The Exhibits in Mrs Salmon's Waxworks

by Tim Ellis

  'It's not.'

  'There you go then.'

  'All right. What time will you pick me up?'

  He checked his watch. 'It's quarter to eight now, so let's say between ten and ten-thirty. Two and a half hours is enough time to conduct the interviews, isn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  'There we are then. We have a plan.'

  He left her organising the first interview, and before going back up to his office he made a detour into Operations to see Nicky Wright.

  'Hello, Quigg,' she said, when he slipped into her office like a burglar and shut the door behind him. 'I hope you've not come to tell me you've destroyed my mobile command centre already?'

  He half-laughed. 'No, no. I've wrapped it in cotton wool.'

  She put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. 'I'm glad to hear it.'

  'How are you and the baby?'

  'Why are you asking?'

  'Think of me as a concerned citizen.'

  'Instead of the father of the baby, you mean?'

  'They have an idea it's mine, you know. The girls were quizzing me yesterday. There's rumours flying about all over the station that I'm the father. How have they got that idea?'

  'They're not as stupid as you think they are, Quigg. Some of these girls would make good detectives.'

  'Well, I think I've thrown them off the scent for now.'

  'How?'

  'I told them that I'm your least favourite person and that I'm not in the habit of sleeping with . . .'

  'Old aged pensioners?'

  'I don't think I used those exact words.'

  'And I'm not as stupid as you think I am either, Quigg. Those were the exact words you used.'

  He grinned like the Cheshire Cat, sidled up to her and caressed the back of her neck.. 'You're looking astoundingly beautiful this morning, Nicky.'

  She screwed up her face. 'Do you think it would be a good way to throw them off the scent by having sex with this old aged pensioner in her office?'

  'Well no, but I'm sure there would be other advantages. I have a picture running through my mind of you leaning over your desk with your skirt up around your waist. You're wearing a black suspender belt with stockings and I'm standing behind you holding a replica of a battering ram in my hand.'

  'Saturday's your day, Quigg. On all the other days of the week, you're right – you are my least favourite person. Now, get out of my office. And don't be late on Saturday.'

  'I won't. Maybe we should put on a bit of a show?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'If I'm your least favourite person . . .'

  She smiled. 'GET OUT, QUIGG.'

  He flung the door open. 'You're being unreasonable, Inspector Wright.'

  'UNRESONABLE! UNREASONABLE! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW UNREASONABLE I CAN BE, QUIGG. NOW, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY OFFICE AND DON'T COME BACK – EVER.'

  He hurried along the corridor.

  People stopped and stared, stuck their heads out of offices and began making videos with their mobile phones.

  It was like the walk of shame.

  If that didn't throw them off the scent, then nothing would.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ten of the eleven recruits reported to the disused tank and aircraft factory at Catherine Wheel Yard five minutes before the ten o'clock deadline. Pete Pussett with Grunt; Ramona Relish; Bob Birdwhistle; Mike Roberts; Valerie Zepp; Jimmy Crisp; Steve Sallow; Terry Tumbler; Kenny Kincaid and Tulbahadur Thapa. For whatever reason, Alan Moore – late of the Royal Artillery – didn't arrive. Jack wasn't there to judge people. There could be any number of reasons Alan had decided not to join them.

  'Fed and watered?' he asked them.

  They all nodded.

  'Welcome. Take a pew.' He directed them to the seats he'd positioned in front of the flaking whitewashed wall at the far end of factory.

  'Before I start, if anybody has had a change of heart and mind, then you're free to walk away.'

  Nobody moved.

  'Okay, I'm assuming no knowledge.'

  Beginning at the left of the wall, he created a timeline of events with a black marker pen. He described how Lucy and Ruth had uncovered the corruption endemic within the Metropolitan Police Service; how the police now ran organised crime in London; how organised crime in Britain was worth thirty-seven billion pounds; and how the criminal gangs now worked for them. He told them about the plot to kill his daughter and her friends, which included a clean police officer and half a dozen children, because they were getting too close. He saw them glance at each other. A number of them had their own children.

  'They may be police officers,' he said, interrupting his description of events. 'But they have no problem in killing men, women and children to protect their own interests. So, if you feel sorry for them at any point – don't. They're dirty coppers who broke their oath to protect and serve. They're traitors and deserve a traitor's death. And don't think we're going to arrest these people and put them in jail – we're not. The whole justice system is not fit for purpose. We've gone beyond all that. It's them or us now.'

  He'd decided to recover DCI Dixon's body from the drain he'd thrown it down, so that he could use it as a visual aid during the briefing. They needed to know up-front what they were letting themselves in for and what was expected of them. He didn't want them saying half-way into the operation that they hadn't understood what was going to happen. He walked to the dangling chains of the pulley and yanked it hand over hand until DCI Dixon's naked dead body came into view.

  There was a collective intake of breath.

  'I can see you're shocked. You needn't be. This was Detective Chief Inspector Harvey Dixon of the MPS. His job was to find the criminal enterprise and take them down. The problem was, he was one of them. Most of you have been in a war. You know what it's like when one side observes the rules of war, while the other side does exactly what they want. As I said, I'm ex-SAS, and I can tell you that there are no rules in war. The rules of war were written by politicians, people who never fought in a war. Some of you know. There's only one rule in war – kill or be killed.' He swept his arm sideways to indicate Dixon. 'The investigative journalist I mentioned earlier, now works for the MPS – not just as their Communications Director, but also as head of a covert corruption task force. She saw through Dixon and sacked him. His response was to follow her into the ladies toilet, which as you know is not somewhere men should ever venture . . .'

  He got a ripple of laughter as he'd intended. He wasn't much on jokes and humour, but they were a useful tool to lighten the mood sometimes.

  'In the ladies toilet, he threatened to disfigure her face and kill everyone she cared about and loved unless she backed off from her investigation of the enterprise. It was at that point I intervened and brought him here for a friendly chat about the correct way to treat a lady.' He stared at them. 'If you feel this is not for you, then now would be a good time to leave.'

  Nobody moved.

  'I'm not asking you to do this for Queen and country. We've all done that and been betrayed. That said, some of you may still harbour a nationalist pride. Well, think about this. While we were fighting on the side of right in distant lands, these scum were destroying our country from the inside and making themselves rich in the process. I'm giving you a chance to reclaim your lives and do some good in the process. The two hundred and fifty thousand pounds you receive won't make you happy, but it'll make the misery easier to bear. This is going to get dirty, people. Nobody will walk away with clean hands. All I can say is that when it's over, you'll have your lives back – that's what you'll be fighting for.' He looked them over again. 'Still with me?'

  'Yes, Sir.'

  'Good. I won't ask you again.' He moved DCI Dixon's body out of sight. 'Let's get to work.'

  He explained about the Board of Directors, the European Investors and what DCI Dixon had revealed about the Chairman and the Shadow Board. 'We're not dealing with a Mickey Mouse outfit here,' he stressed. 'They're running the crimina
l underbelly of London like a well-oiled machine, and there's nobody who can stop them except us.'

  'Just the ten of us, Sir?' Jimmy Crisp said.

  'Think of the ten of us as a small section operating behind enemy lines, Jimmy. With what I have in mind, a small section is all we need. We're not conducting all-out war on the streets of London, we're going to take their money and decapitate them.'

  'You mean take out the Board of Directors and the European Investors?' Valerie Zepp asked.

  'Exactly, Valerie. And from what Dixon told me, that task has been made much more difficult by the existence of a chairman and a shadow board.'

  Mike Roberts cleared his throat. 'You've put the names of the Board of Directors and the European Investors up there, but not the Chairman or the Shadow Board, Sir.'

  'That's because we don't know who they are yet, but I have people working on that. In the meantime, we have some planning to do.'

  He showed them round the factory like a tour guide and told them to find themselves a seat, a bed and to change their clothes in the tent.

  Next he allocated each recruit to tasks. He put Valerie Zepp – who had a background in military communications and information systems – in charge of setting up the computer and radio networks, with the help of Petty Officer Ramona Relish. Any medical care they might need would come later. He made Ex-Para Sergeant – Bob Birdwhistle – he his second-in-command and put him in charge of the weapons . . .

  'There's enough shit here for World War Three, Sir,' he said, opening the boxes with a jemmy.

  'Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Sergeant.'

  With hardly a break in step, they had easily reverted to their previous military ranks. A time when their lives had meaning and value, and they knew what was expected of them.

  ***

  She walked to Hammersmith Station and caught the next District Line train to South Kensington. From there, she jumped in a taxi to Estelle Adams' house at 17 Jubilee Place.

  Harry was waiting outside with his shoulder bag.

  'Been here long?' she said.

  'Five minutes or so. I always like to arrive early.'

  'Have you knocked on the door yet?'

  'No.'

  'You should know that I have a professional analysing the video recording. I showed it to some friends last night and one of them suggested that it might be an alien abduction.'

  Harry pulled a face. 'Do you believe the truth is out there?'

  'After meeting Surgat the Demon at Copperfield Street, I don't know what to believe anymore. If Heaven and Hell exist, why not intelligent life on other planets?'

  'I suppose it's possible.'

  'Also, what do you think of Arcane Paranormal Investigations Ltd?'

  'I can't say I know them?'

  'For our name.'

  'Ah! Begins with an "A" and states exactly what we do. Love it.'

  'I have a friend who is going to help me build a website and order business cards. Maybe you should get a professional picture taken and write a brief biography for the website.'

  'You've thought this through, haven't you?'

  'When I set my mind to something . . .'

  'A dog with a bone?' Harry suggested.

  Her eyes narrowed. 'What type of dog?'

  'A metaphorical one, of course.'

  'I also have my own equipment on order, which will be arriving soon. So, are we going ahead with the partnership then?'

  Harry nodded. 'Definitely.'

  'I don't think we need an office. Our contact details will be on the website.'

  'I agree. An office would be an unnecessary expense.'

  'I'll obviously run everything by you first.'

  'Great. What about t-shirts, baseball caps, car stickers and mugs? I think we also need a company logo as well.'

  'Let's not get carried away just yet, Harry.'

  'I'll work out some costs and think about a design for the logo.'

  Duffy knocked on the door. She wasn't expecting there to be anybody at home, because Estelle Adams had disappeared and her husband was dead. So, when the door did open, she grunted and jumped back in surprise. 'Oh!'

  A small wiry middle-aged bald man in a pair of beige coveralls was standing there holding a feather duster. He had a twitch on the left side of his face and blinked continually behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that seemed too big for him. 'Yes?'

  'Is Mrs Adams at home?' Duffy asked him.

  'Not here, I'm afraid. No idea where she is. I have a key to let myself in.'

  'And you are?'

  'Gregory. The cleaner from Sparkling Homes Cleaning.'

  Duffy barged past him. 'Well, we'll come in and wait then.'

  'Wait! Who are you?'

  'I'm Estelle's sister – Mavis.' She waved her hand in Harry's direction. 'And this is my husband, Harold. We've come to offer our support after the tragic death of her husband.'

  'I don't know.'

  'What don't you know, Gregory?'

  'Whether I should let you in.'

  'We already are in. I suggest you get on with your work. We'll wait for Estelle in the sitting room.'

  'Well . . .'

  'I don't suppose you make tea, do you?'

  'Mrs Adams usually makes the tea.'

  'Have you had a cup of tea yet?'

  'No.'

  'Shall I make some?'

  'That would be good.'

  'Well, you carry on with what you were doing and I'll call you when the tea is ready.'

  'Will do, Missus . . .?'

  Duffy strode off along the hallway to what she assumed was the sitting room.

  Harry followed her inside and shut the door. 'Are you sure this is legal?'

  'Legal! I've come in to wait for my sister, what can be illegal about that? It's not as if we're going to ransack the place and make off with the family jewels, is it?'

  'I hope not.'

  'We're here to help, that's all. Once Gregory has left, we'll take a look around to see if we can find anything that could help us explain my sister's disappearance, and then we'll leave.'

  'It can't do any harm, I suppose.'

  'After all, we're investigators, aren't we?'

  'I guess.'

  'So, let's investigate. If you're not happy about being in here, you could always wait outside for me?'

  'No, I'll stay.'

  'Anyway, I have a pot of tea to make. Do you want tea, Harold?'

  'Mmmm! That would be nice.'

  'No qualms about stealing Estelle's tea then?'

  He gave a sheepish grin and his face reddened.

  She went into the kitchen, made a pot of tea, found a packet of Viennese whirls and took the tray into the sitting room.

  'Gregory,' she called up the stairs.

  'Yes, Missus.'

  'Cup of tea?'

  He came down the stairs. 'Be most welcome. Cleaning is thirsty work.'

  'You can leave your feather duster out here.'

  He looked at it as if someone had slipped it into his hand while he wasn't looking. 'Oh yes! Forgot it was there.'

  'Come in,' Duffy said.

  'In the sitting room?'

  'Yes.'

  'Mrs Adams usually lets me sit in the kitchen.'

  'She's not here, is she?'

  'No.'

  'So, come and sit in the sitting room.'

  'If you say so?'

  'I do.'

  He perched on the edge of a chair.

  'Help yourself to sugar and milk,' she said as she put a cup and saucer of tea in front of him.

  'Thank you.'

  'And a Viennese whirl.' She held the open packet out to him.

  'Mmmm! Don't mind if do, Missus.'

  'So, how long have you been working for my sister, Gregory?'

  'All of five months now.'

  'And she lost her husband in October shortly after you started working here?'

  'Terrible tragedy it was, but . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'Ain'
t my place to say, Missus.'

  'But you will.'

  'Didn't seem to bother her. Woman's husband dies and people expect some sadness, crying, weeping and wailing, but I didn't see any of that. I'm sure my wife Lotte will be sorry to see me go, or at least I hope so. Must be awful not to be mourned when you go.'

  'Are you here every day?'

  'Tuesdays and Thursdays.'

  'You last saw my sister on Thursday then?'

  He shook his head. 'Tuesday. She weren't here on Thursday.'

  'How did she seem to you on Tuesday?'

  'Seemed the same as usual, I guess. I got on with my work, and she did whatever she was doing.'

  'You don't speak much then?'

  'No. She tells me if she wants some special cleaning doing and I do it.'

  'What time do you finish?'

  'Eleven o'clock. Two hours Tuesday and Thursday. Four hours in total each week.' He looked at his watch. 'Best get on. Otherwise I'll never finish.' He threw back the tea and finished the Viennese whirl. 'It is all right if I finish my work, isn't it?'

  'Of course.'

  He backed out as if he'd just had an audience with the Queen.

  'What do you think?' she said to Harry.

  'I think there's more to this than meets the eye.' He helped himself to another Viennese whirl. 'Is there any more tea left in the pot?'

  ***

  Before lying down to get some sleep, she'd set in motion the latest Cloud back-up to replace her frazzled system. What an idiot she was. She should have checked out the microchip before implanting it in her hand. Whoever these Beautiful Species people were, they'd bypassed her security by piggybacking the signal from the RFID microchip and deleted her entire system.

  She threw herself out of bed, took a shower, brushed her teeth and got dressed. Then she wriggled into the black leather motorcycle suit that she was recycling as part of her initiative to save the planet, which had previously belonged to the now dead assassin Maria Krieger. Then, she pushed her feet into the new Harley-Davidson Ingleside motorcycle boots that Ruth had bought her, grabbed her helmet and went outside. She climbed astride the Kawasaki Z650, started it up and headed towards the Beautiful Species shop on Black's Street that her father had said was just off Hammersmith Broadway.