Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Goodnight, Ruth Lynch.’

  ***

  It was ten past ten when he arrived back at Duffy’s flat. He used his key to get in for the first time. She had left the hall light on for him. If women could smell betrayal, like rats could smell food, then he would be wise to have a shower and brush his teeth. Ruth didn’t seem to mind that he was seeing other women as long as when he was with her she was his centre of attention. Duffy, on the other hand, would be eaten up with jealousy. She knew where he’d been tonight and there was no point in rubbing her nose in it.

  He walked through to the bedroom naked and slithered in beside her. She was naked, awake and waiting for him. No words were necessary. She kissed and caressed him. They made love slowly, savouring the feelings they shared for each other. Afterwards, they slept entwined in each other’s arms.

  ***

  Quigg could smell the bacon before he opened his eyes. He found one of Duffy’s dressing gowns and put it on. It was white silk, with dragons on the front and back. After a pee, he went barefoot to the kitchen and stood in the doorway watching her. Now it feels as though we’re married, he thought. She had on a cotton night-dress that came mid-way down her thighs. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and she busied herself between the cooker, the microwave and the toaster.

  ‘Do you want me to do anything?’

  ‘Oh! You frightened the bejeesus out of me, as my father used to say.’

  He wrapped his arms around her, squeezed her buttocks and kissed her.

  ‘We’re having breakfast now, Sir.’

  She was referring to the erection poking through her dressing gown. ‘It’s your fault.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that one.’

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

  She grinned. ‘You’d better sit down before you start knocking things over with it.’

  He sat at the table. What he needed was a good uninterrupted hour to sift through his feelings, examine them and decide which ones were real and which ones were masquerading as something else. If he was going to stay here at Duffy’s, wear her dressing gowns and make love to her, then she couldn’t carry on calling him ‘Sir’. But if they were ‘an item’ as Duffy called it, they would have to stop working together. Maybe she should find another job. He could probably arrange a transfer for her to Kensington or Chelsea. It wasn’t just about Duffy, though. There was Ruth Lynch, the heiress. It could never work between them and she knew it as much as he did. They were from different worlds and neither of them could bridge the chasm that existed between them. They were enjoying the abundant fruits at the oasis now, but the water would soon dry up, the fruit trees would whither and they would go their separate ways. For the moment he loved her, but it was only a fleeting moment. Then, of course, there was Debbie: a relationship yet to begin. Would she wake up? If she did, would she be fully functioning in mind and body? Should he tell her the truth of his infidelities? Would she be interested?

  Duffy pushed a plate of bacon, sausages, black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms and fried bread under his nose. As usual, he had failed to reach a decision, preferring to let things drift in the hope that everything would sort itself out. But he knew that something as complex as his Gordian knot would not unravel itself. Duffy watched him eat.

  ‘Are you not eating?’

  ‘I’d die if I ate that rubbish.’

  Sandwiched between the end of breakfast and getting ready for work, they made love on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. Although he spread the dressing gown out for her to lie on, she squealed every time her bare skin touched the cold of a tile. He let her shower first, while he washed the pots so that she didn’t have to come home to a sink full of dirty dishes.

  He had slipped into domesticity so easily. It had been a long time since he had shared these things with Caitlin, and now he realised how much he missed it all – the sharing, the giving and the togetherness. Was that really what he had fallen in love with, or was Duffy a real part of it?

  She was still under the shower when he slid in beside her. ‘You’ll make me late, Sir,’ she said as he turned her round and she opened her legs.

  ‘And I’ll reprimand you accordingly, Duffy,’ he whispered in her ear.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monica fluttered her eyelids at him as he walked into the Chief’s office at twenty-five to ten. He expected to get the cold shoulder once she heard about Gwen Peters.

  ‘I hear you built bridges with DI Peters last night, Quigg. Good job. You took your time, but it’s the end result that matters.’

  Monica came in with a smile, a tea for the Chief and a coffee for Quigg.

  ‘I won’t tell Monica about Peters,’ the Chief continued once she’d left, ‘but she’s bound to hear. She was hoping to get a piece of you herself. There’s no telling what she’ll do when she does find out. I’ll try and limit any damage, but I think you can kiss goodbye to your personnel record and your leave card being of any use this year.’

  That’s what it had felt like over the past week; the Chief had hit the hedgehog on its prickly head. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and there were only so many pieces he could give. Phoebe deserved a piece of him as well. He had to make time before her childhood had skulked away, and all he was left with was the impossibility of explaining why he hadn’t been a part of it.

  ‘I’d be interested in knowing how you find out everything, Sir.’

  ‘Never going to happen, Quigg. If I told you, I’d never hear anything ever again. So, tell me what you didn’t put in the Chief Constable’s report last night.’

  He had to acknowledge the Chief’s uncanny ability of knowing what was happening in the station. ‘Sir Arthur Maltravers.’

  ‘Shit, Quigg. He’s a buddy of Sir Peter’s. You’re not going to make my life difficult are you?’

  ‘I think he was Body 13, Sir.’

  ‘You’ve got no evidence, have you?’

  ‘Not yet, Sir, but one of my informants is working on it.’

  ‘I haven’t authorised any informant pay outs.’

  ‘A favour, Sir.’

  ‘It’s illegal, isn’t it, Quigg? …In fact, don’t tell me. The less I know, the less I need to cover up.’

  ‘It’s interesting that Maltravers should be friends with Sir Peter, Sir.’

  ‘My God, Quigg. You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?’

  ‘If I’m right about Maltravers, I’ve got the name of one of the Apostles but I still need another eleven names. Sir Peter would fit the bill, and I bet he’s been sent copies of my emails. That’s probably why I’ve been second-guessed throughout this investigation. It makes sense, Sir.’

  ‘If I didn’t think you were onto something, Quigg, I’d replace you with DI Peters now.’

  ‘I thought we were OK now, Sir?’

  ‘Just because you’ve run out of females in the station, Quigg, don’t start making passes at me.’

  ‘I’ve still got two days left, Sir.’

  ‘Maybe you and DI Peters could work together on this case, seeing as you’ve built bridges?’

  ‘No, thank you, Sir. As I said, it’ll be solved by Friday.’

  ‘Are you still sleeping at Duffy’s place?’

  ‘She’s been kind enough…’

  ‘Oh, I know, Quigg. Everyone is wondering how you did it.’

  ‘I’m seeing an insurance assessor at lunch time today, so I’ll have a better idea of how long I need to stay there.’

  ‘You can’t fool me, Quigg. You’re going to be there for ever. She’s got her hooks into you, hasn’t she? Go on, deny it.’

  What could he say? Duffy did have a hold over him.

  ‘I knew it, Quigg. I’ll organise her transfer to a station close by after this case; that all right with you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘A stint as a detective should give her a leg up. I’ll give her a good report.’

  ‘Thanks, Chief. She’s done a good job, and
she’s far from stupid.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Quigg. I’ll get her a good transfer.’

  Quigg finished his coffee, went to stand up, and was metaphorically walloped by a mallet on the back of the head.

  ‘What, Quigg?’

  ‘Ruth Lynch.’

  ‘You don’t want to go there, Quigg. You’ll be seeing spooks round every corner soon.’

  ‘Sir Peter pointed her in my direction.’

  ‘They tried to kill her, Quigg. How do you explain that?’

  ‘It was a set up, to throw me off the scent.’

  ‘She gave you the Apostles, didn’t she? Without her, you’d still be flailing about like a one-legged giraffe.’

  ‘That’s true, but…’

  ‘But nothing, Quigg. You have to learn to trust people. And anyway, your assumptions about Sir Peter may well be groundless. In fact, they probably are, and I’d be careful who you whispered them to.’

  Distracted, he wandered out. Monica ignored him, and he wondered if she’d heard about Gwen Peters. It was quarter past ten and he had to be at Surfer Bob’s for eleven. He found Duffy reading a paper in the canteen with her coat on.

  ‘Come on, Duffy. We haven’t got time to read the news when we’re making it.’

  ‘You mean in the station, Sir?’

  ‘Of course, Duffy - what did you think I meant? Don’t answer that.’

  He’d left the silver Mercedes at the hotel and drove his own car back to Duffy’s place last night. Now he wondered whether he should accept the gift. Maybe it was a bribe. Maybe the sex, the clothes and the lunch had all been bribes. Maybe it all meant nothing. Shit, what a mess. He let Duffy drive while he tossed ideas round and round in his head until he thought he might vomit.

  ***

  ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’ Surfer Bob said when Quigg and Duffy clumped down the concrete steps at five to eleven.

  ‘…when first we practise to deceive!’ Duffy finished for him. ‘Walter Scott.’ She took her long coat off to reveal a denim mini skirt with bib and straps, brown calf-length boots and a low-cut blue and white striped sweater. Quigg had forgotten about Surfer Bob’s request, and Duffy hadn’t revealed what she had on underneath the coat. He thought she’d kept it on because she was cold.

  ‘Duffy, you’re my pin-up,’ Surfer Bob said. ‘Do you mind if I take a photograph?’

  ‘You’re not going to publish it on the web, are you?’

  ‘I never would. For my eyes only.’

  ‘OK.’

  Bob went to find his digital camera.

  ‘Hardly the uniform of a police detective, Duffy.’

  She rounded on him. ‘You…’ she started to say, but when she saw that he was grinning, she said, ‘You’ll be sorry later.’

  ‘If Bob wasn’t here, I’d be sorry now.’

  Bob came back with his camera. Duffy struck some sexy poses. Surfer Bob turned into Camera Bob, and before too long his memory card was full.

  ‘Let’s not forget why we came here, Duffy,’ Quigg said. If he wasn’t going to have sex, then there was no point in getting aroused.

  ‘Sorry, Quigg - my fault.’

  ‘I know it’s your fault, Bob. You want to get out more. But Duffy is making a meal of it. Anybody would think we were at a photo shoot in the Caribbean.’

  Bob put his camera away, no doubt to drool over once they’d gone, sat down at his NASA console and said, ‘Right, let’s talk Sir Arthur Maltravers.’ He pushed a stack of paper towards Quigg. ‘Evidence. Illegal, but still evidence. Copies of his bank transactions for the past year, details of the companies on which he sat on the board of directors, and all his share dealings for the past year. There are other things in there as well, but those are the main things. To save you having to do any work, Quigg, because I know how much you detest the very idea of work, let me tell you what I’ve found out. Maltravers was paid a dividend by a company in April of this year. I followed the money trail and I can tell you that Sir Arthur was one of twelve directors of a company called Palessot…’

  Quigg assumed Bob was waiting for a penny to clatter inside his brain. ‘Sorry, Bob - have I missed something?’

  ‘It’s an anagram, Quigg…’

  ‘I’ll need a paper and pencil, Bob.’

  ‘Apostles,’ Duffy said.

  ‘I thought you had a degree, Quigg?’

  ‘I have, but not in anagram solving.’

  ‘I’ve got a degree,’ Duffy offered.

  Quigg and Bob stared at her as if she’d just appeared out of nowhere.

  ‘There’s no need to look so surprised,’ she said to the two of them.

  ‘A degree in what… shopping?’

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, Bob. Especially after I modelled for you and let you take those happy snaps.’

  ‘You’re right, Duffy - forgive me. So, what is your degree in?’

  ‘Shopping…’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Business and Economics,’ she said.

  ‘Now I am surprised, Duffy,’ Quigg said. ‘That’s not a Mickey Mouse degree, is it?’

  ‘I have got a brain, you know.’

  ‘You were saying, Bob?’ Quigg pulled them back to the matter at hand. He had to be at Maggie Crenshaw’s house by one o’clock and he didn’t want to be late.

  ‘Yeah, let’s remember why we’re all here, shall we? I’ve got other work to do besides track down criminals for you two.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘And the company name is an anagram of Apostles. I’d say that was a bit of a clue, Quigg.’

  ‘Could simply be a coincidence. It’s certainly not evidence in itself. More to the point, who are the twelve directors?’

  Bob pushed a piece of paper towards Quigg, and said, ‘I thought you’d be interested in them.’

  Quigg looked at the list of twelve names and swore under his breath:

  Andrew Seaton

  Sir Peter Langham

  Roger Penhaligan QC

  Lord Aaron of Shawcross

  Colin Bellecote

  Sir Richard Carbonnel

  Sir Arthur Maltravers

  Douglas d’Aubernon MP

  Fletcher Furnival

  Austin Mandeville

  Stuart Raleigh

  Sir Sidney Percy

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What, Sir?’ Duffy craned her neck behind him to read the names.

  ‘We already know some of these people, Duffy.’

  ‘Who, Sir?’

  ‘Andrew Seaton, the town clerk; Sir Peter Langham, head of Hammersmith’s Police Complaints Committee and Fletcher Furnival, the Assistant Chief Constable. Then, of course, there are the people who are famous such as: Roger Penhaligan, who is with the Crown Prosecution Service; Lord Aaron of Shawcross, previously the Prime Minister’s business adviser and Douglas d’Aubernon, Member of Parliament for Hammersmith & Fulham.’

  ‘Those are high-powered people, Sir.’

  ‘Or, to put it another way, Duffy, I feel like an army general who’s just heard that the enemy have triple the numbers I have, and a secret weapon to boot.’

  ‘A secret weapon?’

  ‘Fletcher Furnival.’

  Confusion drifted across Duffy’s face. Bob merely sat there waiting for Quigg to finish so he could continue.

  ‘I’ve been sending emails to the Chief Constable every night to update him on the case. I copy those emails to the Assistant Chief Constable, and our Chief.’

  ‘So, they’ve known what we were doing all along because you’ve been telling them?’

  ‘That’s right, Duffy. To continue with the military analogy, I’ve been giving them my plan of attack each night. So they could arrange an appropriate defence or counter-attack. It explains a lot.’

  ‘What now, Sir?’

  ‘Bob, anything else?’

  ‘You’re like a child at Christmas who only wants to play with the first present he opens.’

  ‘There are more prese
nts, Bob?’

  ‘It took me most of the night to track down Palessot, and I had to break some international laws getting into places I shouldn’t have been in. It is a Panamanian Foundation. My reference to the ‘tangled web’ when you came in was in relation to the intricate layers that have been created to protect the anonymity of both Palessot as a company, and its twelve directors. They have shelf companies with offshore bank accounts that lead everywhere and nowhere, stock brokerage accounts, real estate all over the world, a Panamanian law firm that deals with all the company assets, hidden companies, false companies, holding companies and corporations. As far as the Inland Revenue are aware, none of the directors are paid a salary; the money is credited to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands.’

  ‘What does Palessot do? What type of company is it?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘Logistics,’ Bob said. ‘They move things around the world.’

  ‘What type of things?’

  ‘Everything and anything.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘I found no evidence of child trafficking, but…’

  ‘I love buts, Bob.’

  ‘…they’re moving something illegally, I just don’t know what. It could be drugs, people, or protected animals. The logistics don’t explain their extraordinary profits.’

  ‘This is gelignite, Bob.’

  ‘It may be explosive, Quigg, but you can’t use it.’

  Quigg’s shoulders slumped. ‘I know, Bob, but it explains a lot of things. And they don’t know we know any of this. From tonight my emails to the Chief Constable will make it appear as if I’ve reached a brick wall. Thanks a lot, Bob.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Quigg; don’t ever come back. Duffy can come back, but you’ve been ex-communicated.’

  Folding the list of names, he put it in his duffel coat pocket and then passed the stack of paper to Duffy. ‘See you, Bob.’

  Outside, it had started to rain. They shrugged deeper into their coats and ran to the car.

  ‘So, you’re a pin-up now, Duffy?’ Quigg said when they were travelling towards Upton Park.

  ‘You can have sex with a pin-up tonight, if you want, Sir?’