by Tim Ellis
'Both, Sir. But that's not all. I decided to create a profile of the person we're looking for.'
'I didn't realise you'd been on a profiling course, Rummage.'
'It's not a psychological profile, just some things we already know about the person we're looking for. First, I think it's probably a man. With all the heavy lifting that's required to replace the figures with dead bodies, I don't think it's a woman.'
He pursed his lips and nodded. 'I'll go along with that.'
'Second, they must have been here in the waxworks for at least five years.'
'Agreed.'
'Third, if they're creating duplicates of wax figures that nobody notices are duplicates, then they must be a very good sculptor.'
'Makes sense.'
'Fourth, the person must have an intimate knowledge of the waxworks and the building.'
'Seems logical.'
'And fifth, the person understands anatomy and physiology, and the long-term preservation of corpses.'
'Yes, of course.'
'I ran background checks on the three sacked employees. One is in America working at a waxworks in Philadelphia; one is a full-time carer for his wife who has Multiple Sclerosis and they also have two teenage children to look after; and the third runs a bar on the sinking Pacific atoll of Kiribati.'
Quigg grunted. 'Back to the drawing board then?'
'Yes and no. I decided to look at previous employees further back in time than ten years.' She passed him a sheet of paper. 'It appears that there was a high turnover of staff between 1989 and 1999 in the waxworks studio.'
He examined what she'd scribbled on the paper:
1929 – 1939: 7
1945 – 1955: 4
1956 – 1966: 6
1967 – 1977: 12
1978 – 1988: 3
1989 – 1999: 28
2000 – 2010: 9
2010 – 2020: 5
'Mmmm! Twenty-eight staff in a ten year period is a high turnover when compared with the other ten year periods. Have you asked Mrs Berkeley about it?'
'Yes. She reminded me that she's only been here for four and a half years, but that her predecessor – Horace Little – was here then. Apparently, the principal sculptor during those years was a man named Judas Ransom. He was a perfectionist who shouted and screamed at his staff most of the time . . .'
'And those staff either left or were sacked?'
'Yes.'
'See how lucky you are, Rummage.'
'Very lucky?'
'You stole the words right out of my mouth.'
'Anyway, Ransom died seven years ago of a brain tumour.'
'Mmmm! So it could have been the brain tumour that caused him to scream and shout at his staff?'
'I suppose that's possible, although thirteen years is a long time to have a brain tumour. He left the waxworks by mutual agreement in January 2000 and then nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'He didn't get another job. I think he might have retired.'
'Do we have any live suspects?'
'I ran background checks on the twenty-eight staff who were sacked or left during Judas Ransom's reign of terror. Only seven are still alive.'
'A high death rate as well?'
'I suppose so.'
'And what about the seven who are still alive – any likely candidates?'
'None of them jumped out at me. There are four men and three women.'
'Are we eliminating the three women?'
'I think we should investigate the four men first and see where that takes us?'
'Good idea. So, we have four people to see tomorrow?'
'Yes.'
He looked around as if he could visualise the whole building. 'I'll be glad to get out of the waxworks.'
'And me.'
'The mobile command centre has arrived by the way, so we need to go down and brief them about what's happening.'
'It'll be good to speak to some real people.'
'Real people! Aren't the employees you've been talking to real people? Am I not a real person?'
'No. They're suspects or witnesses, and you're you.'
'You have a strange outlook on life, Rummage. Oh! I forget to tell you that the police are here.'
'Manning the mobile command centre?'
'Yes, they're here. But also the eight officers we requested from Inspector Wright. They're here searching each floor as well. I wonder how that's going. Have you got your radio on you?'
'Yes.'
'Switch it on and give Sergeant Lockley a call. Ask him if he's found anything of interest yet.'
She slid the radio clip off her belt, switched it on and spoke into it. 'Come in, Sergeant Lockley, over.'
'This is he, over.'
'It's DC Rummage calling on behalf of DI Quigg. He wants to know if you've found anything of interest yet, over?'
'Nothing so far, tell him. I estimate we'll be here for another hour or so, over.'
'Thanks, Sergeant Lockley. Over and out.'
'Which reminds me!' Quigg said. 'I've got an architect coming here tomorrow morning with the blueprints to check that the building matches what's on the drawings.'
'We'll have to come here first then, won't we?'
'Yes. I'll say hello, tell the architect what I want and then we'll be on our way.'
'I was just thinking that instead of travelling all over London to interview these four people tomorrow, we should ask Inspector Wright to have them picked up first thing in the morning, then we could interview them one after the other at the station after we've been here. It'd be a lot quicker.'
'That makes a lot of sense, Rummage. I'll go and find a toilet while you call Inspector Wright. I'll meet you back here in about five minutes and we'll go and inspect the mobile command centre.'
'Okay.'
'MITCH!'
'At your command, Inspector Wimsey.'
***
Dixon woke him by grunting, snorting and rattling the chains on the pulley.
He'd been having a power nap on a collapsible chair, which had turned out to be unusually comfortable, or maybe he was simply bone tired. Either way, he'd slept as if he had narcolepsy. However, what he'd noticed of late, was that he tended to drool a lot from the corners of his mouth, and he wondered if it was merely the effects of old age, or something more sinister.
He removed the tape from Dixon's mouth. 'Anything to say to me?'
Dixon opened his mouth. 'Water?'
'What do you think this is – a restaurant? If you tell me something I want to hear, then I might give you some water. No information, no water. What I can offer you instead, is 200,000 volts of electricity in your bollocks. Now, I can't say fairer than that, can I?'
'You're going to kill me anyway, aren't you?'
'What did you expect – a couple of years in an open prison with conjugal rights and then released on licence? Isn't that why you're doing what you're doing, because criminals are taking the piss out of the justice system? Well Chief Inspector, I'm happy to tell you that I sit on the extreme right of the argument. I'm a firm believer in capital punishment and criminals getting their just deserts.'
'Then, what's the point of telling you anything?'
'A quick and easy death.'
'They'll kill my family.'
'Okay.' He picked up the stun gun and switched it on.
'Wait!'
'Yes?'
'I can tell you two things.'
'Which are?'
Dixon hesitated and tried to lick his lips with a dry swollen tongue.
Jack moved towards him.
'There are nine members of the board, not eight.'
'Name?'
'I don't know. In fact, nobody knows. He's the Chairman of the Board and he communicates with the other board members through a phone app that hides his face and disguises his voice.'
Jack put the stun gun down and gave Dixon two swallows of water from a plastic bottle.
'Thanks.'
'And the second thin
g?'
'There's a shadow Board of Directors. If you take out the members of the first board, the shadow board will automatically take over. Delilah Garrett's position on the first board has already been filled.'
A shadow board! How the hell did Lucy miss that? 'Names?'
'Somebody must know, but it's not me. I'm guessing that the only person who does know the names of the second board is the Chairman. Also, the second board are not based in London, but I don't know where they're located.'
'Is that it?'
'Yes.'
Using his Glock 17 with the suppressor attached, he shot Dixon in the head, lowered him to the ground and disposed of the body through a manhole that led directly into the sewers and flushed into the Thames. The next downpour wasn't expected anytime soon, so it would be a while before the body arrived there.
He walked into the tent, picked up a marker pen and added a question mark in a square on the whiteboard between the Board of Directors and the European Investors. He also drew a second set of lines next to the eight names of the Board of Directors. A shadow board! If that was true, and there was no reason not to believe Dixon, it made his job that much more difficult. There was no point in taking out the first board without also taking out the shadow board at the same time. And he couldn't do that until he knew who and where they were.
Next, he called his daughter.
'Haven't you got any other children you can annoy?'
'You're my one and only.'
She blew a raspberry. 'What do you want?'
'You missed two things.'
'That's crazy talk. Lucy Neilson doesn't miss things.'
'A Chairman of the Board. There are nine members, not eight.'
'You're lying just to make me look bad?'
'Apparently, nobody knows the Chairman's identity. He communicates with the other board members through a phone app that hides his face and disguises his voice.'
'If that was in any way true, I'd have found the app on Delilah Garret's phone.'
'Have you still got it?'
'No, but I kept the sim card.'
'Can you check again?'
'Seeing as it's you who's asking, but I have to tell you that I'm not in the habit of missing things, making mistakes or cocking up.'
'I understand that. Also, and more troubling, is the news that there's a shadow board. We take out the first board, the second automatically takes over.'
'You're making all this up, aren't you? You're sitting there with nothing else better to do other than thinking about how you can wind up your one and only like a clockwork fucking orange. Well, you've succeeded. I'm well and truly wound up.'
'That's good. You might not cock up this time.'
As he ended the call, he heard a stream of invective from his one and only.
He called Ruth. 'We have two problems.'
'Only two?'
Chapter Ten
He flopped down on a seat.
The interior of the new mobile command centre was large enough for half a dozen officers, but usually housed more. In the centre of the floor was a two-foot wide worktop on four stainless steel pedestals that ran most of the length of the inside. At the far end was a large-screen television hung on the wall, with the kitchenette to the right. On either side were worktops, above and below, which – apart from gaps to sit and put your legs under – were storage cupboards. There was a large whiteboard behind the door. The computers on the worktops were already connected by satellite to the Hammersmith system, and from there to the police network. Sergeant Coveney and her team were now fully operational.
'So, who's making the coffee and handing out the hobnobs?' he asked.
Stephanie Amies got up. 'I'll do it.'
'You're the beacon of light in my darkness, Amies.'
'He talks like a second-hand car salesman,' Helen Hanson said to the others.
The women giggled.
He stood up, opened up the three-dimensional waxworks map and stuck it in the centre of the whiteboard. 'Okay ladies. If you're sitting comfortably, I'll begin.' He picked up a marker pen and made notes on the board as he spoke. 'At nine o'clock this morning the Chief revealed that a body had been discovered in Mrs Salmon's Waxworks. Well, like most people would, I thought it was one of the Chief's unfunny jokes, but apparently not. So, DC Rummage and I drove here post haste in my new Mercedes. Doctor Solberg and Forensics were already here hovering over the body in question – George Washington – who happened to be the first president of the United States of America. Well, to be more accurate, the dead body was hidden inside George Washington and only came to light because a wayward child knocked the exhibit over.'
'Do we know the identity of the dead body, Sir?' Amies asked as she handed out the coffee cups and hobnobs like a barista.
'An excellent question, Amies. To which the answer is no.' He took a bite of hobnob and a swallow of coffee. 'Also, there are a number of interesting facts surrounding this dead body. First, the wax used to sculpt George Washington is not the usual beeswax that sculptors use, but wax made from human remains.'
Helen Hanson pulled a face. 'That's disgusting.'
'I couldn't have said it better myself, Hanson. The next interesting fact is that the body has been inside George Washington for at least five years.'
'A rotting corpse!' Coveney said. 'Why did nobody not notice the stench?'
'Is there a double negative in there somewhere, Sergeant?'
She stared at him.
He took a swallow of coffee. 'Anyway, there was no stench to be had anywhere. Do you want to know why?'
Nobody spoke.
'Of course you do. The body had been embalmed . . .'
'It had come from an undertakers?' Amies exclaimed, looking for confirmation from the others.
Quigg smiled. 'There's no fooling you is there, Amies?'
'I'm thinking of becoming a detective myself, you know?'
'By all means use my name as a reference.'
'Thank you, Sir. But I don't know if that's a good idea. I'll take some advice on your offer and see what they recommend.'
'You do that, Amies. So, the undertaker was our first thought as well, but they embalm people for the short-term – not the long-term. Embalming a corpse for five years without any decomposition is a specialist skill, and there are very few people in the world – never mind Britain – who possess that skill.'
The women nodded with understanding.
'Next, we questioned the seven people who actually create the wax figures, because George Washington had been an exhibit for at least five years and nobody had noticed that there was a dead body loitering inside him, even though he was maintained on a regular basis.'
'I find that hard to believe,' Hanson said.
'As did we, Hanson. As did we. However, once the principal sculptor – Yvette Grimaldi – explained how the wax figures are made as a collaborative process, we soon realised that it would be impossible for any of them to slip in a dead body without the others noticing. So, what we had was an impossible crime.'
'But what about the regular maintenance?' Amies said.
'A good observation, Amies. Two of the team suggested that the figures we were describing weren't the same figures that they were maintaining.'
'But . . .' Coveney began.
'Spit it out, Sergeant.'
'There's two figures – one with the body, and the original figure?'
'Which is exactly what DC Rummage suggested, and the theory we've been working on most of the day.'
'It means that someone has been swapping the figures over, doesn't it?' Amies said.
He nodded and took a bite of hobnob. Crumbs tumbled from his mouth. 'It seems absurd I know, but there doesn't seem to be any other rational explanation.'
Coveney said, 'It also means that there's somebody inside the waxworks swapping the figures over before and after the regular maintenance of the original figures?'
He nodded. 'That goes without saying, Coveney. And . .
.?'
'Where are the other figures being kept?' Hanson asked.
'An excellent question, Hanson. So, Sergeant Lockley arrived from the station with his band of merry men and women to search each of the four floors for anything unusual – secret passages, hidden doors, false walls and so on.' He zigzagged his index finger over the map. 'You should also take note that the waxworks has been designed as a three-dimensional maze, which complicates our job threefold.'
'It's like the Phantom of the Opera, isn't it?' Amies suggested.
'In what way, Amies?'
'Well, the disfigured Phantom hides beneath the Paris opera house, so that he can get closer to the female singer.'
'It's for the love of a woman then?'
'Yes.'
'As far as I'm aware, this story doesn't involve a woman or unrequited love, Amies.'
'But somebody's hiding in the waxworks, aren't they?'
'That's the theory we're working on, but Sergeant Lockley hasn't found any sign of that yet.' He pointed at the map. 'So, George Washington was discovered here on the first floor, but that's not the end of the story, ladies. No, no, not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin. Based on DC Rummage's discerning suggestion that the body inside George Washington might not be the only one, Perkins and his team of ghouls have been inspecting all two hundred and thirty-seven exhibits, and guess what?'
'They found more bodies?' Hanson said.
'You guessed it, Hanson! Another seven so far. There are corpses in the Alien; Albert Einstein; C-3PO from the Star Wars trilogy, which I'm told has six films in it; Fidel Castro; Shrek; Guy Fawkes; and the headless corpse of Marie Antoinette. We're now waiting for a call from Perkins to let us know the full extent of the body count.'
Amies put her hand up. 'Excuse me, Sir.'
'You don't need to put your hand up, Amies.'
'If the bodies don't come from an undertakers, where do they come from?'
'An insightful question from a budding detective, Amies.'
Her face flushed a strange red colour. 'Thank you, Sir.'
'Unfortunately, Doctor Solberg has now been inundated with bodies, so there's a delay in the post-mortems. She's had to call in and supervise four locums to deal with the additional workload, so we won't get any information concerning cause of death until at least tomorrow if we're lucky. What I can tell you is that she'll also be analysing the wax covering the victims.'