The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You have reached your destination,’ the female voice in his satnav said. He had tried the male voice, but it sounded too much like the Chief’s for his liking.

  He peered through the windscreen at where he had ended up. It was still snowing and he wondered if the end of the world had come. Maybe it would snow forever now. Summers and sunshine were probably a thing of the past. Global warming was a joke. He would have to get some decent clothes. A duffel coat and a scarf wouldn’t be much good in Arctic conditions. He’d have to get a couple of snowsuits, some thermal socks and underwear, snow goggles and a pair of snow boots. He’d always wanted a pair of snow boots, ever since being a kid, but with his father dead and his mum, Beryl, working two jobs, he was never going to get a pair, and then the winters weren’t as bad and there didn’t seem a need for them anymore. Maybe now was the time.

  As he eased himself out of the car he saw a group of kids building the tallest and fattest snowman he had ever seen. It would probably take all year to melt, he thought with a smile. If he hadn’t been on a mission, he would have gone over and helped them. He pushed the buzzer of 16, Leonard’s Terrace, but didn’t hear anything, so he gave a short knock on the wood as well.

  A voice seeped through the door. ‘Is that you, Quigg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  In the blink of an eye, the door opened and closed. In between those two events, a dishevelled Lucy dragged him though the opening into a dingy hallway with a bare light hanging from the ceiling that looked as though it was down to its last watt.

  ‘What’s going on, Lucy?’ His nose wrinkled up. She smelled as if she’d never had a shower or heard of soap and perfume.

  ‘They’re after me.’

  ‘Who? I’m a copper; I’ll sort them out.’

  A strangled sound came out of her mouth, as if she were trying to laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid, Quigg. It’s the men in black. They know I’m onto them. Look.’

  She showed him her arm. It was so dark in the hallway he hadn’t noticed that she was bleeding from what looked like a gunshot wound. Blood ran down her upper arm and dripped onto the concrete floor.

  Shocked, he asked, ‘What’s happened to your arm?’ He put his hands up to carry out an inspection of the wound.

  ‘Don’t touch it, you fool. They shot me. It’s hurting like hell.’

  ‘We need to get you to a hospital.’

  ‘That’s the first place they’ll look for me. You know Surfer Bob’s dead?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His house blew up a week ago. They called it an accident, said his modified generator blew up, but I think they killed him.’

  An explosion! He had that creepy feeling he got when somebody was trampling over his grave with hobnail boots on. Could it be that the Apostles had arranged Surfer Bob’s demise? Had they organised someone to kill Lucy? Shit! It was definitely a possibility.

  ‘Who? I don’t understand. Who are these men in black you keep talking about?’

  ‘The government.’

  ‘I’m part of the government; I can protect you.’

  ‘You don’t even know who the government are, Quigg. It’s not those people you see in the papers and on the television; they’re just puppets. Behind them, in the shadows, indistinct people are doing things, and I stumbled onto one of their dirty little secrets.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘I need to get out of here. Have you got a safe house or something? Somewhere I can hide for a couple of days?’

  ‘A safe house! This is England, not a clandestine operation being run by the FBI in America. I’ll take you to my flat…’

  ‘You want to fuck me, don’t you? If that’s what it takes, it’s OK.’

  ‘As I was saying… Well, it isn’t actually my flat. It belongs to the woman I’m living with… you remember Duffy? Anyway, I’ll take you there for tonight. And no, I don’t want to have sex with you.’

  ‘Don’t you like me?’

  ‘Whether I like you or not is irrelevant. I don’t even know you. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Wait.’ She disappeared into a room at the end of the hallway. He could hear banging and quiet in equal measure until she returned carrying a small metal box. ‘My hard drive,’ she said when Quigg looked at it. ‘This is what the bastards are after. All the evidence I need to get them locked up is on here.’

  He moved to open the door.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to shield me. Where’s your car?’

  ‘Right outside the front door.’

  ‘OK, I’ll get in the back and lie down. They’ll have an easy shot if I get in the passenger seat.’

  He felt her gripping his coat and clinging to him like a rucksack.

  ‘I’m ready when you are, Quigg.’

  Opening the door, he made his way to the car. If he’d known he was going to be a target on a firing range, he would have worn his bullet-proof vest. He had his keys ready, and as he bent to unlock the door, he felt something swish past his ear. Christ, she was telling the bloody truth! Someone was shooting at them. He opened the door, crouched down and pulled the seat forward so that Lucy could scramble in the back. While she was doing that, he put the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over, and then he pushed the seat back and climbed in himself. With the snow and ice on the road, he wasn’t going to break any records getting from 0 to 60. Working on the assumption that the gunman was in a building opposite Lucy’s house, he careered to the other side of the road to reduce the available field of fire.

  ‘That was someone firing at us back there, wasn’t it?’ Lucy asked from the back seat.

  ‘Something screamed past my ear. It could have been a snowball, though,’ Quigg joked.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I’d like to find out who these people are that are after you,’ he said. ‘What the hell have you got yourself into?’

  ‘Government secrets and cover-ups.’

  ‘I’ll have to take a look at your evidence. I can get it to the people who can do something about it.’

  ‘You’re a moron, Quigg, but I like you anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m flattered.’

  ‘Keep your eye on the rear-view mirror, make sure no one follows us, and take some detours, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lucy. I’ve done some training. I know how to elude people who are following me.’

  There weren’t many cars on the road. It was still snowing heavily and settling over black ice. He smiled at the idea that driving in these conditions was a bit like being shot at.

  ‘So, what’s this idea you’ve got then, Quigg?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get back to the flat. First, I need to discuss it with someone else. Anyway, what are we going to do about your bullet wound?’

  ‘It’s a flesh wound; the bullet isn’t in there.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear.’

  He didn’t know what else to say to her. It wasn’t as if they were best buddies or anything. Apart from her help during the Body 13 case, he knew nothing about her except that she took seven sugars in her coffee and was a paranoid schizophrenic.

  After a million detours, he arrived back at the flat at six fifteen. He didn’t like to tell her that if government agents were after her, they would have written down his car registration and found out where he lived from the DVLA database. He had a thought, though. The Apostles had burnt down his official address at the beginning of the month, and nobody knew he was living at Duffy’s flat now.

  ‘Come on, Lucy - we’re here.’

  ‘Check there’s no one waiting for us.’

  He slid out of the car and stood in the freezing cold. The snow seemed to be easing and he could hear the foghorns on the Thames. The streetlights outside the block of flats lit up the road both ways – it was empty. No one had followed them and, as far as he could see, no one was waiting for them.

  ‘There’s no one here. Hurry up, it’s bloody freezing.’ As promised by t
he weatherman, the temperature had begun to plummet. Lucy climbed out of the back seat and squatted between him and the car. ‘Where’s the entrance to the flat?’

  Quigg pointed across the road to a large wooden door leading to the lobby, and said, ‘We have to press a button on the intercom to be let in.’

  ‘Well, come on, Quigg – people will think I’m a fucking snowman if I stand here much longer.’

  His brow furrowed, and he shook his head at the chip she had on her shoulder. He jogged across the road, and she zigzagged around him crouched down like a chimpanzee.

  He pressed the intercom. ‘It’s Quigg.’

  The door clicked open. Lucy darted into the lobby, followed in a more leisurely manner by Quigg.

  ‘Second floor,’ he said. ‘Up the stairs, I need the exercise.’

  Quigg used his key to let himself in. Ruth and Duffy were waiting for them in the kitchen. Duffy took Lucy into the bathroom to clean her up and dress her wound while Quigg told Ruth his idea.

  ‘She’s a hacker. What we need is someone to start collecting evidence on this paedophile ring. You could set her up in a flat with the right equipment to get the results. You’re pregnant, and both you and Duffy need to start taking care of yourselves. I haven’t got the time to run a parallel investigation without help. This girl is just what we need. She can also help me in my job when I hit bureaucratic walls.’

  They talked around the idea, where the flat might be, what equipment she might need, how to keep the flat secret, and so on, until a clean and pleasant-smelling Lucy appeared and sat at the kitchen table with them. She was wrapped in a towel with a bandage on her upper arm. Duffy followed her in.

  ‘You smell a lot better, Lucy,’ Quigg said.

  ‘Do you want to fuck me now?’

  Duffy stifled a laugh, and Ruth’s eyes narrowed.

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Should we have an Indian tonight?’ he asked, ignoring the question. She was probably eighteen – only three years younger than Duffy – but whereas Duffy was a woman, Lucy was still a child, waif-like and underdeveloped.

  Everyone nodded.

  Duffy pulled the menu out of the kitchen drawer for the local takeaway. They all took turns in deciding what they wanted to eat. Quigg wrote it down and telephoned the order through.

  While they were waiting for the food to be delivered, Quigg told Lucy his plan.

  ‘Do I get paid for doing it, like a proper job?’

  He looked at Ruth and she nodded. ‘That can be arranged.’

  ‘So, I choose the equipment, and you pay for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds good. Can I still do my own stuff?’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t jeopardise our investigation. How did the men in black find you?’

  ‘I got careless and they tracked me,’ she said, looking at the table. ‘But if I’d had a specific piece of software they would never have been able to trace me. That software will be the first thing on my list. What’s your investigation about?’

  ‘Paedophiles.’

  ‘I don’t like them.’

  ‘Nobody likes them, Lucy, especially me.’

  Her eyes rolled like the tumblers on a slot machine and came to rest on the jackpot. ‘They took your kid, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah, you saved those kids - I remember now; you’re a hero. You can fuck me if you want to, Quigg.’

  ‘Are we friends, Lucy?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, stop asking me to fuck you every five minutes. I’m old enough to be your father; it’s never going to happen.’ Now that Lucy had washed the smell away, there was a certain vulnerable attractiveness about her. At thirty-six, he was old enough to be Duffy’s father as well and he’d also told her it was never going to happen. The sooner Ruth put her in a flat, and the temptation was no longer within arms reach, the better he’d feel.

  After the food, Lucy made a long list of the computer equipment and software she needed.

  Quigg switched on the computer and emailed his report to the Chief. He didn’t tell him about Lucy, or his plan to bring the Apostles to justice. There were only four people that knew about that. He was thinking about bed when he remembered the pieces of paper Walsh had given him earlier. After retrieving them from his duffel coat pocket, he looked at the top one, which was the report on the Barn Elms fire by a Detective Albert Sawyer. He smiled at the name Albert, which was obviously popular in those days, but not so popular now. Although he had to admit that Albert was considerably better than his first name.

  He skimmed over the first section of the report, which contained the case number, date of the incident, location of the offence and the name of the reporting officer. The next section, which described the biographical details of thirteen year old Ruben Andrews, he only glanced at. What he spent some time reading was DC Albert Sawyer’s narrative of the facts:

  ‘At 0320 hours on Sunday 14th January 1951, a fire occurred at Barn Elms House…

  In the company of Mrs Mary Mullins, social worker, I interviewed Ruben Andrews, aged 13 years. Ruben refused to say anything concerning the fire at his parent’s house, and would not explain why he was outside the house at that time of the morning. There was no evidence to suggest that Ruben had started the fire, but his continued silence incriminated him…

  The fire service report was inconclusive, and without any further evidence it is not possible to pursue a case of arson and murder against Ruben Andrews…’

  Although DC Sawyer’s report was extremely comprehensive, it was of little help with the current investigation. Ruben Andrews had said nothing. Quigg turned his attention to the obituary of Richard Andrews.

  Sir Richard Andrews KC (6 September 1906 - 14 January 1951) was a barrister and served as a British judge during the Nuremberg Trials. Born in Pakhtunkhwa, India, he was the only son of Lord and Lady Peter Andrews. Educated at Eton, he graduated from Cambridge in 1927. He joined the Lincoln Inn of Court as a pupil and…

  Declared medically unfit for military service during World War II, he served at Bletchley Park… and was made a King’s Council in…

  He became a criminal prosecution lawyer and acted as counsel in a number of famous cases, including that of Neville Heath who was hanged at Pentonville prison on 16 October 1946…

  Quigg’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. The obituary was all about Sir Richard, and contained precious little about his wife and children. It was as if they were appendages to the great man. It seemed that the problem lay in the inconclusive nature of the fire service report. If the fire was a tragic accident, then Ruben Andrews had been astoundingly lucky. But if it was an accident, how could his silence be explained? DC Sawyer had been of the opinion that Ruben’s silence made him guilty of arson and murder, but without evidence - such as a box of matches or a can of petrol - there was nothing he could do. If it was arson, then that might explain why Ruben said nothing. It did, however, beg the question of why. Why would a thirteen year old boy burn down the house that contained his sleeping parents and three siblings, including his twin sister? It seemed likely that he did commit arson, otherwise why would he lock himself away in an asylum for the rest of his life, if not to punish himself?

  He put the papers back in his duffel coat pocket.

  Thankfully, Lucy had been deposited in the spare room. Switching off the lights, he crept into the main bedroom and climbed between Ruth and Duffy like a hotdog in a bun.

  ***

  Bartholomew and James were sitting together in the club on New Bond Street in Mayfair. They had seen Mathew and Judas earlier, but apart from an imperceptible nod, they ignored them. The rules of the Apostles were quite clear: no more than three of the members should be seen together in public.

  ‘I really enjoyed the War Rooms yesterday, James.’

  ‘It was somewhere different, Bartholomew,’ James said, unenthusiastically.

  ‘How is the underground complex at Sevenoaks progress
ing?’

  ‘I have arranged for the builders to receive a bonus so that they maintain the momentum during the holiday period. They are now ahead of schedule, and are likely to finish in May instead of June.’

  ‘That is good news, James.’

  ‘Did you send the invitations out for the Last Supper, Bartholomew?’

  ‘Of course. Have you not received yours?’

  ‘I left the house before the post arrived this morning. I haven’t returned home yet. No doubt it will be lying on the hall carpet awaiting my return.’

  ‘We are using the Edwardian house in Richmond.’

  ‘And the after dinner entertainment?’

  ‘It has taken some arranging, but there will be twelve small packages available for our pleasure.’

  ‘Excellent, Bartholomew - I knew you wouldn’t let us down. What about Quigg?’

  ‘He is working on another case now.’

  ‘What about you, Bartholomew? Are you going to forget about him?’

  ‘He hasn’t forgotten about us, you know.’

  ‘And the investigative journalist?’

  ‘I have no evidence, James, but I think they are working together.’

  ‘Are we keeping a close eye on them?’

  ‘Yes, James, very close.’

  James’ mobile vibrated. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He stood and moved to a quiet corner of the room. Mobiles were frowned upon in the club, but the committee also understood that some members were above the rules.

  ‘Not bad news I hope, James?’

  ‘Remember the name Uptown Girl?’

  ‘Quigg’s other hacker?’

  ‘Yes. Well, my man found her, but she has escaped.’

  ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘Well, not really. Guess who her knight in shining armour was?'

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘Exactly. He has taken this girl to his flat.’

  ‘What do you propose to do now?’