by Tim Ellis
‘Sir, don’t ask. I’ve been walking about Kensington with a runny nose all day. My feet are killing me, and my partner is an idiot. I want to be your detective.’
‘Later, Duffy. First we have to be nice to my mum and Mrs Crenshaw.’
Duffy leaned forward, turned the heater dial from 8 to 1 and opened her window a crack. ‘What’s your day been like? Have you recovered from last night?’
‘We solved the clue. It gives us a motive for the killings, but we haven’t got a suspect yet. And, apparently, I made a fool of myself in Kavanagh’s last night with a pole dancer.’
‘It was two pole dancers, Sir. My father rang to ask how you were and told me what you did.’
‘Did he say what happened to my clothes?’
‘You took them off to pole dance, Sir.’
‘If they come round to take me out again, Duffy, tell them I’ve moved to Alaska to become a penguin hunter.’
‘Heather rang me earlier; she says a psychic is helping you.’
‘I’m going to lock Walsh up in the cells and throw away the key. I told her not to tell anyone.’
‘I’m not anyone, Sir.’
‘I didn’t mean you, Duffy.’
‘Then Heather didn’t do anything wrong, did she?’
‘I suppose not.’ What else could he say?
‘Are you going to sleep with her as well?’
‘With Walsh?’
‘With the psychic.’
‘You and Ruth are the only women I’m going to sleep with, Duffy. I have no desires to sleep with any other women or, for that matter, the energy to do so.’
‘What has this Madame Aryana said?’
‘Walsh has already told you.’
‘About sleeping with you.’
‘You’re becoming obsessed, Duffy. Madame Aryana hasn’t said anything about sleeping with me, and she won’t. I’m not interested in anyone but you and Ruth.’
Quigg manoeuvred his Mercedes into a space outside 23, Holme Road in Upton Park, switched the engine off and was about to climb out when Duffy put her hand on his arm.
‘Should we tell your mum?’
‘About all of us living together?’
‘About the baby.’
‘Is there a baby? Have you done a pregnancy test?’
‘This morning - it was positive.’
‘Why didn’t you…?’
‘You were too drunk.’
‘You won’t have to say anything; Beryl will know as soon as you walk in.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so. My mum could have been a psychic where babies are concerned, you’ll see.’ He climbed out of the car and pressed the security lock on the key. Then he walked round the back of the car, gripped Duffy by the waist and guided her over the ice to the front door.
Maggie Crenshaw opened the door, and before he could say anything, she shouted over her shoulder, ‘Did you say you had a son, Beryl?’
‘Very funny, Maggie,’ Quigg said. ‘You can see I’m rolling about in the snow in paroxysms of laughter.
Maggie moved to one side to let Quigg and Duffy in. ‘Go through into the lounge,’ she said.
‘Is that you, Quigg?’
‘Have you got other sons I don’t know about, Mum?’
Beryl was sitting in an easy chair with her feet up on a pouf and her hand in a box of chocolates. She muted the six o’clock news, which had just started.
‘You’ll get fat, Mum,’ Quigg said.
‘As if that matters at my age, Quigg.’ Her eyes lit up when she saw Duffy. ‘Sit down Mavourneen and tell me about the baby.’
‘See,’ Quigg said to Duffy. ‘I told you she’d know.’
Duffy took her coat, scarf and gloves off, put them on a wooden chair by the door and sat down on the sofa next to Maggie.
Quigg undid his duffel coat, but didn’t take it off. He slouched in the easy chair next to the television. All of a sudden he felt drained. The three women talked about babies and ignored him, so he dozed off. Last night’s sleep wasn’t really sleep; it was a drunken stupor. Tonight he had to get a good night’s sleep. No one was going to drag him out of his bed tonight. He would have sex with Duffy and then drift off into an exhausted but well-deserved sleep. It was the night he really wanted to have last night. Tomorrow he would go up to forensics and see what the killer looked like according to Madame Aryana and Sally Vickers’ computer software. Walsh was going to interview Putney and McLeish. He had the press briefing at ten o’clock, and then he was going to take Aryana to the graves. After that, he’d give her to Perkins in forensics to touch the victims clothing and possessions. He and Walsh would go and see Pequod, Bone and Turnkey, and on the way have a slap-up lunch for which he’d pay. He had three days left to solve the case before the Chief came back on Monday. They had made significant progress. Walsh was a good partner. It hadn’t occurred to him before to have a lesbian for a partner, but it seemed to work. He didn’t have any urges to get her into bed. Yes, he joked around a bit, but she didn’t fancy him, and that was good. It meant he could focus all his energies on police work.
Something hit him on the head. He opened his eyes.
‘Did you come round here to sleep, or visit your poor old mother?’
‘I came to wish you a Happy New Year, Mum.’
‘Then why did you come in and go to sleep? Pass me my cushion back.’
He had to get up to retrieve the cushion, which had bounced off his head, hit the curtains and fallen behind the chair.
‘You’ve been talking about babies…’
‘And you’re not interested in your offspring?’
‘I didn’t…’
‘That’s it with men: they’re happy enough to get you pregnant, but when it comes to looking after the poor things…’
He sat back in the chair and drifted off again. Tomorrow night he had to go and stay with Ruth. Should he tell his mum about Ruth and the baby? Should he tell her about the arrangement they had made to live together? She was bound to find out sooner or later, and then he’d be in the doghouse because he hadn’t told her sooner. She would want to meet Ruth. He grimaced inside at the thought of Beryl and Ruth together. Ruth was a beautiful Cuban heiress, and his mum was… well, his mum. How did his life ever get so complicated? Maybe he should get a boat to Alaska and become a penguin hunter.
The cushion hit him in the face and settled on his chest. He opened his eyes. ‘Do you have to throw things at me, Mum?’
‘Stay awake then.’
‘I’ve had a hard day at work.’
‘Mavourneen has told us about the pole dancers, Quigg. You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘I am, Mum.’
‘So what are you two hiding from me?’
God, she was like a ferret sniffing out secrets. ‘I’m seeing another woman, Mum, called Ruth.’
‘Oh, Quigg.’ She leaned forward and put a hand on top of Duffy’s hand, which was resting in her lap. ‘You poor girl.’
‘No, Mum, I…’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Quigg. I brought you up better than that. You get Mavourneen pregnant, and then you leave her for another woman.’
‘If you’ll just listen, Mum, I…’
‘Listen! I’ve listened to you and your father’s excuses all my life, Quigg. He had a bit on the side as well, you know. I could never prove it, but I knew.’ She looked at Maggie. ‘Well, you do, don’t you?’
Maggie nodded, and then looked at Quigg as if he had broken her best china.
‘Feel free to come to my defence, Duffy,’ Quigg said.
She grinned. ‘I’m enjoying watching you squirm and wriggle, Sir.’
‘You’ll pay for it later, Duffy.’
‘I’m sure I will, Sir.’
‘Duffy knows, Mum. The three of us are going to get a house together. Ruth is also having my baby.’
Quigg had never seen his mum lost for words before. Beryl’s mouth hung open as she looked first at Quigg, t
hen at Duffy, and then back at Quigg. Finally, she said, ‘Well I never.’
‘It’s a bit complicated, Mum, and I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Oh, so you had nothing to do with getting these two women pregnant, is that what you’re now telling me, Quigg?’
‘I didn’t mean that, Mum, I…’
Beryl looked at Duffy. ‘And you knew about this, Mavourneen?’
‘Ruth rang me; we met and talked, and made plans for the future. If it had been up to him,’ she tossed her head in Quigg’s direction, ‘I would never have known.’
‘That’s just typical of men,’ Beryl said. ‘When it comes to telling the truth, where are they? I’ll tell you where they are: nowhere to be seen, that’s where they are.’
‘They’ll be in the betting shop, or the pub, or with another woman,’ Maggie said, hammering some more nails in Quigg’s coffin.
‘And why didn’t you tell Mavourneen about this hussy you call Ruth, Quigg?’
‘I…’
Duffy grinned at him again.
He was beginning to think that he had walked into the middle of a conspiracy.
‘They’re all cowards,’ Maggie said. ‘They all want the pleasure, but when it comes to facing the music, well, we all know they have custard for backbones.’
‘By the way, Mum - the assessors can’t do anything about the house until Monday.’
‘Did you see that, Maggie? Did you see how he tried to squirm out of explaining his depraved behaviour by changing the subject?’
‘I saw, Beryl. Men, huh, jelly and custard.’
Quigg made a show of looking at his watch and stood up. ‘Look at the time,’ he said. ‘Come on, Duffy, it’s seven fifteen - time we were going before we get snowed in.’
‘Sit down, Quigg,’ Beryl ordered as if he were still a naughty schoolboy who had torn his trousers. ‘You don’t think you’re leaving without telling us everything, do you?’
‘Any chance of a coffee and some biscuits?’ he asked.
‘Don’t start until I get back,’ Maggie said.
Once Maggie had returned with a tray of coffee, tea and biscuits, Quigg told them about Ruth Lynch-Guevara - how they had met, saving her life, the new Mercedes, and how they were working together to bring the Apostles to justice.
‘An heiress, well I never. I want to meet her, Quigg.’
‘I’m seeing her tomorrow night; should I bring her round?’
‘Tomorrow night will be fine.’
‘I’ll get the best china out,’ Maggie said.
‘Right, Duffy and I have to go now, Mum.’
Beryl stood and hugged Duffy. ‘You’ll still be my favourite, Mavourneen,’ she said.
Quigg leaned over and gave Beryl a peck on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow then, Mum.’
‘I don’t know about you, Quigg. Are you sure you’re the boy I gave birth to?’
‘The very same, Mum.’
Three inches of snow had fallen during the time they had been inside. It was now five to eight.
‘Chinese?’
‘Yes please, Sir,’ Duffy said.
He went via Kensington Police Station and they collected Duffy’s car. Then they both parked outside the Ming Inn near the flat and went in to order. The television was on, but it was merely noise in a busy takeaway. They had to wait ten minutes. First standing in a corner and then, when a family of five left, they sat on a hard wooden bench.
‘I’ve seen a different side to you this afternoon, Duffy. A side I think you should keep in a box with double mortise locks and five-lever deadbolts.’
‘Your mum’s funny, Sir.’
‘That’s your excuse for hanging me out to dry, is it?’
‘Numbers 3, 26, 39 and 56?’ asked the Chinese woman behind the counter.
‘That’s us, Duffy, but don’t think I’ve forgotten your treachery.’
He went up to the counter and paid. Duffy took the bag of hot food, and they made their way out to the cars.
Within minutes he had arrived at the flat. Duffy left her car running outside the front door and went inside so that she could put the food on plates. He parked both cars on the opposite side of the road. He climbed out of Duffy’s old MGB GT and started walking back to the entrance. It was still snowing heavily, and he didn’t see the man appear from the shadows to his right. A blow landed on his nose. He staggered backwards, and his legs crumpled beneath him.
Sitting in the snow with blood pouring from his nose, he said to the man in a black motorcycle suit who was standing over him with clenched fists, ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Remember screwing Gwen Peters?’ the man said, pushing back his hood.
‘Is that you, Pratchett?’ The streetlight shone behind the man giving him a halo, and Quigg could barely make out his features. ‘For God’s sake, constable, I’m a DI. What do you think you’re doing? Later, he realised it was the shock that had made him ask stupid questions. He was also disappointed that his rank hadn’t afforded him some degree of protection from a constable in traffic.
He grabbed a handful of snow, jammed it up his nose, and began to clamber up.
‘If you get up, Quigg, I’ll thump you again.’
It had been twenty years since his last fight in secondary school. He’d got a black eye and two weeks’ suspension, but the other boy had to spend three weeks in hospital getting his broken jaw wired up. He launched himself upward from the kneeling position and grabbed Pratchett round the waist, similar to a rugby tackle.
Pratchett flew backwards with Quigg on top of him, but he lost his grip as Pratchett slid along the icy ground. Quigg managed to gain his feet, but it was like trying to stand on an ice rink wearing glass slippers. Pratchett got up and came towards him. They traded punches. Quigg caught Pratchett on the side of the jaw and the left ear, and Pratchett reciprocated with a thump on Quigg’s forehead and the side of his neck. Then they slid around, holding onto each other like ice dancers. Finally, each was breathing too hard to continue, and Quigg knew he’d have to get into the gym. If someone really wanted to beat him to death, he’d have to let them at the moment.
‘What’s this all about, Pratchett? He panted. ‘You know what Gwen’s like. I needed some help on my last case, and that was her price.’
‘You didn’t have to make her pregnant.’
Shit! The Chief had been right. Gwen used bridge building as a ruse to get herself pregnant. But why his child? ‘That wasn’t the plan, Pratchett. I’d previously told her ‘no’, but she was a woman scorned.’
Pratchett crumpled to the snow on the pavement and cried into his hands. ‘I loved her, Quigg. Yeah, I knew what she was like, but I thought I could make a difference. Why your child and not mine?’
Quigg was standing over Pratchett with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Now that he had finished exerting himself, the drying sweat was making him shiver. ‘Impregnation was not discussed, Pratchett. She came in, shagged me, and left. It was quick and dirty. There was no talk of love, marriage or babies. If I’m being truthful, Pratchett, afterwards I felt used, and I swore I would never have sex with her again.’
‘I just don’t understand why she let you get her pregnant and not me. I wanted to marry her and give her children, but she chose you over me. What have you got that I haven’t? What does she see in you that she doesn’t see in me?’
He was freezing, and he wondered whether he should invite Pratchett up to the flat so they could finish the conversation in the warmth, but decided against it. He had better things planned with Duffy. ‘Listen, Pratchett - I’m going to go up to my flat now. I’ll forget about your attack, but you probably want to pay a visit to the police counsellor. It’s free, so take advantage of it, OK?’
‘Thanks, Sir.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry. Jealousy.’
‘I wish it was your baby, Pratchett. Now, I imagine she’s going to cripple me with maintenance payments, and I have enough problems in that area to last me a lifetime.’
‘Yeah, I
know you’re not to blame, Sir. She uses people, and then throws them away when they’re no longer of any use. She finished with me earlier. That’s when she told me about the baby. Said you were twice the man I was. How’s that possible, Sir?’
He put his hand on Pratchett’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean that, Pratchett.’ He felt like a therapist. ‘You want to go home and get a good night’s sleep. Things will look different in the morning.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Sir.’ He started to wander off in the direction he had appeared. ‘Sorry again, Sir.’
‘OK, Pratchett - look after yourself.’
‘Happy New Year, Sir.’
‘And to you, Pratchett. I hope everything works out.’ He couldn’t see Pratchett through the sheet of falling snow, but heard a motorcycle start up and roar off into the night.
Duffy appeared at the door to the block of flats. ‘You’re not building a snowman are you, Sir?’
Carefully, he made his way over to her, and put his arm around her waist. ‘Come on, Duffy - let’s go and eat that Chinese before it gets cold.’
Another bloody child! God, what was happening? He’d have to tell Duffy, but when? If he told her now, it would ruin what he had planned. He’d tell her in the morning.
‘What happened to your face, Sir?’
‘Slipped in the snow.’
‘You’ve got blood on your coat.’
‘Nose bleed.’
***
‘Are we meant to be inside a giant whale?’ James asked Bartholomew.
Bartholomew had a pain in his neck from looking at the tropical fish, the sparkling coral and the green turtles in the glass tunnel walkway. ‘A blue whale skeleton, the programme says.’
‘I hope it’s been disinfected?’
‘I’m sure it’s just a model, James.’
‘Why here, Bartholomew? It’s a bit working class for my tastes.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘A sea life aquarium is hardly working class, James. And, anyway, we didn’t all eat our beluga caviar off silver spoons when we were babies.’
‘I enjoyed watching the cow-nose rays gliding around in the lagoon, Bartholomew.’
‘There you are then; it was worth coming, James.’