‘God, that fucking woman is so ugly,’ Kline said as she came into the incident room, and put a stack of papers and other stuff on the centre worktop.
‘I thought we were meeting in the restaurant,’ he said checking his watch. It was ten to seven. He finished his coffee.
‘I couldn’t look at that woman anymore. She’d given me everything I’d asked for, and I was feeling sick. She smells like rotting vegetables as well, you know.’ She shivered. ‘No wonder she wasn’t promoted to manager.’
‘You’re not being very kind, Kline.’
‘I know, but there it is. I’m not very good with ugly people. Especially smelly ugly people. I think I prefer Frye.’
‘Let’s go and get some food.’
‘Have you had another coffee without me?’
‘If you could call it coffee. It was made from warm, dirty ditch water.’ He winked at Amies when she glanced at him. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t save you any.’
‘I could fucking kill for a decent cup of coffee. I’ll give the food a try, but I’m not promising anything. That woman has made me lose my appetite.’
They said goodnight to Coveney and the other two, and made their way to the restaurant. Caroline Griffies was already there, and waved them over.
‘Come and join me,’ she said, indicating the three spare seats at her table when they approached.
He pulled an apologetic face. ‘We’d love to, but we need to talk about the investigation in private.’
‘I understand.’ Her shoulders slumped in disappointment.
‘Thank God you came up with that story, Sir,’ Kline whispered as they walked towards the counter. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to eat a thing with her sitting across from me.’
‘It’s not a story. It’s what we’ll be doing.’
‘Well, it saved our bacon anyway.’
It was a smorgasbord. So they helped themselves and sat down at a table as far away from Griffies as Kline could get.
Quigg had expected the restaurant to have a maitre ‘d, waiters and waitresses, wine and silver service. Instead, it was more like the restaurant on the top floor of British Home Stores – wedged between men’s trousers and jackets.
‘You’re not pregnant with sextuplets, are you, Sir?’
‘No, but I’m hungry.’
‘So I can see.’
He’d balanced as much as he could on his plate. It looked like a miniature version of the leaning Tower of Pisa. His mum had always said his eyes were bigger than his belly. It was true – he never learned. He was like a child left to run riot in the sweetie shop. Most of the food would be left untouched on the plate.
He sighed. ‘I hate smorgasbords.’
‘Most people love ‘em.’
‘So, enough about my psychological hang-ups. Let’s try the list again.’
Her notebook reappeared. ‘Griffies gave me the list of the park staff, the roster of who was on duty last night, the hotel guest list for the two weeks either side of last night, the list of security staff, copies of the park and hotel CCTV security tapes from last night . . .’ She patted the back of her jeans as if she was the main character in a supermarket advert. ‘I’ve got the key to a large room for interviewing everybody, but we’re not going to start the interviews until tomorrow now, are we?’
‘No, things didn’t really go to plan today, did they?’
‘It was that stupid bastard Frye, and then Coveney, and . . .’
‘A poor workman always blames her tools!’
‘Are you saying it’s all my fault?’
‘I’m saying you’re new, you’ve got a lot to learn, I’m going to teach you the ropes.’
‘If I’d had a gun . . .’
‘You’d have got yourself into a lot of trouble. Stay focussed on the list.’
‘I’ve got copies of Cora Jiggins’ hotel records. She arrived yesterday and was booked into Room 666 for a week . . .’
Three sixes! The number of the beast, he thought.
‘. . . With the exception of last night, of course. By the way, the room numbers are a smorgasbord as well.
‘I didn’t think there were 666 rooms in the hotel.’
‘There’s not. She was meant to survive Room 13 last night, and then be presented with her certificate.’
‘So, all her bags are in Room 666?’
‘You’d expect.’
‘You’ve not been up there then?’
‘Have I still got that brush sticking out of my arse?’
‘There’s no need to be so coarse while I’m eating, Kline.’
‘Oh, I think there is.’
‘Did you manage to contact her next of kin?’
‘She left it blank on the registration form.’
‘We’ll get one of the team to check her name out on the database later. I was thinking though, that until Perkins confirms that Cora Jiggins was actually in that room . . .’
‘How’s he meant to do that?’
‘I’m sure he’ll think of something. So, we’ll hold off contacting the next of kin until we’re sure. Telling someone a relative is dead, and then that relative walks in through the door, is the worst kind of mistake.’
‘Probably a good idea. So, ugly said . . .’
‘You’re not really a people person, are you, Kline?’
She grinned. ‘Not an ugly people person, no.’
‘What did ug . . . Miss Griffies say?’
‘That the same staff who were on last night are on again tonight.’
‘Which means that we can walk round and interview them one at a time.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘Okay. You can get started on that while I make a couple of phone calls.’
‘You know, I think I’m getting the hang of how this partnership works, Sir.’
‘I’m glad. I’d hate for you to be working under any delusions. I have a very simple modus operandi – you do all the work, I take all the credit.’
‘That’s the way I figured it.’
‘Good. Anything else?’
‘Ugly said that Mr Frye has copies of the blueprints in a safe in his office, but she didn’t have a key.’
‘We’ll get them from him tomorrow morning. Have you been to check on Mr Frye?’
‘Fuck him.’
Chapter Four
‘I’m feeling really randy, Quigg.’
He was sitting on the sofa in reception. There was no one about. Kline was interviewing the reception night staff in a back room. He thought he’d make his two phone calls, and then help her out.
‘Hold onto that thought, Lucy.’
‘Feelings aren’t thoughts, you moron. Y
ou’d better be on your way back here. Do you want to know what’s happening to my body?’
‘I don’t think that would be very helpful.’
‘My breasts are crying out to be manhandled by someone who builds roads for a living. My nipples need biting by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and you’d be crazy to miss the opportunity of finding out what’s squishing about in the heavenly palace.’
‘As much as I appreciate being on the receiving end of this dirty phone call for free instead of paying premium rates, I merely rang up to let you know that I have a situation here. I won’t be home tonight.’
‘Don’t you worry your tiny little worn out penis, Quigg. We’ll get a Chinese takeaway in. I’ll invite all those builders from the construction site down the road to come and have their fill of three lonely supermodels. There’s one with a six-pack you could only dream of, you bastard. I bet there are real men out there who’d crawl on all fours to get what you’re not going to get tonight.’
The call ended.
Sighing, he gyrated his head to loosen the thick twisted bands of muscle that had formed in his shoulders and neck. He’d much rather be at home having sex with Lucy than stuck here investigating a mass murder. Was it a mass murder? How many people needed to be killed before it was labelled a “mass” murder? Who decided what was what? He’d have to look it up. A top murder detective should know about these things, should know what labels to pin onto the different categories of murder.
He called the Chief’s number.
‘Quigg?’
‘Chief?’
‘Let’s not do that again, Quigg. I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, so I’m not exactly on top form. Just tell me how it’s going, and then I can get back to my Carignan Grenache Mourvedre that’s come to visit me all the way from Chile.’
‘I didn’t know they made wine in Chile?’
‘Neither did I until Mrs Bellmarsh found it languishing on a shelf in the local supermarket. Those Chile people make some very nice wine, let me tell you. The vineyard is the Montes Outer Limits. Do you remember that programme, Quigg?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Outer Limits, man?’
