Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

  Quigg finished his meal. Duffy didn’t touch the salad and only had a sip of water. Without thinking, he tried to pay using his credit card. The transaction wouldn’t go through. He’d forgotten he had no money left in his account. It was another four days before he got paid. He was about to pay using a twenty from the forty pounds he had in his wallet, even though he really needed it for his night out with Debbie, but before he could extract it, Duffy passed a twenty to the barman.

  ‘It’s all right, Duffy - I’ve got money in my wallet.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Sir. I have money.’

  God, his life was a mess. He couldn’t even afford to buy lunch and take a woman out in the same month. ‘I’ll give it you back after pay day.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, Sir.’

  He didn’t force the issue; it was embarrassing enough as it was.

  ***

  Quigg and Duffy were standing behind the barriers watching the fire crews hosing down the smouldering remains of the building which had housed Ahmed Property Management. Listening to the onlookers, he discovered that a flower shop, an estate agent and three first-floor flats had comprised the remainder of the building on Chancellors Road near the Queen Caroline Estate.

  Duffy was instructed to remain behind the barrier. Quigg flashed his warrant card at various firemen until he found someone in authority.

  ‘Have you found any bodies?’ he asked a soot-streaked Watch Commander called Mathews.

  ‘Two: one in the property management office and one in the flat above.’

  ‘Any idea who they were?’

  ‘His secretary, a Janice Dobbs, told me that she thinks the man in the property management office was Mr Ahmed. The body in the flat above was a female drug addict: name of Susan Crisp, apparently.’

  Quigg looked around. ‘Which one is Mr Ahmed’s secretary?’

  Mathews pointed to a bottle-blonde standing a few onlookers away from Duffy who, Quigg assumed, came from the council estate. She was about twenty-three, wore a lace top with green bra-straps showing and a very tight short denim mini-skirt above legs a rugby player would have been proud of.

  Quigg approached the woman and signalled Duffy to join them. He showed his warrant card. ‘Miss Dobbs, could I ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Whadya want to know?’ she said through a mouthful of chewing gum.

  ‘Do you know what happened here?’

  ‘I got a phone call from a man. He said there was a bomb and I had five minutes to get people out before the place went up. I tried to get everyone out, you know. I didn’t have a clue Mr Ahmed was even in his office.’ She dabbed at her eyes with a paper handkerchief. ‘Why didn’t he tell me he was in? That’s what I want to know. I always know when he’s in. He must have slept the night in his office to get in before me. Now I ain’t got a job.’

  ‘I suppose all of Mr Ahmed’s records have been destroyed?’

  She nodded her head at the smoking ruins. ‘Yer think?’

  ‘I don’t suppose Mr Ahmed kept records anywhere else?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he was a bit of a computer nut. I remember him tellin’ me that he backed-up his hard drive every night, if yer know what I mean?’

  Quigg’s eyes creased.

  ‘Off-site,’ Janice clarified. ‘He paid to have his hard drive backed-up somewhere else. Which means that all his computer records are still intact somewhere.’

  ‘Do you know where? A telephone number, an address?’

  ‘Had it all down on me contact list, I did. Kept it up-to-date, under the glass on me desk.’

  ‘Destroyed in the fire?’ Quigg ventured.

  Janice elbowed Duffy. Duffy’s pen drew a horizontal line as it flew off the page of her notebook. ‘Not stupid, is he luv?’ she said.

  Quigg half-smiled. ‘What bank did Mr Ahmed use?’

  ‘Barclays, the one on the corner.’ Janice pointed along the road with her left hand.

  ‘Can I ask you about Mugabe Terrace, Miss Dobbs?’

  ‘Ask away, Inspector, but call me Janice. I bet underneath those lumps, you’re not a bad looking bloke for a copper.’ She nudged Duffy again, but Duffy was ready for her this time and rolled with the elbow jab like a boxer. ‘Are you his partner?’ Half her face winked. ‘Know what I mean, luv?’

  Duffy blushed.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the occupants of Mugabe Terrace?’

  ‘Sorry, luv. I did his typing - put all the names, referees, figures an’ everything into the computer - but none of it stuck in ‘ere.’ She tapped the side of her head with a nicotine-stained index finger. ‘That’s why I didn’t get me GCSEs, yer know - couldn’t hold onto the information. I ain’t no bloody computer. All I do know is that there were eight flats, cos he kept goin’ on about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They was large flats - two on each floor. He reckoned he would double his money if he could make ‘em smaller, but he never got round to it.’

  Maybe the fire was an insurance scam - but Mr Ahmed wouldn’t blow himself up. All the other information he required would be in the backup files, he was sure. Now all he needed to do was find out where they were stored and then gain access to them.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Dobbs. You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘No problem, luv. Give me a call sometime.’

  He was sure the cackle that escaped from her mouth would give him nightmares.

  ***

  It had been some time since all three of them had enjoyed the sights of London, but the world’s highest observational wheel – the London Eye – situated between Waterloo and Westminster Bridges on the South Bank of the Thames, had changed all that.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Bartholomew as they gazed out over London.

  ‘Amazing,’ echoed Simon and Judas.

  At Bartholomew’s suggestion, Judas had reserved a capsule for the absolute secrecy it offered them. Now, perched 135 metres above the capital, they felt like true Apostles. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament lay like ancient monoliths beneath their feet.

  ‘Quigg seems to possess a charmed life,’ Judas said.

  ‘It is of no matter,’ Simon said. ‘What is left for him to find? We have taken the body, destroyed the evidence and misdirected him up numerous dead ends. He is on his own with a problem that would take a cabal of Mensa members a lifetime to unravel.’

  Bartholomew gave a light cough. ‘He is no longer on his own.’

  ‘Oh?’ Judas said.

  ‘He has been given a young female police constable with all the qualities to distract him.’

  ‘Did you plan this, Bartholomew?’

  ‘Merely a twist of fate, but I have arranged another distraction.’

  ‘Laughable,’ Simon observed. ‘They will be no match for even one of us.’

  ‘Let us not emulate the fools of the past by underestimating our enemy,’ Bartholomew cautioned them. ‘Quigg, if he is nothing else, is a worthy opponent.’

  ‘Is the oxygen thinner up here, Bartholomew?’ Simon asked. ‘I feel slightly light-headed.’

  ‘It is not the lack of oxygen, Simon,’ Judas suggested, ‘but the scent of victory.’

  Chapter Three

  Duffy drove along the A219 towards Wormwood Scrubs as if she were practising to be a contestant in Death Race. Quigg found it difficult to phone Judge Wannaker’s secretary for a warrant to gain access to Mr Ahmed’s bank records while he was gripping the door handle and bouncing from side to side. He couldn’t believe the transformation that had come over Duffy. Instead of the demure young woman who had got into the car, she had turned into a hellcat, swearing at the other contestants and giving them the finger.

  They pulled into the car park outside the Scrubs at two forty-five. Quigg had difficulty prising his hand from the door handle. ‘You drive like a maniac, Duffy.’

  ‘Those bastards would cut you up if you let them,’ she said calmly. ‘Driving is a bit like being in the police force.’

  He wait
ed for her to elaborate, but she grabbed her bag off the back seat, opened the driver’s door and jumped out. He slithered out of his side of the car. ‘How so?’ he asked over the roof of the car.

  ‘Men think women are weak. You underestimate us. We’re all in a race, and I plan to win the trophy and the magnum of champagne. Because of our gender we’re at an immediate disadvantage in a man’s world, so we have to do certain things to even up the contest.’ She smiled and her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes. If I have to grab your balls and twist, then that’s what I’ll do.’

  My God! This was not the Duffy he and everyone else knew. The other blokes in the team were in for a painful awakening, especially DS Jones. Quigg grimaced. He had a vision of two testicles in a scrotal sac hanging from a nail in the squad room. His hand involuntarily went to his groin to check his bits were still attached.

  He gave a nervous grin. ‘Come on, Duffy - let’s go and see the governor.’

  ***

  It struck him, that this was the first time he (and he assumed Duffy) had been to the Scrubs. They made their way through the impressive arched gatehouse and the security measures to ensure they were not in possession of weapons, drugs or anything that could be used to make explosives. Duffy’s handbag was nearly empty by the time they had finished confiscating items. She grinned sheepishly.

  John Richards, the governor of Her Majesty’s Prison Wormwood Scrubs, welcomed Quigg and Duffy into his office. In his early fifties, the man’s face was beginning to show the signs of gravitational forces and he combed his grey hair from one side to the other in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the large bald patch on top of his head.

  The enormous Victorian high-ceilinged room had been decorated with white and gold brocade wallpaper. A deep pile red carpet lay underneath heavy mahogany furniture. It was clear that no expense had been spared to maintain the governor in a certain style.

  ‘Please,’ Richards said, guiding them to easy chairs positioned around a solid mahogany glass-topped occasional table. He sat opposite. ‘Tea is on its way. I don’t know what else I can tell you about Patrick Griffiths, Inspector.’

  ‘I’d like to take a walk down to the shower room, look at the scene of the murder, get a picture in my mind, and talk through the sequence of events. It helps me to piece things together.’

  ‘You and I could walk down there, but I’m afraid Constable Duffy won’t be able to accompany us.’

  Duffy’s forehead creased.

  ‘That’s fine; Duffy can stay here and make some phone calls, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the governor said.

  Duffy eyed the governor. ‘Why can’t I come, Sir?’

  She had to ask, Quigg thought.

  ‘The way you’re… dressed. This is a male prison, Constable. If I took you to the shower room, there would probably be a riot, and you would be lucky to get out in the… same condition as you went in.’

  ‘Aren’t there guards in there?’

  ‘Not enough and they would probably be at the head of the queue.’

  ‘You haven’t got time to visit men’s shower rooms, anyway, Duffy. I want you to ring the station and find out who George Sandland is, and also get somebody to collect the warrant from Judge Wannaker’s chambers.’ He knew that the Chief had ordered the rest of the team to clear up outstanding cases, close down files, bring records up-to-date and generally prepare for an inspection that he had heard was overdue. Quigg was sure that the Chief would chew him out if he had one of the team chasing leads for him. DS Jones – the Chief’s ‘golden boy’ – would be sure to drop him in the proverbial the first chance he got. ‘Is there anyone you can ring so that the Chief won’t get to hear of it?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’m friendly with Cheryl in administration.’

  He screwed his eyes up. Cheryl was not a name he knew. ‘Do people in administration have access to the criminal database?’

  Duffy smiled as if she were in conversation with an educationally challenged child. ‘Yes Sir, they need it to check things and, sometimes, input details when no one else has time to.’

  ‘OK good. Tell Cheryl she’s on our team. And also tell her to make sure the Chief doesn’t find out what she’s doing.’

  ***

  Bartholomew had been invited to join Mathew in the Churchill Room at the Houses of Parliament for lunch. Mathew had the Duck a l’Orange, and Bartholomew the sautéed breast of free range chicken. Mathew ordered a bottle of Champagne Perrier-Jouët to compliment the food.

  ‘Tell me about Detective Inspector Quigg, Bartholomew.’

  ‘A working-class man that seems to have defied the odds in rising above Sergeant.’

  ‘So it would seem. Why?’

  ‘He has a tenacity of spirit and Commander April Williams thought he was cute at the promotion interview.’

  ‘Cute?’ Mathew snorted. ‘Oh well, that explains everything, Bartholomew.’

  The wine waiter brought the champagne and poured them each a glass.

  No sooner had they taken a sip, than the meal arrived.

  ‘The service is excellent,’ Bartholomew commented.

  ‘The taxpayer must pay for us to enjoy service like this, old friend.’ Mathew said with a glint in his eye.

  ‘Then I am glad to finally receive the benefit of something my taxes have funded for many years.’

  They both laughed.

  Mathew waited patiently for Bartholomew to finish his meal and for the waiter to remove the plates, and then he voiced what was on his mind. ‘Is Quigg capable of solving the conundrum we have set before him?’

  ‘Although he has a reputation for solving difficult cases, this one, I fear, is beyond him.’

  ‘I hope you are right, Bartholomew, for all our sakes.’

  ‘I will take action if he begins to act intelligently.’ Bartholomew, realising he had been dismissed, took a final drink of the excellent champagne and stood.

  Extending his hand, he said, ‘Always a pleasure, Mathew.’

  Mathew stood also and took Bartholomew’s hand, but did not move to escort his guest out. ‘I will see you at the Last Supper,’ he said, and sat down again.

  ***

  A tall guard, with hands like shovels, led the way to B Block. Quigg was surprised that no one had a key. Well, not a large, rusty, metal key anyway. What they did have were CCTV cameras and nods. At each metal barrier, the guard nodded into a camera, the lock clicked and the door slid open. Quigg smiled – face recognition in its simplest form, and it eliminated the danger of guards being injured or killed to get a non-existent key. He wondered what happened when the CCTV system went down.

  As they traipsed along the miles of corridors towards their destination, prisoners and guards in their respective uniforms shuffled along in both directions; neither appeared to be in any particular hurry to get anywhere. Quigg kept close to the governor and avoided eye contact with any of the prisoners they met along the way. He had put a few criminals in here and didn’t particularly want to meet them again and engage in unpleasant conversation.

  The showers were open-plan and could accommodate fourteen unwashed bodies at once – seven gleaming stainless steel showerheads protruded from each side of the wall. He noted that unless the guard was having a shower with the prisoners – which seemed unlikely – it was impossible for them to monitor what was going on, regardless of how many prisoners were under the water.

  ‘Is there someone who can talk me through what happened, Governor?’ Quigg asked.

  Governor Richards nodded towards another guard who had appeared in the shower room. The man was a lot shorter than the tall shovel-handed guard and Quigg was surprised to see that he was just an average guy - normal. He had the obviously mistaken idea that prison officers were all six-foot weightlifters. ‘This is Officer Howarth; he was on duty at the time of the incident.’

  Incident! He supposed that in a prison filled to overflowing with murderers, rapists, paedophiles and the numerou
s other dregs of society, it was to be expected that a little murder between inmates would be classified as an incident.

  ‘It was seven o’clock on Sunday morning just gone. There was a full compliment of prisoners for the showers. I didn’t see any bad feeling between Griffiths and the other prisoners. I was standing outside, as I normally do, and counted them out, but Griffiths never appeared. I stuck my head in to tell him to get a move on and he was lying on the shower floor bleeding like a haemophiliac from the knife wound in his back and the stump of his amputated finger. That was when I raised the alarm.’

  ‘Where were the other prisoners at this time?’

  ‘They had gone back to their cells to get ready for work details.’

  ‘Did you know who they all were?’

  ‘Yes, we knew exactly who the other thirteen prisoners were. As soon as the alarm was raised, they were locked in their cells. We carried out a thorough investigation. Each of the men was interviewed and their cells searched, but, as usual, no one saw anything, no one did anything, everybody was clean.’ He smiled at his joke and in anticipation of the one he was about to tell. ‘You’d be surprised at how many prisoners stab themselves in the back in here.’

  Quigg didn’t smile. He didn’t share the prison view of the value of life. ‘Did you find the weapon?’ As he asked he knew it was a stupid question.

  ‘Disappeared as if it had never existed, Sir.’

  ‘What about the missing finger?’

  ‘The same. God only knows what that was all about, but I suppose it means something to someone.’

  ‘Thank you, Officer Howarth.’

  ‘Well, Inspector,’ the governor said, moving out of the shower. ‘Has it helped?’

  ‘Not really. Could I have the details of the other thirteen prisoners who were in the shower with Griffiths?’

  ‘Of course, but I don’t see what good it will do you. Whoever murdered Griffiths did it for someone else. A favour owed. Murders occur in here on a regular basis and we rarely catch the perpetrator. You have to remember, Inspector, that a prison is full of men with criminal tendencies, the skills to commit all manner of crime, and nothing to lose by doing it. It is a criminal’s university, and I would say someone just graduated.’