by Tim Ellis
He found another short piece in the paper for the following week stating that Ruben Andrews had been committed to Stone House Hospital near Dartford in Kent, but it didn’t say why. He printed the page and carried on skimming, but found no more reports.
‘I would have thought it was more newsworthy than that,’ Quigg said, looking at Walsh.
‘There’s no more, Sir?’
‘Nothing that I can find. We’ve run out of time anyway; it’s quarter past eleven. I’ve got to get you back for your Hollywood screen test, and I need to get to Hammersmith Hospital. It’s Dr Dewsbury’s turn to buy.’
‘No wonder you haven’t got any friends, Sir.’
‘Are you insinuating something, Walsh?’
‘No, Sir.’
Quigg, extracted the film from the tray, and switched off the microfiche reader. Collecting his duffel coat from the back of the chair, he said to Walsh, ‘You get the print outs from the printer and pay the troll; I’ll take the microfiche and the coffee cups back.’
‘Equal partners?’
‘Equal partners, Walsh.’
Mrs Trollenberg didn’t seem at all happy about being interrupted by humans again, and Quigg hoped he wouldn’t have to come back and spend any more time with the miserable troll.
***
Quigg dropped Walsh off and arranged to meet her in the squad room before three o’clock. The roads were considerably better than earlier in the day, but the female DJ on the radio kept reminding him not to be lulled into a false sense of security. She said there were still patches of black ice skulking about, which were just waiting to mangle a new Mercedes SLK 55 AMG. He drove slowly, well within the speed limit. There were a few psychopathic male teenagers out and about who used horns and fingers to emphasise their fluency in road-speak, but most of the drivers were happy to dawdle along behind him. More snow had been forecast for this afternoon and a big freeze for tonight. Quigg realised the weather was going to get a lot worse. He was already under enough pressure from the Chief to solve the case quickly as it was, without the snow and ice becoming obstacles.
Jim was waiting for him in the hospital cafeteria. He had chosen a table next to a window overlooking the duck pond in the quadrangle. Quigg was glad he didn’t have to go down to the mortuary and confront his fear again - yesterday had been bad enough. He was quite happy to let Jim do the pathology work, while he stuck to what he did best – the detective work. He didn’t need to be wading up to his armpits in dead bodies to be able to find the killers.
‘Have you ordered, Jim?’ Quigg said to the small, balding man with long straggly hair sprouting from his ears
‘I was waiting for you, Quigg. My turn to buy, I believe.’
Quigg was glad Jim had remembered he was paying, because his wallet was empty. He took off his duffel coat and scarf and draped them over the back of a chair, then followed the forensic pathologist to the counter and stood behind him in the queue.
The lunchtime crowd began to snuffle into The Eatery like a herd of Vietnamese potbelly pigs. Quigg could hear grunting behind him as he asked for a helping of corned beef hash, chips and beans. His stomach began rumbling he was so hungry. He helped himself to a giant chocolate muffin and a mug of coffee for afters.
Back at the table, Quigg began methodically transferring the food on his plate into his mouth using the knife and fork like a connoisseur. It seemed that Jim was a bit peckish as well, because neither of them spoke until both plates were so clean they could have been used again without being put through the dishwasher.
‘Well, Jim,’ Quigg said as he peeled the paper from his giant chocolate muffin. 'What have you got for me?’
Jim sat back and rubbed his paunch. ‘I’m glad you asked me that, Quigg.’ He pulled a manila folder from behind him, moved his plate to the side of the table, placed the folder in front of him, and opened it up. ‘I carried out post-mortems on the first and the last bodies in the line of graves as you requested. I also undertook cursory examinations of the other bodies to look for any similarities.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been working overtime, Jim.’
‘All night, Quigg. I’m going home for some sleep once we’re finished here, then I’ll be coming back later to carry on. My wife and kids think I’ve flown south for the winter.’
‘I’m grateful for your hard work, Jim.’
‘It’s partly for you, Quigg, but it’s also for the kids. I’d hate to think that another child might die while I was sleeping in my bed.’
‘We’re the same, Jim. I toss and turn at night churning everything over in my mind to make sure I haven’t missed anything.’
‘That’s probably why we’ve hit it off, Quigg. Anyway, let’s start with the similarities. I can confirm that all the children were murdered, with the exception of the first one, but I’ll come back to that. There are traces of chloroform around the nose and mouth of three of the bodies. Entomotoxicological analysis of a further three cadavers shows that they were poisoned by teterodotoxin, which is derived naturally from fish such as the pufferfish. Now, it wasn’t discovered until 1960, so the first body, which is a female by the way, has no trace of the neurotoxin in her body. But, as I said, I’ll come back to her.’
‘Neurotoxin?’
‘A neurotoxin acts specifically on nerve cells. In this case, it stops the electrical activity of the muscles and causes paralysis. It paralyses the diaphragm beneath the lungs, and causes death due to respiratory failure.’
‘They stopped breathing?’
‘Exactly. Let me suggest a modus operandi to you. The killer abducts a child using a chloroform soaked rag to keep them quiet, transports them to somewhere they will not be disturbed, works on them either before death or very close to it, injects them with teterodotoxin, then conveys the dead child to Barn Elms Park for burial.’
‘What do you mean "works on them"?’
‘Ah, yes.’ He pulled a piece of paper from the folder. ‘Due to the decomposition of the earlier bodies we have to use chemical techniques to determine whether anything was carved into their torsos.’ He passed the paper over, which showed an array of alphanumeric, supposedly biblical, references. ‘Here are the letter-number combinations that were carved into the chests of the last seventeen children. You’ve already seen the most recent one, which the killer carved into a thirteen year old girl called Kaikara Mangani, originating from Uganda. She was reported missing by her mother five days ago, from Peckham. So she was abducted last Friday, on Boxing Day. I estimate she was killed on Saturday and buried at Angel Brook on Saturday night.
Quigg scanned the sheet of paper, rummaged in his pocket for a pen, and made a note at the bottom of the paper to examine the missing persons’ report for Kaikara Mangani and any subsequent investigation undertaken.
J14:5; J5:4; R2:9; Z1:18; E8:2; N13:12; E2:8; J3:3; N3:9; P3:31; L3:66; E11:5; S1:2; I2:5; J2:6; Z6:13; E3:1
‘Thanks, Jim. There’re a lot of E’s and J’s.’
‘I had a quick look at the Bible last night and, if the letters and numbers do relate to it, then some of them can only come from the Old Testament, such as N for Numbers, Nehemiah, or Nahum. There are no chapters beginning with N in the New Testament.’
‘Thanks, Jim. I’m not being funny, but I’d stick to pathology if I were you. I’ve got a priest helping us with the biblical references.’
‘It was only an idea, Quigg. Now, the first body is totally different from the others.’
‘In what way?’
‘There is evidence of sexual abuse.’
‘And not with the others?’
‘No. She was also burnt.’
Quigg felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse with anvils strapped to its feet. ‘I think I might know who that is, Jim,’ he said after the cogs had shunted into place.
‘It would be good if you did, Quigg, because the only chance I have of finding out who she is would be if I could find the dentist who had her dental records, and after sixty year
s that would be unlikely. And, unfortunately, there was no such thing as DNA analysis in the 1950s. So, who do you think she is?’
Quigg told him about the fire at Barn Elms House and the five deaths. ‘At thirteen years old, Rose Andrews was the eldest daughter.’
‘Was the fire an accident?’
‘Here’s the thing, Jim. We think Rose had a twin brother called Ruben, and he survived. He was found outside the house by the fire services. I haven’t had a chance yet to look into whether it was an accident or arson, but it’s on my ‘to do’ list.’
‘Odd. You did say the fire started in the early hours of Sunday morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, this Ruben is your main suspect then?’
‘Again, it’s a possibility. He was locked up in a mental asylum in Dartford soon afterwards, but what became of him after that I have no idea. It’s on my ‘to do’ list as well.’
‘Seems like you’re on top of it.’ He closed the folder and passed it to Quigg.
‘Walsh and I are moving in the right direction, Jim.’
Jim stood up. ‘Well, I’ve got to go home and get some sleep before I start having hallucinations. As soon as I have anything else, I’ll be in touch.’
Quigg stood as well. He shrugged on his duffel coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck. Shaking Jim’s proffered hand, he said, ‘Thanks, Jim. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Don’t forget the folder.’
Quigg scooped it up off the table. ‘Have a good sleep, Jim - you deserve it.’
Chapter Four
At ten past two he was walking into the station through the rear door when he felt his normal mobile vibrate in his pocket. Between his car and the door the snowfall had made him look like a snowman. He grabbed the phone, pressed accept and said, ‘Quigg.’
You said you’d help me if I called.
‘Excuse me… Who is this?’
Lucy.
He racked his brain, but the name globules failed to find a Lucy and connect it to a memory trace. ‘I don’t know any Lucy.’
You want to do something about your memory, Quigg. It’s Uptown Girl.
Rusty chains began moving cogs in a forgotten storeroom of his brain to match a name with an event. Surprised, he said, ‘I do know a Lucy.’ He remembered meeting a girl in an Internet café who looked terribly young, with shoulder-length black hair and a haunted expression. He had given her his card and said to ring him if she needed anything. ‘What can I do for you, Lucy?’
I’m in trouble… I didn’t know who else to turn to. Will you help me?
‘I said I would, didn’t I? Tell me how.’
Write this address down.
He stopped at the top of the stairs, found his notebook and pulled out the pencil stuck in the rubber band which kept his page, and said, ‘OK.’
16, Leonard’s Terrace, Chelsea - please be quick.
He slipped the phone between his lips and held it there while he awkwardly wrote the address down, and then put it back to his ear. He wanted to ask a number of questions, such as, ‘What trouble are you in?’ and, ‘Why can’t Surfer Bob help you?’ but Lucy had already disconnected the call.
‘What’s wrong, Sir?’ Walsh said as he walked into the squad room wearing a worried expression and sat on the edge of Jones’ desk.
‘I have to go out - a damsel in distress.’
‘What about …?’
‘You can go and see Perkins. Give him my apologies, and don’t get roped into his UFO club.’
‘OK, Sir. Where are you going?’
‘Chelsea, then home. How did the interviews go?’
‘Good, Sir. Same deal as last time. Radio will run the appeal every hour with the news until lunchtime tomorrow, and I’ll be on the TV news at six and ten tonight and seven tomorrow morning.’
‘Did you talk to them about becoming a nude model?’
Walsh grinned, but otherwise ignored the question. ‘What about you, Sir? Did Dr Dewsbury tell you anything interesting?’
‘Jim said the first body from 1950 was burnt and hadn’t been murdered like the others.’
‘Rose, the daughter?’
‘Well done, Walsh. Yes, I think it could be Rose Andrews.’
‘But wouldn’t she have been properly buried in a cemetery somewhere with the rest of her family?’
‘You would think so. Between Perkins and going home, see if you can find out where the family is buried. We might have to acquire an exhumation order for Rose. Also, the last body was a thirteen year old Ugandan girl called Kaikara Mangani. She was reported missing by her mother five days ago in Peckham. Give the nick at Peckham a ring; ask them to send over the missing persons’ report and the paperwork from the follow-up investigation. I suspect we’ll be chasing a few missing children’s reports as soon as Jim gives us the children’s names.’
‘Anything else, Sir?’
‘Apparently, the killer abducted the children using chloroform, and then poisoned them by injecting a toxin that paralysed their breathing. Either just before or shortly after death, he carved the biblical references into their chests.’
Quigg walked over to the photocopier, pulled the sheet of paper containing the biblical references from the folder in his hand and made two copies. He passed one to Walsh and folded the other one twice, and put it in his coat pocket. He’d get a Bible out later and see if any of the references made sense. Duffy was sure to have a Bible stashed out of sight somewhere, so that she didn’t have to confront her sins on a daily basis.
‘Those are the biblical references from the last seventeen bodies,’ he told Walsh. ‘Jim said that he needed to do some more work on the first six to discover if the killer marked them as well. Give Father Paidraig a ring; ask him if he can give us some time tomorrow. If he can’t, tell him I’ll understand and we’ll simply have to find someone else.’
‘That’ll be a problem, Sir; tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve.’
‘You’ve caught that pessimistic streak from Martin, haven’t you, Walsh?’
‘Are you expecting me to work over New Year, Sir?’
‘How long have you been in the force, Walsh?’
‘Six and a half years.’
‘Well, during those six and a half years, did you ever notice how murderers stopped murdering over the festive season, and all the police officers took time off to spend with their families? A bit like half time in a football match.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘There you are then. What about you, did you get the Barn Elms investigation report from the archives and the obituary for Richard Andrews from the Times?’
She walked over to her desk and grabbed some sheets of paper. ‘Of course, Sir. I’ve made copies. I’m more than just a pretty face and a sexy body, you know.’
Quigg’s forehead creased. ‘I knew that, Walsh. Right, I’m off to Chelsea. I’ll see you at nine in the morning - unless you’ve got any more stupid questions?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Excellent. Oh, one other thing. Ring Stone House Hospital and ask them what happened to Ruben Andrews. Seeing as he’s our prime suspect, we ought to find out where he is now and question him. And finally, pop down and speak to Ted Salway; see if he’s had any calls following your television and radio appearances.’
‘Equal partners, Sir?’
‘Sorry, Walsh - not this afternoon. We’ll get back to that innovative equal partner idea tomorrow. This afternoon I’m practising my rarely used innate ability of delegation, which is a vital asset that all good leaders should have in their toolbox.’
‘So, who is this damsel in distress?’
‘Need to know, Walsh. Have a productive afternoon, and if Perkins gets abducted by aliens, don’t try and save him.’
***
On his way to Chelsea, he rang Ruth on his secret mobile. Her number was the only one in the contact list. It rang for some time, but eventually she answered.
‘Are you still at the flat, Ruth?’
We have just got up, Quigg.
‘It’s three fifteen in the afternoon.’
There must have been something wrong with that wine last night. I have never been this ill.
‘What was wrong with it was that you drank too much of it, and…’
Is that why you are ringing, to make fun of us?
‘No, that was something I couldn’t resist. The real reason I rang was to tell you to stay there. I’m going to Chelsea, and then I’ll be coming home. I have an idea.’
We are too ill to go anywhere.
‘Well, make sure you’re dressed. I’ll have a woman with me.’
There was a moment of quiet on the end of the phone, and then Ruth asked, Which woman? In the space of a breath her voice had changed from eggshell brittle to rock-hard granite.
‘Ask Duffy to tell you about Uptown Girl. She helped us on the last case.’
You have not found another woman because we are fat and ugly, have you?
Quigg laughed. ‘Fat and ugly! You’re only a couple of weeks pregnant and it’s not even noticeable.’
You could be storing up women for when our fatness and ugliness arrive.
‘So now it’s "women"? I’ll see you and Duffy in about an hour.’
We love you, Quigg.
‘Me too.’ She had never said that before, and it took him by surprise. Love! Did he love Ruth? Did he love Duffy? Did he even know what love was? He didn’t really like to get too close to his feelings, they made him feel uncomfortable. Women always had to ask about feelings. They wanted concrete definitive answers to questions that were grey and squishy. He thought he had loved Caitlin, but then she ripped his heart out, threw it on the floor, and stamped on it for good measure. Now, was unreserved love still an option? Phoebe had used up all his unreserved love lately, but Caitlin was taking her to Canada in five days time. God, he hated love when it hurt so much. Ruth and Duffy could break his heart open like a kiwi fruit; all the juice would bleed out until all that was left would be a shrivelled, lifeless carcass.