by Tim Ellis
Rita the Medium didn't say what help she needed, but it wasn't any of his concern now. Duffy had taken to her new role as a paranormal investigator like a duck to water, and was completing a home-study course to become a Certified Paranormal Investigator.
She'd shown him what the course covered – types of spirits such as orbs, ghosts, shadow people and demons; signs of haunting; ghost hunting equipment such as an electromagnetic field (EMF) meter, an electronic voice phenomena (EVP) digital recorder, and a thermal camera; how to investigate and analyse evidence; and setting up a paranormal business. As an ex-police constable, she was already half-way there.
She smiled. 'Instead of a murder detective, I'll be a paranormal detective.'
'You're not scared?'
'Of what?'
'Ghosts and things?'
'Maybe a bit.'
'You'll take care, won't you? I love you, and we have a child who needs both of us.'
She hugged him.
He thought it was an invitation to venture into currently forbidden territory . . .
Pushing him away she said, 'Have you had a vasectomy yet?'
'Well no, but . . .'
'Stay on your quarter of the bed then.'
'I feel persecuted.'
'Just think of the untold riches that could be yours if you had a little painless snip.'
'Says a person who knows nothing about vasectomies.'
She was still asleep when he left at seven-thirty, so he'd written the details of Rita the Medium's voicemail and contact number on a bright-green post-it note and stuck it to the front of her mobile phone, which was lying on the bedside cabinet next to her side of the bed.
He'd actually slept with Lucy last night, because she was the only one sympathetic to his plight, subject to certain strict conditions.
'I think you're an undiagnosed addict, Quigg,' Lucy had said.
'I've never touched drugs.'
'Sex is a drug.'
'Ah!'
'I've been reading up on it. Do you have chronic, obsessive sexual thoughts and fantasies?'
'Nothing springs to mind.'
'What about compulsive relations with multiple partners, including strangers?'
He blew a raspberry. 'Chance would be a fine thing! And not only that, when do I have the time?'
'A preoccupation with having sex, even when it interferes with your daily life, productivity and work performance?'
'I think the Chief would have something to say about that.'
'An inability to stop or control your sexual behaviours?'
'Like a badly programmed automaton, you mean?' He began moving his arms and head as if he had no control over them.
'Feeling remorse or guilt after sex?'
He shook his head vigorously. 'Never. Sex is a healthy human activity, Lucy. Talking of which . . .' He sidled up to her. 'All this talk of wild unadulterated sex has left me with chronic, obsessive sexual thoughts and fantasies that now need treating.'
'I'm not sure I should be feeding your addiction, Quigg.'
'Please! Everyone else does it; you know I can quit whenever I want; I'll get help later, but not right now; and I deserve it after the month I've had.'
She held out a condom sachet. 'You know the procedure.'
'I feel like Job the Persecuted.'
Lucy laughed, but ignored his hurt feelings. 'Put the love glove on, Quigg. No glove, no love.'
Afterwards, when they were puffing, panting and dripping in sweat Lucy said, 'How many children live here now?'
'I don't know.'
'They're your children, you should know.'
'I have a vague idea.'
'That's not good, Quigg.'
'Maybe we could do a child inventory tomorrow. What prompted you to ask anyway?'
'The nanny – Amanda Oliver – looked a bit frazzled earlier. I think she needs help.'
'Help! What kind of help?'
'Oh, you know! Maybe a couple of hefty security guards with cattle prods to keep your ankle-biters in line.'
'I don't understand! What's changed?'
'You can't keep your genes in your jeans, that's what's changed. When we first employed Amanda, all she was responsible for was a sperm in a petri dish. Now, you have a dozen kids, and you've just introduced a psychologically-damaged Phoebe into the mix as well.'
He pulled a face. It was true. At the start there had only been the twins – Dylan and Lily Rose who he'd had with the now deceased Edie Golden; then Luke – Ruth's baby had been added; Márie – Duffy's baby shortly after; and now Phoebe – his eldest, who he'd had with his dead wife – had recently been rescued after being abducted by the brother of DI Gwen Taylor's ex-partner, who blamed Quigg for his brother's suicide. After her ordeal Phoebe was withdrawn; her eating and sleeping habits had changed; her moods shifted between high and low; she was irritable, afraid, worried and anxious; and her behaviour was becoming seriously challenging for the nanny. 'Can you organise it, Lucy?'
'You're asking me to employ a second nanny?'
'Please.'
'And you should be aware that the nursery is getting too small as well, because knowing you as well as I do, I'm sure you'll be adding to the gene pool in the not-too-distant future. Maybe we should think about selling some of those rugrats?'
'Or we could extend the nursery?'
'Selling them would be financially-astute and less noisy. Instead of draining the coffers, you'd be adding to them.'
'I can certainly see how there might be some merit in your suggestion, but I think I'd like to see how a nursery extension addressed the problem first. Could you organise that as well?'
'A poor decision in my opinion, Quigg!'
He thought about his other children, the ones he wasn't directly responsible for. There were the triplets in Canada – Ava, Evie and Noah, who he'd had with Aryana the psychic; Joe in Barrow-in-Furness, who he'd had with DI Gwen Taylor; Poppy, who he'd had with Cheryl – the Chief's ex-secretary. Then there were a number of women who were, or might be, pregnant – Sergeant Ada Sage, Inspector Nichola Wright, Detective Sergeant Lindsey Hawking, and now Mandy the administrative assistant. If, of course, that one was down to him. It was more likely that it was Wayne's baby – at least he hoped so. And he was sure there were probably a few stray sperm that he'd forgotten about or mislaid along the way.
Things were getting out of hand. Maybe Lucy was right, maybe he was a sex addict and needed help. Well, he had an appointment with the renowned psychiatrist Professor Alice Neuville at her Harley Street surgery at two o'clock on Thursday, so he might very well discuss the problem with her.
He parked up outside Mrs Salmon's Waxworks on Baker Street. 'What do you think?' he asked Rummage, looking up at the three-storey neo-Gothic Victorian building that had been built in 1888 as a dental hospital, but had housed the waxworks since 1929.
Rummage shrugged. 'Looks like a museum.'
'No, not that. My new Mercedes?'
'You drive it like a Chinaman with a rickshaw.'
'Thanks. Are you sure you're up to this, Rummage?'
For answer, she stuffed her hands in her pockets, scrunched the sheepskin jacket together against the biting Siberian wind and climbed the steps up to the main doors.
Chapter Two
There were two uniformed constables guarding the entrance to the building. As he held up his Warrant Card, he recognised Constable Linda Odell from the ladies' shower room incident. At least she wasn't pregnant, he thought. She smiled at him like a black widow spider, but didn't say anything. A sign had also been erected on the top step between the in and out doors informing the viewing public that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the waxworks was closed for the day.
Beyond the doors were two ticket booths – one on either side, not unlike the entrance to a cinema. Shortly thereafter, there were two more swing doors that led into a cavernous interior and the waxworks proper. The floor was covered in decorated ceramic tiles and every surface seemed to be patterned, gil
ded, painted, illustrated and inscribed. The waxworks extended a long way back with eight enormous circular ornate majolica columns, which supported thick golden arches and the two floors above. The walls on either side were pierced by tall windows of painted glass. The building was originally lit by gas jets, which had long gone, but many of the impressive heavy and ornate gratings that took away the heat and fumes could still be seen around the walls.
'What's afoot, Perkins?' he asked as he and Rummage approached what looked like a petrified corpse lying on its side surrounded by shards of broken wax scattered about the floor. He stopped at the crime scene tape, which had been stretched across the walkway in both directions. As usual, he had to make a serious mental and physical effort to control the overwhelming feelings of panic and dread that engulfed him. From the age of eight, he’d had a pathological fear of dead bodies – necrophobia the doctors called it – they had a name for everything these days. He blamed his mother for making him kiss his father’s corpse at the funeral. After that, the night terrors and bed-wetting had begun.
Doctor Ingrid Solberg – the resident forensic pathologist at Hammersmith Hospital – was on her knees conducting an examination of the body and collecting samples like a zealot. She was a Norwegian national, in her late thirties with long blonde hair, a button nose, thin sensuous lips and small breasts. She was definitely attractive, but for some strange reason he'd never had sex with her. Maybe that was a good thing. Sex with work colleagues, as he knew to his cost, was fraught with difficulties.
'Good morning, Inspector,' the wiry Carl Perkins from forensics said. He had short grey-streaked black hair parted on the left, bushy eyebrows, high cheekbones, big ears, a large nose, deep nasolabial folds and a cleft chin that curled in on itself. With a black-hooded cloak and a scythe, he could easily have been mistaken for the Grim Reaper. 'It's all a bit confusing, to say the least. A wayward child belonging to a couple of early morning visitors ran amok in the waxworks and knocked over this wax figure.'
'Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that George Washington, the first president of the United States of America, lying on the floor being poked and prodded by Doctor Solberg?'
'Yes and no.'
'Any comments, Rummage?'
'I don't think George Washington has been made from wax.'
'Which is why we're here, isn't it?'
'I expect so.'
'Come on then, Perkins. Stop being secretive, enigmatic and cryptic. Tell us what's going on.'
'DC Rummage is right, George Washington is not a wax figure, he's a real body . . .'
'Presumably not the real George Washington?'
'No, somebody else.'
'But no idea who?'
'Not at this point.'
'Okay. So, what you're telling me is that the people who make the wax figures are using real corpses to save time and effort, and then covering the bodies in wax and sculpting it to resemble the celebrity in question – aka George Washington in this instance?'
'The manager says not.'
'How can that be the case, Perkins?'
'I don't know.'
'Well, I expect we'll get to the bottom of it one way or another. Won't we, Rummage?'
'That is why we're here, Sir.'
'Exactly.' He glanced at the pathologist. 'What about you, Doctor? Any pearls of wisdom on time or cause of death?'
'No.'
'Is that the best you can do?'
'The body has been embalmed and chemically treated, so that it wouldn't decompose and start smelling.'
'So, we're not talking about a murder victim, are we? The person was already dead and buried when he was brought here to be used as a stand-in for the president?'
'That is not the case, Inspector. Murder is still a possibility. As you probably know, the eyes and mouth stay open when a person dies. During the preparation for open-casket viewing, the eyes are closed using eye caps, and the mouth is shut using a jaw suture. However, in this case, there is no evidence of either being used. Also, there are no obvious signs that cosmetics were applied and grooming the body doesn't normally include shaving the head. It is my considered opinion that the corpse was not prepared for burial or cremation by an undertaker.'
'What about the embalming? Surely that was undertaken by an undertaker?'
'To be confirmed, but this embalming is different from the usual procedure. Normally, a diluted mixture of 5-35% formaldehyde, 9-56% methanol, glutaraldehyde disinfectant, humectants to reduce the loss of moisture, and wetting agents to increase the mixture's penetrating and spreading qualities is injected into either the carotid or the femoral artery. At the same time, the blood is removed. The results of the embalming process undertaken by undertakers is designed to last a few weeks until the time of the funeral after which, decomposition soon follows.'
'And how is this different?'
'This corpse has been here at least five years. Yet, you can clearly see that there is no decomposition, which suggests that a long-lasting embalming solution has been used. Major vessels are opened, the blood is drained and the vascular system is completely flushed using a mixture of alcohol, glycerol and formalin with a pinkish tint usually added to give the body a realistic look, but it has not been used in this case. This solution prevents the body from dehydrating, and kills all bacteria so that mould and fungus can't grow. The only occasions this long-lasting solution is used, are when bodies are put on public display. For example: Vladimir Lenin, Ho Chi Minh, Mao Zedong and Kim-II-sung, to name a few.'
'Specialist embalming,' Rummage suggested.
The pathologist nodded. 'Most definitely.'
'Would the people who make the wax figures here have those skills?'
'I would say it was unlikely. They deal with wax figures, not dead bodies. Of course, they require knowledge of human anatomy, but not embalming.'
'Anything else, Doctor?'
She picked up a small piece of wax lying on the floor. 'The wax does not appear to be beeswax, which is traditionally used for wax figures.'
'So what type of wax is it?'
'I wouldn't like to say at this juncture, Inspector. I really need to get the body back to the mortuary and carry out a full spectrum of tests.'
'That's not very helpful, Doctor. I promise I won't hold you to anything you might say.'
'Adipocere.'
'I don't think there's any need to use expletives.'
'Also known as corpse, grave or mortuary wax. It's formed by the anaerobic bacterial hydrolysis of fat in the tissues, internal organs and the face of corpses.'
'If I understand you correctly, what you're saying is that the wax covering the corpse is made from human remains?'
'Which is yet to be confirmed during the post-mortem.'
'And I'm guessing that the human remains used to make the outer covering of wax is not related to the dead body?'
'No.'
'So, we actually have two bodies here?'
'Or more.'
'More?'
'I say that merely as a possibility. Until I carry out an extensive DNA analysis, I will not know for sure.'
He glanced at Rummage. 'You're being unusually quiet. Any religious insight?'
'As well as bees, there are a number of other animals and insects that are used to produce wax for commercial purposes. Humans are animals, and there have been numerous historical instances of soap and candle wax being made from human corpses.'
'Soap!'
'Yes.'
'Soap isn't wax though, is it?'
Perkins interrupted. 'In chemistry, one man's soap is another man's wax. In other words, it only takes the addition or subtraction of a few molecules to turn soap into wax and vice versa.'
He stared at the corpse on the floor. 'Is it possible that he died of natural causes?'
'Yes,' Doctor Solberg said.
'So, we have a corpse who might have been murdered, or could also have died of natural causes, that was embalmed using a long-lasting embalming solution, then
covered in wax from the remains of another corpse – or corpses – and together they've been masquerading as George Washington for five years in a waxworks?'
'That is correct.'
'Sounds like the stuff of nightmares, Doctor.'
'It does, doesn't it?'
'The sooner you give me some answers, the better I'll sleep at night.'
'And the sooner you stop asking me questions, the sooner I can start working on those answers.'
'I have no more questions. What about you, Rummage?'
'Is this the only one?'
'The only one what?'
'Dead body made to look like an exhibit?'
'I hope you're not suggesting that there could be more?'
'Why would there just be one? I think all the exhibits should be examined to make sure.'
'How many exhibits are there?'
'Two hundred and thirty-seven,' Perkins said.
'You'd better get your people onto it then, Perkins.'
'Yes, Sir.'
***
Mavourneen Duffy opened one eye. Due to the pillow, she couldn't quite see the time displayed on the digital clock on the bedside cabinet, which meant she had two choices. She could either close the eye and go back to sleep, or lift her head to find out the time. It was a difficult decision, and if it wasn't for the fact that she desperately needed to pee, she might have gone back to sleep.
She lifted her head and saw that it was still early – only quarter to ten. Early or not, she still had to pee. And if it wasn't for the fact that Quigg had stuck a bright green post-it note to the front of her phone, she might have gone for a pee and then climbed back into bed. She scooped up her phone and the post-it note and took them both to the toilet with her.
As she was peeing, she read what Quigg had written on the post-it note and then phoned Rita the Medium.
'This is Rita the Medium.'
'I expect you know who I am?'
'You won't be surprised to learn that people ask that all the time.'
