by Tim Ellis
‘Sorry I’m late - had something to deal with.’ Five minutes had turned into twenty-five minutes. ‘This will have to be short people; I’ve got the mechanic coming at five with my car. Walsh, you start.’
‘Martin and I have seen a lot of people today. Some were relatives of the Mugabe fire victims, but most were friends. We know the life story of all of the victims except the man and two girls in flat eight.’
‘Any of those you interviewed have information on what went on in flat eight?’ Quigg asked.
‘Nothing, Sir.’
‘Oh well, it was a useful exercise. Well done, you two.’
‘What about you, Sir?’ Martin said.
‘Duffy and I went to see the pathologist. He’s doing second post mortems on the two children, and we’ve got to go back tomorrow at three o’clock. Then we went to see one of my informers. He’s getting me information on Sir Arthur Maltravers, and we’re seeing him at three o’clock.’
Walsh screwed her face up. ‘Why, Sir?’
‘Tell her, Duffy.’
‘The Inspector had me look in the obituaries for last week for anyone who had died in a fire. There was only one person, and that was Sir Arthur Maltravers, who died in a fire at his home on Monday night.’
‘So, you think Body 13 was taken from the mortuary and burnt again in another fire at his home?’
‘Yes, Walsh.’
‘That’s a bit of a leap, Sir,’ Martin said. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to prove.’
‘We’re detectives, Martin; that’s what we do.’
‘So, we’ll know more tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes, Walsh.’ Quigg looked at his watch – five to five. ‘OK, bugger off home.’
‘What are Martin and I doing tomorrow, Sir?’
‘Oh, yes. I want you to find out where this Maltravers lived, which fire brigade went out to the fire, whether they’ve done an investigation, suspect foul play and so on. See if you can get access to the house, sniff around, detect.’
‘And if we’re refused entry?’
‘Don’t push it. We merely want to ruffle feathers, not attract a restraining order. Go to the companies he was on the board of, ask about him, make people feel uncomfortable. We want worms to come out of the woodwork. Right, tomorrow everyone.’
He was the first out of the door and made his way to reception. Smokin’ Joe came through the front door in a pair of heavily stained orange coveralls as Quigg entered.
‘Good timing, Joe. All done?’
‘Good as new, Mr Quigg.’ Smokin’ Joe passed the keys over. ‘You want to test drive it?’
‘I trust you, Joe. Bill?’
Joe put a hand in his coverall pocket. ‘Slightly less than anticipated. I always find that if I tell people more than it’s goin’ to be, they’re always pleased when I give ‘em the bill.’
‘I’ll remember that, Joe.’ He opened up the itemised bill – three hundred and fifty-five pounds, of which two hundred pounds was for labour. ‘I am pleased, Joe.’
‘I thought you would be, Mr Quigg. Don’t forget the tenner as well, for the tube. That’s not written on the bill.’
Quigg pulled out what was left of the windfall DS Jones had given him for pleasuring Duffy. He counted out three hundred and seventy pounds into Smokin’ Joe’s greasy hand. ‘Keep the change, Joe.’
‘You’re a gent, Mr Quigg. See you on the fifteenth.’
Chapter Twenty
Bartholomew and James were standing in the White Tower looking out on the Thames beneath. Bartholomew had been like a child again: wearing a gauntlet, slashing with a broadsword, and drawing a bow when they passed through the Tower’s arsenal. They were mingling with the mostly American and Japanese tourists on the Tower of London visit.
‘Do it,’ James said to a cacophony from the seven ravens circling the fortress and waiting for feeding time.
‘You do realise that I have no way of predicting what he may do, James.’
‘Have we any other choice? How many times have you tried to misdirect him, warn him off and kill him? He is like a guided missile. The only thing we have left is to take his daughter.’
‘When you’re ready, gentlemen,’ the Yeoman Warder said. ‘The Crown jewels are next. You wouldn’t want to miss them, although you will, of course, be strip-searched before leaving the tower.’ He gave a deep baritone laugh and strutted away in his white-stockinged medieval uniform.
Bartholomew was eager to see the 23,578 jewels in the historic collection, and followed the excited chattering group along the echoing stone corridors to the Jewel House. He particularly wanted to see the enormous Cullinan I diamond – known as the First Star of Africa at an astounding 530 carats embedded in the head of the Sceptre with the Cross. Then, of course, there was the cursed 105-carat Koh-I-Noor diamond.
‘Only a woman can wear the Koh-I-Noor diamond with impunity,’ the guide said.
‘Did you hear that, James? Definitely not worth stealing that diamond.’
‘At the moment, Bartholomew, it wouldn’t make much difference. We have already attracted significant misfortune, and unless we act, more will follow.’
‘I will implement the plan, James.’
They followed the tourists out into Tower Green where Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard and the sixteen year old Lady Jane Grey were beheaded.
‘A tragic waste,’ Bartholomew said.
‘Yes, although they had the right idea for young girls in those days. And make sure you select someone who can carry out the plan successfully, Bartholomew. No more mistakes - do you understand?’
‘I understand, James. There will be no more mistakes.’ Bartholomew could have sworn he saw a man in a ball and chain walking along the corridor out of the corner of his eye. He shivered. ‘Should we go?’ he said.
***
Quigg returned to his office. He emailed a quick update to the Chief Constable without mentioning Sir Arthur Maltravers, and did some paperwork until six. He was just about to leave when his office phone rang. Who the hell was ringing him at this time of night? He didn’t want to answer it, but he couldn’t help himself.
‘Quigg.’
Are you ready, Quigg?
‘Hello, Gwen. I wasn’t expecting a call so soon.’
Is it a problem?
‘No, no problem. I was merely asking.’
‘Meet me in your secret incident room in five minutes.’
‘How…?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Quigg - everybody knows about it. You’re a laughing stock, as usual.’
The phone went dead.
He trudged to the toilet, had a pee, washed his hands and face, rubbed his teeth with his fingers and practised his pucker.
Walking along the corridor, he realised that this was something he had to do. There had been many times in his life when he had been forced to stand up and be counted. This was one of those times. It was part of being a leader, a man of steel, a famous detective. He opened the door to the incident room.
‘About time, Quigg.’
Gwen kissed him roughly on the lips and pulled him down onto the thinly carpeted floor. Without standing on ceremony, she unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and yanked them down to his knees. He didn’t even have an erection. Maybe he did need the Viagra after all.
‘Are we in a rush, Gwen?’
‘I’m meeting Pratchett outside at half-past, so yes - I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
She began to knead his penis as if she were making a loaf of bread.
‘It could wait until another time.’
‘I’m eager to see what all the fuss is about.’
His penis began to respond to the rough treatment. It was hardly the romantic liaison he’d envisioned, but he wasn’t going to feel guilty about being used by Gwen Peters.
She stood up and tore off her own trousers and knickers. Maybe he should have done that for her, but she hadn’t really given him much of a chance. Squatting, she guided him inside her. It was al
l a bit too frenetic for his liking, but what choice did he have? It seemed he had very little choice these days.
He thrust his hips upwards, tried to make an effort. Maybe his reputation was at stake. Maybe she was on a fact-finding mission for other interested parties. He went with the flow, pulling the buttons of her top apart and easing her breasts out of the white lace bra. As he did, he finally understood why they had attracted him so much. They were false, bags of water, small footballs. He surreptitiously felt for the scars underneath the breasts to confirm his suspicions and found the thin lines of healed skin.
She began to moan. Thrusting up to meet her downward crushing movement, he pulled her head down to kiss her, said her name softly. He had never had rough quick sex on the floor of a storeroom before. Even in his fumbling, spotty teenage years it had never been this desperate. Maybe there was something sensual about the panic.
‘Harder, Quigg.’
How hard was harder? He didn’t want to hurt her, give her bruises, or cause to report him to the Chief for assault. He pushed harder.
‘It’s happening, Quigg. Keep doing it.’
He kept doing it, but his back was agony from all the banging on the hard floor. His arm was throbbing; he should have gone to A & E today when he was at the hospital. Time was always against him. And now here he was, having an hour’s sexual experience crammed into ten minutes.
‘Oh God, Quigg. I’m coming.’
He knew the feeling.
Together they climaxed. He didn’t think he would under the difficult conditions, but adaptation to extremes was one of the hallmarks of the human body.
‘I’m going to come back for seconds, Quigg. That was the best sex I’ve had in years.’
‘Glad I could be of assistance, Gwen.’
‘You want to start charging for that.’
‘It would certainly help my financial situation.’
She stood up, looked at her watch, pulled her clothes back on and said, ‘I’ve got to go.’
He stretched out naked on the floor with his jeans around his ankles and his hands behind his head.
‘Thanks, Quigg. I enjoyed that immensely. I’ll let everyone know you’re a stand-up guy.’
What did being a ‘stand-up-guy’ actually mean? Maybe it was code for rampant stud, satyr or debaucher. He had no doubt she would spread the word about him. It made a change for it to be a good word. He was making friends instead of enemies.
‘I enjoyed it as well, Gwen. Next time, can we do the middle-distance event instead of the sprint?’
‘I’ll see what I can arrange. I’ll call.’ Then she was gone.
He lay there for a while, pondering. It seemed he had another woman to service. A year ago he couldn’t keep one woman happy, now he was juggling four – five if Debbie woke up. Maybe he was in the wrong job. Maybe he should have been a gigolo.
***
His car started first time. Everything appeared to work perfectly, and it had been a long time since that had happened. He drove up Kensington High Street to the south of Hyde Park, filtered off the roundabout onto the A4202 and came off at Oxford Street.
Following the one-way system, he found a parking space down the road from the hotel and walked up the road. He made sure no one was following him.
He didn’t bother speaking to the young woman at reception, but went up the stairs to the fifth floor. Using the stairs, he knew, would cause problems for anyone following him. He kept stopping and looking over the handrail, but he was the only one stupid enough to use the stairs when there were lifts that functioned adequately.
In the fifth-floor corridor there were two men the size of sumo wrestlers blocking the way to Ruth’s room. He tried to get past, but they wanted to know who he was.
He extracted his warrant card, although he wasn’t hopeful that it would bring success.
‘You can enter,’ one of them, with slicked-down hair, said.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.’
‘Miss Lynch said you were the only one we could let through.’
‘OK,’ he said cautiously and knocked on 505.
The door opened. ‘Quigg, you have come back.’ She wore a pair of tight-fitting jeans, a pink v-neck cashmere sweater, and a string of white pearls adorned her slim neck. She jumped on him, wrapped her arms and legs around his body and kissed him.
‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ he spluttered. He was always surprised that she was surprised he had returned. ‘You’ve been busy.’ He meant the two men outside, but now he saw that there were two racks of clothes against the right-hand wall; assorted bags, shoes, and other things in plastic bags, littered the bed and the floor.
‘I had to buy new clothes. If I cannot go home, I must have new clothes, shoes and other things.’
‘And the muscle men outside?’
‘You were not here to protect me.’ She took his arm and pulled him into the room. ‘Come; let me show you what I have bought.’ She was like a child in a toy store. He looked, touched, nodded approvingly and made encouraging noises. He knew nothing about women’s clothes. She showed him everything, even the silk stockings, the French knickers and the 36D lace bras in white, black and skin.
‘You look beautiful whatever you wear… or don’t wear,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘You are naughty, Quigg. We can make love afterwards, but first you will see the other things I have bought. She pulled him to the other rail of clothes; they were clothes for a man. ‘For you, Quigg. You are not a good dresser. I have bought you some clothes to make you look good.’
She held shirts, jackets, trousers, jeans and ties up against his body. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said, but her excitement infected him. The clothes were far superior to the rubbish he had bought the other night.
‘You must try them all on.’
‘I’d like to see you try some of your clothes on,’ he countered. ‘Especially the small things.’
She laughed and hugged him. ‘You are a rogue, Quigg. First, you must wash the smell of the other woman from you.’
The ability to smell adversaries on a man must be an evolutionary ability of mating females, he thought. He wasn’t about to deny it. If she knew and didn’t order the men outside to kill him, then that was fine by him. Anyway, there had been no choice. Gwen had ordered and he had obeyed. Sex with Ruth, and Duffy later, would be so very different than the sexual frenzy of earlier.
‘Yes, I need a shower; I’ve had a long day.’
‘But not yet.’ She took his arm again and dragged him to the window. Pointing, she said, ‘That is yours,’ and pressed a key into his hand.
He stared. ‘What, the clapped-out old Ford Capri?’
‘The one behind it.’
A silver Mercedes shimmered beneath the streetlights.
‘You’ve got to be joking. I couldn’t possibly accept a car.’
‘It is bought and paid for, Quigg. Do not make me take it back and ask for the money to be returned. You would not dare do such a thing. It is in your name. The tax and the insurance, all done. Take it, for me. I do not expect anything in return. It is because you came to save me when I called.’ She took his face in her hands and kissed him. ‘Now you must shower; I do not wish to smell other women on you.’ She pushed him towards the marble bathroom.
He put the Mercedes key on the dressing table and stripped his clothes off, leaving them where they lay. The hot water washed the smell of Gwen Peters away, but not the memory of her rough treatment. Standing in the downpour from the rain shower, he decided that his initial decision to decline her offer of sex was the right one. She was a strange woman. What did she want from him? Was it purely sex? Clearly, she did not want a relationship. Or, if she did, it would be a soul-destroying one. If she rang again, he would decline her overtures, and if she wished to punish him because of that, then so be it.
He came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Ruth had removed her jeans and sweat
er, and all that remained were her lace bra and panties. He sat on the bed.
‘The meal will be brought up at seven o’clock. There is an hour we have to fill.’
Quigg stood, loosened the towel and let it fall to the floor. ‘I’m sure we can think of something to do during that time.’
‘You are very naughty, Quigg. We should be working to find out who these Apostles are.’
‘I have somebody doing that.’ He grabbed her round the waist and pulled her onto his lap. ‘And anyway, how can I concentrate on work with you dressed like this?’ He started to ping her bra strap, then her knickers, and as she squirmed away from him laughing, his heart went out to her and the laughter stopped. They kissed with a passion rooted in friendship. Making love was a natural extension of their friendship and passion.
Later, when the evening meal arrived, they were at ease with each other and talked of unimportant things while they ate. Too soon it was eight thirty and Quigg knew he had to go. He had promised Duffy he would return to her. Before he made a move to go, she said to him, ‘You have not told me about Sir Arthur Maltravers.’
‘You found him in the obituaries as well?’
‘Yes, and I know him. I have seen him at some of the parties, the gallery events and the first nights I am invited to.’
‘Do you think he is Body 13?’
‘He was not married. I barely knew him. I cannot say.’
‘I think all these Apostles move in your circles. I suspect you know most of them.’
‘Oh, Quigg - I hope not. That would be terrible.’
‘We will find out tomorrow, but tonight I must go.’
Ruth was not surprised that he wasn’t staying the night, and she didn‘t question his decision or try to change his mind. She chose a pair of chinos, a shirt and a cashmere jumper for him to wear over his bullet-proof vest and beneath his duffel coat. He looked smart, but casual.
‘Will you come back tomorrow, Quigg?’
‘You know I will.’
She kissed him. ‘Goodnight, Quigg.’
