Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You don’t look like your grandfather,’ he said, to lighten the mood.

  ‘I think we are both glad about that, are we not, Inspector?’

  They laughed. A short laugh, but it crumbled the tension between them.

  ‘What do you want from me, Ruth Lynch?’

  ‘Am I to call you Inspector?’

  ‘Quigg.’

  ‘Do you not have a first name?’

  Her English was almost perfect, but the order in which she shackled her words together, like the carriages of a train, betrayed her.

  ‘Quigg.’

  She laughed.

  He looked at his watch. It was eleven thirty. He hadn’t touched the pot of tea, but he had squandered forty-five minutes of his day with this dangerous woman. Leaving her would be like ripping one of his arms off, but he knew that if he stayed, he would probably never again have the courage to leave.

  ‘You have a good sense of humour, Quigg.’

  ‘I am still waiting to hear what you want from me.’

  ‘The story.’

  ‘At the moment, there is no story. A body has gone missing and we don’t know why.’ No other reporter had connected the dots yet. He was thankful he didn’t have to attend the daily press conferences to keep the media circus wheels turning. The disappearance of Body 13 had not been released to the press. As far as anyone knew, the explosions at Fire HQ and Ahmed Property Management were unconnected to each other, or to the Mugabe Terrace fire. The only reason Ruth Lynch was here was her connection to Sir Peter Langham.

  ‘What about the explosions and the deaths?’

  ‘Sir Peter has obviously been indiscreet.’

  ‘These details I have found out myself. Like you, I am an investigator. I also know about the shooting last night and I am sorry that your friend was shot. I hope she recovers.’

  ‘It sounds as though you don’t need me; you already have most of the details of the case.’

  ‘But not all. Tell me everything. Let me have the exclusive story. I can help you: find out things you might not have access to; go places you cannot go. You will not be sorry.’

  He stood up abruptly. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘When you have thought, you will say no. But that would be a mistake, Quigg.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I saw who shot your friend last night. Like me, he was following you. I saw his face.’

  ‘Maybe I should arrest you for withholding vital information, Miss Lynch.’

  ‘Then you would never find out. Information is currency, Quigg. I tell you what he looked like and you give me something in return. Is that not the way the capitalist system works?’

  He sat back down again and pulled out his notebook, thinking how ironic it was that Ché’s granddaughter was expertly using the system that he fought so passionately against. ‘Shoot.’

  She opened her black sequinned purse and withdrew a sheet of paper. ‘I typed up the information for you when I returned home last night.’ She held it tantalisingly out of reach. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  He looked into the rippling pools of her eyes and knew she had won. ‘We have a deal,’ he said, taking the folded sheet of paper. And, although he was loathe to share her with anyone else, he said, ‘But you’re to come with me now and describe the man you saw to a sketch artist.’

  She nodded, put her black coat on and followed him out.

  With her next to him, he had no problem crossing the road. Drivers seemed happy to slow down, stop and let them cross.

  Once inside the station, he took her up to forensics. Perkins was busy, so Asquith, who he barely knew in passing, went to find Sally Vickers, the forensic artist.

  ‘I will leave you here, Miss Lynch.’

  ‘Ruth.’

  ‘Ruth.’

  ‘Wait.’ She rummaged in her purse and extracted a card. ‘You will need this.’

  He took the card. On the front, in a beautiful calligraphic font, was written: Ruth Lynch, Investigative Journalist, 04310 995329. He turned it over. She had hand-written her address on the back: 1, The Mansion, Ennismore Gardens, Knightsbridge, SW1X 1XX. For a DI, Knightsbridge may as well have been another country, and Ruth Lynch an inhabitant of that country. He put the card in his duffel coat pocket. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said.

  She blinked her eyes in slow motion. ‘Make it soon, Quigg; time is running out.’

  ***

  On the way back to his office, his mobile rang again. ‘Quigg.’

  ‘Smokin’ Joe Friedman here, Mr Quigg - the mechanic from Arrowsmith.’

  ‘I hope you’ve got good news for me, Smoking Joe?’

  ‘Depends on what you mean by good news.’

  He opened his office door and sat down in the grey, threadbare executive chair that he had rescued from the corridor a long time ago. ‘Anything under forty pounds.’

  ‘Ha! Then you’re gonna be seriously disappointed, Mr Quigg.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the damned thing then? And how much is it going to cost me to get it fixed?’

  ‘I’m sure you know it’s over ten years old. Well, you should have had it serviced more often, Mr Quigg, because the timin’ chain has snapped.’

  ‘That’s not too bad is it?’ He knew absolutely nothing about the mechanics of a car.

  ‘If that were all, no; you’d get it replaced for under a one-er. Unfortunately, when you kept turnin’ the ignition over, the chain mangled the front of your engine. It’ll now cost you in the region of a monkey to get it fixed.’

  ‘A monkey!’ He hated cockney slang. ‘What the bloody hell is a monkey?’

  ‘Five hundred quid, Mr Quigg.’

  He felt ill. That was a hundred and fifty pounds more than he had spare each month. There was no other option but to increase his loan. The bank manager would be overjoyed to see him again. ‘OK, Smoking Joe. How long will it take to fix it?’

  ‘Not much of this week left, Mr Quigg. Tuesday afternoon will be the earliest we’ll get it done.’

  It gave him time to arrange the loan with the bank. ‘Can you deliver it to Hammersmith Police Station by five on Tuesday afternoon?’

  ‘It’ll cost you an extra tenner, Mr Quigg - for the tube journey back, you understand?’

  ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday at five then, Smoking Joe.’

  The phone went dead. He felt as though he’d been mugged by a tramp in an alley.

  The clock on the wall displayed twelve fifteen. Lunchtime already. He was starving, but felt guilty because none of the three tasks he had allocated to himself had been done. He phoned Fire HQ and asked for ACFO Towers. He’d speak to Towers, go to lunch and then track down Perkins in forensics.

  ‘Towers.’

  ‘Quigg here.’

  ‘What can I do for you today, Inspector?’

  ‘Mugabe Terrace - I need to know whether it was an accident or not.’

  ‘I’ve got another investigating officer re-doing the investigation. In fact, he’s over there now. Let me give him a ring and then I’ll ring you back.’

  Quigg gave Towers his mobile number and asked him to call on that. He was just about to go for a bite to eat when the Chief stuck his head through the door.

  ‘How’s it going, Quigg?’ Chief Bellmarsh came fully into the room, shut the door and sat down on one of the two chairs in front of Quigg’s chipboard desk.

  Quigg told him about the briefing that morning and the tasks allocated. He didn’t tell him about the new incident room he’d created or the phone call from Smoking Joe.

  ‘I popped along to tell you about Dr Poulson.’

  Quigg’s stomach did a somersault. ‘What about her?’

  The Chief held up his hand. ‘No need to be alarmed, Quigg. I rang the hospital, that’s all. They said there was no change.’

  Quigg realised he had stopped breathing. He began again. ‘Thank you, Chief. I feel guilty. I’ve been so busy I haven’t given her a thought all morning.’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty about do
ing your job, Quigg - just catch the bastard that did it. Make it right.’

  ‘I met with Miss Lynch this morning, Sir. She wants an exclusive on the story.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t agree to that?’

  ‘I had little choice. Apart from her being a friend of Sir Peter’s, she also saw the shooter last night.’

  ‘How in hell did she manage to do that?’

  ‘It seems there were two people following me, Chief.’

  ‘Following you! And she’s a friend of Sir Peter’s! What’s the world coming to, Quigg?’

  ‘She has provided us with a description of the shooter, who could be the same person who planted the bombs in Fire HQ and Ahmed Property Management. It’s the first break we’ve had, Chief.’

  ‘You should have arrested her, Quigg - withholding information. She should have told us what she saw last night, not used it to bargain with.’

  ‘What she saw was an opportunity to secure an exclusive on the story. Also, she’s an investigative journalist and can probably help us.’

  ‘Are you saying we should use her?’

  ‘Why not? We’re thin on the ground. I’ll make her work for the story.’

  ‘OK, Quigg, but be careful. I don’t want this coming back to bite us on the arse if she gets hurt.’

  ‘She knows what she’s letting herself in for, Sir.’

  ‘Don’t mention her in your reports to the Chief Constable. My ears, only.'

  ‘OK, Chief.’ He knew damn well that if the shit hit the fan, the Chief would deny ever having had this conversation. He would blame Quigg for being a cowboy, for not following procedures and shifting to the dark side.

  ‘Talking of being thin on the ground - what about overtime?’

  The Chief put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. ‘Are you hard of hearing, Quigg? Didn’t I say I was trying to stay within budget? Days off in lieu are the best I can do.’

  ‘I’ll ask them, but I don’t know if they’ll go for it. Time and a half on Saturday? Double time on Sunday?’

  The Chief stood, opened the door and as he was leaving, he said, ‘You should have been a used car salesman, Quigg.’

  Quigg smiled and followed him out. Peeling off, he made his way to the canteen.

  ***

  He had just sat down with a plate of lasagne, garlic bread, a chocolate muffin and a mug of tea, when his mobile activated again.

  ‘Quigg.’

  ‘Towers here.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was an accident: faulty boiler.’

  ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’

  ‘Anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Have a good one.’

  An accident! Mugabe Terrace blew up and burnt down by mistake. Whoever Body 13 was died because of a faulty boiler. An Act of God was responsible for this chain of events. Now, someone who knew who Body 13 was didn’t want anyone else to know. Why? What’s so interesting about Body 13 that it’s worth killing five people for? He hoped Debbie would make it, but at the moment, she was barely alive.

  He munched through his lasagne and garlic bread, feeling a bit happier. He was making progress. The case was moving forwards. He had a sketch of Debbie’s shooter and probably the person who had planted the two bombs and killed four people. He peeled the wrapping off the chocolate muffin and took a bite. It was only a matter of time now. He’d get Sally Vickers’ sketch of the shooter distributed to the uniforms, put on the local TV News and in the national and local papers. Someone would come forward. There would be no hiding now. He swilled the last of the muffin down with his lukewarm tea and smiled. It was all coming together. Touch and go for awhile, but cracking difficult cases was what he was born to do.

  As a teenager, his heroes had been fictional detectives such as Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin, Conan-Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Christie’s Hercule Poirot. It was their ingenuity and tenacity in solving cases that had driven him towards a career in the police force. Becoming a detective was all he ever wanted.

  ‘Hello, Sir - mind if I join you?’

  Cheryl from administration licked her lips like a black widow spider about to devour its mate.

  ‘By all means sit here, Cheryl, but unfortunately I’ve finished and I have to go now. I have an appointment,’ he lied, ‘and I’m already late.’

  ‘Maybe next time then,’ she said.

  He stood up, piled the dirty crockery and waste onto his tray and…

  ‘You wouldn’t consider asking me out would you?’

  He hated being put on the spot. Wasn’t his life complicated enough as it was? He could just imagine Cheryl’s domestic nightmare: two delinquents trying drugs and skipping school, a jealous husband staking out the mortgaged semi-detached and a flea-bitten dog annoying the neighbours. But he needed to keep her on side. ‘At the moment, Cheryl, I’m heavily involved with the case I’m working on. I have no time for a social life, but, maybe, when it’s over. I’ll call you.’

  As good as Sherlock Holmes any day, he thought as he made his escape towards forensics.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Sorry to hear about Debbie, Quigg,’ Perkins said. ‘She’s a pretty girl. If you hadn’t asked her out, I would have. I’m jealous.’

  Despite there being more intelligent and amenable candidates at the promotion interviews, Perkins had risen from a spotty biology graduate to Head of Section in the seven years he had been employed within the Forensics Department at Hammersmith Police Station.

  ‘She’d have been better off with you, Perkins; still be compos mentis, at the very least. A date with me got her a bullet instead of a steak.’

  I’ve got Asquith standing guard at the photocopier with the shooter’s face in his paws - two-hundred and fifty, same as usual?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Perkins. Have him put them on my desk when he’s done.’

  Perkins rang an internal extension from a wall phone in the corridor and gave Asquith his instructions.

  ‘Come through - I’ve got something to show you.’ He led the way along the pristine corridor of the newly built annex that housed all the latest forensic technology into a personalised laboratory. ‘Welcome to my domain,’ he said, and laughed as if he was an extra in a 1970s B-rated horror movie.

  Quigg raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know much about Perkins, and probably didn’t want to if that performance was anything to go by.

  ‘Sorry, he said. ‘Besides work, that’s my passion.’

  ‘What, laughing like an insane Dracula?’

  Perkins grinned. ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘It was meant to be Béla Lugosi playing the insane scientist, Dr. Mirakle, in The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’

  ‘Edgar Allan Poe,’ Quigg said. ‘We have something in common, Perkins.’

  Perkins eyes lit up. ‘What, you like old horror films?’

  ‘No, I read detective stories, and the first fictional detective was C. Auguste Dupin, a medical student, in The Murders in the Rue Morgue, a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, which was published in 1841 in Graham’s Magazine.’

  ‘No, sorry, Quigg - don’t know anything about Edgar Allan Poe. It’s the films I like, especially the old Hammer Horrors with Peter Cushing, Herbert Lom and Vincent Price. Films like: Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy and all the others. I collect anything by Hammer and watch them over and over. You want to come round to my house sometime; I’ll show you my collection.’

  Quigg didn’t think he wanted to spend any of his valuable free time looking at Perkins’ collection of horror movies. ‘I can’t stand horror films - too much like work to me. I always remember being frightened to death as a kid by a black and white film where dumb people were literally frightened to death and a scientist took a slug thing out of their back because they couldn’t scream. I had to sleep on the floor in my parent’s room for weeks after I watched that.’

  ‘Don’t tell me… It’s coming to me… The… The Tingler, 1
959, Vincent Price, Columbia Pictures.’

  ‘You should go on Mastermind,’ Quigg said. ‘Anyway, Perkins, I’ve not come here to talk about old horror films. Did you find any evidence at the scene of the shooting?’

  ‘A soft-nosed bullet embedded in the tyre of Debbie’s Z4, but it was too splayed out to get the rifling pattern and do a database match. I’ve got men still out looking for the bullet that hit Debbie, but I’m not hopeful; it could have gone anywhere. No shell casings left behind either. So, no, not much in the way of evidence.’

  ‘What do you want to show me?’

  Perkins was sitting at a laboratory bench in front of a large-screened computer that seemed to be attached to enough electronic gadgets to keep a geek happy. ‘Sit and marvel,’ he instructed.

  Quigg sat and watched the screen. He hoped Perkins wasn’t going to play a trick on him. He had received an email once from an old pal at university. After a minute of watching the screen, a gory face appeared, accompanied by a blood-curdling scream. He was in his office and nearly fell off his chair. DS Jones had knocked and asked if he was all right, not out of concern, but wondering if a DI’s post had become vacant.

  ‘It’s the tape from Fire HQ,’ Perkins clarified.

  The blank face appeared on the screen; Perkins pressed a combination of keys to reveal… nothing.

  ‘That was illuminating,’ Quigg said.

  ‘Exactly, Quigg.’ Perkins’ shoulders slumped, his hands dangling between his legs as he gripped the wooden seat of the stool. ‘If he were using technology to circumvent the CCTV, i.e. interfering with the electronic signal, then I would be able to counteract it with more technology. I haven’t been able to do that, so the assumption is, he’s not using technology, or if he is, he’s using something I can’t even conceptualise.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Well, I figure you want to know who you’re up against, Quigg.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re talking a single person here. If he’s using technology, which I am not convinced about, it is seriously advanced shit.’