by Tim Ellis
He stared at the absence of any plans gripped in her slim hands, but did notice a wedding ring.
She saw the direction of his stare. 'Digital plans,' she said, patting her black Burberry crossbody bag. 'On my iPad.'
'What's the world coming to?'
'You're a dinosaur then?'
He turned to the three women. 'Am I a dinosaur, ladies?'
'One of those slow-moving ones that munches on grass all day long and isn't much use for anything else,' Amies said.
'I withdraw my offer of a recommendation, Amies.' To Amy English he said, 'Do you need anything from me at all?'
'I'd like you to walk around one floor with me, so that I can understand what's happened and what you want from me.'
He glanced at his wrist watch and calculated he had the time to show her around one floor. 'I can do that. Then I have to leave.' Before following her out, he said to the ladies, 'Don't you three have work to do?'
Hanson and Amies giggled.
As he entered the waxworks, he helped himself to a visitors' map from the booth. 'It's a big place,' he said with an air of authority. 'Without a guide, it's easy to get lost.'
'You're going to be my guide, are you?'
'Hardly a guide. More like a bus conductor.'
'I hope you're not going to charge me?'
'Tickets, please!' he jested.
They walked down to the basement and she quickly got to work. He'd expected her to arrive with a tape measure, or a measuring wheel that he often saw people pushing around roads, but she was using a laser measure that transferred the data via Bluetooth direct to her iPad. It was simple, accurate and quick. Lucy would have loved it, he thought. After only thirty minutes she'd nearly completed the basement. The last room was the ladies' toilet next to the stairs.
She went into the toilet.
'I'll wait out here,' he said.
'Why?'
'Well . . . you know?'
'I'm comparing the plans with the building, not going to the toilet.'
'Oh! Okay.' He shrugged and followed her in.
She put her bag, laser measure and iPad in one of the sinks, took off her jacket and threw it on top of them. Then, she ran a cold tap and swilled her face. Water ran down her neck and inside her blouse.
'Oh! Now look what I've done,' she said, dabbing at the wet patch between her breasts.
Having a good idea what would happen if he did look, he turned away. He thought that maybe he should have waited outside after all. It was the ladies' toilet when all was said and done.
She unbuttoned her blouse and stripped it off.
It wouldn't have been so bad, but she wasn't wearing a bra. Not that she needed to wear one, because her breasts were barely half a handful if he was feeling generous.
Despite his strenuous objections, his erection seemed to have taken over his decision-making process again.
She moved towards him. 'I suffer from hypersexuality and have an excessive desire for sex. What psychiatrists in the old days used to call nymphomania. The treatment then was a lot worse than the disease. They used to remove a woman's clitoris and ovaries, leech the vagina and apply cocaine.'
'Goodness!'
'Thankfully, those days have been consigned to the dustbin of history. Now, I treat myself by having sex when I want, where I want and with whomever I want.'
'What about your husband?'
'An early model. I've worn him out.'
He had a vision of a dehydrated shrivelled corpse lying in the marital bed.
'So, are you man enough to administer my treatment, Inspector Quigg?'
'Eh!' He often found that words were meaningless at times like these.
She knelt down, unzipped him and took him in her mouth as if she knew he'd been hiding a stick of Blackpool rock from her inside his shorts all this time.
He was soon more than ready to administer her treatment at the required dosage that was recorded on her medical chart.
Amy stood up, turned round, hoisted her skirt up to her waist, bent forward, leaned on a sink, gripped the porcelain sides as if she was expecting a bumpy ride and spread her legs. She wasn't wearing any panties either, and he guessed that panties were probably an impediment to a nymphomaniac.
He entered her like a leading specialist in the treatment of nymphomania, gripped her breasts as if they were handholds on a climbing wall and thrust into her.
'More,' she moaned.
More! More what? He had what he had, there was no more.
'Faster.'
He could do faster. In fact, the joystick had a number of control settings. He increased the speed of the treatment, which seemed to meet with an appropriate medical response.
'Now.'
Now! Now what? He took a wild guess at what she might have been referring to and ejaculated inside her like an erupting volcano that had lain dormant for a thousand years.
'Yes.' Her legs buckled and she flopped over the sink.
He washed himself in the basin next to her, dried everything with a paper towel and then put all his bits back where they belonged.
She went into a cubicle and shut the door. 'Very impressive.'
'I specialise in nymphomaniacs,' he said.
The toilet flushed, the cubicle door opened and she came back out with her skirt pulled down. 'I need at least three treatment sessions a day,' she said, putting her blouse and jacket back on.
'You won't be surprised to learn that I have other needy patients. Not only that, I have fourteen – possibly seventeen – bodies that have been embalmed and had Roman numerals tattooed inside their bottom lips, so three sessions a day is beyond my capabilities at the moment. Of course, I am, after all, a public servant, so if you're really desperate, I'll make every effort to attend and alleviate your symptoms.'
'Very kind.'
They swapped business cards and made their way up to the ground floor.
He called Coveney and arranged for one of the ladies to come in and accompany Amy English around the remaining three floors of the waxworks.
'I'll call you,' she said.
'I look forward to it,' he responded.
Chapter Sixteen
'Sergeant,' he said to Bob Birdwhistle. 'You're with me.'
'Sir.'
'You'll need a vest and weapons.'
'Understood.' Birdwhistle grabbed his bullet-proof vest, strapped on the belt that held the Glock-17 in its holster and put the strap of the Uzi sub-machine gun over his shoulder.
'Corporal Zepp?'
'Sir?'
'You're in charge until we return.' One of his first jobs as Commanding Officer was to create a chain of command. A military unit without a chain of command wasn't a military unit in any sense of the word.
'Yes, Sir.'
They took the van. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. He planned to obtain a couple of four-by-fours, but he hadn't acquired them yet. He was a fool. Of course they were going to fight back. He should have been prepared. All the years without active service had dulled his instincts.
During the short journey, he explained to the Sergeant what had happened, what they were doing and why.
He parked the van next to Lucy's bike on Black's Street.
The shop where he'd bought the microchip stood empty and all the signs had disappeared. What had happened to it? Why had they closed it down?
They tried the shop front door, but it was locked. They peered through the windows, but there was no sign of any occupation.
According to his phone, the GPS locator chip showed that Lucy was somewhere close by, but Google maps couldn't pinpoint her exactly, so they walked along the row of shops searching for her.
The man in the bakers had seen her earlier. She'd been looking for a shop that sold microchips. He didn't know of any such shop. The woman in the hairdressers was a bit more help.
'Came in earlier wanting information about a shop called Beautiful Species that opened at number five last week and was selling microchips,' she
said. 'Told her that the woman paid a week's rent up front, but closed up last Thursday. I could have told her that it wasn't the right place to open up a shop selling electronic gadgets, but what do I know?'
Thursday! Jack thought. The day he'd bought the microchip. That's why Lucy was quizzing him about the leaflet, the shop and the instruction booklet. Was it all just a set up? Was it his fault that Lucy was missing?
'I gave this Lucy Neilson the key to the shop. She said she was looking for a contact address for the company, because there was something wrong with the microchip that her father had bought her for her birthday. Anyway, she never returned the key like she said she would. I had to walk up there and retrieve it. She'd left it in the front door and the shop was wide open. I see her motorbike is still there though, but she never returned here.'
'And you haven't seen her since?'
'Didn't I just say that?'
'Thanks for your help.'
After leaving the hairdressers, they walked along the rear alley and checked all of the empty shops until the only place they hadn't searched was the derelict warehouse on the corner.
The Sergeant retrieved the bolt cutters from the back of the van, removed the heavy-duty bolt and opened up the gate.
They made their way inside and soon found what they were looking for – his daughter.
She wasn't there in person though, there was a live-feed of her on a laptop. Inserted into one of the USB ports was a GlobalSat dongle. He guessed it was a GPS signal repeater that relayed the signal from Lucy's microchip.
Lucy was strung up by her wrists, the zip of the motorcycle suit had been pulled down to her crotch and the clothes underneath cut to reveal her naked chest and stomach.
'Say a few words for your father, Lucy,' a woman's voice said.
'Kill the fucking lot of them, Jack,' she said, staring defiantly into the camera. His daughter looked pale, her bottom lip was swollen and she had blood on her chin.
A woman's hand holding a stun gun came into view, pressed it into Lucy's breast and pulled the trigger.
She grunted and flopped forwards.
'I think we both know how this is going to go, Jack,' the woman said. 'You stop pursuing us, and we let Lucy go. You're never going to win – there are too many of us. If you continue . . . Well, after Lucy there's Ruth, Duffy, Quigg and his brood of children. You can't protect all of them, Jack. And sooner or later we'll catch up with you as well. We're prepared to give you twenty-four hours from midday today, and then people will start dying – beginning with your daughter.'
The laptop screen went blank.
Sergeant Birdwhistle said, 'I was sceptical before, Sir. But not anymore. Looks like we've got a battle on our hands.'
'And they have the initiative now.'
'They won't let your daughter go, will they?'
'No.'
He called Ruth.
'Yes?'
'They've taken Lucy.'
'How . . .?'
'How is not important right now. I've just watched a live feed of her on a laptop. There's also some electronic gadgetry here that's relaying the GPS signal from Lucy's implanted microchip. Is there anything Li can do to trace where that live feed came from? Or where the microchip signal is?'
'I'll call you back in a minute.'
The call ended.
He paced up and down until his phone activated again.
'Yes?'
It was Li. 'Press the Face Time icon on your phone for a video call and show me the laptop.
He did as she instructed and pointed his phone at the laptop and GlobalSat dongle in the USB port.
'Switch the laptop on and connect to the internet.'
He did it.
'All right! I've got the IP Address, I'm into the system and I have everything I need. Take the laptop and the dongle in the USB port with you, but remove the battery from the laptop, so it can't be tracked. I'll be in contact soon.'
Sergeant Birdwhistle scooped up everything.
They left the warehouse and returned to the van.
'What about the motorbike, Sir?' Birdwhistle asked.
Jack nodded. 'Let's be positive and say she's going to get out of this alive.' He lowered the ramp and between them they manhandled the bike into the back of the van and closed the doors.
He drove them back to Catherine Wheel Yard with a heavy heart. If Lucy died, it would be his fault. Maybe that's exactly the way they planned for it to happen. He was hoping for a few days to train the recruits, develop the plan and tie everything together. It didn't look as though he was going to have the luxury of even twenty-four hours, because the clock was already ticking.
***
Once Gregory the cleaner had finished his work and left, they decided to search the house.
'Are you sure we should?' Harry said.
'That's what we came here for, isn't it?'
'It seems a bit . . .'
'Intrusive?' Duffy suggested.
'Yes, that's a good word. I mean, Mrs Adams could come back at any time and find us rummaging through her personal possessions.'
'Except, she's gone missing – disappeared, hasn't she? We're here because we've been employed by Rita to find Estelle Adams, and the only way to do that is by obtaining as much information about her as we can.'
Harry nodded, but it wasn't a convincing nod. 'I guess. What are we looking for?'
'I don't know. Anything that might explain why Estelle Adams disappeared. We also need to find out exactly who she was and who her husband was. I mean, we don't know anything about them, do we?'
'No, I suppose not.'
'There's also the business about the question she wanted to ask her husband, which was why she was at the séance in the first place.'
'Yes, that's true.'
'You search the upstairs first. I'll search down here, and then we'll swap.'
'Okay. What about the cellar?'
'We'll search that together.'
He smiled. 'Good idea.'
She really had no idea what she was looking for, but as she rifled through Estelle Adams' house, she gradually built up a picture of the woman who had disappeared, her deceased husband and made notes about the two of them in her journal. Estelle Adams' maiden name was Walden and she was the only child of Toby and Wilma Walden from Kent, who had both died on the doomed flight that was shot down by Russian guerrillas over the Crimea on September 9, 2009. At the age of twenty-seven, she had married William Adams. Following a brief courtship, a small wedding had taken place in the local Anglican church on August 28, 2004. After sixteen years of marriage there were no children. Estelle was now forty-three years of age with a slim figure and an attractive face. She worked as a part-time headteacher's secretary at the local St Francis of Assisi Primary School. Her husband had run his own pest control business called ACE Pest Control Limited.
According to Estelle's current financial records she wasn't short of money. She had over two thousand pounds in her current account; fifty thousand pounds invested in national premium bonds; and just short of two hundred thousand pounds spread around cash ISA's, shares and savings accounts.
After twenty minutes Harry appeared holding a book in the air. 'Look what I found hidden down the side of her bed between the mattress and the frame.'
'A book?'
'Estelle's diary.' He opened it up and said, 'This is her last entry on the day of the séance:'
'I've looked everywhere, but I can't find them. I'm going to a séance tonight in a final attempt to locate them before he comes for me. If there is anything to life after death, maybe Bill will tell me where he hid them. If not, then I guess he'll take me next.'
Harry passed her the diary.
She re-read the entry. 'Does she say what she's looking for?'
'Notebooks is all she says. I went back to October, because that's when her husband died according to Gregory.' He took the diary back, found the date and said, 'This is what she says on October 10:'
'Bill found half-a
-dozen notebooks while he was fumigating a house today and brought them home. We looked through them and now I'm scared. God! He should never have taken them in the first place, and he should never have brought them into our house. I told him he had to take them back before anyone realised they were missing and came after us.'
'Have you read the pages after October 10?'
'Skimmed them.'
'Did you see anything about the location of the house, or the identity of the man?'
'No.'
Harry's eyes narrowed in a look of concern. 'She seemed really scared.'
'Yes.'
'Is there anything about what's in the notebooks?'
'Not that I could see.'
'Those notebooks could explain why she went missing.'
He turned over a couple of pages and passed her a newspaper article. 'This was slipped into the diary between October 15 and 16.'
She read the article. It described a road traffic accident on the King's Road (A3217) in which a local man – William Adams – had died under mysterious circumstances. The death was being treated as suspicious by the police, because the pest control van he was driving had veered off the road and hit a tree for no apparent reason. Mister Adams was taken to the Royal Brompton Hospital, but was declared dead on arrival due to catastrophic head injuries. There were, however, two anomalies, and in the absence of any other evidence, both anomalies could have been explained by the force of the vehicle's impact with the tree. First, the gearstick was in neutral; and second, the driver's seat was too far back for Mister Adams' feet to reach the pedals.
'Mmmm!' Duffy said.
'I'm beginning to think that we're not dealing with a paranormal event, Duffy,' Harry said.
'It's certainly looking less likely, isn't it? But until we know what the notebooks contain, where they came from, and who the man is, we won't know for sure.'
'And if we do find those things out, we might end up dying mysteriously like William Adams, and probably his wife Estelle now as well.'
'Do you want to give up then?'