by Tim Ellis
‘I hope so, Father,’ Quigg said. ‘Well, that’s your job done. I can’t thank you enough for your help. All Walsh and I need to do now is find out who he is and lock him up so that he can’t kill any more children.’
‘It has been God’s will that I was able to help.’ He stood, put his donkey jacket and woolly hat on, hugged Walsh, and shook hands with Quigg. ‘Have a happy New Year both of you, and I hope you catch him soon.’
Walsh accompanied him out.
When she came back, she said, ‘I feel as though we should pay him, or something. Maybe offer to do some voluntary work at the homeless shelter.’
Quigg had been having the same guilty feeling. ‘You could join his church, Walsh - go to confession, say some Hail Marys and so forth.’
‘I knew you’d be like that, Sir. You’re a heathen.’
‘Never mind highlighting my finer qualities, Walsh - let’s sit down and discuss where we are and what we know. But first you need to organise a coffee for your partner.’
‘I could have sworn it was your turn, Sir.’
‘Don’t start having hallucinations again, Walsh; I might have to replace you.’
She laughed and looked around the squad room. ‘With who? You’re stuck with me, and you know it.’ She went over to the drinks area, clucked when she picked up the kettle and found it empty, and went to fill it up.
Over the next two hours, they filled up the incident boards with everything they knew to date. First, Walsh stuck twenty-three photographs of the children in their graves in a line across the two whiteboards. Underneath, she stuck cards with their details on. Above the last ten, she placed copies of the missing person photographs, which were reminders that these bodies were once happy smiling children. Next to the first photograph, she positioned another one of the body in Rose Andrews’ coffin and to one side of it a picture of the Andrews’ family crypt in Barnes Old Cemetery.
Asquith brought down Perkin’s Map and recreated it on a notice board on the other side of the room facing Sgt Jones’ desk because there were only windows behind the whiteboards.
‘Why is Perkins doing our job, Sir?’
‘Don’t ask, Walsh.’
‘Maybe we should move the whiteboards over there?’ Walsh suggested.
‘Maybe you should be in charge?’
‘Maybe I should.’
After shifting desks and chairs so that they had a clear passage to manoeuvre the whiteboards through, they placed them to the right of the notice board and blocked off half the corridor.
Underneath each of the photographs, leaving space for the cards with each child’s details, Walsh wrote the biblical references and beneath them the message:
YOU SHALL NOT SLEEP ALONE (NAATMF)
To the right, they put the photographs of the size ten boot print, the tyre impression belonging to a 1979 T2 VW camper van, the copies from the Richmond and Twickenham Times concerning the fire at Barn Elms, and the police and fire reports of the fire.
‘I haven’t told you about Sally Vickers doing a sketch of the killer’s face, and the red curtains on the windows of the camper van yet, have I, Walsh?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I received a phone call from a psychic.’
‘Oh, no, Sir.’
‘No, listen, Walsh. She’s come all the way from the place where your snow boots are made.’
‘What, Canada?’
‘A frozen wasteland called Moose Jaw in Saskatchewan.’
‘Have you slept with her yet, Sir?’
‘You have a dirty mind, Walsh.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of telling the press?’
‘Do you think I’m an idiot? In fact, don’t answer that, Walsh.’
‘Yes, Sir… I do have a dirty mind where you’re concerned. If you haven’t slept with her yet, you’re waiting for the opportunity to do so.’
‘You make me sound like a sexual predator. What I’ve found, Walsh, is that women take advantage of me.’
‘Yeah, right - as if anybody in their right mind would believe that.’
‘It’s true.’ He pulled a pathetic face. ‘I’m weak and vulnerable.’
Walsh laughed. ‘So, what did this psychic say?’
‘She had a vision of the killer burying the last victim and flew over here to help us. When she has a vision, she sits on the killer’s shoulder and watches him doing whatever it is he’s doing. I asked her to describe the killer’s face to Sally Vickers, which turned out to be the profile of an old man.’
‘Not much help.’
‘That’s what I said, and Sally Vickers said she had a piece of software that could produce a full face from a profile.’
‘I’m not feeling optimistic, Sir. And what are you going to say when people ask how you know what the killer looks like?’
Ignoring the question, he said, ‘And she said that the VW camper has red curtains at the windows.’
‘You’re not taking what she said seriously, are you, Sir?’
‘Of course not, Walsh - I’m humouring her. I’m escorting her to the crime scene tomorrow so she can get a feel for it, and then she wants to lay her hands on the clothes belonging to the victims.’
‘You know what the Chief will say if he hears you’ve got a psychic helping us.’
‘She’s not helping us, Walsh. She’s flown all the way from Canada. I’m humouring her.’
‘And Sgt Jones will have a field day. If he finds out, it’ll be in the press and you’ll go from hero to zero in the blink of an eye.’
He’d forgotten about Sgt Mervyn Jones. Walsh was right: if Jones got wind of a psychic, everyone would find out. It would be a heaven-sent opportunity for Jones to get rid of him. He felt sick all of a sudden.
‘Maybe you could deal with the psychic from now on, Walsh?’
‘Don’t get me involved in your otherworldly dealings, Sir. I’m a career cop and I’d like it to stay that way.’
‘Forget I mentioned a psychic, Walsh.’
‘Psychic, Sir? What psychic?’
‘Oh, before we forget about the psychic, she said the killer had already abducted another child called Kylie with long black hair.’
Just then, Walsh’s extension rang.
She shuffled over to her desk and answered it.
When she put the phone down, she looked as though a vampire had drained all the blood from her face.
‘Not more bad news, Walsh?’
‘A thirteen year old girl has been reported missing from Nunhead. Her name is Kylie Pavlenski, and she has long black hair.’
‘Shit, Walsh - Madame Aryana said the girl would be reported missing later today, and according to Perkin’s Map, Nunhead is the next station after Peckham Rye.’
‘What are we going to do now, Sir?’
‘Well, the first thing we’re going to do is give Madame Aryana the benefit of the doubt. She obviously knows her mustard when it comes to psychic ability.’
‘We’ll have to keep it a secret, Sir.’
‘Only five people know about Madame Aryana.’
‘As well as us two, Sally Vickers must be one…’
‘And Perkins.’
‘Who’s the fifth one?’
‘The killer. Apparently, he senses her.’
‘Maybe I’m psychic, Sir, but I had a feeling you were going to say that.’
‘You should consider a career on the stage, Walsh.’
‘What’s our next move, Sir? Do you think we can find the girl before he kills her?’
‘I don’t know, Walsh. I just don’t know. Who was on the phone?’
‘The duty sergeant at Peckham Police Station, which covers Nunhead.’
‘The next train station is Brockley. Do they have a police station?’
Walsh found her Guide to London Police Stations and flipped through the pages. ‘Yes, Sir, but it’s only open ten ‘til two Monday to Friday.’
‘Modern policing! I don’t know what the world is coming to. Phone Peckham back
and make sure they’re sending out a press release with a photograph of Kylie Pavlenski.’
‘OK, Sir.’
He waited while she did that.
‘The message suggests the killer was a boyfriend or a lover. We need to know the names of those who knew Rose Andrews. There are only two places I can think of where we might get that information: Ruben and his solicitors. Ruben gave us two names: the butler, Mr Putney, and the cook, Mrs McLeish. Do a database search for both names, Walsh. Putney is fairly unusual, but I suspect there are thousands with the name McLeish. We’re only interested in those that live near Barnes.’
Walsh sat in her chair and logged on. Quigg was standing behind her. She typed Putney in the search box first and pressed ‘Go’. Twenty-five results came back. She scrolled down the list until she found a Mr Eustace Putney living at 10, Wellesley Road in Chiswick. She wrote down the name and address on a post-it note, then scanned the remaining names but found no others resident in the area. Next, she typed in McLeish and pressed ‘Go’ again. Four thousand two hundred and thirty names came back.
‘It will take me a while to scroll through these, Sir. Maybe you could make a coffee while I’m doing it?’
‘Maybe there are pigs perched on the telephone line outside, Walsh.’
‘It was just a thought, Sir.’
‘Well, concentrate on what you’re doing, and stop having ridiculous thoughts about me doing some work.’
He walked over to the drinks area and put the kettle on. The place was a health hazard. He was surprised not to see rats and mice in easy chairs with their feet up munching on the sugar granules and biscuit crumbs. Collecting up the dirty cups, saucers, plates and spoons, he piled them all on a dirty tray and took them to the men’s room, then came back with a disinfectant spray and a cloth and wiped the area down. He returned to the men’s room and washed all the crockery, piled it back on the tray, and returned it. It had taken him twenty-five minutes to make two coffees. When he returned, Walsh had finished.
‘I thought you’d lost the ability to make coffee, Sir?’
‘I had, Walsh, but I found some instructions on the side of a bleach bottle. I hope you like it. So, any results?’
‘I have one Mr Putney and three named Mr & Mrs McLeish.’
‘Here’s the plan: we’ll have to split our resources tomorrow morning because we’re running out of time. We’ll meet here first thing, and then you can go and visit those people on your list…’
‘It would be quicker if I went from home, Sir.’
‘Sally Vickers will have generated the face of the killer from the profile by the morning, which is why I want you in here first. You can take a copy with you so you’ll be able to recognise the killer if you trip over him. Also, we’ll get a uniform to accompany you. I don’t want you visiting strangers on your own; one of them could be the very person we’re looking for. And remember, keep your eyes peeled for an out-of-the-way place that a child could easily be hidden in, a VW camper van with red curtains at the windows, and size ten feet. Lastly, ring me after you’ve visited each person to let me know you’re OK’
‘You care, Sir?’
‘Of course I care, Walsh. Losing a partner generates a mountain of paperwork. I’ll be taking Madame Aryana to the crime scene, and then bringing her back here to touch the victim’s clothes in forensics. Then, in the afternoon we’ll both go and visit Ruben’s solicitors to see if they can help us.’
‘What about Ruben, Sir?’
‘It sounded like he’s already told us all he knows, and that was on a good day. It’s hardly worth driving to Dartford again. Give them a ring and ask one of the nurses to relay the question to him. Let’s hope he’s having another good day. Also, phone the duty sergeant at Peckham Police Station again and tell him to alert his officers to a VW camper van with red curtains at the windows. If they see it around Brockley railway station, they should apprehend the occupant and phone you.’
‘Me, Sir?’
‘And then you phone me, and we both go up there.’
‘Oh, OK.’
Quigg looked at his watch. It was five past three. ‘Right, I've got somewhere else to go, and then I’m picking Duffy up at four to go and see my mum. Once you’ve made the call to Stone House Hospital and Peckham Police Station, knock off. I’ll see you at nine in the morning. Happy New Year, Walsh.’
‘Happy New Year, Sir.’
Chapter Nine
Quigg knocked on the door of the basement flat at 12, Grove End in Marylebone. The two reams of A4 paper he was carrying made his hand and arm ache. It was three thirty and he only had thirty minutes before he had to pick Duffy up outside Kensington Police Station.
He could see Lucy scrutinising him through the peephole. The door opened and she said, ‘I’m going to get CCTV installed so that I can control it through my computer system.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘How long before you get started on what I’ve asked you to do?’
‘As soon as the hardware is delivered. Nobody delivers on New Year’s Day. Except you, of course,’ she said, looking at the paper under his arm.
‘Let me in then. This delivery is bloody heavy.’
She opened the door to let him in, and bolted it behind him.
He turned left into the first door he came to, and put the stack of papers relating to the Apostles on the coffee table with a thud. ‘All the stuff Surfer Bob found out about the Apostles,’ he said.
She nodded then hooked her arm into his. ‘Let me give you the guided tour.’
‘OK,’ he said warily. ‘But I’ve only got a couple of minutes.’
‘It’s not Buckingham Palace, Quigg.’ She swivelled him round. ‘This is the living room. It’s a bit bare at the moment, but as soon as normal shopping resumes, it’ll look like a real home.’
‘Very nice,’ he said and meant it. It was a large room with a bay window which was overlooked from the road, but with net curtains up nobody would be able to see in.
She took him back into the hallway and guided him to the end of it. ‘This…’
‘…is the kitchen? I think the stove and the pots and pans in the sink gave it away.’
‘OK, smarty pants, what’s this then?’ They were in a large room at the end of the kitchen. It had no windows, and only one door.
It was clearly a utility room because there were water pipes for connecting a washing machine and a ventilation hole for a dryer, but he guessed she was going to put her computer equipment in here. ‘Surprise me.’
‘This is where all my hardware will go.’
‘I nearly said that,’ he lied. He looked at his watch; it was quarter to three. ‘I have to go. I’m picking Duffy up at four and I’m already late.’
‘There’s one room left you haven’t seen, Quigg.’
‘Now come on, Lucy…’
She led him back through the kitchen into the hallway and opened the door to the only room he hadn’t been in. A sleeping bag was rolled out next to the far wall. ‘This is the bedroom,’ she said, ‘but I had trouble sleeping last night.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you want to know why?’
‘I’m going now, Lucy, but…’
‘I kept thinking about us in the shower yesterday, about how you would feel inside me…’
She slid her left hand through the gap at the bottom of his duffel coat.
His erection betrayed him.
‘I see you want me, too, Quigg.’
He tore himself away and bolted down the hallway to the front door.
‘One day you’re going to fuck me, Quigg,’ she called after him.
He let himself out, shutting the door behind him. It had been a mistake to come round on his own. He knew what she was like. The next time he’d have to make sure he wasn’t alone with her. Make sure he took Ruth or Duffy with him. Or maybe he shouldn’t come round at all. Maybe he should leave face-to-face communication to Ruth. He could use email, the phone, or video-conferencing. Anything to keep out o
f her clutches. In a strange way, he found her attractive. But then, he found most women attractive. Temptation was not something he was very good at resisting, especially the temptations of the flesh.
***
He slid to a stop on Earl’s Court Road outside Kensington Police Station at ten past four. It was dark. Duffy was standing under a street lamp, stamping the ground and banging her gloved hands together. The plumes of her breath hung in the freezing air like patches of mist.
‘Couldn’t you be on time for once, Sir?’ she said. ‘It was freezing standing there.’
‘Don’t worry, Duffy - I’ll thaw you out later.’ He turned the heater up to maximum and the car became a sauna.
‘Why are you late anyway?’
‘Lucy.’
‘You didn’t have sex with her, did you?’
‘You must have a very low opinion of me, Duffy?’
‘I know you, Sir.’
‘No, I did not. I dropped off the stack of paper that Surfer Bob produced when we asked him to investigate the Apostles, so that she had some background material to read. She gave me the guided tour of the flat, saving the bedroom to last, and then I had to fight my way out. You’d have been proud of me, Duffy. I was awesome, wielding the AK47 like a pro. Ducking and zigzagging through the hail of bullets and grenades…’
‘You’d better not get her pregnant.’
‘I promise you, Duffy, she failed in her mission this time, but you’ve seen what she’s like; it’ll only be a matter of time before she captures me and forces me to do unspeakable things. You have to protect me, make sure I’m never alone with her.’
‘I can’t always be there, Sir.’
‘Then I’m lost, Duffy.’
Snowdrifts were stacked up on both sides of the roads. Icicles hung from trees, fences and guttering. Streetlight barely pierced the frozen air. It hadn’t snowed for two days, but a Siberian wind had forced the temperature to a minus figure that thermometers in England couldn’t register. Like water-filled balloons, the clouds sagged heavy with snow. It was only a matter of time before everywhere became draped in a mantle of white again.
‘So, how was your day, Duffy?’