Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘It’s a store room, Sir,’ Walsh said, running the index finger of her left hand through the quarter inch layer of dust on a table.

  ‘To the untrained eye, Walsh,’ Quigg said. ‘But if you look carefully with your imagination turned up high, you’ll see an incident room which is adequate for four people operating on a shoestring.’

  Walsh smiled. ‘Ah, yes, I see it now, Sir.’

  ‘Good. What about you, Martin?’

  ‘My imagination is crap, Sir; I’ll just have to take your word for it.’

  ‘Duffy?’ He noticed that she was wearing a black trouser suit and a dark green crew neck jumper, which were considerably more appropriate for the job than what she had on yesterday. It didn’t stop the lascivious looks, but they were reserved in nature He got a slight whiff of perfume, but her make-up was negligible and she had her hair knotted at the back of her head.

  ‘I love it, Sir.’ She swivelled round taking in the view. ‘This is my first incident room. I’ll remember it forever.’

  Stifling laughter, Martin and Walsh looked at each other.

  ‘There’s no need to go that far, Duffy,’ Quigg said.

  Putting the files she was carrying on the table, Duffy blushed and sat down facing the whiteboard.

  ‘OK,’ Quigg said, ‘Duffy, you write on the board what I tell you to write.’

  Duffy stood up, a black marker pen unsheathed and poised above the board. The other colours available for immediate application should Quigg request them.

  ‘Martin, Walsh, grab a seat each. What we’re going to do is put everything we know and everything we don’t know on the board, and bring you up to speed at the same time. First thing, Duffy - draw a bubble in the centre of the board and write in it: Body 13. Draw a short line erupting from the top of the bubble and write: Mugabe Terrace, Sunday and - in brackets - fifteen. Draw another line cascading from the bottom of the bubble and write: Why was it stolen?’

  He turned to the two new members of his team. ‘In the early hours of Sunday morning there was a fire at Mugabe Terrace and fifteen people died. As part of the fire brigade’s investigation, the corpses were transported to the mortuary at Hammersmith Hospital for post-mortem. My personal feeling is that, once we find out why Body 13 was stolen, all the other answers will click-clack into place like one of those square mind puzzles. Body 13 is the key to solving this case.’

  ‘Do we know what the cause of the fire was yet, Sir?’ Walsh asked.

  ‘Choose a nice colour, Duffy. Draw a line outwards and upwards from the bubble on the right-hand side. Along the line, write that question.’ He turned to Walsh. ‘The right-hand side of the board is for what we don’t know. Once we know what we don’t know, we can allocate tasks. Anyway, the mortuary was short staffed, which seems to be a recurring theme during the current recession, so they tagged and stored the bodies. Before they could do the post-mortem on Body 13, it was stolen.’ He looked up at Duffy. ‘On the left-hand side draw a line in another colour and write along it: Stolen between Sunday and Monday.’ He turned back to Walsh and Martin. ‘I was called in to investigate on Monday evening at eight thirty.’

  ‘So it could have been stolen on Sunday?’ Martin said.

  Quigg nodded. ‘Yes, it could have been.’

  ‘Why did the hospital wait so long to call us in?’ Walsh asked.

  ‘They didn’t realise the body was missing until Monday afternoon. It was in a fridge with two other bodies and they weren’t due to carry out the post-mortem of Body 13 until today. Once they realised it was missing, they spent Monday afternoon on their own internal investigation, but found nothing, which is when I was called in.’

  ‘If they weren’t due to do a post-mortem on Body 13 until today, Sir,’ Duffy chipped in, ‘what made them open the fridge on Monday?’

  Quigg pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Well spotted, Duffy, but I have no idea. I shouldn’t think it’s important. Don’t forget, there were two other bodies in there.’

  ‘Have we checked if they’ve got CCTV?’

  ‘Credit me with some intelligence, Martin.’ Quigg didn’t raise his voice, but the tone changed from open and friendly, to guarded and bloody annoyed. ‘Duffy, draw another line on the right. I’ll leave the choice of colour to you. Write along it: Nothing on hospital CCTV tapes. Both hospital security and forensics checked the tapes for the time period in question and found no evidence of a body being moved.’

  Martin’s facial expression implied he was sorry.

  ‘Now,’ Quigg continued in a friendlier tone, the annoyance having left his face. ‘There was no effort to identify any of the bodies until the post-mortem was undertaken. As such, all we know about Body 13 is that it’s an adult male. Left side of the board, Duffy - draw a line and write along it: Identification. At the end of the line, draw another short one and put: DNA and George Sandland, in brackets.’

  Walsh leaned forward, confusion evident on her face by the creases etched into her forehead. ‘I thought that all we knew about Body 13 was that it was an adult male, but now you’re saying you know the man’s name?’

  Quigg smiled. ‘Ah, Walsh, if only life were that simple. There were crusts of burnt skin on the fridge shelf that Doctor Poulson sent for DNA analysis. It came back as belonging to a George Sandland, who, unfortunately for him and us, has been dead for seven years.’

  ‘I’m a bit confused,’ Martin admitted.

  ‘Only a bit?’ Quigg said. ‘Let me finish, it gets worse. Cheryl from administration… Oh, I forgot to mention the secret fifth member of our team. No one is to mention her name to the Chief or that suck-up DS Jones, understood?’ He scrutinised Walsh and Martin’s faces for any evidence that they were plants.

  ‘Understood,’ Walsh said. Martin nodded.

  There was something about Martin he didn’t like or trust. Time would prove him right or wrong, but he made a mental note to keep a wary eye on him until he did know.

  ‘So,’ Quigg continued, ‘Cheryl found out that George Sandland was in the armed forces, but the information held on him is classified.’

  ‘You get all the good cases, Sir,’ Walsh said.

  ‘Don’t I just,’ Quigg responded.

  ‘Duffy.’ Having sat down, she jumped up. Quigg pointed at the board. ‘On the right side, a line – write: Will the MOD declassify George Sandland’s details? Now, going back to the ‘identification’ line, draw another branch line off the main line and put: Fingerprint/ hair, and, in brackets after it: Patrick Griffiths.’

  ‘This reminds me of the lyrics of that song from the Thomas Crown Affair,’ Walsh said: ‘The Windmills of your Mind.’ You know the one: ‘Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel…’

  Duffy smiled. ‘I love that song. I lie in bed and listen to Sting singing it. He makes me go all shivery and gooey inside.’

  Quigg used to think of Duffy as gooey inside, but after their little conversation yesterday, he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘The Muppets also sang it,’ Martin said and laughed. ‘Real funny it was.’

  ‘The bloody Muppets?’ Quigg said. ‘You’re a muppet, Martin.’

  Duffy giggled.

  Quigg gave her a look of disdain. ‘Let’s get back to what we’re meant to be doing, shall we?’

  Martin grinned. ‘Sorry, Sir. It just popped into my head.’

  ‘Patrick Griffiths was serving life for murder…’

  ‘Was?’ Martin asked.

  ‘He got himself killed in the shower at Wormwood Scrubs on Sunday morning, and then donated a strand of his hair and the fingerprint of the index finger from his right hand to our investigation by leaving both on the shelf that Body 13 occupied.’

  ‘Did they amputate his hand?’ Walsh asked.

  ‘No, just his finger.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Martin said. ‘So Body 13, at the moment, is a seven year old MOD classified corpse, which has been stolen by a dead prisoner?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Quigg said. ‘Ri
ght, moving swiftly along. Officers from Fire HQ in Docklands were investigating the Mugabe Terrace fire. They took hundreds of photographs of all the bodies before they were moved, as well as copious notes about their locations. My plan was to obtain copies of their photographs and notes, then cross-reference them with the landlord’s records to identify Body 13.

  ‘Life’s not that simple, though, is it, Sir?’ Walsh said.

  ‘You’re getting the hang of this detective game, Walsh,’ Quigg said. ‘While I was at Fire HQ there was an explosion in a laboratory, which killed two senior fire officers and destroyed all the photographs and notes from the Mugabe Fire. Forensics has a CCTV tape, which shows the bomber’s face. Unfortunately, it is obscured. I’m hoping they can get something from it.’

  ‘That’s the explosion where you got your injuries, wasn’t it, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Duffy. Put another line on the left and write on it: Explosion at Fire HQ. In brackets, write: two.’

  ‘Two what?’ Duffy asked.

  ‘Two dead. If we count the fifteen corpses from Mugabe Terrace, plus another two from Ahmed Property Management and Doctor Poulson last night, the bodies are beginning to mount up.’

  ‘Ahmed Property Management?’ Martin asked.

  Duffy had got the hang of the mind map and was already drawing an orange line on the left side with Ahmed Property Management along it, and a two in brackets. On the right, she wrote: Access to bank and off-site computer records.

  ‘Before Duffy and I could get there, it had been blown up. Mr Ahmed, the landlord of Mugabe Terrace, together with a drug addict in the flat above, were both found dead. But we might have got our first break. Although all the records were destroyed in the explosion, Mr Ahmed apparently did an off-site back-up of his computer hard drive each night. As yet, we don’t know where, but we obtained a warrant from Judge Wannaker yesterday to access his bank records, which, I’m sure, will tell us which IT Company he was paying for the facility.’

  ‘Let’s hope the bomber doesn’t get there first,’ Martin said.

  ‘Let’s be optimistic, Martin,’ Quigg said. ‘Finally, Doctor Poulson was shot last night instead of me.’

  ‘Why, Sir?’

  ‘What do you mean "why", Walsh?’

  ‘Well, if all the evidence to identify Body 13 is being systematically destroyed, why kill you?’

  ‘The shooter was jealous that I was taking Doctor Poulson out for dinner, Walsh. What do you think? I have no idea.’

  ‘Also,’ Walsh continued, ‘let’s say he did kill you; that wouldn’t have stopped the investigation. If anything, it would probably have attracted more unwanted attention.’

  ‘It’s all mud to me, Walsh, as it is to you. Hopefully, today, we’ll get some answers.’ He looked up at the right side of the whiteboard. ‘OK, Walsh - you can take the warrant to Barclays bank and get Mr Ahmed’s bank records. Find out which IT Company he was paying and ring them. I want a copy of the records on Mr Ahmed’s hard disk. If they get awkward, tell them we’ve got a warrant. If they still resist, contact Judge Wannaker’s secretary and ask for a warrant.’

  ‘Right, Sir,’ Walsh said.

  Duffy wrote: ‘Walsh’ next to the line about Mr Ahmed’s bank records and hard disk drive.

  ‘Martin - I’d like you to investigate Patrick Griffith’s life story. I want to know what connection, if any, he has to George Sandland.’

  ‘Duffy - you’re chasing the MOD about declassifying Sandland’s records.’

  ‘Yes, Sir, and you forgot about the list of people who lived at Mugabe Terrace.’

  ‘OK, write it on the board. I’ll get on to Perkins in forensics and see if he was able to reveal the bomber’s face on the Fire HQ tape. I also want to find out whether anything was found at the scene of the shooting last night. Then I’ll contact Fire HQ to see if they’ve made any progress identifying the cause of the Mugabe Terrace fire.’

  Duffy put names against the tasks.

  Quigg stood up. ‘You all know what you’re doing. Any questions?’ He paused and looked at each of them, but no questions were forthcoming. ‘Good. Make sure you’ve got my mobile number and ring me with any major developments. We’ll meet tomorrow morning at nine o’clock in here. One last thing - we’ve got until next Friday to solve this case. And when I say "we", I mean "me". So, no dragging your feet, no calling in sick,’ he eyed Martin. ‘I’ve been ordered to provide a daily report for the Chief Constable. Think of it as an opportunity to get your name in lights. I want maximum effort and don’t forget to get a vest from the stores. OK, let’s get out there and catch this bastard.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Not quite as we planned,’ Bartholomew said.

  It was late-morning; he had met up with Luke. They were strolling along the path by the lake in St James’s Park towards the inn for lunch. The wind blew leaves in swirls. Wildlife officers fed the noisy pelicans.

  ‘No,’ Luke replied, ‘but it could work to our advantage.’

  ‘It will make Quigg more determined; that’s the type of man he is.’

  ‘He’s up against some of the brightest minds in the country. I’m sure that between us, we can outwit him.’

  ‘You assured us that it would be taken care of.’

  Luke glanced nervously at Bartholomew. ‘I can only apologise to you and the other Apostles. The loose end has already been disposed of.’

  ‘An apology might not be sufficient, Luke. At some point, a sacrifice may be required.’

  ‘I understand, Bartholomew.’

  They reached the inn. The manager was expecting them and showed them to a quiet table away from the day-trippers. They had pre-ordered: Bartholomew a Stilton ploughman’s, and Luke a Caesar salad.

  ***

  He was on his way to brief the Chief, when his mobile rang. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name is Ruth Lynch.’

  ‘I called you,’ Quigg said. He detected an accent, but she certainly didn’t sound like a Cuban émigré.

  ‘That is how I obtained your number.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Miss Lynch?’

  ‘I am interested in this missing body.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can we meet to discuss it?’

  ‘Where are you?’ He was keen to meet her. Ché Guevara had been one of his revolutionary heroes at Surrey University. He smiled at the thought of a young woman with a beret, cigar and hunger in her eyes.

  ‘I am in the cafeteria across the road from the police station.’

  ‘I can give you half an hour. I’ll be over in a minute.’

  ‘I will see you in a minute then.’

  He ended the call and retraced his steps. The Chief would have to wait for the written report. In his office, he stripped off his shirt, put on the white bullet-proof vest and then put his shirt back on. Half an hour was a small price to pay for getting rid of an unwelcome reporter. He’d palm her off with some cock and bull story and then carry on with his busy schedule for the day. Grabbing his coat, he headed for the stairs. It was ten thirty.

  Quigg waved at Ted Salway, the tall grey-haired copper on the front desk, who was busy dealing with an irate woman. Another satisfied customer, he thought, opening the main door and stepping out into the freezing November wind.

  Trying to cross the A315, it seemed to him that the whole world was driving on this road today. He nearly lost his life under large wheels on two occasions, but eventually made it across, sound in body and mind.

  The Woodgrange cafeteria was the local greasy spoon. When he felt hungry, and had some money, he usually ate in the station canteen because it was subsidised and the food wasn’t too bad. But on the odd occasion, when he wanted to think, he would sneak across to the Woodgrange.

  Like a supermodel between catwalks, Ruth Lynch-Guevara stood up as he entered and smiled at him with her full lips and flashing white teeth. Her skin was tinged a copper brown. Her blac
k, sparkling eyes matched the ringlets escaping from beneath a black and white lace hat. Her long neck disappeared inside a white brocade dress with black spirals to swell into breasts that a man tottering on the edge of sanity could easily have fallen into. She thrust a slender, manicured hand towards him. As he held it gently and squeezed, she reached into his chest with her other hand and stole his heart.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Inspector. You look as though you have been in the war.’

  He ignored her comment about his looks. Black and purple bruising had replaced the majority of the swelling. At least he could talk properly now that his lips had shrunk to their normal size.

  ‘I had little choice.’

  They both sat.

  An anorexic waitress came to the table with a pencil poised over a pad. She wrote down a pot of tea.

  ‘I am sorry. I was a guest at a garden party when I overheard Sir Peter discussing the body that had been stolen from the mortuary. I was fascinated. Why would anybody steal a burnt corpse from a mortuary? I suggested to Sir Peter that it might make an interesting story, but I never expected him to open doors for me.

  A garden party! He had never been to a garden party. They obviously moved in very different social circles. ‘Let’s start by telling each other the truth, shall we, Miss Lynch. You knew exactly what would happen when you mentioned your interest to Sir Peter Langham.’

  She pouted and cast her beautiful eyes down to the coffee cup nestling in her hands. ‘I see it is no use trying to tell little white lies to you, Inspector. I am an investigative journalist; I do what I have to do to get my story.’

  Now we’re getting to the truth of it, he thought. She uses her assets to get what she wants. ‘And what story might that be, Miss Lynch?’

  She reached across the chasm that separated them and touched his hand. ‘Please, call me Ruth.’

  If he’d still had a heart, the shock of her touch would have stopped it, for sure. The anorexic waitress would have called the paramedics; they would have attached the electrodes from a heart monitor to his chest and found a flat line. He moved his hand before she sucked him into the void.