by Tim Ellis
‘Spector Quigg! How are you? I ain’t seen you for a while.’
‘I’ve been hiding from you, Mandy.’
She giggled. The piercings in her left ear, nose, bottom lip and belly button jangled as if he’d stumbled into a pawnbroker’s shop by mistake. She’d changed her hair colour to purple, and had a lump of chewing gum in her mouth.
‘I got another one of those arty thingy scan postcards from Canada for you, but afore I give it to you, you might want to tell me what you done to Cheryl?’
‘I haven’t done anything to her...’
‘Apart from getting her preggers, of course.’
‘The Chief has temporarily promoted her to be his secretary.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot that you got Monica the sack. I heard it was ‘cause she wouldn’t sleep with you?’
‘Well, you heard wrong, Mandy. Monica broke the rules, and she had to pay with her job.’
‘Yeah, there’s lots of rules here.’
‘There are lots of rules in most jobs. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘I heard you got a Mercedes. You want to take me for a spin in it sometime?’
‘No, Mandy, I don’t.’ He held his hand out.
‘What’s that for?’
‘You said you had another postcard for me.’
She giggled. ‘Oh yeah! What with you chatting me up and trying to get me in your car I completely forgot.’
She found the card on the post trolley and passed it to him. ‘There you go. Three babies huh! My mum says you gotta have heavyweight sperm to produce three babies. You must give your sperm lots of exercising.’
‘Goodbye, Mandy.’
‘See you tomorrow, ‘Spector, and have a great day ya hear.’
The triplets were getting big now. Not that he was an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but they looked like babies instead of fish eggs. God, it must be hard work carrying three babies about in your stomach. And he knew he definitely wouldn’t like to give birth to three bowling balls. He turned the card over.
We’re thinking up names.
It won’t be long now.
I had another vision.
Keep your loved ones close.
Love, A
Kline appeared. ‘I went and signed out the Boxster first before they gave it to someone else.’
‘The race is finished.’
‘Not my race.’
‘Today is report-writing day.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘Write your report.’
‘Fuck’s sake! You could’ve said we weren’t going anywhere today before I went and signed for the car.’
‘If you’d have come here first I might have done.’
‘I hate writing reports. Are you sure you don’t want to go anywhere – fast?’
‘Nowhere springs to mind – slow or fast.’
‘You could send me somewhere.’
‘I am.’
‘Where?’
‘To your desk to write your report.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’
It took him all day to write his report. What he realised around lunchtime was that he needed to move most of it to an Appendix to the very short front page, because the majority of what they’d discovered was "For Senior Officers’ Eyes Only". And when he’d moulded his report, he spent ages helping Kline to do hers in between expletives.
The Chief had gone to Sevenoaks with DCI Blake to liaise with senior officers at Maidstone.
Quigg tried to put it out of his mind and focus on the report writing. Once he’d finished the report, he realised that without DS Jones he'd have to deal with the stack of files in his intray. After that, he attacked his email inbox and deleted everything without opening one file. ‘Oops!’ he said to himself. If any of them were that important they’d re-send them, or come and talk to him.
‘Are there any more murders?’ Kline said around half past four.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, what are we going to do tomorrow?’
‘You’ll probably be assigned to another team in the short-term. In the morning I have something personal to do.’
‘Fuck’s sake! When were you going to tell me this?’
‘I just did.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’
‘You’d better take the Boxster back.’
‘I think I’ll take it home tonight.’
‘You be careful. Goodnight, Kline.’
‘Goodnight, Sir.’
Before he went home he strolled down to Records.
‘Your name is shit, Sir,’ Sergeant Lynne Tyler said.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I didn’t realise you studied names as a hobby.’
‘It’s the talk of the station how you got Sergeant Jones sacked. Us Sergeants have to stick together.’
‘I’ve found you to be an intelligent person in the past, Lynne. Sergeant Jones was the worst kind of cockroach, and is it likely that I could have got him sacked?’
‘You ratted him out to the Chief.’
‘Ah yes, I’m afraid that would be me. But I expect you don’t know the whole story.’
‘Which is?’
‘He found something out about my temporary partner, DC Kline, and then made her cry.’
‘What, Tallie Kline crying? I would have paid money to see that.’
‘She’s a very sensitive soul.’
‘A crazy bitch would be more like it.’
‘So, when you pass on the story, you can tell them that Sergeant Jones got himself sacked. He attacked my partner. Nobody does that and stays around to brag about it.’
‘I didn’t know that. So, did you come down here to the arsehole of the station to correct my version of the story?’
‘No, I want to peek in an evidence box.’
‘Which box?’
‘Now, recalling what I just said about protecting partners, can I trust you to keep a secret.’
‘In other words, if I open my gob you’ll make sure I get the sack as well?’
‘Something like that. If you can’t trust the people you work with then we may as well all go home and not bother getting up in the mornings.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I can keep my gob shut when I have to.’
‘Now is one of those times.’
She turned to her computer. ‘Which case?’
‘An unsolved rape case from 2000 – Tallie Kline.’
‘Crap Sir! Why didn’t you say?’
‘It’s not my place to say. So...?’
She let him in through the caged door and locked it again after him. ‘Follow me.’
***
He arrived home at the reasonable time of quarter past eight. It hadn’t taken him long to find what he needed in the evidence box of Case No. 2000/21/3009.
‘I’ll sign for them and put the paper in the box,’ he said to Sergeant Tyler.
‘You know that’s not how it works, Inspector.’
‘I don’t want someone wandering down here, taking a look at the evidence book, and wondering what I’m doing looking at a case from 2000 – especially when I probably shouldn’t be – seeing as Kline is my partner.’
‘You’ll get me sacked.’
‘You could do the same for me.’
She rubbed her red chin, which seemed to have been added to her face after the event. ‘This one time, but if it comes down to you or me, I’m gonna sell you down the river faster than you can say Mississippi.’
‘I can’t even say Mississippi, Lynne.’
He took the swabs up to forensics.
‘Hello Janet.’
‘You have a really slimy voice when you want something, you know. It reminds of that snake from Disney’s version of the Jungle Book – Shere Khan.’
‘Look into my eyes.’
‘I don’t think I want to do that. So, what is it you want?’
‘I’m investigating an old rape case, but I don’t want anyone to know.’
�
�I see, you want me to misappropriate funds, commit fraud, and pervert the course of justice?’
‘You make it sound so sordid.’
‘That’s because it is.’
He put the swabs on the desk in front of her. ‘These are from an unsolved rape case, which occurred in 2000. At the time they found no DNA matches. You couldn’t run them through the database again and see what comes back, could you?’
‘I don’t see any request forms, and you know as well as I do...’
‘It’s for Kline.’
‘Is that why she hates men?’
‘It certainly wouldn’t have helped.’
‘You’ll owe me.’
‘I already owe you, Janet. You’re such a wonderful human being, so kind, so...’
‘All right, you can stop now, I said I’ll do it.’
‘I’ll come up tomorrow, shall I?’
‘Huh.’
From there, he drove up to the hospital and visited Walsh.
‘Here,’ he said sliding a pile of files onto the bed next to her.
‘You want me to get out, so that you can move your files into the bed?’
‘Your files, Walsh.’
‘No, you’re mistaken. I’m in hospital recovering from a major injury. I don’t have any files.’
‘You need to keep your mind occupied. These are unsolved cases, which you can re-visit. I want substantial notes.’
‘I can’t believe...’
‘Yes, well I couldn’t believe you were thinking of running off to America with a Texas Ranger who had muscles on his muscles. You’re a detective, Walsh – my detective. Lying in this bed with nothing to do all day can’t be good for you. So, I’ve brought you something to do. It will be therapeutic. You’ll feel useful, and stay focused on police work. When you come back, you’ll be able to hit the ground running.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Anyway, how are things going?’
‘Oh, you mean how am I coping with the torturous regime you’ve arranged for me, such as the excruciatingly painful injections, and the physiotherapy exercises that only a person with no pain threshold can actually perform.’
‘You’re enjoying it then?’
‘I’ve never had so much fun.’
‘Excellent. Well, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll expect a report on the unsolved cases each evening when I visit.’
‘Who are you? I seem to have lost my memory.’
‘You’ll soon get it back when you open those files, Walsh. See you tomorrow.’
Now, at home, Springfield was still there. He guessed she was sleeping with Lucy.
He wasn’t used to noise, but it was bedlam. There were babies crying, shouting, and the television was blaring.
‘I don’t know how you’ve got the fucking nerve to show your face in this house, Quigg,’ Lucy said carrying Dylan over her shoulder.
‘Do you mind not teaching my son swear words.’
‘You’re lucky I haven’t taught him how the fucking flushing toilet works yet.’
He thought it was probably best to hide somewhere, so he went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. Was it too much trouble to ask for a bit of peace and quiet when he got home from a hard day of police work? Discounting Springfield, there were three women in the house – why couldn’t they control two small babies?
Well, tonight was the night. Sir Peter Langham, and all those paedophile bastards that had snatched his daughter Phoebe in December would get what was coming to them. They’d be caught in the act. There’d be no defence. The list of their crimes was extensive. And that would be an end to it. Hopefully, DCI Blake’s team would find Emma Potter alive, and all the children that had been trafficked into the country from Romania would be safe and unharmed.
Maybe he should ring the Chief, make sure everything was going to plan. He pulled his phone out, but then changed his mind. He had to keep his distance. DCI Blake knew what she was doing. He could trust the Chief.
The big question now was whether it was safe to venture out into the house again. He opened the door, but heard nothing. He crept into Duffy’s living room. Lucy was asleep on the sofa with Dylan snoring on her chest. Where was Lily Rose? He looked in the bedroom and Duffy asleep next to his daughter. Next, he had a look in Ruth’s half of the house and saw her sitting on the sofa with her legs raised typing on her laptop. He kissed her on the neck, and trudged into the bedroom. If he slept, tomorrow would come that much sooner
***
Everything was ready. The security was in place. The caterers were busy preparing the meal. Mathew, Thaddeus and Judas had arrived and were slurping back champagne and rifling down the hors d’œuvres as if there was a worldwide shortage.
Last night had been joyous. The young boy – Teo – was everything Bartholomew had hoped he would be and more. He was now looking forward to the end of the supper, so that he could return to the soft young body of his new love.
All the other children had been fed, watered, and cleaned ready for the entertainment after the meal.
Slowly, the remaining Apostles arrived until they were all there and eight o’clock arrived.
‘Gentlemen,’ Maitre Albert announced. ‘Dinner is served.’
They drifted into the dining room. The meal was first rate. Bartholomew selected the lobster spring roll with ginger and Thai basil to wet his appetite. He chose the saddle of lamb belle epoque for the main course, and for sweet he wolfed down the lemon verbena and raspberry vacherin.
He had selected the wine for the table himself: Clos des Mouches – Joseph Drouhin, Aile d’Argent – Chateau Mouton Rothschild, Castello della Sala-Antinori, and just for fun a chardonnay from the Tiers Vineyard at Tapanappa in that little place full of convicts – Australia.
The food had been devoured, the wine consumed, the table cleared with the exception of the port, the caterers had left, and the house had been secured. The only people who remained above ground were the twelve Apostles.
‘Welcome, gentlemen. Before I provide my report, which I assure you will be extremely brief, let us toast absent friends.’
They all stood with port glasses at the ready. ‘Absent friends.’
‘Also, I’d like to welcome James.’
‘James,’ they chorused.
Bartholomew provided his report, which as promised was brief. They would all receive a substantial document as they departed giving them a whole series of charts, percentages, and a total assets value of £53 million give or take a penny or two. The important thing now was to get down to the underground rooms and begin enjoying life.
Seeing the eagerness on their faces, he stood up. ‘Shall we?’
As he led them through the games’ room to a bookcase, which opened to reveal a set of concrete stairs that spiralled downwards, there was a crashing sound and he heard raised voices enter the house. As the last man, he closed the bookcase. The others had heard nothing, but he knew it wouldn’t be too long before they found their way down into the underground complex.
All his planning had been for nothing. He knew it was the end of the Apostles, but a plan began to formulate in his mind. Maybe it wasn’t completely over yet.
***
He buzzed.
It took a while, but eventually she answered.
‘Who is it?’
‘Quigg.’
‘Fucking hell, Quigg, it’s... quarter to three in the morning.’
‘Sorry.’
The door clicked. He went inside, climbed the stairs, and walked through the open door.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
He pulled the Glock 17 from his jacket pocket and aimed it at her head. ‘I, my dear, am Sir Peter Langham. Now, where are Quigg’s babies?’
Another modification he had insisted on as part of the Sevenoaks complex was an escape route. Sadly, he was the only one that knew about it, and the only one that had a key.
He unlocked the hidden door, stepped through it into the concrete tunnel, and closed it beh
ind him. He knew exactly who to blame for this disaster, and he was going to make the culprit pay. He had no idea where Quigg’s wife and child were. The three whores he had living in the fort were also out of his reach, but there were two people he could get to.
Once he reached the end of the tunnel, which exited beyond the estate boundary wall into a stream, he phoned Jax Whiteley and asked him to send a car, a handgun with a silencer attached, and a full magazine of bullets. He was a cornered animal, and cornered animals had nothing to lose.
‘They’re my babies, not Quigg’s.’
‘But fathered by Quigg. So, where are they?’
‘Not here.’
‘That’s not the right answer, my dear.’ He pistol-whipped her across the face. A large gash appeared on her right cheek, and she fell onto the coffee table, which upended and crashed to the floor.
‘Get up. Show me.’
She staggered onto her feet. ‘Quigg’s two pregnant women – Duffy and Ruth – took them this morning to give me a break.’
He pushed her to the other rooms, but didn’t find Quigg’s bastards.
‘See, I told you,’ she said
‘So you did, my dear.’
In the bathroom he shot Edie Golden in the back of the head, and then made his way back out to the car that Jax Whiteley had provided for him.
It hadn’t gone the way he’d planned it at all. It was a major disappointment that the babies weren’t there.
He had one more stop to make, and then he’d call it a day.
When he arrived at Hammersmith hospital he parked skew-whiff in the car park – he did not plan on coming out again. Once they began to investigate him they’d discover a number of things in his past, and he didn’t want to be around for that.
He took the stairs two at a time to the ICU and walked straight in. He shot a nurse in the chest when she asked him what he was doing, and a muscular man who had been sitting by a bed with an old man.
Walsh opened her eyes.
‘Are you Quigg’s partner?’
‘Yes I am,’ she said.
He saw pride in her eyes as he lifted the gun and fired two bullets into her face. Then he put the gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger.
Aftermath
