by Tim Ellis
‘I’ll be late, Sir.’ Today was their first day back at work. Duffy had been transferred to Kensington, while he continued to head up the homicide team at Hammersmith.
‘You’re already late, Duffy - late with your damned period.’ They made love again.
Afterwards, when they were both rushing to get ready, she said, ‘Your mum was right.’
‘About what?’
‘That I was the girl who would have her grandchildren.’
‘Shit, Duffy. How many are you having?’
She hugged and kissed him goodbye. ‘We’ll have lots, Sir,’ she said as she raced out of the door and slammed it behind her.
His mum was only half-right. He would have to tell Duffy about Ruth tonight, before he went round to her flat in Knightsbridge. Duffy had said he could see her, but she didn’t know Ruth was pregnant with his child. And now Duffy might be pregnant as well. His life was like the Rubik cube of his teenage years. Although he’d spent a trillion hours twisting, turning and swivelling the damn thing, he’d never been able to make the colours line up.
He pulled his duffel coat out of the cupboard by the door. It was a new one. Beryl, his mum, had bought him a replacement for Christmas. He’d taken the old one to the dry cleaners and as well as cleaning it, he’d asked them to repair the bullet hole in the back. It was stored at the top of the cupboard now – just in case. One afternoon, while a worn-out Phoebe had been sleeping, he’d spent two hours rifling through the contents of his duffel coat pockets. Most of his filing system was rubbish and went straight in the bin, but there were a few addresses and telephone numbers that he transferred to his mobile. He shut the door as he went out into the corridor.
***
It was Monday the 29th December, the crappy period between Christmas and New Year, when nobody wanted to work. He’d come in to catch up on his paperwork, but instead the Chief was waiting and called him into his office.
Quigg noticed the Chief was dressed casually in a pair of green corduroy trousers and a green knitted jumper under his coat. He’d obviously got the jumper for Christmas from a strange female relative, because it had a deformed reindeer on the front. He clearly wasn’t planning on staying.
‘I’m wary about giving you another case, Quigg,’ Chief Walter Bellmarsh said, sitting on his desk. ‘Everything you touch turns to a heap of cow dung.’
He sat in one of the Chief’s easy chairs. ‘It’s hardly my fault, Chief.’
‘If you keep saying that, Quigg. One of these days I might believe you. How’s Duffy?’
‘Good.’
‘She’ll be getting pregnant soon.’
Quigg’s eyes narrowed. It was as if the Chief had a crystal ball that he consulted regularly. ‘How do you know these things, Sir?’
‘Years of experience dealing with idiots like you, Quigg. She’s told you she’s pregnant, hasn’t she?’
‘Period’s late.’
‘Ha! What about DI Peters?’
Quigg went white thinking the Chief knew something he didn’t know. ‘What about her, Chief?’
‘I’m just curious, Quigg. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d tricked you into getting her pregnant under the pretext of bridge-building.’
‘God, don’t say that, Chief.’
‘Then, of course, there’s Cheryl in administration, and that investigative reporter, Ruth…’
‘Lynch, Sir. What are you saying?’
‘Well, you’re spreading your DNA about like Genghis Khan and his Mongol Horde.’
‘I’m not doing that anymore, Chief.’
‘Monica will be disappointed if that’s true, Quigg. I hear DS Jones has been given the elbow, and she’s waiting for you to give her the nod.’
Monica was the Chief’s secretary, and he was glad she was off over the New Year break.
‘She’ll be waiting a long time, Sir. I’m saving my nods for Duffy now.’ Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. He was nodding at Ruth as well, but he wasn’t going to tell the Chief that.
‘You’ll never learn, Quigg. You know DS Jones hates you with renewed vigour.’
‘Everything’s back to normal then, Chief. So, what’s this case you’ve got for me?’
‘A group of children were sledding in Barn Elms Park and found a body in a shallow grave.’
‘Sounds straight-forward.’
‘I haven’t finished yet, Quigg. Scenes-of-crime attended and have unearthed more bodies. I’ve told them not to move anything until you get there.’
‘How many bodies, Chief?
‘They’re still thawing and digging, but the last report I had was seventeen.’
‘Seventeen? Bloody hell, Sir. I’d have preferred you didn’t get me a Christmas present, if this is all you could come up with.’
‘Let’s try and keep this one simple, Quigg. I want it solved by the time I come back on Monday 5th January. Are we clear on that point?’
‘Counting today and the weekend, that’s only seven days. The snow’s causing all sorts of problems ; there’s hardly anyone about to speak of, and…’
‘I hear DI Peters still wants out of vice; DI Kowalski wants a transfer from robbery, and DI Singh…’
‘I get the picture, Chief.’
‘Good. I’d hate to have to break in a new DI.’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t been awarded ‘Chief Superintendent of the Month’, Sir.’
‘I know, Quigg - it’s a travesty. Well, I’ve got grandchildren to annoy, so I’ll leave you to it. Send me an email at the end of every day, and only phone me in a dire emergency. Clear?’
‘Clear, Sir.’
***
Apart from some cobwebs and a few strands of tinsel on the ceiling left over from Christmas, DC Heather Walsh was the only other thing moving in the squad room, and you would have to be very observant to see her jerk in her sleep.
‘Walsh, I need a new partner.’
Following her transfer from Heathrow anti-terrorist unit three months ago, Walsh had worked with him on the Body 13 case earlier in the month, partnering DC Pete Martin. Aged about twenty-six, she was keen to get on.
Walsh opened her blue sparkling eyes and took her feet out of the open bottom draw of her desk. ‘You know I’m a lesbian, don’t you, Sir?’
‘And your point is?’
‘Well… you seem to sleep with all your female partners, Sir.’
‘That’s a sweeping generalisation, Walsh.’
‘But true, Sir, and I didn’t get much of a look in on the Body 13 case.’
‘You were just unlucky to be paired with Martin on that one. I don’t like traitors.’
‘Equal partners?’
‘Equal partners, Walsh.’
‘And no trying to sleep with me?’
‘I get tired, Walsh…’ He saw her expression change to one of surprise. ‘Only joking. Your virginity is safe with me.’
‘It’s a good job I’m not a virgin, then, isn’t it, Sir? Because it would be like putting a Rottweiler in charge of the meat for the barbecue.’
‘Are we having a barbecue round at your place, Walsh?’
She smiled. ‘What are we doing then, Sir?’
‘Get your coat and your chastity belt; we’re going to Barn Elms Park to see Perkins from forensics.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He’s not doing anything until we get there, but when we do, he’s going to show us the seventeen plus bodies a group of children have found in the snow.’
‘Seventeen bodies! A mass murderer?’
‘My crystal ball is broken, Walsh, and nobody had the foresight to get me another one for Christmas.’
Walsh stood up, shrugged into her heavy black coat, pulled a floppy hat out of the pocket and put it on over her blonde bob.
‘You look like Kate…’
‘Winslett…? Yeah, everybody says that.’
‘I was going to say Kate Moss.’
‘You can’t help yourself, can you, Sir?’
‘Are we going in your new Mercedes?’
‘Why not? I can barely afford to fill the damn thing up, but what the hell. You can buy lunch.’
‘Deal.’
***
It was now ten past eleven, and two inches of snow had fallen in the two hours they had been in the station. If one had a three-foot wooden ruler and stuck it in the top of the snow until it reached the tarmac, there would be one and a half inches of wood showing. It had started snowing on Christmas Eve and continued, unabated, ever since. The bookies had paid out thousands on those who had been optimistic of a white Christmas. Local councils had long ago run out of grit, and blamed the Eastern Europeans countries for their gritters lying idle. Quigg and Duffy had even taken Phoebe outside and built her a snowman. Quigg hadn’t been able to do that since he’d been thirteen due to the lack of snowfall. He imagined Phoebe would get lots of snowman-building practice in Canada with Richie the snowman-builder.
He took his time driving over Hammersmith Bridge on the A306 towards Rocks Lane. Black ice hid everywhere waiting to kill him, and he didn’t want to write off his new Mercedes just yet; there wasn’t even a thousand miles on the clock.
‘Nice car, Sir,’ Walsh said as she got out and shut the door.
‘Glad you like it, Walsh.’ Ruth had bought it for him for saving her life.
They could see the bright blue forensic tents across the snow-covered field. The sound of the generators powering the heaters, lighting and blowers mingled with the laughter of children throwing snowballs, sledding, sliding and fighting. Some of the children, though, had stopped playing and were gathered some distance away hoping to see dead bodies, as if death were a spectator sport.
A gaggle of reporters mobbed them as they aimed themselves towards the tents. There was no way he could sneak in. After the Body 13 case, he was famous - a hero. He had achieved his ambition and could retire with no money. He’d received invitations to appear on the Breakfast Show, the Lunchtime Show and the Night-time Show, but the Chief said he wasn’t allowed to. A Hollywood scout could have spotted him. He could have become a celebrity, a household name and a superstar. It was like telling a great footballer he couldn’t take on modelling contracts, sponsorship deals and the like.
‘Here he is,’ one of the reporters shouted.
This must have been how the Beatles felt when they were mobbed walking along the street, he thought.
‘What is it this time, Inspector?’
‘I know some of you think I have second sight, but I’m sorry to disappoint you. If you’d be so kind as to let me through, I might be able to find out what it is this time.’
‘How do you feel about rescuing fifty-three children, Inspector?’
Fifty-three children! All of them taken from their homes in different parts of the world, trafficked into the UK, and locked away for months in an underground complex in Surrey by twelve paedophiles. How did he feel? He felt like shit because eleven of the bastards were still out there, and were still collecting young girls.
‘Disappointed that I couldn’t save the two that died in the fire at Mugabe Terrace,’ he said, ‘and disappointed that those responsible have not yet been brought to justice.’
‘Are you still trying to find out who was responsible?’
He knew who was responsible, he just couldn’t prove it. ‘The case has been reassigned to Surrey vice. And yes, I believe it is still an ongoing investigation.’ He was being frugal with the truth. He and Ruth were unofficially still trying to get evidence to arrest the bastards, but their investigation had stalled due to the holidays.
He reached the yellow demarcation line between ‘crime scene’ and ‘public gallery’, and ducked under it. Apart from Ruth Lynch-Guevara – Ché Guevara’s granddaughter – who was an independent investigative journalist, he hadn’t had to deal with the media during the Body 13 case. He hated the media. Questions continued to be shouted at him, which he ignored.
Yellow tape, threaded through holes in five-foot metal spikes which had been hammered into the frozen ground either side of wooden duckboards, led Quigg inexorably towards his worst fear – dead bodies. The snow had been cleared from the crime scene to allow two tents to be joined together and pitched over the graves. The tents were standing on the bank of a frozen tributary running off the Thames.
Quigg stopped at the entrance to the tent and gripped the canvas until his knuckles went as white as his face. He had to make a serious physical effort to control the overwhelming feelings of panic and dread that engulfed him.
‘Are you all right, Sir?’ Walsh asked.
‘Necrophobia they call it, Walsh. I have a fear of dead bodies.’
‘The treatment for that would be to change jobs, Sir.’
‘I didn’t realise you were a psychotherapist, Walsh.’ The trouble was she was right. And if he didn’t love being a detective so much, he would do just that. But all his life he had dreamt of being a famous detective, like C. Auguste Dupin, Sherlock Holmes, and Hercule Poirot. Yes, they were fictional detectives and he was a real one, but he had the idea that some day people would speak his name alongside those great detectives. Walsh passed him a paper suit and some gloves. He took off his coat, put the suit and gloves on, and propelled his body forward into the tent.
‘About bloody time, Quigg. It’s freezing out here.’
He forced his fear into a tiny room in his mind, and locked the door with a special key he kept on an intricate hook outside on the wall.
‘Hello, Perkins. Good holiday?’
Besides Perkins, there was a dozen other forensic officers taking evidential photographs and video recordings, examining the ground inch by frozen inch for shoe prints, fibres, hair and anything else that didn’t belong on a riverbank.
‘Did you know that there were 580 UFO sightings in America and 19 in the UK during the month of November? I travelled to the UK sightings looking for additional evidence.’
‘Did you find any?’
‘No, but the video evidence is becoming overwhelming. The government won’t be able to deny there are aliens amongst us for much longer. There were a 167 star-like objects, 147 spheres, 130 circles and a kaleidoscope of other shapes.’
‘Fascinating.’ Quigg looked at Jim Dewsbury, who was kneeling down examining a partially decomposed body in the third grave from the left. He counted twenty-three bodies lying next to each other in shallow graves that had been dug only inches apart and followed the gentle curve of the sloping bank of the stream. ‘Are you into UFOs, Jim?’
He looked up and smiled. ‘Hi, Inspector. Thanks for the letter of gratitude, by the way. No, I’m a bit more down to earth as you can see. We don’t get many aliens in the mortuary. Although…’
Perkins became animated. ‘Yeah, there was the film of an alien autopsy by that guy Santilli. He said it was a reconstruction of one he’d actually seen.’
‘You mean that film by Ant & Dec?’ Walsh asked.
Perkins and Dewsbury looked at Walsh as if she’d just walked out of the toxic sludge in the Thames.
‘My new partner, DC Heather Walsh.’
Perkins kissed her gloved hand like a French grandee, and Dewsbury looked up and nodded at her.
‘No,’ Perkins said. ‘The Ant & Dec film was a spoof, but I think Santilli’s film was the real thing. I’ve got a copy on DVD, if anyone’s interested?’
‘I hate to break up this Alien Autopsy Convention, but can we do what we came here to do, and then bugger off back to somewhere warm? You’re right, Perkins - it’s bloody freezing out here. What have we got, Jim?’
‘I think we’ve dug up all the bodies, but Perkins’ men are still checking. I’ve had a quick look at all of those we’ve recovered so far, and each one of them appears to be at a different stage of decomposition.’
‘I’m listening.’ If they were killed one after the other, he said to himself, the bodies would be at different stages, wouldn’t they
?
‘I’ll know more once the bodies have defrosted and are lying in my mortuary, but I can give you a rough idea of how long the bodies have been here.’ He stood up and walked along the sheet of plastic laid on the ground at the foot of the graves to the older bodies. ‘There seems to be three stages to the burials. This first body has been here probably sixty years, buried in about 1950.’ He was referring to a discoloured skeleton with remnants of hair and clothing attached. ‘Then, the next five bodies appear to have been buried ten years apart - so 1960, 1970, 1980, 1990 and 2000. Let’s call that Stage 1, shall we?’
‘OK,’ Quigg said, nodding. He realised the staged decomposition was not as simple as he first thought.
Jim smiled. ‘The second stage encompasses the next eight bodies; these were buried probably a year apart: 2001 to 2008. Stage three is more recent, as you can see.’ The next nine bodies – a mixture of boys and girls of different races – were, like all the others, about thirteen years of age and had their arms crossed over their chests. ‘These have all been buried this year; the most recent a few days ago.’ A black girl, with spiked plaited hair, wearing a rainbow-coloured top, a bubble mini-skirt, orange woolly tights and Nike trainers, lay with her arms crossed over her chest at the wrists as if she had been prepared for viewing in a chapel of rest. ‘Twenty-three bodies in all, Quigg. We’ll be able to be more specific about time of death once the forensic entomologists analyse the maggots and larvae to determine the post-mortem interval. If necessary, we’ll bring in a forensic anthropologist to recreate the faces of the children who have decomposed to skeletons.’
‘Are we looking at the same killer, or different ones?’
‘Sorry, Quigg - I’ve given you everything I have up to now, except…’
Quigg leaned forward, eager to find out anything that would help him solve the case quickly. ‘Except what, Jim?’
Dewsbury knelt down at the side of the last corpse, and cut the rainbow-coloured sweater from bottom to top up the middle with a pair of scissors ‘I thought I’d wait until you arrived to look at this. From the stains on her sweater I know there’s something underneath.’ He gently pulled the two pieces of material apart to reveal an alphanumeric symbol cut into the girl’s chest above the heart.
