by Tim Ellis
‘Have you got a new job, Martin?’
‘We’ve had a good response from the friends and relatives.’
‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Hardly surprising with what you’ve had to put up with recently, Sir.’
Quigg wondered what the hell he meant by that. ‘Where’s Walsh?’
‘I’m sifting and marshalling; she’s interviewing in Room two.’
‘Anything useful?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know, Sir; she hasn’t been out and shared.’
‘OK. Tell Walsh hi. I’ll see you in the incident room at four o’clock.’
‘OK, Sir.’ Another relative came up to the desk offering assistance. Martin shrugged and dealt with them.
Quigg let himself into the station proper through the security door and made his way along the corridor and up the stairs to the squad room. Before he could reach his office, the Chief spotted him.
‘My office, Quigg,’ he called.
Quigg strolled through the squad room. All eyes were on him. DS Jones kow-towed over his desk with both arms above his head as if he were worshipping Buddha. He sensed a different atmosphere towards him this morning; people smiled and waved rather than ignored him. Monica winked at him as he went through her office. Monica never winked, especially at him. What the hell was going on? Had he won the lottery? He reached the Chief’s office, shut the door and slid into a chair.
‘I’ve heard about your sexual exploits, Quigg,’ the Chief said as he sat behind his desk. ‘Are you having a mid-life crisis?’
Which sexual exploits was he talking about? Did he know about Duffy and Cheryl? Did he know about Ruth Lynch? Did he know about one, both or neither exploit? ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chief.’ Deny everything was probably the best policy.
‘You can’t fool me, Quigg. Two women in the shower! You’ve gone up in my estimation. I’m beginning to think I may have underestimated you.’
So, the Chief knew about Duffy and Cheryl. How did he know? Had one of them come in this morning and distributed a newsletter? Informed the whole station? Was it DS Jones? Did he have a hidden camera and a microphone in Duffy’s flat? Was Cheryl working undercover?
‘I’ve already had an email from the Chief Constable saying "Well done", Quigg.’
‘You’re having me on, Sir?’
‘Monica?’
Monica stuck her head round the door.
‘I’ll have a tea. And get Quigg a coffee; he looks as though he could do with a hot drink.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ She winked at Quigg again.
He was in a parallel universe. In his universe, the Chief didn’t offer him coffee and Monica didn’t wink at him.
‘The Chief Constable is of the same mind as me, Quigg. Anyone who can have sex with two women standing up in the shower has got some balls. Maybe April Williams saw something in you that nobody else could see.’
Monica came in with the drinks, brushed his knee with her leg and smiled at him.
‘I think you’ve piqued Monica’s interest, Quigg. But you should be aware that DS Jones has already been there. So, tell me what’s happening.’
He took a drink of his coffee. ‘I got a call from Ruth Lynch last night, Sir…’
‘Was this before or after the chocolate ice cream, Quigg?’
It appeared the Chief knew every intimate detail of his not-so-private life. Maybe someone had recorded the shower scene. Maybe copies of the video were being sold on the Internet for thousands of pounds. ‘Before, Sir.’
‘Shame. Next time you want to try the Viagra ice cream. It’s a vice cream called The Sex Pistol, so I’m told.’ He let out a deep bellowing laugh.
Quigg continued once the laugh had stopped reverberating around the office. ‘Anyway, Miss Lynch was in fear of her life. It seemed there was a man in her flat. I borrowed Duffy’s car, because, as you know, mine broke down the night Dr Poulson was shot. When I arrived at the flat in Knightsbridge, a man began shooting at us through one of the second-storey windows. Duffy’s car was hit a number of times and refused to start. We had to escape through Hyde Park. In the process I was shot in the back.’
The Chief leaned forward. ‘You don’t look as though you’ve got a bullet in your back, Quigg.’
He stood up, took off his coat and shirt, and ripped the Velcro fastenings of the bullet-proof vest apart. Then he turned round to reveal the black and purple bruise covering most of the left side of his back.
‘That looks painful.’
‘It is, Sir.’
‘I hope Miss Lynch thanked you for saving her life?’
He didn’t say anything, but began putting his clothes back on.
‘Not more sex, Quigg? You had only just left Duffy and Cheryl and you’re climbing into the sack with a journalist. I hope she was worth it?’
There must be something medically wrong with him. His face must emit a red dye, or something equally distinctive, every time he had sex. How else could people know? He changed the subject.
‘Duffy’s car is going to cost me a bag of sand to get it repaired.’
‘A what?’
‘Oh, a thousand pounds.’
‘Get them to send the bill here, Quigg. It was damaged in the line of duty wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Chief.’ If this was the outcome of having lots of sex, maybe he should do it more often. The Chief had never, in ten years of knowing him, offered to pay for anything Quigg had broken before. What about staying within budget? He certainly wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The Chief smiled. ‘No problem then - we’ll find it somewhere in the budget.’
‘Thanks, Chief.’ That was a weight off his mind. A bag of sand would have crushed him.
‘Who’s trying to kill Miss Lynch, then?’
‘The Apostles.’
‘Not those buggers again. Evidence?’
‘We’ve identified all the occupants of Mugabe Terrace, except for those who were in flat eight. There was a man and two eight year old girls in there that we still can’t identify. We’re pretty sure Body 13 was the man, and I think I’ll be able to put a name to him later today.’
‘You’re making progress, Quigg - well done.’
Well done! The Chief had never said well done to him before. Usually all he got was a grunt. He didn’t know whether he could cope with the Chief being his new best friend.
‘I’m also going to see the pathologist again today to get more information on the two girls. Neither of the two profiles matches any of the children who are currently missing in the UK.’
‘What do you make of that, Quigg?’
‘We suspect that the two girls have been smuggled in from another country.’
‘Child trafficking? Have you spoken to Gwen Peters in vice yet?’
‘I haven’t had chance up to now, but it’s on my "to do" list today.’
‘OK, Quigg. Keep it up.’ It obviously dawned on him what he’d said. ‘Keep it up – yeah, I like that. I’m glad you’ve finally got yourself a life, Quigg. How’s your mum?’
‘She’s staying with a friend; she’ll be fine.’
‘Good. Keep me in the loop, Inspector.’
‘Will do, Chief.’
He threw back the dregs of his coffee and left the Chief signing Christmas leave requests. He hadn’t had any leave since April, and then it had only been two days. He’d have to book a week over Christmas. What was he going to do about Phoebe? He hadn’t contacted Caitlin, or a solicitor. Christmas would be crap this year without a house. Was he living at Duffy’s now? Is that where he was spending Christmas? If only he had time to think these things through.
‘I have some reduced fat champagne ice cream if you’re interested, Inspector?’ Monica said. She was dressed in a white trouser suit and white top. Her dirty blonde hair had been haphazardly knotted at the back of her head, and was kept in place by a large wooden pin. She wasn’t actually offering him sex, but they both new what she me
ant.
‘I’m tempted, Monica. Maybe another time, when I’m not drowning in work.’
‘As you please. I’ll keep it in the freezer ready, but don’t leave it too long, Quigg. Someone else might dip into it.’
***
Quigg went to the incident room, but Duffy wasn’t there. Then he checked with his new friends in the squad room, but she wasn’t there either. He gave up and went to his office, where he found her.
‘Why are you sitting in my chair, Duffy? Just because we’ve had sex…’
‘…Three times, Sir. Twice in the bed and once in the shower, and…’
‘…doesn’t mean you can come in here and sit in my executive chair.’
‘You weren’t here, Sir; I thought you wouldn’t mind.’
He was being petty. That was the old Quigg. The new Quigg wouldn’t mind. He sat down in the hard-backed chair on the other side of his desk. ‘You’re right, Duffy; I don’t mind. What I do mind, though, is the Chief Constable knowing about my sex life. Which one of you two phoned him and gave him the gory details.’ It crossed his mind that at least he had a sex life now; he hadn’t had one of those since Caitlin had left.
‘Neither of us, Sir - everybody knew before we arrived.’
‘Have you found out how yet?’
‘No, Sir.’
It was bound to be DS Jones. He remembered the keys in his pocket, took them out and slid them across the table.
She separated out the key to the flat and pushed it back towards him. ‘Keep it, Sir. I have a spare.’
‘Giving me a key is serious shit, Duffy.’
‘It’s only a key, Sir.’
He didn’t pursue it. Maybe it was just a key. He put it back in his pocket. ‘Well, have we had any notable people die in a fire in the past week?’
‘Only one, Sir. He died the night after the Mugabe fire and the obituary was in last Tuesday’s papers.’
‘Name?’
‘Sir Arthur Maltravers.’ She passed over the obituary.
He read it with growing interest. Aged forty-seven. Never married. Old money. Cambridge educated. Sat on the board of a number of companies. Philanthropist. Died in a house fire in Park Lane last Monday night. The obituary told him nothing that would indicate Sir Arthur Maltravers was Body 13, or that he was a member of a paedophile ring called the Apostles. Yet Quigg knew in his gut that he had put a name to Body 13. Now he had to prove it, and find out who the other eleven Apostles were.
The problem, of course, was that he still had no evidence. A catch-22 situation existed. Without evidence, he couldn’t prove anything, and if he couldn’t prove anything, he couldn’t get any evidence. He couldn’t hold a press conference and publicly call Sir Arthur a paedophile. He couldn’t start investigating his bank records, rummaging through his business dealings, or examining his personal effects. Sir Arthur’s family - he looked at the paper - a sister and a half-brother; they would protect his reputation at all costs.
‘Are you ready to go, Duffy?’
‘Where, Sir?’
‘The mortuary, to see Dr Dewsbury.’
‘How are we getting there?’
‘Ah.’ He’d forgotten that neither of them had a car now. ‘See if you can borrow a pool car for the day while I go to the toilet. Don’t mention my name.’ They hated him in the car pool. He’d pulled the senior mechanic up and reported him six months ago for missing paperwork, shoddy work and such like. Since then, inter-departmental co-operation was non-existent if Quigg was asking for anything. What could he do, report them? He’d already done that, and now he was treated like a pariah by all car pool mechanics and their administrative staff.
Duffy picked up the phone as he headed towards the toilet. Having finished his ablutions, he opened the door of the gents to find Duffy standing there waiting for him. ‘Are you stalking me, Duffy?’
She grinned. ‘They’ve got one, Sir, but we’ve got to go and get it now before the press officer gets there. It’s been promised to her, really.
‘Let’s get going then.’
They rushed down the stairs, out of the back door, through the car park and along the street to the car pool and garage. Quigg let Duffy sign for it. He kept out of sight outside. After five minutes, she came out driving an old dark blue Ford Fiesta. He spotted DI Susan Grimshaw, the press officer, walking along the road towards the garage.
‘Quick,’ he said to Duffy as he climbed in, ‘put your foot down.’
Duffy screamed away from the motor pool laughing like a demented girl racer. Quigg turned and saw Susan Grimshaw shaking her fist at him. What did he care? He was the Chief’s new best friend; he was untouchable.
‘Good getaway, Duffy.’
‘Where did you sleep last night, Sir?’
‘And you’re asking me that because…?’
She sneaked a sideways glance at him. ‘I…’
‘Is this becoming serious, Duffy?’
‘Well, no, Sir… I was just…’ He saw her bottom lip tremble before she bit it.
‘I was hiding out in a seedy hotel room from a killer who had, only minutes before, shot me in the back as I tried to escape over a wall from a hail of bullets.’
‘Was she with you, Sir?’
‘By "she", I imagine you mean my informant. Now you have to remember I’m a detective, Duffy. You could have asked me any number of questions, such as: "Were you wearing your vest, Sir?" Or, "You weren’t hurt too badly, were you, Sir?" Or, "Did you get enough sleep, Sir?" Instead, you want to know whether a woman was with me while I was writhing in agony from being shot in the back. What am I to deduce from that, Duffy?’
She didn’t say anything, but Quigg saw tears rolling down her face.
‘What’s going on, Duffy?’
‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Sir.’
‘Shit, Duffy. Don’t say that. We’ve only known each other a week and I’m nearly old enough to be your father. Pull over,’
She pulled over and wiped her eyes. He didn’t know what to do when women cried. He felt useless. He had no clean white handkerchief or even a paper tissue. The last thing he wanted to do was hold her. She might interpret hugging as an indication of his feelings. Shit. He had some feelings for her swilling about inside somewhere, but he hadn’t sat down and analysed them yet. Shit.
‘I thought it was a bit of fun, Duffy. What about last night?’
‘I didn’t think I’d mind, Sir. But I hated it. I wanted to throw Cheryl out when she touched you and you touched her instead of me.’
‘Drive, Duffy. Let’s keep focused on the case, shall we? Relationships are even more complicated than detective work.’
She pulled out from the kerb and joined the traffic again. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t get much sleep last night from worrying about where you were.’
‘You didn’t seem too bothered about me when I left.’
‘I didn’t know you were going out, Sir. If I had, I would have come with you.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t, Duffy. You could have got hurt. Drive. We have a case to solve, and only two and a half days left in which to do it. Time spent agonising over relationships is time we could more usefully spend catching paedophiles.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Go down to the mortuary, Duffy. Ask Dr Dewsbury to come up to the cafeteria. Tell him I’ll pay for lunch.’
‘Are you not coming, Sir?’
‘I hate the mortuary, Duffy. Anything to do with dead bodies makes me ill.’
‘You’re not really in the right job, are you, Sir?’
‘Are you still here, Duffy?’
She smiled and sashayed towards the lifts.
He followed her, but took the lift to heaven while she took the lift to hell.
Staff in the cafeteria were preparing for the lunchtime onslaught. Some were hovering around the coffee machine, the sandwich bar, or the tills; others were putting steaming food on the hotplates, stocking up with ladles and pincers, or cleaning the tables b
ut not the floor. Quigg ordered a coffee to wait for Duffy and Dewsbury.
No sooner had he sat down than they arrived.
‘Best get our food now,’ Dewsbury said. ‘Pretty soon it’ll be like rush hour on the tube in here.’
They queued up and stocked up with main courses, desserts and drinks. Quigg paid before sitting down.
‘What can I help you with this time, Inspector?’
‘I need more information on the two eight year old girls, Jim. They’re not local. In fact, as far as we can tell, they’re not English. It’s an outside possibility that they’ve ever been reported missing in the UK, but it’s unlikely. So, we should assume they’ve come from outside the UK. Any help you can give me in pinpointing where would be useful. Also, what about stomach contents, clothing and so forth? I’m trying to prove that a crime actually took place in Mugabe Terrace, but at the moment I have nothing. All we have is a missing body, and that would probably warrant a police caution on a good day.’
‘I’ll have to perform second post mortems on both of the bodies. I was only looking at cause of death before, which I know seems pretty obvious, but it’s the law. I stumbled on the lack of a DNA match and the sexual abuse, but I wasn’t really looking. I’ll give the bodies a second look if it’ll help.’
‘Thanks, Jim. I don’t mean to rush you, but…’
‘Yeah, I know - you want it yesterday. Tomorrow afternoon do you?’
‘Thanks, Jim.’
Jim Dewsbury gave Duffy the once over, then said, ‘You wouldn’t be interested in going out one night, would you?’
Duffy’s mouth opened in surprise. After guzzling the ice cream last night, she had restricted herself to a few paltry leaves on a plate again. One of the leaves escaped back to the plate from her open mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor - I’m already spoken for.’
‘Shame,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll keep someone very warm over Christmas.’
She blushed, gave Quigg a furtive glance and said, ‘I hope so, Doctor.’
