by Tim Ellis
‘Evidence?’
‘That’s what we’ll be working on today.’
‘What, no evidence at all?’
‘I have evidence of the two children, Sir.’
‘But still nothing on Body 13?’
‘No, but I will have before the week’s out.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism, Quigg. You’ve taken a week to get nowhere. Well, nowhere on the case - you’ve obviously made significant inroads into Duffy. Will another five days make any difference to the case?’
‘It’s not just one paedophile, anyway, Sir. Ruth Lynch has come up with a group calling themselves the Apostles and there’re twelve of them, apparently. I think it’s a very exclusive paedophile ring. Body 13 was one of the twelve.’
‘The Apostles! Sounds like a motorcycle gang: the Devil’s Apostles, or something like that. So, who are these Apostles and what are they Apostles of?’
‘I have no idea, Chief, but they’re pretty powerful people.’
‘What makes you believe that?’
‘All the things they’ve done up to now: the explosions, the five deaths, Dr Poulson, the attack on me and the burning of my house. They’ve been trying to stop me finding out who they are. And they also know what I know.’
Monica, the Chief’s secretary, opened the door, stuck her head through the gap and said, ‘Morning, Sir. Tea?’
‘Morning, Monica. Yes I’ll have my morning cuppa, but don’t make anything for Quigg; he won’t be here long enough to drink it.’
Monica left to make the Chief’s tea.
‘You’re becoming paranoid, Quigg. This case is getting to you and because you haven’t been able to find any suspects, you’re making things up to explain away your incompetence. Next you’ll be saying it’s me who’s got it in for you.’
‘Have you, Sir?’
‘Get out, Quigg, and remember... five more days – the clock is ticking. I’ve already given DI Peters the nod. She’s familiarising herself with case, so that when she replaces you she can hit the ground with hop, skip and a jump.’
‘The case will be solved by then, Sir.’ He could have bit off his tongue and tenderised it with a mallet as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
‘I look forward to listening to your excuses and then receiving your letter of resignation; have a nice day, Quigg.’
Quigg stood and left. Monica turned from her tea making and smiled at him as he passed through her office. When he came out into the squad room, there was loud cheering and clapping. DS Jones slapped five hundred pounds into his open palm. ‘You’re a dark horse, you are, Sir,’ Jones said.
As he made his way to the incident room, people he hardly knew slapped him on the back, congratulated him and called him a "lucky bastard".
Chapter Fifteen
It was ten past nine by the time Quigg got to the incident room. Walsh, Martin and Duffy were sitting around the table talking quietly.
Walsh and Martin stared at him as he shuffled in. ‘Christ, Sir,’ Martin said. ‘Have you been blown up again?’
‘I was attacked going home on Saturday night.’
‘This case is turning into a suicide mission for you, Sir,’ Walsh said.
‘Thanks for that, Walsh. Right, a number of developments occurred over the weekend - one of which was that on Saturday night I was attacked by two men who warned me off the case. Then last night my house went up in flames. Have you told them about the children, Duffy?’
‘No, I haven’t told them anything, Sir. I thought you should be the one to tell them.’
‘House… flames?’ Walsh said. ‘What do you mean, Sir?’
‘Never mind about that, Walsh.’ His heart had been beating slightly faster than it usually did when he walked into the incident room, but now that his working relationship with Duffy appeared to be proceeding along acceptable lines, the heart had begun to slow down to its normal operating speed. ‘OK, first off, Martin - executive decision - forget about Patrick Griffiths; he’s a red herring.’
Martin clucked and threw the green file he had been clutching onto the table. ‘I’ve spent days finding out about Griffiths, now you want me to forget about him. Christ, Sir - what a waste of bloody time.’
‘You’ve every right to feel pissed off, Martin. When Duffy and I found out that George Sandland was a plant, we were pissed off as well. Before, we were thrashing about in the dark hoping that one of the leads we were pursuing might throw some light on Body 13. On Saturday I was ready to throw in the towel, but yesterday we got two corner pieces of the jigsaw. First, Dr Dewsbury, who’s filling in for Dr Poulson, told us about two eight year old girls who died in the Mugabe fire and were not related to any of the other bodies. The second piece even Duffy doesn’t know about. I have an informant who tells me that Body 13 was a member of a group called the Apostles.’ He stopped and examined their faces to see if anyone was at home.
‘Are you saying Body 13 was a paedophile, Sir?’
‘I knew you’d be the one to connect the dots, Walsh - well done.’
‘Then who took the body?’ Martin asked. ‘And why?’
‘Anybody?’
‘You said "Apostles", Sir,’ Duffy observed. ‘Is it a paedophile ring?’
‘Excellent, Duffy. So, Martin, that leaves the why. Any ideas?’
‘Well, I suppose somebody didn’t want his body to be found in the same room with two young girls who weren’t related to him.’
‘Good. I see you’re all bright and bushy-tailed this morning.’
Martin smirked. ‘I hear you are, Sir.’
Duffy turned bright red.
‘Do you want to carry on working in the team, Martin?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, keep control of your mouth; otherwise you’ll be back shuffling papers with your mate, Jones. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Duffy, wipe the board and write this list.’ He waited while Duffy cleaned the whiteboard. ‘Number one: Interview local businesses, royal mail, post office, and so on, about who lived where in Mugabe Terrace and make a list of names. Martin, that’s your job. Number two: Interview the firemen who attended the fire to identify on a plan of the building where all the bodies were located. That’s Duffy’s job and mine. Number three: Arrange and appear on local television and radio news and request that the relatives and friends of those who died in the fire come forward. That’ll be you, Walsh.’
She smiled and flattened her hair with her hand. ‘Me, Sir?’
Duffy’s eyes flashed and Martin said, ‘Why her? I’m more senior.’
‘Because, Martin, you’re ugly.’ Walsh and Duffy sniggered. ‘I look like a train crash victim and Duffy’s far too pretty to be believable. That leaves Walsh.’
‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended,’ Walsh said.
‘You can be flattered, Walsh. You’re pretty, but not over the top like Duffy. Anyway, shall we continue? I’ve got to be somewhere at ten o’clock. I’m going to speak to Vice to see if they know anything about these Apostles.’ He didn’t really want to speak to Gwen Peters, but he had no choice. Maybe she had forgotten that he’d refused to sleep with her. ‘Is Cheryl still on our team, Duffy?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I want you to quickly go and ask her to get a list of missing children and contact social services to find out whether there were any fostered or adopted children living in Mugabe Terrace.’
Duffy finished writing what she had to tell Cheryl in her notebook and said, ‘OK, Sir.’
‘Right, is everyone clear on what they’re doing?’
They all nodded.
‘I want you all back here at four o’clock. We’ll assess how far we’ve got and whether we need to do anything else. Good, let’s get going then. Duffy, I’ll meet you in the car park; you’re driving me to the bank and then Fire HQ.’
‘When do you get your car back, Sir?’
‘Don’t you want to drive me, Duffy?
<
br /> ‘I could be doing something useful.’
‘You are doing something useful; you’re driving me to the bank. Now, get your beautiful arse moving.’
She grinned.
‘Forget I said that, Duffy - let’s just go.’ Christ! He knew he shouldn’t have said that. The first morning after they had made love and already he was struggling to separate work from play. She’d have to go. Once he got his car back, he’d make do with Walsh and Martin - give her back to the Chief. She could do paperwork for him.
***
‘Mr Quigg, thank you for coming in.’ Gerald Conroy said as if he had asked him to come in instead of the other way round. ‘I understand you want to consolidate your finances?’
Consolidate, yeah - that would be it. What he’d like is for the bank to wipe out his debt like they did with third world countries to give their economies a chance to recover. That’s what his economy needed, a chance to recover from money-grabbing Caitlin. ‘Yes, I need an additional five hundred pounds, but I can’t afford any more monthly outlay.’
‘Let’s see.’ Happy to Help Gerald brought up Quigg’s account on the screen, clucked and shook his head. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Not in the best of financial health, are we?’
They always had to humiliate you, make you feel small. It wasn’t as if you could fight back - if you did you’d get nothing. And even if you played along, there was no guarantee they were going to give you what you wanted. People who worked in banks were sadists: they enjoyed seeing people wriggle and squirm in financial agony before they put the boot in. ‘Nor physical health,’ he joked, waving his cast about like an idiot.
‘Quite,’ Gerald said, looking as though he were not happy to help. ‘This will be the sixth time you’ve consolidated your finances with us. Each time you increase the loan and extend its length. Currently, you owe forty-three thousand pounds, eight thousand of which is interest, over a period of eleven years. As much as I would like to help you Mr Quigg, I feel that you have already overextended yourself.’
Quigg was depressed. Every time he started talking about his finances a cloud of gloom descended and engulfed him. He got up to go.
‘The best I can do is to give you a five hundred pound overdraft limit, but I expect it to be repaid within six months.’
He didn’t sit down again; what was the point? He’d got what he came for. ‘That will solve my immediate problem,’ Quigg said. He wasn’t going to thank the sadistic bastard. It wasn’t as if Gerald was doing him any favours. The bank would get their pound of flesh from him one way or the other, even if the faceless bastards left him with no money, living on the streets and grubbing out of waste bins.
‘Glad I could help, Mr Quigg,’ Gerald said, getting up and extending his hand.
‘Yeah,’ Quigg said, shaking Gerald’s hand and turning to go.
‘Remember, six months, Mr Quigg.’
They always had to have the last word, tread on the back of your neck and push you down in the mud as you’re trying to get up. If only he could win the lottery. He’d pay off his debts and keep his millions in a tin under the bed. He’d never ever go in a bank again.
‘Right, Duffy - Fire HQ in Docklands.’ He put the dilapidated seat belt on and tried to shake off the feelings of gloom. It was surprising how quickly a person could shift from euphoria to gloom by taking a detour into a bank.
‘You were really great last night, Sir.’
He ignored her. His sexual prowess, although important to him, was not at the top of his list just at the moment.
‘Cheryl was jealous that I slept with you first. She wants to know whether you’d be interested in a threesome.’
Quigg’s gloom cloud suddenly lifted. He burst out laughing. ‘We’re at work, Duffy. I’m not having conversations like that when I’m at work. How do you expect me to concentrate on the case when you keep talking about sex?’
‘Sorry, Sir. We can talk about it at the flat tonight before Cheryl comes round.’
Now he’d be thinking about a ménage à trois all day. He hadn’t planned on staying at Duffy’s flat tonight, but now…
***
ACFO Towers met them at the reception and escorted them up to his office.
They sat and while Towers poured the tea and acted as mother, Quigg explained what he wanted.
‘That’ll take some organising, Inspector. There were three fire crews there from three different fire stations: one each from Hammersmith, Fulham and Kensington.’
‘I need it by three o’clock.’
Towers laughed. ‘Reminds me of that saying. Something like: I can do the impossible today, but miracles take a little longer.’
Quigg was annoyed that he had to ask again. ‘So, is it an impossibility or do we require heavenly intervention?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. It won’t be complete though.’
Quigg raised his eyebrows.
‘There were firemen there at the time who are probably not on duty today, but I’ll do the best I can.’
‘You’ve got a floor plan of Mugabe Terrace?’
‘Yes, the station officer at Hammersmith will have it. They were the lead crew on this call.’
‘Can I get a copy? And I’d like to visit Mugabe Terrace and take a walk around, if it’s safe.’
‘A copy of the floor plan I can arrange. I’ll get Sub Officer Mankowicz to take you on a guided tour of Mugabe Terrace. He’s the officer who re-did the investigation into the cause of the fire.
Towers walked to his desk and communicated with his secretary via the intercom. ‘Ask Sub Officer Mankowicz to come up, will you, Muriel. Tell him he’s going to Mugabe Terrace and to bring two pairs of coveralls with him: one large and one er…’ he looked Duffy up and down, ‘medium.’
Quigg and Duffy finished their tea. Sub Officer Mancowicz arrived carrying two pairs of bright orange coveralls in clear plastic bags. Towers introduced everybody and Mankowicz told them to call him MZ. He passed one bag to Quigg and the other to Duffy.
‘Put them on now?’ Quigg asked.
‘May as well,’ MZ said. ‘Make sure they fit.’
After putting on the coveralls they made their way to the car park at the front of the building. MZ led them to a red Range Rover with a red and white light bar fixed to the roof. They travelled back the way they had come across town. It occurred to Quigg that if he’d phoned Towers and told him what he wanted, they could have saved a lot of time by MZ meeting them there.
They arrived at the gutted shell of Mugabe Terrace, overlooking the Lillie and North End junction, at ten fifty. It was not far from the Earls Court Exhibition Building to the north-east and The Queen’s Tennis Club to the north-west.
MZ led the way. Much in the same way as the police used blue and white tape to indicate a crime scene the fire brigade used red and white tape to indicate a fire scene. ‘Follow me,’ he said, ‘and don’t wander off on your own. We’re quite lucky with this building because the horizontal and vertical framework was made of concrete. Usually, the horizontals of most buildings are made from wood and plasterboard and by the time we’ve put the fire out only the verticals remain standing.’
All that was left of Mugabe Terrace was a blackened, water-drenched carcass. The lift no longer worked, so they used the stairs. There were two flats on each floor- four floors in all. None of the flats had doors. Each flat was filled with the charred remains of people’s lives. Everywhere reeked of death. It was a mausoleum for fifteen people.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Quigg eventually said.
They left the building and travelled back to Docklands without speaking. Once they arrived at Fire HQ and removed their coveralls, Quigg thanked MZ before he left them at the ACFO’s office.
Muriel showed them back into Tower’s office. He was talking on the phone, standing in front of a large architect’s floor plan of Mugabe Terrace which was spread out on the conference table. He was recording how many bodies had been found in each room, whether they were adul
ts or children, based on the information he was obtaining from the firemen at each station.
He came off the phone and turned to Quigg and Duffy. ‘Look, I’m going to be tied up here for another couple of hours. As I said, this is no easy task. Do you want to go away and come back at three?’
Quigg looked at his watch – it was ten past twelve. He was starving. Duffy had sucked the energy from him. ‘Yes, that’s fine. We’ll see you at three. Come on, Duffy - I need to go and see my mum. I’ll buy you lunch on the way.’
When they were in Duffy’s car and heading towards Upton Park, Duffy said, ‘Are you taking me to meet your mum, Sir?’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Duffy.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Right, where do you want to eat?’
‘Is this my share of the five hundred pounds, Sir?’
‘Did you know I would get that money, Duffy?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Well, I didn’t know. Do you want half, seeing as it took two of us to earn it?’
‘You need it more than me, Sir.’
‘You’re a brick, Duffy. So, where do you want to eat?’
‘I’ll pull in when I find somewhere.’
‘Was Cheryl OK when you spoke to her?’
‘She’ll do what you ask this time, Sir, but you better be there tonight, otherwise you’ll have made an enemy.’
He said nothing, unwilling to commit himself. What he didn’t need was another enemy at the station. He had enough of those. And the idea of being in bed with two women was every guy’s fantasy, wasn’t it? Duffy made it sound so matter-of-fact, as if it was a normal part of a relationship. Christ! He was meant to be in a relationship with Debbie, not in bed with two women.
Duffy pulled into a side road in Chelsea and they had lunch in a Pie & Mash shop. It was a pit-stop meal rather than anything else. They needed to eat to keep going.
They arrived at Maggie Crenshaw’s house at No 23, Holme Road, off Ron Leighton Way, at one fifty-five.
‘Wait here,’ Quigg said.
‘Are you sure, Sir?’
‘I’m sure, Duffy.’
