The Exhibits in Mrs Salmon's Waxworks

by Tim Ellis

  Duffy took her phone out of her handbag and said, 'I'm going to call the man I live with, he's a Detective Inspector in charge of a murder team at Hammersmith Police Station.'

  Harry pursed his lips and nodded. 'That seems the logical thing to do. I wonder why William and Estelle didn't call the police?'

  'I guess we'll never know now.'

  'Well, it certainly has nothing to do with us.'

  She called Quigg.

  'This is a nice surprise, Duffy.'

  'No, it's not, Sir. We need to meet.'

  'Well, I can't at the moment. I'm just on my way to an important meeting.'

  'What time can we meet then?'

  'What's it about?'

  'A serial killer.'

  'Is this a paranormal serial killer? Someone who's come back from the dead and is . . .?'

  'I hope you're not being facetious, Sir?'

  'Is that even a word, Duffy? What about five-thirty in the Buffalo Steakhouse on Goldhawk Road? Their steak and chips are something else. Just you and me? A romantic meal for two? How long has it been since we snuggled up together?'

  'Less than twenty-four hours.'

  'Oh yeah!'

  'I'll see you at five-thirty, Sir.'

  'Great! Can't wait.'

  She ended the call. 'I'll take the notebooks with me, if that's all right you, Harry?'

  'More than all right. I don't want to see them ever again. In fact, I wish I could un-see them.'

  She found a plastic bag in a drawer and put the notebooks in it. 'We'd better make sure everything is left as we found it.'

  'I'll check upstairs and put the bath panel back.'

  'Okay. I'll wash up and check down here.'

  Within ten minutes they were stepping out through the front door of 34 Severus Road in Battersea and walking towards Clapham Junction station where they went their separate ways with an agreement that she would call him tomorrow morning.

  Duffy didn't notice the man in a dark suit, white shirt and yellow tie beneath a black heavy coat with the collar up, and a trilby hat following her. Or, if she did, she didn't take any notice of him.

  ***

  They ate at the Mad Bishop & Bear in Paddington, which was on the way back to the waxworks.

  For starters, he had the potato skins stuffed with cheddar, sour cream and crispy bacon; followed by whiskey baby back ribs, French fries and coleslaw. For desert he chose the cherry cobbler with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Rummage ordered the Philly steak with grilled green peppers, onions, mushrooms and melted provolone cheese on a sandwich accompanied by a side salad, but instead of attacking it with gusto, all she could manage was a few miserable bites and a face like a wet weekend.

  'What's going on with you, Rummage?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I feel as though you're a wraith who's only been half with me these last couple of days.'

  'Personal issues.'

  'Which are?'

  'Personal.'

  'I'm your partner, Rummage. A personal issue shared is a personal issue halved.'

  'Half a personal issue would be no good to me.'

  'And anyway, how can you have personal issues? Both your parents are dead, you have no siblings, you're not married, you have no children, so what else could it be?'

  'Don't you have your own personal issues to worry about?'

  'Not a one. I live a very uncomplicated life.'

  'Well, you're not getting your hands on my personal issues. Have you finished eating yet?'

  He put the last of the cherry cobbler and ice cream into his mouth. 'Mmmm! In a rush?'

  Rummage stood up and started to walk out.

  'I'll pay, shall I?' he called after her.

  She was leaning against his car when he walked outside after paying.

  'I hope you're not scratching my paintwork with your inexpensive clothing, Rummage? Do you want to drive my new Batmobile?'

  'No. I'd hate to deprive you of your penis extension.'

  'You can be so cruel sometimes.'

  He drove the short distance back to the waxworks, parked on the double yellow lines and they went inside the command centre.

  'Potential detective Amies,' he said, as he sat down. 'Talk dirty to me about faint whooshing noises?'

  She giggled. 'If you recall, the noises only happen at night. Mrs Berkeley confirmed that was the case, because she'd never heard anything about whooshing noises.'

  'And what about the underground?'

  'There are tunnels nearby, but it's not those. If it was, the noises would be heard all day.'

  'Okay, so you've told me what it's not, what is it?'

  'I have an acoustic consultant coming from Merchant Acoustics tonight, Sir.'

  'A consultant?'

  'Yes.'

  'Overnight?'

  'Yes.'

  'How much is that going to cost us?'

  'I didn't ask.'

  'Let me give you all a very important piece of advice – it's always about money. The first question the Chief will ask you, is how will it impact his budget? Well, Amies?'

  'I don't know.'

  'You'd better find out, because I need to know. If I haven't got a ready answer for the Chief when I brief him, I'll earn his displeasure, and we wouldn't want that, would we?'

  'No, Sir.'

  'Because if I'm displeasured, I'll have to displeasure you, Amies.'

  She looked at the others and giggled.

  'In my vast experience as a senior officer, what goes around, comes around. So, give these consultants a ring and find out how much.'

  'Yes, Sir.'

  'We've got the night guard coming back tonight, haven't we, Coveney?'

  'Yes, Sir.'

  'Good. Anything else?'

  'Doctor Perkins said that his people didn't find any more bodies, so three bodies are still missing according to the Roman numerals.'

  'They're in there somewhere, Sergeant. Maybe the acoustic consultant can give us a clue.'

  'Between two and five thousand pounds, Sir,' Amies said, putting the phone down.

  'I hope you told them that highway robbery in England is illegal and remains on the statutes as a hanging offence?'

  'Did you want me to haggle with them?'

  'Isn't that what you women do? Haggling is part of your genetic make-up, isn't it? I'm sure that if it was a pair of shoes or a handbag, you'd have already got fifty percent off and be asking about bargains, vouchers and freebies by now.'

  'That's different, Sir.'

  'Couldn't they be more specific about the cost?'

  'No, Sir. But they did say the invoice will be itemised.'

  'I'm underwhelmed. Okay. Well, if that's the best they can do, the Chief will just have to be satisfied with that.' He glanced at the list of outstanding tasks on the whiteboard. 'What about the long-term embalming chemicals ? Any luck finding out where they came from?'

  Hanson said, 'Nothing, Sir. I called all the local outlets, but they hadn't noticed anything unusual in the purchase of industrial alcohol, glycerol and formalin. I also contacted the National Crime Agency about purchases on the darknet and the regular internet, but they hadn't come across any unusual purchases. However, when I ran a search on the HOLMES database, I found that there had been a number of unsolved thefts of those same chemicals over the past twenty years from different companies, but no suspect had ever been identified.'

  'No help then?'

  'Sorry, Sir.'

  'Not your fault, Hanson. He obviously doesn't want to get caught. What about a list of long-term embalmers?'

  Coveney answered. 'We came up with a list of ten people, but seven of them don't live in the UK. I checked out the other three, but none had a connection to the waxworks. However, it's not that simple, Sir.'

  'No, it never is.'

  'I spoke to Professor Nora Jackson at the British Institute of Embalmers, and she said that funeral directors are trained in the practice of embalming techniques and could easily perform
long-term embalming. Not only that, taxidermists could also carry out long-term embalming, which is essentially what they do anyway. She also told me that there are over one thousand three hundred embalmers in the UK, and the Guild of Taxidermy have two hundred members and they estimate that there are at least two thousand hobbyist taxidermists. Based on what she said, our suspect pool is now about three thousand five hundred.'

  'You're meant to be eliminating suspects, not collecting them, Coveney.'

  'Sorry, Sir.'

  'Well, Rummage interviewed our four primary suspects, but came up empty-handed, so we're back to square one on the snakes and ladders board of life. What did Mrs Berkeley say about any threats to employees, board members or the waxworks in general?'

  'Nothing of any import, Sir.'

  'And the information about the four names I gave you?'

  Coveney pointed to the four Missing Person posters of Katherine Bush (September 14, 2017); Scott Bolt (January 5, 2011); Peter Willis (November 26, 2013); and John Ambler (March 19, 2016) that had been stuck up on the whiteboard. One day they were there, the next they weren't. Officers investigated, but there was no evidence of foul play.'

  'This is not going well, ladies. So basically, we don't have a single suspect?'

  'No, Sir,' Coveney said.

  His phone vibrated.

  'Quigg.'

  'It's Amy English.'

  'The architect?'

  'Yes. I have news for you.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'I need to show you on my iPad.'

  'Okay.'

  'Meet me in the lingerie department at Middleton's Store in ten minutes. It's just round the corner from the waxworks.'

  'I'll be there.' As he ended the call, he thought that the lingerie department was a strange place to meet, but probably not for Amy English. He had the idea that she might be desperate for her second medication of the day. To some people, he imagined that sex was like a drug. Personally, he could take it or leave it. A nymphomaniac, however, would probably suffer similar withdrawal symptoms to a drug addict – anxiety, panic attacks, restlessness, irritability . . . As well as real physical symptoms, such as the shakes and a racing heart, until they could get their next fix. Well, with a debilitating affliction himself, he was understanding and happy to help people manage their addictions.

  'Who was that?' Rummage asked.

  'The architect. She has news. I'll be back shortly.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'If you want to practise your interrogation technique on someone, there are three women in here with time on their hands. As for me, I have somewhere else I need to be. What you can do, is brief the ladies on what Doctor Solberg told us about the bodies and the grave wax. And you can leave out the bit about my panic attack.'

  'What's this?' Amies said, leaning forward in her chair.

  'Never you mind, potential detective Amies.'

  He made his way out of the command centre, walked round the corner to Middleton's Store and rode up on the elevator to the second floor lingerie department.

  There were no other men in there and he felt like a pervert.

  'Inspector Quigg?' an attractive shop assistant asked. She had long dirty blonde hair to her waist, perfectly plucked eyebrows and wore a sleeveless black dress with a teardrop-shaped cut out that revealed a snapshot of her cleavage.

  He looked around nervously as if he'd been caught touching the lingerie. 'Yes.'

  'I'm Brenda,' she said, pointing to the name badge on her chest that had previously been hidden by her hair. 'I'm a friend of Amy's.'

  'Okay.' He was unsure of what he was doing there and wondered where Amy was.

  'Please come with me.'

  He followed her to the ladies' changing rooms. There was a red plastic chain stretched between two yellow plastic posts across the entrance. In the middle of the chain hung a red and yellow sign that stated: NO ENTRY.

  Brenda lifted her dress half-way up her thighs to reveal black hold-up stockings with laces tied in bows at the tops and stepped over the chain. She had nice shapely legs.

  He stayed where he was.

  'Step over the chain,' she said.

  'Are you sure? It says "No Entry".'

  'I'll authorise it,' she said with a smile.

  He stepped over the chain and followed her into the changing room. There were cubicles along the left-hand side, a long wide flat bench in the middle and two large mirrors on the wall to the right.

  Amy was pacing up and down past the mirrors like a caged leopard. She was wearing a light-blue silk camisole top and matching French knickers edged in lace. 'What took you so long?' she said, sitting on the end of the bench and wrestling with the belt and zip on his trousers. She pulled his erection out, lay back on the bench, moved the gusset of her knickers to one side and pulled him into her.

  'Oh God! That feels so good.'

  'Glad I could be of service,' he said. As he settled into a rhythm, he was surprised to find Brenda was still there. She shrugged out of her clothes like a snake shedding its skin, but left her black hold-up stockings on.

  'Are you staying?'

  'I'm doing more than that,' she said.

  'Oh!' He didn't realise it was going to be a ménage à trois.

  She joined them.

  There was a considerable amount of slurping, licking, sucking and swapping of bodily fluids.

  He lay on the bench, which was a lot more comfortable than standing up, but in that position he had two women to concentrate on instead of one.

  Brenda and Amy changed places. If he'd been asked, he would have been hard pressed to point out where one ended and the other began.

  Then he changed places and was standing up again. It was like musical chairs without the music or the chairs.

  'Oh!' a woman's voice came from behind him.

  He knew it! His career was about to go up in a puff of smoke. Did she have her camera out? Was she filming him? He turned to look at her.

  She was wrapped up warm in a coat with a fur collar and as well as her handbag, she was carrying three bra and panty sets on hangers that she slipped onto a hook on the wall.

  He stopped mid-thrust.

  'Don't stop,' Amy said.

  What else was he meant to do? A customer had come in and caught them in flagrante delicto. If he stopped and stood perfectly still, she might not notice him and he could quietly leave with his career still intact.

  'Didn't you see the sign?' Brenda challenged the woman. 'NO ENTRY! The changing rooms are closed.'

  'You're here.'

  'We're having a staff meeting.'

  The woman gave a laugh. 'How would it be if I screamed blue murder?'

  'Can't you just go and leave us to our meeting?'

  'Or I could stay and provide you with some customer input,' she said, taking off her coat and untying the strap of her wrap-around dress. She was pretty in a plain sort of way, with thin oblong glasses, black hair past her shoulders, a tattoo of a rose around her navel and large firm breasts.

  Brenda glanced at him.

  He shrugged. The ménage à trois had just turned into an orgy.

  'My name's Rosie,' she said, as she stepped over Amy's legs, bent forward and positioned herself in front of his erection. She began manoeuvring backwards slowly as if it was a docking operation at the International Space Station.

  He positioned his clamps on her breasts, edged forward and successfully docked his spaceship.

  'Jesus, Mary and Joseph!' she said, shuddered and collapsed on top of Amy. 'It's been so long. Again! Do it again.'

  He obliged.

  It wasn't long before he ran out of erection and sperm. 'Time to go,' he said.

  Rosie looked disappointed. 'Already?'

  Amy and Brenda were lying on the floor recuperating.

  'I have work.'

  'What do you do?'

  'Detective Inspector – Vice.'

  'You're doing a good job.'

  'Thanks.' He got dressed an
d gave Brenda and Rosie a business card each. 'Should either of you need any further police assistance.'

  As he was about to leave the changing room, Amy called after him. 'Inspector Quigg?'

  He turned. 'Yes?'

  'You forgot why you came.'

  'I came so many times.'

  'The waxworks.'

  He eyes opened wide. 'Of course! Your comparative analysis of the building. Well, what news?'

  'Everything is as it should be.'

  'I thought you had to show me the results on your iPad.'

  'I only said that to get you here.'

  'I see. Okay. Well, thanks for your time, Amy.'

  'It was my pleasure.'

  'And mine,' Brenda added.

  'Me too,' Rosie chipped in.

  He left the three women joined together like a three-dimensional interlocking puzzle, that would have taken a team of MENSA members years to unravel, and made his way back to the command centre. It was already ten past three and he had to brief the Chief at three-thirty.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jack drove back to Catherine Wheel Yard, offloaded the motorbike from the back of the van and collected a team of five to accompany him to where Li said Lucy was being held: Sergeant Bob Birdwhistle, Petty Officer (Sergeant) Ramona Relish, Corporal Kenny Kincaid, Privates Jimmy Crisp and Terry Tumbler.

  While they were kitting up with vests and weapons, he briefed them on what had happened.

  'I've just learned that any plans we had have gone to a bag of shit,' he said, using military slang. 'They took my daughter this morning and were using her to force me to back off. Unfortunately, events have overtaken both them and us. Members of the enterprise, the Board of Directors and the European Investors have all been taken into custody in a sweeping operation involving a number of police forces . . .'

  'Well, that's good, isn't it, Sir?' Private Pete Pussett, late of the Yorkshire Regiment, said.

  'Under normal circumstances – possibly, but they still have my daughter.'

  Petty Officer Ramona Relish said, 'And if they don't need you to back off anymore, then they don't need your daughter?'

  'That's it exactly. I have an address where she's being held. Let's go and get her – alive or dead.'

  Four members of the team piled into the back of the van.