The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  Her period still hadn’t made an appearance, and she didn’t even feel as though it was waiting in the wings for its grand entrance. What would she do if she was pregnant? Keep the brat? Get rid of it? Sell it on eBay?

  Fuck!

  After sliding out of bed, she padded naked along the corridor back to her own room. It was ten to five in the morning – not even light yet. After making herself a coffee and throwing on a pair of Quigg’s old boxer shorts and a “Screw the Police” t-shirt, she sat down at her workstation. The program she’d been running had come to an end. She pulled the stack of paper from the printer and glanced at the first page.

  ‘Jesus!’

  She ran back up the corridor, squeezed Quigg’s nose until he began gasping for air and his eyes bulged in terror. ‘Come on,’ she hissed. ‘Follow me.’

  He fell out of bed and followed her naked down the corridor. ‘It’s still dark outside.’

  ‘God!’ she said screwing up her face. ‘You’re really ugly in the mornings. Haven’t you got any clothes you can put on?’

  ‘You have all my clothes.’

  She opened a drawer of her wardrobe, pulled out a pair of boxers and threw them at him.

  ‘So that’s where they went!’ He stepped into them, and then gulped her coffee back in one.

  ‘You fucking thief.’

  ‘Make me another one.’

  ‘The police are investigating modern-day slavery, you know.’

  ‘There’s some hope for me yet, then. Why have you woken me up?’

  ‘To show you this.’ She passed him a computer print-out of a long string of 1’s and 0’s, and began making two mugs of coffee.

  0101011101010111010010010101100001000110001011010100110001010110010101100101000001001101001011010100010101000111010101100100011101000110001011010100110001010100010100100100111101011010001011010101001101010001010100000100000101000001001011010100001001001011010010010101000001010011001011010100010001001011010101010100111001010100001011010100100101010011010101010100101101011010001011010100101101001101010001100100010001000111001011010100101001010111010101110101010101010000001011010101010001001011010001000100001001000001001011010101001001000101010010010100010101011000

  ‘For me? You shouldn’t have.’ He let the paper seesaw to the floor, turned and headed for the door.

  ‘If you leave I’m going to castrate you with the bread knife.’

  He stopped. ‘Well?’

  She passed him a steaming mug and said, ‘Sit, and pay attention.’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Stop being a fucking wimp. Remember I told you I’d found some secret messages on the internet?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That’s one of them, and I have another nine.’

  ‘It’s gibberish.’

  ‘It’s binary code.’

  ‘Binary code equals gibberish.’

  ‘You’re such a crustacean. Some people are sending messages to each other using Twitter and they’re hiding them in plain sight.’

  ‘When you say, “some people” – which people?’

  ‘Don’t know – they’re using dummy accounts.’

  ‘I’m on the edge of my seat.’

  ‘You’ll need to be when I chop off your testicles. Here’s how it works – and I’ll try and keep things simple for your microscopic brain.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘A digital photograph is stored as an array of coloured dots called pixels – clear so far?’

  ‘I’m familiar with coloured dots.’

  ‘Good. Each pixel has three numbers associated with it – one each for red, green and blue – between the range of 0 - 255. The intensity of the colour depends on the value of the number.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Each number is stored as eight bits in binary code, and a difference of one or two in intensity is imperceptible, which gives plenty of space to hide a message.’

  ‘So instead of red having an intensity of twenty-four on one pixel, it’s changed to say thirty-seven?’

  ‘Exactly. You’re not as thick as you make out.’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘Text is usually stored with eight bits per letter, so you could hide one-point-five letters in each pixel.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘A 640 x 480 pixel image can hold 400,000 characters, which is equivalent to a decent-sized book.’

  ‘Ah! But you’ve found the messages.’

  ‘That’s because I’m fucking brilliant, and it’s a bit more complicated than that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you could hide a message in the picture, but someone who was looking for it could easily find and read it.’

  ‘What’s the point then?’

  ‘The message is encoded before hiding the information in the photograph – it then appears just as random as the picture data it’s replacing.’

  ‘So, the message is there, but nobody knows it’s there except the person who put it there and the recipient?’

  ‘Given a hundred years, I could probably teach you something worthwhile.’

  ‘I’m flattered. We’re still left with how you knew the message was there.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know you’re brilliant, but that doesn’t explain . . .’

  ‘I saw a pattern. Mind-numbingly boring photographs began to appear – I decided to investigate.’

  ‘Okay, so what do the messages say?’

  She passed him another sheet of paper with a string of letters printed on it:

  WWIXF-LVVPM-EGVGF-LTROZ-SQPAA-BKIPS-DKUNT-ISUKZ-KMFDG-JWWUP-TKDBA-REIEX

  He pursed his lips and then said, ‘The message is in code?’

  She began moving her hand up his leg. ‘I love it when you talk dirty to me.’

  He clamped his hand over hers. ‘So now what?’

  ‘Now, we have sex.’

  ***

  When he walked into the squad room he was surprised to see Kline already there on her computer.

  ‘Did you wet the bed?’

  She pointed a finger towards the Chief’s office. ‘He isn’t very happy.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Have you seen the news this morning?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘We have a leak.’

  ‘Where? In the toilets?’

  ‘Not that kind of leak. Someone blabbed to the press.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t look at me. I hate those blood-sucking bastards.’

  ‘It must be one of Perkins’ people trying to earn a few extra quid.’

  She shrugged. ‘Might be. I was busy questioning people on my own because my partner had less important things to do, and I didn’t see anybody talking to the press. Anyway, the Chief wants to see you.’

  ‘Maybe we should just leave.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Are you going to get a pool car today?’

  ‘Possibly.’ She grinned and rubbed her hands together. ‘I have a plan.’

  He trudged along the corridor towards the Chief’s office like a man walking the plank.

  Although he’d thought Lucy was joking about the sex earlier – she wasn’t. He had the nagging suspicion that she was a nymphomaniac, and wondered if there was a cure for the condition. Maybe he should send her to see a sex therapist – or go himself.

  God only knew what she was getting herself into with those secret messages hidden in photographs. If it was true – it was ingenious, but hardly practical if Lucy could stumble over it. No doubt kids playing about.

  As he was lying in Lucy’s bed sweating and wondering if he was in danger of running out of sperm he said, ‘I want you to do a couple of things for me.’

  ‘I’m not your personal fucking assistant, you know.’

  ‘You’ll like this.’

  ‘A hole in the head springs to mind.’

  ‘I want you and Duffy to employ a nanny for the children, a housekeeper for the house, and
a gardener to . . .’

  ‘. . . No, don’t tell me. I’m good at these guessing games.’

  ‘Can you manage that?’

  ‘They have male housekeepers and nannies, don’t they?’

  ‘There might very well be such animals kept in captivity, but I don’t want them in my house. A female gardener would be good as well – one with . . .’ He spread his hands out above his chest to illustrate large breasts.

  ‘You’re a fucking antediluvian, Quigg.’

  ‘Is that your word for the day?’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Also . . .’

  ‘You’re taking the piss now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Remember my ex-wife – Caitlin, and daughter – Phoebe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Why ask then?’

  ‘I haven’t seen or heard from them in nearly six months, and I’m becoming concerned. Find me a good private investigator and arrange for them to come round to the house tonight for a meeting.’

  ‘A really sexy woman with big tits?’

  ‘I think you’re getting the idea.’

  She sat astride him. ‘I’d like payment in advance.’

  ‘There’s something wrong with you.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m not getting enough sex.’

  Cheryl’s seat was empty.

  He knocked on the Chief’s door.

  ‘If that’s you Quigg, you’d better be wearing riot gear.’

  He opened the door and stuck his head through the crack. ‘Would you like me to go down to the stores and sign some out, Chief?’

  ‘I was being metaphorical.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve had the Commissioner crawling all over me this morning, Quigg. You have a mole.’

  ‘Kline was saying.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, if we rule out Kline, Perkins and myself . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t talk to the press. Except to arrange a briefing for nine this morning.’ He checked the clock on the wall and synchronised his watch with it. ‘. . . In ten minutes’ time. I had to rush home about midday because Ruth was having her baby.’

  ‘Congratulations. What is it?’

  ‘A boy. We’ve called him Luke.’

  ‘Which reminds me – Cheryl was taken into hospital to have her baby last night as well, so I’ll have to get a temp in to cover for her.’

  Quigg licked his lips. ‘Someone nice, I hope.’

  ‘Strictly off limits, Quigg. After the fiasco with Jones and Monica – never again.’

  ‘I understand, Chief.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  ‘I’ll pop in and say hello to Cheryl and the new baby while I’m at the hospital for the post mortem.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

  ‘She’ll be all right now that the baby’s been born.’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Quigg. So, you left Kline on her own . . .’

  ‘She hates the press. There’s more chance of her killing them than talking to them. And as for Perkins – well, he just wouldn’t. Kline and I think it might be one of Perkins’ people. I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘Do that. If it happens again . . . heads will roll. How’s the case going anyway?’

  ‘Because I’m in here talking to you, I haven’t had chance to find out myself. When I left at midday, Perkins seemed to think the Devil was responsible . . .’

  ‘As in Lucifer?’

  ‘The very one. He found what he thought were the marks of cloven hooves on the victim’s head and torso. Also, the murder is very similar to one carried out four hundred years ago, for which the Devil was also blamed.’

  ‘Preposterous.’

  ‘Of course. I told him there would be a logical explanation for the copycat killing. Anyway, I’ll be in a better position tomorrow morning to give you more information on what we’ve discovered.’

  ‘Okay, Quigg. I’ll get Mrs Bellmarsh to send flowers and a card to Cheryl and Ruth . . . You’re not planning on having any more babies, are you?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning then . . . and no more leaks.’

  ***

  While he was waiting for quiet to descend in the press briefing room, he glanced at the front-page article in the Hammersmith Informer that the press officer had passed to him, and made a couple of notes on a paper napkin. He also spotted a report on page two describing a fire that had occurred in a halfway house in Lewisham. There had been one death – a recently released prisoner called Rufus Murdoch.

  When he could hear a pin drop he said, ‘It appears that you know more about the case than I do.’

  There was a smattering of laughter.

  ‘I’d like someone to tell me who the “source close to the investigation” is.’

  ‘We never reveal our sources,’ somebody said.

  ‘I see.’ He stood up to leave. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow then.’

  ‘What about the briefing?’

  ‘You don’t need me when you have a “source close to the investigation”, do you?’

  He knew that sooner rather than later he’d be forced to brief them on the investigation, but if he could identify the “source” before that happened – so much the better.

  The squad room was empty. He had the feeling people were avoiding him since Monica’s murder and the disappearance of ex-Sergeant Mervyn Jones, but there was nothing he could do about the situation.

  The morning hadn’t really gone according to plan. He’d been hoping to get updates from Kline and Perkins, to create an incident board and start fitting the jigsaw pieces together, but a post mortem wouldn’t wait. If Dr Solberg had taken the body parts out of the freezer, then he had no choice but to attend.

  It was twenty-five to ten, and just as he was thinking that they really had to go, he saw Kline through the glass partition window walk into the squad room with a smile on her face. She’d obviously pulled off the impossible and got them a pool car.

  Even though he’d seen her kill DI Caesar, he couldn’t believe she would travel to Lewisham to murder Rufus Murdoch in cold blood and then purposefully set fire to a building. Even so, she was his partner, and he knew he had to be sure. When he found a minute, he’d find out who was leading the investigation and make sure a post mortem was carried out. He’d also obtain a copy of the fire report.

  ‘Got one,’ she said.

  ‘You’re a genius. How?’

  ‘I can’t reveal my secrets. Let’s just say that men shouldn’t keep their brains in their dicks.’

  He nodded his head at the hard nipples poking through her t-shirt. ‘You’d better solve the case of the missing bra as well, hadn’t you?’

  She grinned. ‘Oh yeah. I need to go to the toilet and put my knickers back on as well.’

  ‘Yes, it’s probably a good idea that I don’t know the intimate details. Sex for pool cars is not something I would sanction.’

  ‘Don’t worry, no sex passed hands – merely the promise of sex.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need to get going.’

  ‘I’ll meet you outside in the car park. I won’t be a minute.’

  Kline shouldn’t have to demean herself to obtain a pool car every morning. He’d have a word with the Chief. Those bastards in the garage needed some lessons in customer service.

  Outside he said, ‘What the hell?’

  Kline burst out of the door behind him. ‘Neat huh?’

  ‘I didn’t even know the police could afford such cars.’

  ‘They were hiding it in the back.’

  ‘Yesterday you couldn’t get a wreck, this morning they’ve given you . . . ?’

  ‘. . . The latest Jaguar. It’s the new CX-16 sports car. More commonly known as the F-type.’

  ‘You hocked your soul, didn’t you?’

  They climbed inside. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that we can have this little beaut
y anytime we want.’

  ‘You didn’t let them . . . ?’

  ‘’I didn’t let them do fuck all. Oh, they wanted to all right. I had three of them with their trousers round their ankles and their dicks aiming for the stars.’

  ‘Entrapment?’

  ‘The least I could do. I have a video of them trying to have group sex with a poor innocent young woman with a hot ass. I told them, that if I didn’t get exactly what I wanted in perpetuity, the video would go viral.’

  He noticed that she’d transferred the hula-hula girl from his Mercedes – he was glad. ‘I’d like to see that video when you’ve got a minute.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure you would. You have more chance of seeing the four horsemen of the apocalypse.’

  ‘Oh well! So, this morning has turned into a bag of nails. Tell me what you discovered yesterday.’

  She set off towards the hospital as if she’d set her sights on holding the world racing car championship trophy aloft.

  ‘There was an altercation in the restaurant. A man got drunk in the pub, then walked over to the restaurant and hit a woman in the face. She was with another woman who paid by credit card. You need to ring Perkins. I gave him the credit card number yesterday and asked him to find out who it belonged to. Based on the description, the other woman – the one who the man hit – might be our victim.’

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘I’ve got a partner who thinks he’s a fucking midwife – so I didn’t have much choice, did I?’

  He pulled out his phone.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Nothing in the flower shop. It’s run by an old lesbian. They sleep at the back of the building and didn’t see or hear a thing.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He found Perkins’ number in his phonebook.

  ‘If you don’t put that thing away, I’m going shove it up your arse.’

  He put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘I found a barmaid with a photographic memory in the pub. That’s how I connected the drunk with what happened in the restaurant. She also told me about something unusual that happened.’