The Exhibits in Mrs Salmon's Waxworks

by Tim Ellis

  ***

  'Good morning, Harry,' she said while she applied her make-up. She didn't often wear her Bluetooth earpiece, but it was useful if her hands were busy doing something else.

  'Hi, Duffy. Have you heard the news?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you have anything to do with it?'

  'Me? I have an alibi.'

  'That's not what I meant. What about your partner?'

  'We both have alibis.'

  'I should drop it, shouldn't I?'

  'Drop what?'

  'Okay. So, that's Estelle's disappearance solved then?'

  'Did you also hear on the news that they'd found Estelle?'

  'No.'

  'So how can it be solved?'

  'Have you heard from the man who's analysing the recording yet?'

  'No. I should have called him first. Let me call him now, and then I'll ring you back.'

  'Okay.'

  She ended the call and rang Perkins' number.

  'Hello.'

  'It's Duffy.'

  'You were next on my list of calls.'

  'Did you find anything?'

  'I didn't personally analyse the recording. I had our expert here run it through the video recovery software, because deleted sections of video can still be recovered even if the SD card is reformatted or the camcorder crashes.'

  'Okay. So, was it an alien abduction?'

  'Unfortunately no. I've sent you the recovered section of the recording. What you have is a gas – probably a fentanyl-derivative, which was used by the Russian Federal Security Service in the Moscow Theatre Siege – being introduced into the room; the people collapsing into unconsciousness; two men entering the room wearing gas masks and then cloning Amy Lohman's mobile phone. Amy Lohman, is Chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament with statutory responsibility for oversight of the UK Intelligence Community, which includes MI5, MI6, GCHQ, Defence Intelligence, the Joint Intelligence Organisation, the National Security Secretariat and the Office for Security and Counter-Terrorism, so take your pick.'

  'Goodness.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Isn't fentanyl dangerous?'

  'It was a derivative, so we don't know the side effects. Also, the dosage was minimal. If you look, they wake up fairly soon after the men leave. Has any of them complained of drowsiness or fatigue, confusion, sweating or nausea?'

  'Not to my knowledge. I don't think any of them realised they'd been drugged.'

  'No, that doesn't surprise me.'

  'What about the disappearing woman?'

  'Yes, that was what you asked me to look at. I originally thought that Estelle Adams might have been abducted to throw everyone off the scent of Amy Lohman's cloned phone, but I now think it could be the other way round. When we examined her disappearance more closely, we found that she stands up and walks out of the room still under the influence of the fentanyl-derivative as if she was sleepwalking, which is impossible. However, further analysis under an infrared filter identified a ghostly image taking her by the hand and leading her out of the room. Very strange, if you ask me. Anyway, I've sent you a copy of the analysis, so you can take a look for yourself.'

  'What should I do?'

  'Well, my suggestion would be to contact Amy Lohman and tell her what you've found. Send her a copy of the recovered section, so that she can see for herself what happened. I don't know what she had on her phone, but somebody – probably the Russians – wanted it pretty badly, and it could compromise our national security.'

  'Yes, that's a good idea.'

  'What about Estelle Adams though?'

  'No idea. Are you sure she left the house?'

  'Yes. We checked everywhere the following morning.'

  'I'd take another unannounced look if I were you. I wouldn't be surprised if she was still in the house somewhere.'

  'Mmmm! I don't see how that's possible, but thanks very much for your help, Doctor Perkins.'

  'Yes. Just a shame that it wasn't an alien abduction.'

  'Sorry about that. Maybe next time.'

  'Maybe.'

  The call ended.

  She rang Harry back.

  'Did you speak to him?' Harry said.

  'Yes. There were two things that happened during the séance. First, a sleeping gas was pumped into the room and once everyone was unconscious, two men wearing gas masks came in and cloned Amy Lohman's phone. Apparently, she's Chair of the Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament.'

  'The Russians?'

  'That seems likely. So, I've got to contact her and let her know what happened. The second thing that occurred was Estelle Adams being led out of the room by a ghostly image. I'll send you the recovered section, so you can take a look before we meet up.'

  'Fascinating. I'm really glad you asked me to join you, Duffy.'

  'So am I, Harry.'

  'What are we going to be doing today?'

  'The man who analysed the recording has suggested that Estelle Adams might still be in the house.'

  'We searched everywhere.'

  'I know. Maybe we should make an unannounced visit and take another look.'

  'Okay.'

  'So, I'll see you outside Clapham Junction station at eleven-thirty, and we'll walk up to Rita's house together.'

  'We have a plan. See you then, Duffy.'

  She ended the call and searched for a contact number for Amy Lohman MP on the internet. All she could find was a number for her constituency office, because she was the Member of Parliament for Oxford West and Abingdon.

  'Amy Lohman's constituency office,' a female voice said into her ear. 'How can I help you?'

  'Yes. My name is Mavourneen Duffy and I'd like to get a message to Amy Lohman as a matter of urgency.'

  'Is it constituency business?'

  'No, it's government security business. She attended a séance on Sunday night and something went wrong. I have information that her mobile phone has been compromised. Could you ask her to contact me as soon as she can?'

  'Can you give me your details?'

  'Of course.' Duffy told her.

  The call ended.

  While she was waiting, she finished getting ready.

  It didn't take long for her phone to ring – it was an unknown number.

  'Hello,' she said.

  'This is Amy Lohman.'

  'Rita the Medium asked me to investigate the disappearance of Estelle Adams.'

  'Yes, that was very strange.'

  'I had the recording analysed by a police forensic officer. There was fifteen minutes missing from the recording, but he was able to recover the missing section and there's something on it you should see. Have you got a private email address I can send it to?'

  'Why would I be interested in it?'

  'All of you were knocked out by a fentanyl-derivative gas, which I understand is used by the Russian secret service, two men in gas masks entered the room and cloned your phone. They then altered the recording and left.'

  'But what about Mrs Adams?'

  'It's a separate incident and not relevant to what happened to you.'

  'All right, send me the recording.' She gave Duffy her private email address.

  'I think the recording is self-explanatory, but if you do need to talk to me about anything else, you have my number.'

  'This isn't going to go any further, is it?'

  'No. We were looking for an explanation about Estelle Adams' disappearance. If Estelle hadn't gone missing at that séance, then nobody would know anything about your phone being cloned.'

  'Thank you.'

  The call ended.

  On her way out she had a fruit juice, a bowl of Muesli, and kissed and hugged Marie.

  ***

  She'd look stupid catching a taxi to Catherine Wheel Yard in her leather motorcycle suit and boots. If you wore a suit and boots, you were meant to ride a bike, not catch a taxi. In the end, she decided that she was travelling door-to-door and only the driver would see her, so she put
the suit and boots on.

  When she clomped up to the kitchen, she found Ruth sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee and going through a stack of newspapers.

  'You look like a Hell's Angel without a motorbike,' Ruth said.

  'And you look like a slovenly bitch with no dress sense.'

  Ruth glanced down at her open dressing gown and legs. 'I do, don't I?' She laughed. 'I should take a shower and get dressed, but I am enjoying not going to work. Instead, I might go back to bed.'

  'Always a good idea.'

  'How are you feeling?'

  'Sore and embarrassed. Thanks for saving me.'

  'It was Li who did the saving.'

  'You were part of it, so thanks.'

  'I was glad I could.'

  'So, what are you going to do now?'

  She closed the newspaper she was reading and swivelled off the stool. 'Going back to bed. After that, we will see. I need a project, but I don't know what.'

  'Good luck.'

  'Thank you.' Ruth shuffled off back to bed.

  Lucy called for a taxi.

  While she waited, she went in to check on the rugrats and met the housekeeper – Janet Thomas.

  'Your room is a mess.'

  'And your point is?'

  'If I have a point, then it's probably that you should keep your room tidy and clean.'

  'Do we pay you to clean, or walk around the house taking notes and commenting on the state of people's rooms?'

  'I'm your housekeeper. If I have something to say, I'll say it.'

  'Even if it means losing your job?'

  'You just try, Lucy Neilson. I know all about industrial tribunals.'

  'And I know all about gobshite housekeepers. My advice is to do your job and keep your gob shut. If I had to tidy and clean the room myself, then why would we employ you?'

  'I might have to speak to Mister Quigg.'

  'I'm your boss, not Quigg. Any complaints about Lucy Neilson, you should bring them to me and I'll launch a major enquiry. In the meantime, more fucking work and less gobbing off.'

  The woman grunted and clomped off along the corridor pushing the vacuum cleaner.

  What the hell was she doing talking to the housekeeper about dirty rooms; employing nannies for rugrats that weren't hers; and discussing a building extension and Local Authority planning permission for the nursery? She was twenty-one for Christ's sake! Is this what she wanted from her life? She'd died and been brought back to life, given a second chance by a benevolent god. It was time she did something with that life, instead of frittering it away on banalities.

  A horn beeped.

  She went outside, let herself out through the gate and climbed into the taxi.

  'Where to, Miss?'

  'Catherine Wheel Yard.'

  'No. Don't know that one.'

  'Near the Graffiti Tunnel.'

  'Gotcha!'

  She sat back and closed her eyes. Her mind felt like a bag of soggy rice. Maybe she wasn't meant to be in the land of the living. Maybe Ramona bringing her back from the other side had been a mistake, an error, a glitch in the continuity of the universe. Maybe she'd cheated death, deprived the Grim Reaper of a body that should have been available for collection at the appointed time and place. Maybe now, she was simply occupying a place between life and death – like a waiting room of sorts – until the Reaper could re-organise his schedule and reclaim what was rightfully his. There was no escaping death. You could maybe cheat it a few times, but he would get you in the end.

  'We're here, Miss.'

  She gave him a twenty pound note and told him to keep the change.

  'Have a good one, Miss.'

  'And you.'

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  'You're not pregnant are you, Amies?'

  'No, Sir.' She pulled a face and ran a hand over her flat stomach. At twenty-seven, Stephanie Amies was the youngest of the three constables who manned the mobile command centre. She had long dark-brown hair scooped back into a ponytail, a round attractive face with chubby cheeks and a good figure, which he hadn't really noticed before because she'd always worn her uniform and had mostly been sitting down. Now, as they walked up the steps to the waxworks' entrance, he realised he'd done her a disservice. He could imagine her squirming about naked on a bed. No wonder Nicky Wright was warning him off her. 'Why do you ask?'

  'Because Inspector Wright has made it quite clear that you're not to get pregnant. And if you do, it'll be my fault. I can't say I'm very happy about being used as your contraceptive Amies, but there it is.'

  'You don't need to worry, Sir. I have no plans to have any babies now, or at any time in the future.'

  'That's good to hear. Are you not the maternal type?'

  'I don't even know what that means. What I do know is that having a baby completely messes up your body and your life. I'm happy with both and don't see that changing.'

  'Do you have a boyfriend?'

  'Are you interested in the position, Sir?'

  He let out a laugh. 'You do know about my complicated home life, don't you?'

  'Yes, Sir. You have a harem, a creche and you live in a converted church.'

  'Exactly! So, as much as I appreciate the opportunity to audition for the position of your boyfriend, I'll have to pass.'

  'You don't know what you're missing, Sir.'

  'I have a good imagination.'

  A small bald-headed man in a crumpled shirt, tie and dark-grey suit approached them. He was unshaven and had dark bags under his eyes. 'Inspector Quigg?'

  'And you must be the overpriced Mathew Warner?'

  'I've often said as much myself, Inspector.'

  'Maybe we can discuss a discount then?'

  'Are you here to haggle the fee with me, or do you want me to tell you what I've discovered?'

  'Tell me what you've found. Maybe Amies here can haggle the fee afterwards.'

  'Not with me. I'll be going home to sleep. I'm not responsible for fees or haggling. You need to contact the office if you want to discuss my extortionate fee.'

  'And don't think we won't do that, Mister Warner. Okay then, what have you found?'

  'Yes, there are definitely whooshing noises in the building at night, and I've located the source as the columns.'

  Quigg screwed up his face. 'The columns?'

  'Yes.'

  They followed Warner to the nearest column.

  'You can't hear anything now, but I walked all over the building last night using a sound level meter.' From the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small hand-held meter with an amplifier on the end, a screen and a series of red, blue and black buttons. 'This is what I recorded at the columns.'

  They watched as the faint whooshing noises he'd heard during the night were illustrated as rectangular bars on the small screen.

  'There was no noise anywhere else in the waxworks.'

  'The columns?' Quigg repeated.

  Warner nodded. 'Definitely.'

  'Continuous whooshing noises?'

  'No, at irregular intervals.'

  'From all eight columns?'

  'Yes, but not all at the same time.'

  'Where exactly is the noise coming from? I mean, aren't the columns solid?' He knocked the small majolica tiles on the column, but he was none the wiser.

  'I have no idea. You'd have to speak to the people who built the waxworks.'

  'Unfortunately, I left my time machine at home, but I do know someone else who might be able to help.'

  He took his phone out of his duffel coat pocket and dialled a number.

  'Amy English.'

  'It's Quigg.'

  'I was just thinking about you.'

  'I thought my ears were burning.'

  'I wasn't thinking about your ears.'

  'I have an acoustic engineer here.'

  'Is that even a job?'

  'He charges enough, so it had better be. Anyway, he says that there are whooshing noises coming from the eight columns on each floor of the waxwor
ks. I don't understand it. Can you come over and make some sense of it?'

  'There'll be a charge.'

  'I understand.'

  'I'll be about thirty minutes.'

  'We'll be waiting.'

  'We?'

  'You'll want to talk to the acoustic engineer, I expect?'

  'Yes, I suppose I will.'

  The call ended.

  'I have an architect coming. She has the original blueprints, so maybe I'll get some sense out of the two of you. Unfortunately, she won't be here for half an hour, so we have time for coffee and hobnobs, Amies.'

  'Mmmm!' Warner said. 'That would be good.'

  Quigg shook his head. 'None for you, Mister Warner. After being fleeced by your company, we have only enough coffee and hobnobs for two people.'

  Warner's shoulders slumped and his face dropped.

  'Come on, Amies. I can already smell those rich, aromatic Colombian coffee beans and feel the hobnobs crumbling in my mouth.'

  'That was a bit mean, Sir,' Amies said as they walked back towards the command centre.

  'That's what you get when you displeasure Inspector Quigg, potential detective Amies.'

  ***

  'What do you think?' Harry said as they walked to 34 Severus Road from Clapham Junction Station.

  'I think Edward is cheating on Rita.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Estelle's forty-three, slim and attractive.'

  Harry nodded. 'Whereas Rita is sixty, small and fat with pink hair and three chins?'

  'Exactly. I suspect even ghosts are choosy about who they have sex with.'

  'According to Rita, Edward has been with her for ten years.'

  'Maybe the fentanyl-derivative induced sleep gave Edward a way into Estelle's consciousness, and he took it.'

  'It's possible, I suppose.'

  'And we're not mentioning anything about the notebooks, Keller and the chained-up woman in the basement.'

  'I don't know anything about any of those things.'

  'Good answer, Harry.'