by Tim Ellis
***
Monday 5th January
The squad room began filling up at eight thirty. DS Mervyn Jones arrived, checked that his desk drawers were still locked, and then shouted across to Quigg. ‘Morning, Inspector. I saw on the news that you needed some civilians to save your arse.’
‘I’d heard you’d been in a fifty-car pile-up, Sergeant Jones. Pity it wasn’t true.’
‘I’ll be around when you fuck-up, Sir. Someone has to take up the slack.’
‘Slack is something you know a lot about, Jones.’
Walsh came into the squad room, wrapped up like an Eskimo, and positioned herself between them in front of her desk with her hands on her hips. ‘It’s like being back at primary school,’ she said. ‘You two boys should grow up.’
‘Thank you for that flash of insubordination, Constable Walsh. Does the inspector allow you to get away with crap like that?’
‘Insubordination, Jones?’ Quigg said. ‘You wrote the book on insubordination, fraud, corruption… Need I go on? Walsh is my partner now, so leave her alone. Go and find another beetle to stick a pin through.’
‘Partner!’ DS Jones threw back. ‘Good luck with that, Walsh; you’ll need it.’ He wandered off towards the coffee area.
‘Good morning, Walsh. How did your Saturday night and Sunday morning go?’
‘Grow up, Sir.’
‘Not good, then?’
‘If you must know, it went too well.’
‘It’s a bit early in the morning for cryptic clues, Walsh.’
‘I enjoyed it so much that now I don’t know who I am anymore. And I blame you for that situation, Sir.’ She shrugged off her outer layers of clothing and sat down at her desk. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Do you want me to get you a coffee?’
Her face lit up for a brief moment, but then she turned around and saw DS Jones talking with a number of other detectives. ‘I’ll go and make my own, Sir.’
‘You know how I like mine, Walsh.’
‘So, I’m a beetle am I?’
‘It was merely a figure of speech, Walsh, nothing more. Listen, after I’ve briefed the Chief, I’ve got to go and rescue my daughter from a life of snowman-building in Canada. So, finish off your reports today and we’ll be back in the saddle tomorrow.’
‘Have you done your reports?’
‘Came in yesterday and tidied everything up.’
She put her head in her hands. ‘I wish I’d done that, instead of what I did do.’
‘I’d be interested in discussing what you did do at a more convenient time, Walsh.’
‘You have more chance of becoming an astronaut and going to taste the green cheese on the moon, Sir.’
‘You’re a spoilsport, Walsh.’
***
At five to nine he was sitting outside the Chief’s office waiting to be called in. Monica, the Chief’s secretary, was behind her desk, smiling at him like a vulture. She was quite presentable: a divorcee in her late twenties, with mousy hair that reached half way down her back, wide hips and glasses that made her look sexy. Before, she had always given him the evil eye, looking over her glasses at him as if he were a criminal, instead of a detective inspector. But since he’d captured Duffy, and had sex with Cheryl from administration and DI Gwen Taylor, she’d dumped DS Mervyn Jones and set her sights on him. Well, all he could say was that she was going to be hugely disappointed.
‘Did you have a good Christmas and New Year, Inspector?’
‘Very good would be an apt description, Monica.’
‘Are you still with that big-breasted constable?’
‘Yes, I am still with Duffy, Monica.’
‘If you get tired of her, give me a ring.’
‘Thanks very much for the offer, Monica, but it’s serious with Duffy. She’s pregnant, you know.’
‘Pregnant women get fat and flabby, Inspector. I know men like firm young bodies. I’ll be waiting for your call.’
Underneath, women must be the same as men, he thought. He remembered reading an article that said scientific research had found that men think about sex every seven seconds. God, that was a lot of sex! Eight thousand times a day! It was surprising that any work actually got done or that anybody could concentrate on anything if they had to think of sex every seven seconds. Did he think of sex that frequently? He knew he thought about it a lot, but eight thousand times a day! Maybe he was abnormal for not meeting his quota. Maybe he needed to think about it more.
‘Stop daydreaming, Quigg,’ Chief Walter Belmarsh said, filling the doorway to his office.
‘Oh, good morning, Sir. Happy New Year.’
‘You know I don’t believe in that crap, Quigg. Get in here.’ To Monica, he said, ‘Two coffees please, Mon, and leave the rat poison out of Inspector Quigg’s.’
‘Are you sure, Sir?’
‘I’m sure. He’s done a good job saving those children.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
Quigg followed the Chief into the office and shut the door behind him.
‘I’ve read your report and received the commendations you’ve written for Walsh and Perkins. Overall, you’ve exceeded my expectations again, Quigg. Even though I said solve the case by today, I didn’t really expect you to do it. So, well done on that.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘I’ve just had a call from the Chief Constable’s secretary. He’s approved your commendation and wants to make a big thing out of it. Are you okay for a ceremony first week in February?’
‘If I must, Sir.’
‘You must, Quigg. Keep in the forefront of your mind that we’re all chess pieces. At the moment, you’re a knight leading the attack. The Chief Constable wants to tell people that their money is being well spent, that we’re solving cases, holding our own against the evil horde, that we have heroes willing to lay down their lives in the name of freedom and justice. You’re the chess piece he’s moving now. Make the most of it, Quigg, because tomorrow you could be lying face down in a ditch at the side of the chessboard.’
‘So, my commendation is political?’
‘Don’t be a moron, Quigg. Everything is political. That’s why you’ll never get anywhere near my job; you don’t understand the nature of the world. DS Jones understands. You need to take lessons from him.’
‘Maybe I’ll just stay non-political, Chief.’
‘No such animal, Quigg.’ He selected a piece of paper from the pile in front of him and held it between thumb and forefinger as if it had been infected with a virus. ‘So, I’ve got a complaint about you from DI Taylor.’
‘You’re joking, Sir?’
‘Yes, Quigg. As you well know, I’m renowned the whole world over for my sense of humour. Do I look like I’m fucking joking?’
‘No, Sir. What does she say in this complaint?’
‘That you used unprofessional language towards her: called her an "evil bitch".’
‘I was being kind, Sir. And, anyway, you should have heard what she called me.’
He screwed the paper up and threw it in his wastebasket. ‘You’ve surprised me again, Quigg. Standing up to DI Taylor takes a shit load of courage, and that’s not really a word I associate with you. Courage, that is, not shit.’
‘She was responsible for Pratchett’s suicide, Sir.’
‘According to the official investigation, Quigg, it was an accident - which means that it would be hard to pin anything on Gwen Taylor. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand, Sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Is she being transferred to another station, Sir?’
‘You’re making a number of assumptions, Quigg: that you’re in the right and she’s in the wrong; that I’d prefer to keep you and lose her, and that transferring her is even possible.’
‘You know she’s pregnant?’
‘So she informs me in the letter. What she doesn’t say is that you made her pregnant.’
‘It was more like
a smash and grab raid by her, Sir. That’s why Pratchett killed himself, you know. He couldn’t understand why she wanted my child and not his. She said it was because he was bald.’
The Chief laughed. ‘I can understand his dilemma, Quigg. Not only is Gwen Taylor an evil bitch, she’s also stupid. After her maternity leave, she’ll be transferred to somewhere far away, like the Yorkshire moors.’
‘I’m glad, Sir. She was never really was part of the team.’
Belmarsh picked up another piece of paper from the stack in front of him and waved it at Quigg. ‘I see you’re not staying today?’
‘I’m meeting a solicitor at Heathrow, Sir. We’re going to stop Caitlin from taking Phoebe to Canada.’
‘Good luck with that, Quigg.’ He picked up another piece of paper. ‘I’m beginning to think you cause me too much work, Quigg. This particular letter is from Cheryl in administration.’
‘Oh?’
‘Do you know what it says, Quigg?’
‘Something about her being pregnant, Chief?’
‘Of course, you would know. You were the one who got her pregnant. If you were a dog, Quigg, I’d take you to the vets and have you castrated.’
‘I believe that’s painful, Sir.’
‘Nothing’s too good for you, Quigg. I saw Monica smiling at you before. If Monica gets pregnant, you’ll be going to Yorkshire with Gwen Taylor. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Very clear, but I’ve told Monica I’m unavailable.’
‘You said something similar to Duffy, if I’m not mistaken, Quigg - now look at her. Also, what’s this about you living in a church? Are you squatting, or something?’
‘It’s a bit complicated, Chief.’
‘Everything about you is complicated, Quigg. As soon as you stop solving cases, I’ll transfer you to the property room.’
‘Do you want me to tell you the story about the church, Chief?’
‘Life’s too short, Quigg. As long as Monica has got your change of address and telephone number, I don’t need to know any gory details about why you’re squatting in a church.’
‘Anything else for me, Sir?’
‘No, go and save Phoebe from the wastes of Canada.’
‘Thanks, Chief. Have a good day.’
***
It was eleven forty when he arrived at Heathrow’s Terminal 3 and reached the top of the escalator in the public area of departures on the first floor. He was twenty minutes early and didn’t expect to see a woman with long blonde hair and a perfect figure. But there she was, carrying a black briefcase. She was dressed in a powder blue suit with matching shoes and a white satin blouse underneath an open heavy black coat. He didn’t want to want her, but he did. He could easily imagine himself looking into her ice blue eyes, and thrusting into her like a Spartan warrior. Weren’t three women enough for him? He must have caught a virus that had turned him into a sexaholic.
‘Celia Tabbard?’
‘Detective Inspector Quigg?’
They both laughed, as if they had always laughed together. He knew he was in serious trouble again.
‘Are you hungry?’ she said.
‘I’m always hungry.’ He was trying to be professional, but the sexual innuendo flew off his tongue like a greyhound after a hare.
‘Have you any preferences?’
What type of question was that? He had lots of preferences. Which ones was she referring to: food preferences, sexual preferences, or maybe sleeping preferences?
‘No, not really - I’ll eat anything.’ There, that should cover his preferences.
‘There’s an Italian restaurant just up here. Is that okay?’
‘I like Italian.’
‘Good.’
She led the way, but he caught up with her and matched her, stride for stride.
‘There’re not going to be any problems serving this Prohibitive Steps Order on my ex-wife, are there, Celia?’
‘None at all. I’ll serve it, you stand back and watch.’
‘What about Phoebe?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Won’t this affect her? Psychologically, I mean?’
She stopped, but he carried on a couple of paces and had to turn back to face her.
‘You have to decide what you want, Inspector. Do you want to keep your daughter in this country, or let your ex-wife take her to Canada?’
‘Well, I want to keep her in this country, of course, but I also don’t want her psychologically damaged.’
‘I will make sure your daughter does not see, or hear, what takes place. Is that what you want?’
‘That would be exactly what I want.’
‘Can we get back to the business of eating now?’
‘Most definitely.’
‘Have you not got a first name, Inspector?’
‘No. My name is Quigg.’
‘I see, a man with no first name. It sounds as though you were psychologically damaged as a child.’
‘As well as having no first name, I was beaten, locked in the cellar, and made to eat cabbage and broccoli.’
‘I don’t know how you continue to function from day-to-day.’
They were shown to a table. Celia ordered the wine without reference to him. She obviously knew that a detective inspector wouldn’t have a clue about wine. He looked at the menu and found the spaghetti bolognaise and the garlic bread. He’d learned a long time ago to eat what he knew so as not to embarrass himself. Considering he’d had lasagne last night, he didn’t really want it again, which left the spaghetti bolognaise. Those were the only two Italian meals he had ever eaten.
The waiter returned with the wine and to take their orders. Celia approved the wine, and then said, ‘We’ll start with the bertolli bruschetta, then move on to the puttanesca, and have the ricotta pie for desert. Is that all right with you, Quigg?’
He nodded. What else could he do? He didn’t want to appear like a barbarian who didn’t know a bruschetta from a puttanesca – whatever they were. If he didn’t like what she’d ordered, he’d simply leave it.
‘Before we go any further, we should agree the terms and conditions of the contract between us.’
‘As I said on the phone, I can’t afford much. Do you have a standard contract?’
‘The standard contract is £300 per hour. The consultation on the phone on Friday was free, but since then you’ve spent £3,300.’
‘Bloody hell! Well, I suppose that’s that, then. I’ll have to take out a loan to pay you for your time up to now. There’s no way I can afford such high fees.’ He could have asked Ruth for the money, but he didn’t want to embarrass either of them by doing that. She would say yes, of course, but he would never know if she really meant no. Duffy would help him out with the costs, she would do anything for him and Phoebe, but it would be wrong to ask her. He could start siphoning off the Apostles’ funds, pay each of them a wage as a cover for boosting his own bank account, but that would be a criminal act. It wasn’t his money. He was a copper, for God’s sake. It was all right bending the law to bring those paedophile bastards down, but keeping their money for himself was a step too far in the wrong direction.
‘You’re not familiar with the concept of negotiation, then, Quigg?’
‘I’ve got nothing to negotiate with.’
‘I shouldn’t say this, but from where I’m sitting you’re in a strong negotiating position.’
‘I am?’ He could have knitted a ten-foot woollen scarf with his eyebrows he was so confused. What did he have to negotiate with? Thankfully, since Ruth had bought him new clothes, he didn’t look like a tramp anymore. But apart from… Uh oh! ‘Go on.’
‘If you ever divulge this conversation to anybody else, I’ll sue the arse off you. I’ll take everything you’ve got or ever will have.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have a proposition for you.’
‘I’m listening.’ He could afford some more sperm. Maybe he should start charging for the little buggers. He wondered how m
uch he’d get if he became a regular sperm donor. Maybe that was a legal way to improve his finances. He was certainly attracted to her, and wouldn’t have any problem in giving.
‘I need a partner.’
‘What, in your law firm?’
‘You’re not qualified for that, but I have the feeling you are eminently qualified for what I’m proposing.’
‘Go on.’
‘A partner to share…’
‘You should know I’m living with a woman who’s carrying my child.’ He didn’t want to get into the shambles surrounding the fact that he was living with three women, and two of them were carrying his children.
‘That shouldn’t present an obstacle. I’m proposing twice a month, at mutually convenient times, and I will undertake all the legal work concerning your daughter for free.’
‘Twice a month for what?’
‘Role-playing.’
‘What, like the board game Dungeons and Dragons?’
She laughed until tears came to her eyes. ‘I like your naiveté, Quigg. No, no board games – sexual role-playing. During my work I am a strong, dominant solicitor, but in my free time I like to be a submissive. I want a partner who will dominate me.’
He craned his neck left and right.
‘I promise you, there are no hidden microphones or cameras.’
‘Just checking. Are you sure I’m the right man for the job?’
‘I’ve seen you perform on television, Quigg. You’re the right man for the job.’
‘You’re not talking about whips, studs, and spikes are you? I couldn’t beat a woman.’
‘No, that’s sadomasochism. I don’t want to be beaten or hurt, just dominated.’
‘Keep going.’
‘All the work I’ve done on the Prohibitive Steps Order can be paid for by two hours of your time this evening. From here, we’ll go back to my house and I’ll show you what I mean. If it doesn’t work out, or you don’t like what we’re doing, then we part company. You find a solicitor you can afford, and I carry on looking for a dominant partner. What do you think, Quigg?’
‘I understand the dominant/submissive thing, but to what end?’