by Tim Ellis
‘Hello, Mr Quigg. It’s April Robinson again. Just my little joke. They make me work in a small office in the basement that resembles the black hole of Calcutta. Hence . . .’
‘I don’t think you should be joking when my mother and Mrs Crenshaw are missing, Miss Robinson.’
‘No, you’re quite right, Mr Quigg.’
‘They are still missing, I presume?’
‘Yes, they’re still missing. As promised, I put the word out, but not a lot came back.’
‘When you say you “put the word out”, what exactly does that mean?’
‘Well, as I explained to you yesterday . . . It was yesterday, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, yesterday.’
‘As I explained to you then, we have very few resources. In fact, we have no resources. I’m sure you think the austerity measures in England are bad . . .’
‘Pretty bad.’
‘Well, you want to come and live here in Vietnam, Mister. Do you know, I’ve been moved out of my five-bedroom villa into a rabbit hutch of a house with only three bedrooms, no jacuzzi and the swimming pool is a thimble with water in it.’
‘It sounds awful.’
‘Are you being sarcastic, Mr Quigg?’
‘You were telling me how you put the word out.’
‘Oh yes. Well, the cleaners work overnight at the embassy, which makes it extremely difficult to get any sleep. And as for a private life . . .’
‘Who did you tell?’
‘That’s what I was saying – I gave Huong five hundred Dong . . .’
‘I’m sorry? Who is Huong? And what’s a Dong?’
‘Of course, you’ve never been to Vietnam, have you? Huong is the head cleaner, and the Dong is the Vietnamese unit of currency.’
‘Okay . . . How much is five hundred Dong in English money?’
‘Fourteen pence.’
‘That’s how much my mother is worth to you, is it – fourteen pence?’
‘Actually – no. Your mother is worth nothing to me, Mr Quigg. I was doing you a favour, and all you can do is complain. Five hundred Dong was all I had on me at the time, and for your information – five hundred Dong goes a long way over here.’
‘And you told the cleaner?’
‘Head cleaner.’
‘Haven’t you got agents? People in the know, on the inside, on the ground?’
‘No, we’ve got no one like that. The British Ambassador has already had to make swingeing cuts to his entertainments budget.’
‘So, you told the head cleaner. What did this Huong do then?’
‘She went to the market on Bach Dang street, spoke to all her friends, who spoke to their friends and . . . pretty soon the word spread like . . ..’
‘. . . Chinese whispers?’
‘No – more like a virus.’
‘Okay! What did you get back?’
‘Nothing, not even a head cold.’
‘So, what now?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What’s your next move to find my mother and Mrs Crenshaw, April?’
‘Well, apart from trying to get some sleep before the day-shift come on, I have no next move. And, of course, when I say “I”, I’m obviously speaking on behalf of the British Ambassador – Sir Peter Moulsham and all his staff here at the friendly and helpful Vietnamese Embassy in Hanoi.’
‘You’re just going to leave my mother and her travelling companion to fend for themselves in a hostile country?’
‘I hardly think you should be pointing the finger of blame in my direction, Mr Quigg. Vietnam is a big place. Yes, I’ll agree that some areas are hostile, but a lot of other areas are very friendly. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it your mother and her friend who failed to board the ship at the appointed time?’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘This is the British Embassy, after all. We’ll certainly help where we can, but we are not the missing persons department, we are not lost and found, and we are certainly not search and rescue. Goodbye, Mr Quigg. I hope you find your mother – I really do, but we’ve exhausted our limited resources . . .’
‘Fourteen pence?’
The call disconnected.
What now? He could go out to Vietnam, but then what? As April said – some areas were hostile. He could hire a guide, someone who knew the dark underbelly of the country, but there was no guarantee his mother and Mrs Crenshaw were even there anymore. He smiled. They were resourceful women, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d already found a means of getting back to England – camel, rickshaw, elephant, train, balloon . . . the list of transportation possibilities was endless. He just had to be patient. His mother would ring him before too long – he was sure.
He walked into the house – it smelled of furniture polish, disinfectant and air freshners. He’d been so used to baby smells he hadn’t even noticed that the house reeked of them. There was a definite improvement in air quality.
‘It smells in here,’ he said as he went into the living room.
‘Yeah,’ Lucy said. ‘It’s great, isn’t it?’
‘You recruited a cleaner then?’
‘And a nanny.’
‘The garden looks a million percent better.’
‘Pansy Potter and her crew.’
‘Good job, Lucy Neilson.’
‘I didn’t know you had a last name,’ Duffy said.
‘Big mouth,’ Lucy threw at him.
‘We’re going to see Ruth tonight,’ he said.
‘I . . .’
‘But . . .’
‘Even though her ankles were the size of concrete bollards, didn’t she come into the hospital when you were at death’s door, Duffy?’
‘I vaguely . . .’
‘And hasn’t she been there for you every time that you’ve needed her, Lucy?’
‘My memory isn’t . . .’
‘So, the least you can do is climb in the car, catch the lift up to the maternity ward, and go and visit Ruth and Luke for half an hour.’
‘What about . . . ?’ Duffy began.
‘Lucy can go round to Mrs Dudley’s and ask Shannon to babysit for a couple of hours.’
His phone vibrated.
‘Yes, Chief?’
‘There’s been a fire.’
‘Not another one? Where?’
‘Professor Razinsky’s flat in Chancery Lane.’
‘Where’s . . . ?’
‘They’ve found two bodies in the flat.’
‘Crap, Sir. It’s not . . . ?’
‘It’s not anybody at the moment, Quigg. Perkins is on his way over there. Are you okay to go along?’
‘Just a minute, Chief.’
He put his hand over the receiver and said to Duffy and Lucy, ‘You’ll have to go to the hospital on your own.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘You already know the answer to that.’
He uncovered the mouthpiece and put the phone back up to his ear. ‘I’m on my way, Chief.’
‘Keep me informed.’
‘Will do . . . Oh, you managed to get out of your office then?’
‘The least said about Mrs Feltz the better. She wouldn’t let me out, and she sent everyone who came to see me away. I had to ring the agency in the end. They had to send someone to take her away . . .’
‘Was she deranged?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care. We’ve seen the last of her – that’s what matters. The agency are sending me someone new tomorrow morning.’
‘She can’t be any worse, Chief.’
‘Let’s hope not, Quigg. Let’s hope not.’
***
‘Have you booked a room?’ Anastasia asked him, licking the caramel sauce and clotted cream off her top lip.
He’d been five minutes late arriving back at the Hand and Marigold. Not only that, he couldn’t get through to Deirdre at the office. He had the feeling she’d knocked off early, gone to the massage parlour to have her delicious body massaged with cucumber
and lemon – or some other exotic fruit. If she’d asked, he would have done it for her for free.
If Caitlin and Phoebe Quigg were dead – as he suspected they were – he needed Deirdre to check out the hospitals and such like, re-run the earlier checks using Sally Tomkins’ name, and ask if she’d found out anything on Lancer Communications, but no one had answered the phone. It would just have to wait until the morning. Tonight he had audacious plans . . .
Anastasia was just on her way out of the door as he was going in.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve just returned from East Sussex.’
‘You’re lucky, I don’t usually wait for men.’
He touched her arm. ‘Come back inside. I’ve booked a table for seven-thirty.’
‘I don’t want you thinking that you can take advantage of me.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Just this once then.’
It was early, and there weren’t many customers. He guided her to the table he’d sat at earlier, and then went up to the bar. She wanted a glass of house red, while he had half a shandy again. The last thing he wanted was a non-functioning pecker. He was already worried that Sheila Howe might have dulled his sexual appetite and drained his testes of protein shake.
‘Starter?’ he asked when they were mulling over the menu.
‘Not for me, thank you.’
‘No, the sooner we get to the main course, the better. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?’
She stared at him. The corner of her mouth twitched and she said, ‘Yes, I’m hungry, Rodney.’
He had the feeling they were both talking about the same thing, and it wasn’t the food.
Anastasia had the rabbit, prawn and mushroom pie. He opted for the whole stuffed seabass on the bone with lemon, olives, herbs and butter sauce.
‘Dessert?’
She licked her lips. ‘Do you know, I think I will tonight. I like afters a lot.’
‘Me too.’
‘What about the sticky toffee pudding to share?’ she suggested.
‘Mmmm! With vanilla ice cream, caramel sauce and clotted cream – sounds perfect.’
Once they reached the dessert he knew he’d got his mojo back. He was imagining her naked beneath him, and he wished he’d ordered a generous helping of double-whipped cream for later – no imagination was required with double-whipped cream. You took double-whipped cream into the bedroom and everyone knew what was going to happen.
Also, Sheila Howe might just have done him a favour, provided him with a much-needed training session – training for the main event. She’d warmed up his muscles – no fear of pulling up injured with a torn hamstring, twisted ligaments or a ruptured tendon. Certainly, it was a bit more of a warm-up session than he would have organised for himself, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Now, he undressed her with his eyes. She was hot, and she was hot for him. ‘Yes, I’ve booked a room, Anastasia. I don’t want you thinking that . . .’
‘Should we go?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
He pulled her chair out and guided her through the bar and up the carpeted creaky wooden stairs to the room. It wasn’t a big room, but then he didn’t need a big room to do what he was planning to do. All he needed was a bed and a willing participant, and he thought that he just might have both. He had the feeling that it was one of those rare occasions where the planets aligned like dominoes.
Inside the room, they kissed.
‘You seem to be ready,’ she said, caressing the lump through his trousers.
‘I’m more than ready. You look like the Greek goddess of love and beauty – Aphrodite.’
They tore at each other’s clothes and fell onto the bed semi-naked.
He licked her sumptuous breasts, her hard rosebud nipples and her nearly-flat stomach on his way to the magical rainforest. He imagined himself as Marco Polo navigating along the Silk Road to discover untold riches.
Her voice was hoarse. ‘Now would be a good time, Rodney.’
‘Condom?’
‘Fuck the condom,’ she muttered, pulling him down on top of her.
That’s exactly what he had in mind, but he always felt as though it was like trying to clean between his toes with his socks still on. No condom suited him just fine, and if the cleaning staff didn’t like semen stains all over the bed line – well, that was just the way it was.
He stabbed his penis into her as if he was in possession of the great sword Excalibur, and . . .
The door behind him crashed open.
He half-turned.
A fist smashed into his right cheek and nose, and propelled him off the bed and onto the floor between the mirror-fronted wardrobe and the bed.
‘That’s my fucking wife,’ a fat red-faced bearded man shouted.
Anastasia sat up, but didn’t cover herself up or close her legs. ‘Your timing always was lousy, Geoffrey.’
‘Come back, Annie. I love you.’
‘As if. When was the last time we had sex?’
‘I’ll make it up to you.’
‘I don’t think so. And look what you’ve done to Rodney.’
His nose was bleeding, his cheek and top lip were swelling to epic proportions and his penis had become inverted.
‘This isn’t about him, Annie. Come home with me . . .’
Just then, the landlady – Julie Fotheringale – arrived. ‘Out,’ she hollered. ‘Everybody out. I won’t have this type of behaviour in any public house I’m the landlady of.’
Covering his grubby jewels with cupped hands, he stood up.
‘I knew you were trouble as soon as I set eyes on you,’ she directed at Rodney.
‘It’s not me,’ he whined. ‘It’s him.’ He couldn’t point, so he jerked his head towards Geoffrey Scripps.
Anastasia had put her clothes back on and made to leave. ‘Sorry, Rodney,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it would have been very nice, but it wasn’t to be.’
‘You’re coming home?’ Geoffrey said.
‘Yes I am, Geoffrey, but you’re not. You can find somewhere else to live.’
Anastasia stomped down the stairs with her husband Geoffrey following her.
The landlady stared at him. ‘You’d better let me take a look at that face of yours.’
‘Do you mind if I get dressed first?’
She shut the door. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that.’
***
They were sitting in the departure lounge in Terminal One at Heathrow Airport waiting to board Lufthansa flight LHR 6790B to Leipzig-Halle Airport in Saxony, Germany.
Kline could hardly keep her eyes open she was so tired. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, but she didn’t have the strength to lift it up to her mouth and drink it.
Emilia didn’t look much better.
In fact, Kline was surprised the woman at the Lufthansa check-in desk had allowed them to check in – they looked more like tramps than passengers.
After they’d booked in, Emilia made a phone call and she dropped the pillow case with the tools wrapped inside into a waste bin.
She thought back to earlier.
After grabbing her passport, and stuffing a change of clothes, underwear and toiletries into a rucksack from the station house, she jumped back into the taxi and they were on their way to Heathrow. It was a twenty-minute journey down the M4 motorway to the airport.
‘So, tell me about your journey, Tallie Kline,’ Emilia prodded her.
‘My journey is nothing compared to yours.’
‘And yet, here you are only part-way along your journey, but I saw in your eyes when we met that you had walked some of that journey in my footsteps.’
‘No, you’re mistaken.’
‘I am never mistaken. Tell me why you stopped swimming.’
Kline stared out of the window of the taxi. Tears ran down her face. This time, she didn’t wipe them away, she just cried silently inside.
Emilia slid the ha
tch closed, so that the driver couldn’t listen to what was being said.
‘I was fifteen years old, and still a virgin. They snatched me off the street, bundled me into the back of a van and gang-raped me for hours. Then they threw me away like a piece of rubbish . . .’
Emilia held her hand, but said nothing.
‘I was taken to the hospital. The doctors found that I’d been damaged inside . . . they cut out my womb, and told me that I could never have children.’
She bowed her head and let the tears fall into the palm of her open hand until she had a small pool of salty water.
‘There were five of them. They tied a bag over my head, so that I couldn’t see their faces, but thanks to Quigg I know who they are now. I’ve already killed one of them, and I’ll get the other four one by one. They’re going to pay for what they did to me.’
After a while Emilia said, ‘My life could have been so different . . .’
‘Our lives are not the same.’
‘Our lives are exactly the same, Tallie Kline. We were raped by men. When, where, how many and by whom does not matter. We are two women who have had our lives altered and defined by one event when we were young. Like you, I swore I would kill every last one of them. I have spent over sixty years of my life hunting them down and bringing them to justice one way or another, but you know what, Tallie Kline?’
‘What?’
‘It is just revenge – pure and simple. Nearly my whole life has been wasted on revenge. Oh yes, people will say I have done a good thing, that I have brought many evil men to justice, that my life has been worthwhile. God said that revenge belonged to him, to turn the other cheek, to forgive your enemies . . . and any number of other warnings to keep you out of Satan’s clutches, but I stopped believing in God a long time ago. My life has been wasted . . .’
‘No,’ Kline said.
‘Yes. I have lived in the dark and shared my whole life with evil. Maybe, when I go, and if there truly is a God, she will take pity on me and let me back into the light. What I am trying to say is that it is too late for me, but you are still young and beautiful, you have your whole life ahead of you. Let go of your hate, Tallie Kline. Revenge serves no purpose. It changes nothing. Men will continue to abuse women long after we have turned to dust. If I can change the course of your life, then possibly my life will have meant something after all.’
