by Tim Ellis
‘Hello, Quigg. What can I do for you?’
‘You can pull your finger out of the parson’s nose and give me something to work with.’
Perkins lifted his feet off the bench. ‘I told Walsh…’
‘I know what you told Walsh, Perkins. Do you think this is a game of space invaders? A bloody month! You’re taking the piss. I don’t care how many hours you have to work. I don’t care how many extra staff you have to call in. I want something I can use by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘But…’
‘Don’t give me buts, Perkins. Twenty-three children are dead, and I don’t want any more to die because you had your head up your arse. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘But what, Perkins?’
‘Who’s going to pay?’
‘Children are dying, and you’re wringing your hands about money. Let’s stop the bastard killing another child, and then we’ll balance the books.’
‘OK, Quigg, I’ll…’
‘Good. I’ll be back in person tomorrow at two o’clock, and you’d better have something useful.’ He clattered out of Perkins’ office and headed towards the squad room. A pity Walsh couldn’t have witnessed how he dealt with Perkins; it would have been good training for her. Maybe he should make a video to show up-and-coming detectives how it was done. After he’d solved the case, he could maybe go back with a camera crew and do a re-run.
As he walked into the squad room, he noticed that Walsh appeared to be helping Father Paidraig decipher the biblical references. The clock on the wall showed eleven twenty, and as he approached Jones’ desk, the phone rang. It obviously wasn’t for him; nobody knew he was sitting there. He picked the phone up, but didn’t say anything.
Inspector Quigg, I know it’s you.
It was a female voice he didn’t recognise with an accent he couldn’t place. He wondered who he’d upset now. How did she know it was him that had picked up the phone? And how had she bypassed the exchange? This was an internal extension?
‘Who is this?’
My name is Madame Aryana.
God! That was all he needed, a bloody clairvoyant to tell him that the killer lived in a house, wore jeans and that the number seven was important.
You’ll regret it if you put the phone down, Quigg.
How did she know he was going to put the phone down?
‘What…?’
…do I want?
He hated people who finished his sentences.
‘Yes, what do you want?’
To help you, Quigg. You have a kind face.
‘Is that it?’
I have information on the twenty-three children.
‘I’m listening.’
Each of the children is a child of God.
‘What does that mean? If all you can come up with is cryptic statements that nobody understands until it’s all over, then thanks, but no thanks.’
I see things, Quigg. The killer has marked the children with passages from the bible.
He put the phone down. Crap! Nobody believed in psychics. He’d read an article in the Journal of Police Science and Administration, which showed that information generated by psychics was no better than chance would allow. Now, this woman had rung him up and knew things. Unless… Christ! The only way she could have known about the biblical references was if she was involved in the murders in some way. He shouldn’t have put the phone down. Now he’d never…
The phone rang again.
He picked it up.
Is this how you treat psychics in England?
‘Where…?’
…do I live? I have flown over from Niagara Falls in Canada at my own expense because I believe I can help.
‘Where…’
…am I now? I’m ringing from Heathrow.
Shit. There goes his theory that she was involved.
‘I…’
…wish I’d stop finishing your sentences. Sorry, I have a habit of doing that.
‘You’d be better off having a conversation with yourself, and I could get back to what I was doing.’
You were flailing about in the dark. You have no idea who killed those children.
‘And you do?’
God has given me two gifts. The main one is that I am a clairvoyant; I see remote images and scenes as if they were viewed on a movie screen. I am also a psychometrist; I can touch objects and sometimes get psychic impressions.
‘God has indeed blessed you.’
If you don’t want my help…
Did he want the help of a psychic? The press would pillory him. He’d be a laughing stock on the force. Instead of being the famous Detective Quigg, he’d be famous for using the psychic, Madame Aryana. But she knew about the markings, and nobody knew about them apart from those working on the case and the killer. She’d obviously come over on holiday. The least he could do was to listen to what she had to say. He was under no obligation to act on her ramblings. He’d have to keep it secret, and meet her in an obscure location. Possibly wear a disguise, because people knew him now.
Yes, we can keep it secret if you want, Quigg, but I’m well known in Canada for helping the police with their murders. I can give you a number to ring to check out my credentials. You can speak to a detective who has used me.
‘I’ll give it some thought. Where are you staying?’
The May Fair Hotel in Piccadilly.
‘I could meet you there tomorrow morning; say, nine o’clock in the lobby?’
I will see you then, Quigg. Drive carefully in your new Mercedes.
‘How…?’
‘Who was that, Sir?’ Walsh asked.
‘A nutter. So, you’re a biblical expert now?’
‘I was merely helping.’
‘Oh, a gofer?’
‘Yes, except Father Paidraig is less demanding than you; he knows how to treat a lady.’
‘How come Father Paidraig’s got a coffee and I haven’t, Walsh?’
She sighed and stamped over to the drinks area.
Quigg got up and wandered to where Father Paidraig was sitting surrounded by sheets of paper which contained passages from the Bible. ‘How’s it going, Father?’
‘Ah, Inspector. It is a good job I am a man of God.’
‘Because…?’
‘I might be tempted to use certain expletives. Let me give you an example of the problem we face. J14:5 could be Joshua, Judges, Job, Jeremiah, Joel or Jonah from the Old Testament, and John, James or Jude from the New Testament.’
‘Do they all have a Chapter 14, Verse 5?’
He swivelled a piece of paper around on the desk. ‘Take a look for yourself.’
Joshua 14.5: As the LORD commanded Moses, so the children of Israel did, and they divided the land.
Judges 14.5: Then went Samson down, and his father and his mother, to Timnath, and came to the vineyards of Timnath: and, behold, a young lion roared against him.
Job 14.5: Seeing his days are determined, the number of his months are with thee, thou hast appointed his bounds that he cannot pass;
Jeremiah 14.5: Yea, the hind also calved in the field, and forsook it, because there was no grass.
Joel: -
Jonah: -
John 14.5: Thomas saith unto him, Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?
James: -
Jude: -
‘You’ve eliminated four from the list,’ Quigg said.
‘Yes, but it still leaves five.’
‘Surely you can narrow them down to a couple that make sense in the context they’re being used?’
Walsh arrived and passed him a mug of coffee.
‘Oh, thanks, Walsh - you’re an angel in disguise.’
‘I’ve been saying exactly the same thing, Inspector. Without Heather’s help, I would still be wading through the Bible.’
‘So, what were you saying before, Father?’
‘What was I saying before?’ he repeated to jog his memory. ‘Oh, yes, narrowing the
passages down. The trouble is that none of them make sense in this context. Take the first one: it mentions children, but the passage is not relevant.’
‘Are we sure the letter-number combinations are references to the Bible, and not something else entirely, such as the Qur’an, or a book of recipes?’
‘It’s our best guess, Inspector.’
‘Can’t you narrow it down to either the Old or New Testament?’
‘How so?’
‘Well, one of my colleagues said that N doesn’t appear in the New Testament.’
‘Yes, your colleague is right.’ He riffled through the Bible to the contents page and wrote down the first letter of the chapters from the Old and New Testaments and compared the references to what he’d written.
Old
G, E, L, N, D, J, J, R, 1S, 2S, 1K, 2K, 1C, 2C, E, N, E, J, P, P, E, S, I, J, L, E, D, H, J, A, O, J, M, N, H, Z, H, Z, M
New
M, M, L, J, A, R, 1C, 2C, G, E, P, C, 1T, 2T, 1T, 2T, T, P, H, J, 1P, 2P, 1J, 2J, 3J, J, R
References
J, J, R, Z, E, N, E, J, N, P, L, E, S, I, J, Z, E
Father Paidraig examined his handiwork. ‘Mmmm, Z only appears in the Old Testament, as do I and N.’
Walsh butted in. ‘Not really enough to opt for the Old over the New. It could very easily be a mixture of the two.’
‘Exactly right, Heather.’
‘Could the letters and numbers be a code of some sort?’
‘If they are, it’s not something I’m familiar with. You’d have to get in a cryptologist from somewhere like a university or GCHQ.’
‘Unfortunately, Father, that’s as far as we can go today. DC Walsh and I have got to go out now, and I’m afraid I can’t leave you here unsupervised.’
‘It’s no trouble, Inspector; I’ll take everything with me and keep working on them in my house.’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘Don’t worry, Inspector - I’m not going to leak them to the press.’
Yeah, why not? It was certainly better than everything lying around here gathering dust. The sooner we solve the clues, the sooner we catch the killer, he thought. ‘OK, Father, but take care of them.’
‘As God is my witness.’
‘You’ll come in tomorrow?’
‘I’ll let Father Ignatious take the morning service. God will understand that sometimes there are more important things than sermons and singing.’
‘Walsh will be here, but I won’t be able to get in until about ten thirty; I have somewhere else to go first.’
‘The beautiful Heather and I will be fine on our own, Inspector.’ He smiled at Walsh.
While Heather escorted Father Paidraig out of the station, Quigg picked up the Yellow Pages, found ‘Solicitors’, closed his eyes, and selected a page at random. It was the ‘G’s’. He picked Gotham, Tabbard & Muesli and rang their number.
Hello, Goth…
‘Yes, my name is…’
Which service do you require? Family law…
‘Yes, Family law.’
…Relationship breakdown and divorce; civil partnerships, children…?
‘Yes, children.’
One moment, Sir.
He wondered if she did that with everyone who rang up.
Hello, my name is Celia Tabbard, Attorney at Law. How can I help?
‘I’m Detective Inspector Quigg…’
The Inspector from the television?
‘Eh, yes.’
I’m a fan.
‘I didn’t realise I had fans.’ He smiled.
I’m a fan of anyone who saves children. So, you have a problem?
‘My wife and her boyfriend are taking my daughter to Canada on Monday, and I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do about it.’
You’ve left it a bit late, Inspector.
‘I kept meaning to speak to someone, but time… You know what it’s like.’
Strangely enough, I do know what it’s like.
‘Can you help me?’
We don’t normally dispense advice over the phone.
‘How much will it cost me?’
The first consultation is free, but after that it will cost you £300 per hour.
Bloody hell! He thought of solicitors as being similar to insurers: money-grabbing bastards. Three hundred pounds an hour! It wouldn’t take long for him to be bankrupt at that price. ‘After this free one, I could probably afford half a consultation.’
He heard melodious laughter from the other end of the connection.
I didn’t realise the police were so poorly paid?
‘It’s the maintenance costs. Half my wages go in maintenance for my daughter, Phoebe.’
Have you been assessed by the Child Support Agency?
‘No, it was a private arrangement between Caitlin and me.’
I can see we’ve got a lot of work to do, Inspector. Do you want to keep your daughter in this country?
‘If she’s in Canada, I’ll never get to see her. So yes, that would be my preferred option.’
Where are they leaving from on Monday?
‘Heathrow, the flight number is TS349 to Toronto. It leaves at three fifteen in the afternoon.’
Full names of your wife, the man she is with, and your daughter?
‘Caitlin Rachel Quigg, although she might be using her maiden name, which is Benton. The man she’s with is called Richard Spragg, and my daughter’s name is Phoebe Louise Quigg.’
Just one moment. The phone went dead, but he could hear clicking. The flight leaves from terminal three. Meet me at the top of the escalator in the public area of departures at 12 o’clock. We’ll have lunch and then serve them with a residential order.
‘What if they slip through while we’re having lunch?’
That won’t happen, Inspector. I’m not an amateur at this type of thing. Airport security will detain them until we arrive.
He could just imagine Caitlin’s face at being detained - and then he turns up with a solicitor to stop them flying off into the sunset. Maybe he should take a camera with him to capture the moment.
‘How much is this going to cost me?’ Probably thousands, he thought. He’d just have to find the money from somewhere; maybe get a second job on night security.
‘Don’t worry about the money, Inspector; we’ll sort something out.’
It was all right for her to say "don’t worry", she probably had millions in the bank. Maybe she did means-tested charity cases. Would he qualify? ‘I don’t know what you look like.’
I’ll be the gorgeous one with a perfect figure and long blonde hair.
‘I’ll look forward to meeting you, then.’
Don’t worry, Inspector - I know what you look like. I’ll be loitering at the top of the escalator.
‘I’ll see you there on Monday, Ms Tabbard.’
Celia.
‘Celia.’
He wondered if she did have a perfect figure and long blonde hair, and wished he hadn’t wondered. Weren’t two beautiful women enough for him? How many women did he need to satisfy his desires? He hoped she resembled the fishmonger’s wife on Spitalfields Market. He smiled to himself at the thought.
***
‘You could have invited Father Paidraig for lunch.’
‘Have you got loads of money, Walsh?’
‘Well no… but he could have paid for himself.’
‘Have priests got loads of money?’
‘He might have had some money from the collection plate on him.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Walsh. If I invited him, he’d have expected me to pay. Why didn’t you invite him?’
‘Well, I thought you would.’
‘And when I didn’t…?’
Walsh didn’t respond. They were walking down the back stairs to the car park. It had started snowing at about nine thirty and continued throughout the morning. They had to spend five minutes brushing two inches of snow from Quigg’s Mercedes before they could get in.
‘Don’t you
just love white Christmases, Walsh?’
‘They’re great when you’re not working, Sir. Oh, by the way, I rang the archives at Richmond Town Hall and spoke to Mrs Trollenberg. I thought that if she could give us the information on the phone, it would save us another trip down there.’
‘Good thinking, Walsh.’
Quigg reversed out of his parking space, although with twelve inches of snow on the tarmac, there were no lines to indicate anyone had a parking space. Since Monday he had been parking where he guessed his space might have been, but he could very well have been parking in the Chief’s space.
‘Do I have to beg, Walsh?’
‘Oh, sorry, Sir - I thought you were concentrating… Yes, she faxed me with the location, although…’
‘Although what? You’re being particularly obtuse this morning, Walsh.’
She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘The snow probably makes the directions she faxed through useless.’
‘Isn’t there a postcode I can put in my satnav?’
Walsh giggled. ‘Dead people don’t need a postcode, Sir; they don’t get letters.’
Quigg glanced at her. ‘You can see I’m curled up in agony laughing, Walsh.’
‘Sorry, Sir - I couldn’t resist. The cemetery is beyond Angel Brook, behind the tennis courts. The graves are hidden in the undergrowth, and male homosexuals use the cemetery as a meeting place. Troll said there’s been a hue and cry in the local press about the disrespect shown to the dead, and there have been cries for the council to clean it up.’
‘As much as the current situation regarding the cemetery fascinates me, Walsh, what are we doing for lunch? Should we go to the Pepper Pot café again?’
‘I suppose so, Sir - it’s on the way. Troll said to drive down Castelnau Road into Rocks Lane and past Angel Brook until we reach the entrance to the tennis courts. Just beside the entrance there’s a path that leads to the cemetery.’
‘It’s at times like this that I wish I had a pair of snow boots, Walsh.’
‘Have you only got shoes, Sir?’
‘No, I’ve got a pair of wellies in the boot, but they’re not the same.’
‘I think you’ll need them.’
They arrived at the Pepper Pot café at twelve fifteen. The windows were steamed up again, although somebody had tried to write Happy New Year in the condensation from inside and had failed miserably at mirrored writing because a lot of the letters were back to front, and the ‘e’ in ‘Year’ was upside down. Three of the eight tables were taken, but the one by the window was free. Quigg took the lead and sat facing the door, with the window on his right. He rubbed a circle in the condensation with his sleeve so that he could look out on his car and make sure none of the local toe-rags got any ideas.