by Tim Ellis
'Come with me, Bob. I have an escape plan.'
He recruited another seven ex-military personnel: Mike Roberts, Coldstream Guards; Valerie Zepp, Royal Signals; Jimmy Crisp, Royal Anglian Regiment; Steve Sallow, Army Air Corps; Terry Tumbler, Royal Hampshire Regiment; Kenny Kincaid, Royal Engineers; and Tulbahadur Thapa, 6th Gurkha Rifles.
Their stories were all very similar. Jack knew about society's invisible people, the people who spoke without saying words, and homeless veterans were such people. They had a defiant dignity – in silent protest. They never asked for food or money. He knew, because he'd been one of those people himself in the darkest of his days.
He handed each recruit five hundred pounds, told them to buy clean winter clothing, have a bath, get a decent night's sleep in a hotel and to report to Catherine Wheel Yard at ten o'clock in the morning.
***
In return for the list of addresses, Duffy handed over the bag from the takeaway containing the doner kebab and can of coke. 'Your order, Madam.'
Lucy tore at the plastic bag, cracked open the polystyrene box and clawed at the wrapping paper to reach the food inside as if she hadn't eaten for months – maybe years, and took an inhuman bite out of the kebab. 'Mmmm! Sometimes, I think doner kebabs are better than sex.'
'I wouldn't know. Sex is in short supply at the moment.'
'That's your own stupid fault. Going orgasmic cold turkey is not the answer to the problem. I've told you before that Quigg is never going to voluntarily get a vasectomy. You and Ruth think it's just a simple matter of him having a couple of snips here and there, and that's an end to it.'
'It is, isn't it?'
'You're forgetting about the psychological barriers to men having a vasectomy and Quigg's fragile libido, which is the driving force of all his behaviour. Sigmund Freud would have paid good money to get Quigg on a couch.'
'What are you talking about?'
'I've been reading the ins and outs of it. Men, overwhelmingly, don't want to have a vasectomy and who can blame them? They think it will have a negative effect on their relationships and sexual health.'
'That's rubbish.'
'Say's you, but then you're not a man! Also, the general belief is that sterilised men lose status in society and authority in the family.'
'We wouldn't let that happen.'
'In Quigg's mind it already has happened. At the moment, while he still has a bagful of viable sperm, he's still a man who's in control of his life. If he has a vasectomy, he'll think of himself as less than other men and we'll be in control.'
'But . . . Mmmm!'
'He'd be a shadow of his former self. We like Quigg just the way he is, but now we want to change him for our own selfish needs. Is that what we want – a de-emasculated psychologically-damaged Quigg with no sex-drive?'
'I hadn't thought about it like that.'
'You, me and Ruth need to have a pow-wow. It's a well-known fact that birth control is the woman's responsibility. If we don't want babies, we're the ones who should do something about it, not him.'
'In this day and age?'
'What's going on in Quigg's mind is key to this, Duffy. Why would he want to get a vasectomy anyway? What's in it for him?'
'Well, he gets to have lots of sex if he has it done.'
'You think he can't get lots of sex by not having it done? We're not the only sex dolls in the world, you know. I've put in place a working solution. It's not ideal, but I'm getting lots of sex and stopping him from straying. Meanwhile, you and Ruth's penis fly traps are only attracting flies.'
'You're disgusting.'
'A disgusting person who's getting lots of donations at the sperm jacuzzi. I'm surprised at you Duffy, I thought you'd have known about all this psychological shit.'
'Mmmm! Maybe we have been a bit hasty. I'll mention it to Ruth.'
'You do that.'
'Anyway, I have more work for you.'
'Paid work?'
'No. Work as a favour to someone who loves and cares about you very much.'
'I don't know anyone like that. You've also picked the wrong time as well. Talking about sex is fine, but I don't talk about work when I'm eating, it gives me indigestion. Come back next week.'
'I'm starting a business.'
'Annoying diners while they're eating will not make you rich?'
'Arcane Paranormal Investigations Ltd. What do you think?'
'I blame myself. I should never have let you take over the case at Copperfield Street. Close the door on your way out.'
'I need you to download a program called Audacity onto my computer, so that I can analyse a voice recording.'
'The rugrats in the nursery could do that.'
'Also, I need you to make a copy of a video recording and . . .'
'Give your demands to my secretary.'
'You don't have one.'
'Oh dear.'
'I'll go and get my laptop while you're finishing off your kebab.'
'I'm sure there are other people living here who would welcome your annoying company.'
'I have a video recording of a woman disappearing at a séance.'
'Rubbish.'
'I thought you'd be interested.'
'No spark of interest here, move along.'
She went to her bedroom, picked up her laptop and returned to Lucy's room. 'Got it.'
Lucy burped, threw the plastic bag containing the rubbish from her meal towards the bin in the corner by the door, which bounced off the wall and rolled to the centre of the room, cracked open the can of coke and took a long swallow. 'I can spare you fifteen minutes and then you're out of here.'
'I'm sure fifteen minutes will be enough.'
'Enough or not, that's all you're getting.'
Lucy downloaded the EVP file that Harry had sent to her email inbox; made two copies of the séance video recording, put one on her laptop and sent the other to Harry; downloaded Audacity onto her laptop . . .
'I need some paranormal equipment as well.'
'Paranormal equipment! You mean equipment that goes "bump" in the night? Where do they sell equipment like that?'
'You know very well what I mean. And I know you like buying technical gadgets on the internet. So, I have a list.' She passed Lucy the list she'd made on the train.
EMF gauge and recorder
Digital night vision camera with touchscreen
Night vision camcorder with touchscreen
Digital thermometer
Digital voice recorder
Thermal imaging camera
Ghost box
Two-way radios x 4
Tripod
Headlamp
LED Torch with infrared
Indoor security cameras x 6
Motion detectors x 6
Ouija board
A rucksack to store it all in
'You don't want much then, do you?'
'Just a few things. They're hardly worth mentioning.'
'And yet you've mentioned them in a written list that's as long as Janet's weekly shopping list. Who's paying for all this stuff you've hardly mentioned?'
'Quigg.'
'Does he know?'
'No.'
'Okay. There's no panic to get them is there?'
'It would be nice to have it all yesterday, but I have a partner who already has most of that stuff. We used his stuff today.'
'A partner. Is he . . .?'
'No. His name is Harry Hudson and he has ginger hair.'
'Those people are like aliens.'
'He seems all right. I'm going to start the paranormal business with him, which is another thing . . .'
'I've noticed that you're a bit slow on the uptake, Duffy. If you weren't, you'd have figured out already that I don't work for you.'
'I know, but you'll like this work. I need a website, but not immediately. We could design it together in a week or so.'
'We could do that, I suppose. Right, time's up. Bugger off, I have important work to do.'
'W
hat important work?'
'Goodbye, Duffy.'
'Goodbye, Lucy.'
Chapter Eight
'It's Quigg, Sir,' he said into the telephone. Mrs Berkeley had vacated her office, so that he had a base of operations, and also because that was where all the exhibit files were located. As he was speaking to the Chief, two forensic officers were examining those files for any clues; along the corridor, Rummage was conducting interviews of all the staff in another room, which had remote access to the station and the Crimint database; Doctor Solberg had returned with four locums and was busy supervising the initial examinations of the corpses; and he was still waiting for the eight officers from Nicky Wright to appear, so that they could begin the search.
'What have you done to Miss Tinkley, Quigg?'
'Me? God forbid! I haven't done anything to her.'
'Then why is she moping around like a wet weekend? I can't squeeze an ounce of work out of her.'
'Your guess is as good as mine, but I can assure you that I haven't touched her. I say "her", but you do know she's not really a she, don't you, Chief?'
'What are you blathering about?'
'Miss Tinkley is a man.'
The Chief bellowed with laughter down the phone.
He held the receiver away from his ear to prevent any damage to his eardrum.
'I always appreciate a good joke, Quigg.'
'It's not a joke, Sir. I understand that gender reassignment surgery is imminent.'
'You're talking crazy talk. Christy Tinkley has the body of a goddess.'
'You don't have to tell me, Chief. I've been lusting after that body since you employed her as your secretary, but now . . . Well, things just aren't the same since I found out the truth.'
'Mmmm! She has booked three weeks holiday that dovetails into the Christmas and New Year festivities.'
'There you go then, Sir. Proof positive if any was needed.'
'Goodness! How did you find out about her condition when I was completely in the dark?'
'I stumbled over the truth a few days ago.'
'I'm shocked, Quigg.'
'Not as shocked as I was, Chief.'
'I wonder if she . . . he is having second thoughts about the surgical reassignment?'
'Could be. It's a bit extreme.' He took an intake of breath. 'I couldn't do it.'
'No, nor me.' The Chief grunted. 'I think you can imagine what Mrs Belmarsh would say if I even contemplated it?'
'I think I have a good idea.'
Well anyway, let's not think about the painful implications of gender reassignment anymore. What's going on at the waxworks?'
'A question I keep asking Rummage, Chief.'
'And what answer does DC Rummage come up with?'
'She has no idea.'
'And what about you, do you have any idea?'
'None at all, Sir. But you can wallow in the knowledge that I will have by the end of the day. We began with one body hiding beneath George Washington. Since then, Perkins has found another seven.'
'Another seven! That's eight bodies?'
'I didn't realise you could count, Chief. You should be aware though, that Perkins has only inspected half the exhibits, so there could be more to be discovered.'
'And these bodies are standing in place of the waxwork figures?'
'Yes, but it's a bit more complicated than that.'
'That doesn't surprise me. You have the knack of making things a lot more complicated than they really are, Quigg.'
'It's nice of you to say so, Chief.'
'It wasn't a compliment.'
'I had an idea it wasn't.'
'So, what's your plan?'
'I'm having a mobile command centre brought here this afternoon.'
He heard the Chief snort. 'And Nicky Wright has agreed to that after you destroyed the last one she gave you?'
'It was hardly my fault, Sir.'
'You must have something incriminating on Inspector Wright, that's all I can say. I understood that she was never going to give you another mobile unit as long as you had a hole in your arse.'
'I expect she's mellowed in her old age, Chief.'
'There's a flock of pigs balancing on the telephone wire outside my office, Quigg.'
'They'll be looking for food, Sir.'
'What else is going on there?'
'We questioned the people who actually make the exhibits and they think that the figures they regularly maintain are not the figures with the dead bodies inside.'
'Duplicates?'
'That's what Rummage has suggested. Based on that suggestion, I've also requested eight additional officers from Inspector Wright, so that we can conduct a search of the four floors in the waxworks this afternoon. If there are duplicates here, then we'll find them.'
'That also suggests there's somebody swapping the figures over. Any idea who that might be?'
'No, Sir.'
'What about the bodies, where have they come from?'
'No news from Doctor Solberg yet, but the one beneath George Washington has been in-situ for at least five years. It was preserved professionally using a long-term embalming process.'
'At a funeral directors?'
'That was my immediate thought, but Doctor Solberg said they wouldn't have the expertise, Sir. As I said, it's a bit complicated. I'm waiting for her to provide me with further details, but with eight bodies so far she's had to employ locums because she can't see the wood for the trees.'
'What about the press briefing?'
'Cancel it, Sir. I've got nothing to tell them that makes any sense yet anyway.'
'Understood. When you know anything, you'll contact me?'
'I've got you on speed dial, Chief.'
He ended the call, picked up the last chocolate bourbon and bit off half of it. As he crunched through the biscuit, he stared at the three-dimensional visitor map of Mrs Salmon's Waxworks. The more he stared at it, the more he realised that the waxworks had been designed as a three-dimensional maze over four floors. There were passage loops; dead ends; curved, angled and similar passages; an inability to follow walls; roundabout passages; repetition; blind alleys; an irregular and unusual layout on each floor; sharp U-turn passages; and enticements.
A maze obviously made his investigation that much more difficult, because whoever went in would need to find their way out again. In a sense, the situation resembled that of Theseus searching for the Minotaur in the labyrinth. He'd need to make sure that they had a length of Ariadne's golden thread.
'MITCH!'
'Hanging on your every word, Inspector Morse.'
'Did you know this place was a maze?'
'That's what I've been telling you, Inspector. Without a map, you could be lost in here for days.' His eyes opened wide. 'Hey! Maybe that explains all the dead bodies – lost souls who never found their way out of the waxworks? I could sell my story to the newspapers: How an Apprentice Solved the Bodies in the Waxworks Case. What do you think, Inspector Lestrade?'
'Give me your phone, Mitch.'
'Phone! On my wages! No, I haven't got a phone.'
'Do I have to search you?'
'I wouldn't mind DC Rapunzel searching me.'
'I'm sure.' He held out his hand. 'Phone.'
Mitch handed it over.
'PIN?'
'Never.'
'The door of the cell with the broken toilet makes a clanking sound like Christmas church bells.'
'8746.'
Quigg keyed in the PIN and found a collection of ten pictures of the dead body inside George Washington. 'Have you sent these anywhere?'
'Oh those! I don't even know how they got on there. Somebody must have . . .'
'Well?'
'I was in discussion with my agent.'
'So nobody else has seen these?'
'When you say nobody else, can you be more specific?'
'Where?'
'Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat . . .'
'You've compromised my investigation, Mitch.'<
br />
'I promise you that it wasn't my intention to do that, Inspector Bergerac. As an entrepreneurial spirit I saw a golden opportunity and followed my gut instinct.'
'Perverting the course of justice will get you ten years in Wormwood Scrubs, Mitch.' He deleted the photographs. 'They have lots of broken toilets and clanking doors in there.'
'It was an honest mistake.'
Just then, eight uniformed officers clomped along the corridor.
'You take any more photographs and you'll be a waxwork figure yourself, Mitch.'
'Understood.' He held out his hand. 'Can I have my phone back?'
Quigg tossed it to him. 'Wait outside.'
'I'm your man, Inspector Kojak.'
A six-foot three-inch Sergeant filled the doorway. 'Sergeant Lockley with seven others, Sir.'
'Welcome, Sergeant.'
Mitch slunk out past Sergeant Lockley.
Quigg signalled for the Sergeant to come into the office and take a seat on the other side of the desk. 'I want you to split your men into pairs. Each pair will conduct a search of one of the four floors of the waxworks.' He turned the three-dimensional visitor map of the waxworks round on the desk so that it faced the Sergeant. 'These are the four floors – the basement and floors one, two and three. Has everybody got a radio?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'Good, because this place is designed as a maze and it's easy to get lost. You'll also need a map. MITCH!'
'Ready, able and willing, Inspector Gently.'
'I want eight maps, one for each of my officers.'
'Coming up.' He hurried out and disappeared up the corridor.
'What are we searching for, Sir?'
'Duplicates of exhibits – George Washington; the Alien . . .'
'Which alien?'
'The Alien. The one that has acid for blood and bursts out of people's chests when they're not looking. It's a movie, Sergeant.'
'Okay, Sir. I'm sure some of the men will know who it is.'
