by Tim Ellis
‘So, we should be up and running by Monday, then?’ Quigg said. ‘Good, we’ve wasted enough time.’
‘What are the sleeping arrangements for tonight?’ Lucy asked.
‘You have a one-track mind, Lucy,’ Duffy said. ‘You’re sleeping on your own, and Quigg is sleeping with us.’
‘You mean I’m not getting any?’
‘No, you’re not,’ Duffy said, with finality.
‘Can I get some in the shower tomorrow morning?’
Quigg didn’t want to get into the middle of the negotiations, and looked at Duffy, who looked at Ruth, who shrugged.
‘Make sure you get plenty of sleep tonight, Quigg. You’ll need to be Superman in the shower tomorrow morning.’
He shrugged. It wasn’t as if he had any say in what was going to happen to him. He felt like a pizza being shared out between three voracious women. ‘More to the point,’ he said, ‘what are we eating? If I have to perform like Superman, I’ll need a decent meal to keep up my strength. How about a kebab? I haven’t had a kebab for ages.’
‘Nobody objected. Quigg took everyone’s order, rang it in, and then went to get it.’ As he walked along the road to the Harem Kebab House, he wondered whether he should simply disappear, hitchhike to Australia and become a crocodile wrestler in the outback. How had he become a plaything for three women? Should he complain? Isn’t it what every man dreamed of? He had no answers. He was too tired to think about it and, no doubt, he would be worn to a frazzle by the time he got any sleep tonight.
Chapter Twelve
Having caught the tube and met at Bond Street, they were seated in their private box at the Wigmore Hall, on Wigmore Street in the West End, to listen to the beautiful Russian violinist Alina Ibragimova, with pianist Cédric Tiberghien, play Beethoven's Violin Sonatas.
During the brief intermission between Sonata No 6 in A, Op 30 No 1 and No 3 in E flat, Op 12 No 3, James and Bartholomew were drinking a glass of Château Pétrus red wine from the Pomerol region of Bordeaux. Bartholomew had purchased five bottles as a birthday present for James at a cost of £1,500 per bottle.
‘You have outdone yourself, Bartholomew. Thank you, old friend.’
‘A small token of my appreciation.’
‘Hardly small, Bartholomew.’
‘Small in comparison to the gift I have for you at the next intermission.’
‘I can hardly wait, Bartholomew.’
‘But wait you must, dear fellow.’
‘So, your man failed again, Bartholomew?’
‘I’m afraid so, James. Not only that, but the second man I sent as a fall back also failed. It seems that contracts are not worth the money you pay for them.’
‘What now?’
‘That is why we are meeting, James: to discuss "what now?"
‘I see. Do you have a suggestion?’
Bartholomew took a drink of wine and savoured the fruity taste. ‘If we want to dispose of our problem completely, we need to eliminate all those who know about us.’
‘A detective inspector, a police constable, an investigative journalist - who happens to be the heiress of Ché Guevara’s millions - and a hacker.’
‘Exactly, James.’
Just then, the intermission came to an end. Alina Ibragimova returned to the stage in her gold evening gown, carrying the famous violin - made by Antonio Stradivari during his golden period between 1700 and 1720 - which was worth ten million pounds and was usually accompanied by two security guards willing to die to protect the antique.
James screwed the binoculars into his eyes and said, ‘That violin is a thing of beauty.’
‘The violinist isn’t too shabby, either, James.’
‘I agree, but the two security guards are for the violin, not the violinist.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ Bartholomew had to whisper the last part, because the violin was making a noise. He had decided that what had begun as an interesting game of cat and mouse had now grown wearisome, not least because he was losing, and he didn’t like losing. Quigg and his harem would have to die – a convenient accident. If he could just find the people to do the deed. But getting quality criminals seemed to be a problem these days. As the Chairman of the Police Complaints Committee, he should be able to find the right people to do the job. He would just have to go back to the drawing board.
Between the end of Sonata No 3 and the beginning of No 9 in A, Op 47, there was another short intermission. Bartholomew presented James with a 24-carat gold tin of Almas caviar that he had purchased at a cost of £16,000 from the Caviar House & Prunier in Piccadilly.
‘I am overwhelmed, Bartholomew.’
Bartholomew had also bought two 24-carat gold spoons so that they could share the caviar, but it didn’t appear that James was in a sharing mood, and the lid remained firmly on the tin.
‘Isn’t it a trifle extreme, Bartholomew?’
‘What, the caviar?’
James gave a laugh. ‘No, disposing of our little problem in such a way?’
‘I have wearied of the game, James.’
‘Do you know where this Uptown Girl is now?’
‘No idea at all.’
‘If you can’t find her, how will you kill her?’
‘We will have to find her.’
‘If one lives, it will be our downfall - all or none, Bartholomew. Let me know when you have found the hacker again.’
‘I understand, James.’
They sat back and listened to the music. Bartholomew twiddled the gold spoon around between his fingers in plain sight, but James ignored him and kept the caviar out of sight.
***
Saturday 3rd January
It was five twenty when Quigg crept into the bathroom naked, hoping to avoid a confrontation with Lucy. But she was already in there, sitting on top of the washing basket like an imp, waiting for him.
‘You took your time, Quigg. I’ve been here fifteen minutes waiting for you.’
‘I’ve been sleeping.’
‘With three women on the go, I’m surprised you’ve got time to sleep.’
He brushed his teeth and tried to shave, but Lucy draped herself over his back and started doing things, which distracted him. If he’d carried on shaving, he would have lost too much blood to go to work, so he turned the shower on and climbed in.
Lucy was the noisiest female he’d ever made love to. He speared her from behind, and immediately she started screeching and talking dirty.
‘Oh God! Yes, do it. Fuck me deeper. Come inside me. Make me come like a gushing stream. You’re tearing me apart, it’s so big…’
He found it strangely erotic and soon ejaculated inside her.
‘Don’t get that warm glow thinking you’ve met your obligations, Quigg. Oh, no - now we shower each other, and then we do it another two times. I’ve got the hots for you, Quigg. I can’t seem to get enough of you.’ While he put shampoo on and washed his hair, she soaped him all over. He had another erection even before he’d finished washing himself.
‘You’re an animal, Quigg. Stab me with that thing. Fuck me ‘til I squeal like a pig. Yes, stick it in me. Come on, go deeper, and push harder. Oh, God, I think…’
Then they washed Lucy and did it one more time.
‘Oh, God - you’re going to kill me with that thing. You’re insatiable, Quigg. Make me scream, squeeze my breasts, thrust, grind. Oh Quigg, there’s a fucking express train com…….…ing.’
It was six forty-five by the time he staggered out of the shower and finished shaving. He felt sorry for his sperm. The poor buggers weren’t being given enough time to regenerate. Maybe he would just have to be a man and say no. When they crooked their fingers, when their clothes fell to the floor, when they opened their legs and begged him to satisfy them, he would just have to say, ‘No, my sperm need time to regenerate.’
He smiled at the thought as he got dressed. Ruth had bought him a wardrobe of clothes for when he stayed over. ‘Are you two not getting up?’ he said to Ru
th and Duffy.
There was a shuffling under the quilt, but no answer.
He went into the kitchen and made himself coffee and toast. Lucy had gone back to bed satisfied, at least for now.
***
At twenty past eight he was sitting at his desk in the station. On top of his in-tray was a rolled-up A3 piece of paper with a note clipped to it from Perkins. The note said that Sally Vickers’ husband had pulled through the operation. He opened up the paper and saw Ruben Andrews’ face. It still wasn’t evidence. The face had come out of a computer software program via a psychic’s mind.
He then rang the duty sergeant at Peckham – John Acton. He hadn’t heard from Walsh, so obviously Peckham hadn’t rung her in the night with a sighting of the VW camper van. Today was the day. He explained to Sergeant Acton that the killer would come up in his van and take another child from around Brockley train station, and that this was their last chance to catch him and find Kylie Pavlenski alive.
Sergeant Acton put his inspector on the line.
Robert Muchamore here. So, you want all my men in plain clothes keeping a look out for a VW camper van with red curtains at the windows?
‘Yes.’
How certain are you? I mean, this is a hell of a commitment.
‘A hundred percent. He’s got Kylie, and he plans to snatch another one today. This is our one chance, Robert.’
Okay, I’ll go along with it. Where are you going to be?
‘I’ll be in my car at the train station. He knows me, so I don’t want to tip him off that we’re onto him. When one of your officers sees him, they tell you, and you tell me. What I don’t want is for him to be apprehended, or alerted that we’re watching him, otherwise we might never find out where he’s got Kylie Pavlenski. If you can spare it, I’d like two plain cars to be positioned along the route back to Barnes, so that they can pick him up along the way.’
You’re using another child as bait?
‘I have no choice, Robert. We need to find out where he’s taken Kylie, and this is the only way to do it. What we have to make sure of is that we don’t lose him.’
For the kid’s sake, I hope you know what you’re doing, Quigg.
‘So do I, Robert.’
What if he doesn’t go back to Barnes?
‘He’ll go back there; that’s where Rose’s grave is.’
Anything else?
‘No. I’m not expecting him until this afternoon, but don’t tell your officers that because I might be wrong. I’ll be in Brockley station car park from about ten o’clock.’
Okay, if there’re any problems or I have more questions, I’ll ring you.
‘Thanks for your help, Robert.’
If we catch the bastard, that will be thanks enough.
It was still only twenty to nine when the phone rang.
‘Quigg.’
I’ve sent you a fax with the last three references.
‘Thanks, Jim.’
Are you any closer catching the bastard?
‘I’m hoping we’ll get him today.’
Good luck, Quigg.
The phone went dead. He went to the fax and found what Jim had sent him.
D9:11; H2:3; M1:13
Walsh could solve them on the way to Peckham. And even if she couldn’t, it didn’t matter. It was clearly a personal message from Ruben to Rose and had no bearing on catching him.
At five to nine Walsh ambled in, humming to herself.
‘Where’ve you been, Walsh?’
‘You said nine o’clock, Sir - I’m early.’
‘I was early, Walsh; you’re an hour late.’
‘But you…’
‘Never mind all that, Walsh. I bet that Welsh love machine has been screwing you stupid all night and your head is full of cotton wool this morning. You’re thinking that maybe you were too hasty in switching allegiances, and now you’re sitting on the fence again. You’ve asked Doctor Love to come back tonight to treat you for your condition again. After a night of passion, you’ll decide that you got it all wrong. You’ll go from one extreme to the other and become a nymphomaniac. After screwing all the men in the station, I’ll have to get another partner. Is that how it’s going to go, Walsh?’
‘You’re definitely in the wrong profession, Sir. I slept alone last night.’
‘You’re not a very good liar, Walsh. Go and get me a coffee and I’ll tell you what we’re doing today.’
‘If you’ve been in for so long, you could have made me a coffee.’
‘I’ve been working, Walsh. You remember that ‘W’ word, don’t you?’
She ignored him as she walked over to the coffee area and switched the kettle on.
‘Was he good in bed, Walsh?’
‘Shut up, Sir.’
‘I’ll tell you about my night, if you tell me about yours.’
She came back with two mugs of coffee and sat down. ‘Well, what are we doing today?’
Quigg told her about the plan he’d made with Peckham.
‘You mean, I’ve got to sit in the car all day with you?’
‘It’ll give us time to discuss your love life, Walsh.’
‘I think you’ll be dead by lunch time, Sir.’
‘Now, don’t be like that, Walsh. You know I only have your best interests at heart.’
He passed her an old Bible he’d found on someone’s desk with the three new biblical references slipped inside. ‘You can solve those while we’re sitting in the car. Hopefully, we’ll never get the last two letters, but we should be able to complete the message after you’ve added those three to it.’
‘Yesterday we knew where he was going to strike, but not when.’
‘Madame Aryana. She rang me up after you’d gone home.’
‘And you went round to see her at the May Fair and had sex with her?’
‘I’ve told you before about that dirty mind you possess, Walsh. Aryana said that he would take another child today, and that he’d kill them both tonight. We have to prevent that happening at all costs.’
‘So, Kylie Pavlenski is still alive?’
‘According to Aryana.’
‘Let’s hope she’s right,’ Walsh said.
‘She hasn’t been wrong yet.’ He took a swig of his coffee. ‘Right, are you ready to go, Walsh?’
‘I’ve only just made the coffees, Sir.’
‘We haven’t got time for coffee, Walsh. And anyway, it’ll only make you want to pee. We’ll get the phone call to move and you’ll be squatting over the toilet with your knickers round your ankles thinking about how many orgasms you had last night. I’ll have to rush in and help you up with your panties before we can respond.’
‘You’re the one with the filthy mind, Sir. You should get it cleaned out with disinfectant and a power spray.’
***
It was twelve twenty and they were still sitting in the car, waiting. Walsh passed him the message with the three references solved:
YOU SHALL NOT SLEEP ALONE MY LO_ _
‘I think we can guess what the last two letters are,’ he said.
‘LOVE,’ Walsh said. ‘The whole case is tragic, isn’t it, Sir?’
‘A good example of the domino effect, Walsh. A father abuses his children. Two of those children have an incestuous relationship as a way of helping each other through the trauma, and they fall in love. They then form a suicide pact, but, after killing everyone else, the boy can’t go through with it. As punishment, he locks himself away in an asylum his whole life, but realises that the girl he loves – his sister – is alone. In his warped mind, he believes that he can provide Rose with children the same age to keep her company, so that she is never alone. All his life has been devoted to his sister, Rose. Once his task is complete, he will have nothing left to live for. Punishment will mean nothing to him. I think he will kill himself this time.’
‘You really think so, Sir?’
‘He knows it’s time he joined Rose. All the children he killed were merely to keep her
company until he had the courage to be with her. Once he has the last two children, he will have no more excuses.’
‘We have to catch him, don’t we, Sir? We have to save the children and make him pay for what he’s done.’
‘All his life he has paid for what he’s done, Walsh. We can’t do anything to him now. If we catch him and send him to prison, it will only delay him being with Rose for a few years. Soon he will be with her for all eternity.’
Walsh took a handkerchief out of her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. ‘You’ve made me cry, Sir.’
The Railway Arms was attached to Brockley railway station, and the more Quigg thought about it, the more he realised he was starving.
‘Come on, Walsh -’ he said, climbing out of the car, ‘no time for blubbering. We have to eat, and I can feel a pie and chips slithering down my oesophagus and sloshing about in a half pint of lager shandy.’
‘No Guinness?’ Walsh said, her eyes open wide.
‘As much as I would like to devour a pint of Nigerian nectar, I’ve got to keep my wits about me. So, no, not today, but thanks for the offer.’
‘Are you paying, Sir?’
‘Is it my turn?’
‘Most definitely, Sir.’
‘I think you’re conning me, Walsh, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. My budget should stretch to a few leaves and a glass of water.’
‘You’re so mean, Sir.’
As they sat down, Quigg’s mobile rang.
‘Quigg.’
It was Inspector Robert Muchamore: Nobody saw him take a kid, but he’s heading up Brockley Road, which runs parallel with the railway line and passes the train station. One of my men is following him at a safe distance. Now he could turn left on Drakefell Road and head towards Nunhead, as you expect, or if he hasn’t taken a kid yet, he could turn off and go anywhere.
‘I’ll drive to the station exit. If he passes me, I’ll follow him. What colour is the van?’
Bright red, with a white roof.
‘Okay, thanks - keep in touch, Robert.’
The phone went dead and they ran back to the car. He gave his phone to Walsh. ‘You answer it. I’m driving.’