Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Is that a new term for technology you can’t conceptualise?’

  ‘Ha! Yeah, good one, Quigg.’

  ‘So, what exactly are you saying?’

  ‘Whoever is doing all this has some serious clout, i.e. the Mafia, the government, a transnational company, the International Monetary Fund; they’ve got pots of money and the latest technology, if it is technology as I’ve said…’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘I don’t even want to speculate about that, Quigg.’

  ‘That’s helpful.’

  ‘Well…’ Perkins scratched his head, looked around at the closed door, and then got up and turned the cold water tap on. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘It couldn’t be anything that’s currently on the market or in development because I’d know about it, which leaves… nothing.’

  ‘I see, so the alternative to the bomber not using technology to hide his face is - nothing.’

  ‘You’ll think I’m a nut, Quigg.’

  He already felt like an unwilling participant in an episode of the Twilight Zone. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Alien technology.’

  ‘You’re right, Perkins; you’re a nut. You’ve been watching too many of those horror films’’

  ‘Time will prove me right, Quigg. It’s well known in some circles about the massive government cover-up.’

  ‘Which circles?’

  ‘I’m a member of an alien community. We investigate UFO sightings and other unexplained phenomena. There’s always room for one more if you’re interested in joining the fight, Quigg?’

  ‘You sound like Agent Moulder from the X Files, Perkins.’

  ‘Our patron saint.’

  ‘They’ll lock you up if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Quigg. I’m careful. Three people know where I am at all times.’ He lifted up his shirt to reveal a flashing electronic button on his belt. ‘This is a personal locator beacon running at 406 Megahertz. If I get abducted by the government or aliens, they’ll be able to find me.’

  Backing towards the door, Quigg said, ‘I’m going to go now, Perkins, but thanks for your help, and I wish you all the best finding the aliens.’

  ‘They’re here amongst us, Quigg. The truth is out there, you know. You watch yourself now.’

  Quigg smiled as he opened the door and left. ‘Will do, Perkins,’ he said as the laboratory door banged shut.

  ***

  It was three thirty when he got back to his office. No sooner had he sat down than Duffy knocked, opened the door and edged in.

  ‘What is it, Duffy?’

  ‘Cheryl was disappointed you wouldn’t go out with her, Sir.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve interrupted my after-dinner nap to tell me?’

  ‘No, Sir. I accessed the electoral register and Mugabe Terrace doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Don’t fool around, Duffy - I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘I’m not fooling, Sir. Either it never existed or someone has deleted it.’

  ‘Ring the council; ask them if the absence of Mugabe Terrace is a bureaucratic mistake or whether it’s been deleted on purpose. Also… In fact, forget all of that - we’ll give them a visit tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, Sir. I also rang the MOD. They gave me the run-around first, the continual ringing second, the…’

  ‘Life’s too short, Duffy - get to the punch line.’

  ‘I finally spoke to a major who told me that they were unable to help because national security would be compromised.’

  ‘National security! What does that mean?’ Will a…?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Are you reading my mind, now, Duffy? You don’t even…’

  ‘You were going to ask whether a warrant would give us access; it won’t, Sir. I threatened him with one and he laughed at me.'

  ‘Did he now?’ Quigg motioned Duffy to a chair. How in hell would providing us with information on George Sandland compromise national security? Not only that, if George Sandland was so top secret, why did someone leave bits of him on the mortuary shelf? And if he died seven years ago, who would have access to his body now? In fact, if George Sandland was dead, why hadn’t he been buried or cremated? And if he wasn’t, where was he being kept and why? If he only knew why George Sandland’s details were classified, he might have some idea why Body 13 had been stolen.

  ‘What do you want me to do now, Sir?’

  ‘I’d like you to sit there quietly and allow me to think, Duffy.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  Sometimes, it was necessary to break rules when unreasonable people put up unreasonable obstacles, which prevented him from solving a case. He was a senior police officer for God’s sake. National security was part of his brief. The decision that information should be kept from him because it would compromise national security was an unreasonable obstacle made by an unreasonable person and, as such, it would be necessary to break some rules.

  He counted ten copies from the top of the pile of black and white photographs Asquith had placed on his desk and put them to one side. The shooter had on a ski mask. Only his face was visible. Aged around twenty to twenty-five, he had thick black eyebrows above dark eyes, a thin straight nose and a wide mouth with thin lips. His hair and ears were not visible. Not very helpful, he thought. It would be difficult to identify anyone from the picture. He pushed the stack of photographs across the desk to Duffy. ‘Take these to the duty sergeant. Tell him…’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Paula Childs, Sir.’

  ‘…Tell her it’s the suspect from the shooting. He should be considered armed and dangerous,’ he smiled, ‘especially if he’s still got his mask on, and she should distribute them to her officers.’

  Duffy stood and picked up the photographs. ‘Probably won’t be until the night shift come on at eight now, Sir.’

  ‘That’s OK. Then I want you to get your coat; we’re going out.’

  Duffy opened her mouth as if she was about to ask something.

  Quigg answered before she could. ‘No, Duffy, you don’t need to put perfume, lip gloss or make-up on. You look fine as you are.’

  Duffy grinned as she opened the door. ‘This is like being married, Sir. My mum and dad used to finish each other’s sentences off just like we’re doing.’

  ‘We’re not even close to being married, Duffy, and I wish you’d stop talking as if we’re a couple or something. We’re not, and as long as the world keeps turning on its axis, we never will be.’ The bullet-proof vest jumped into his mind as his eyes drifted down to her chest. ‘Did you sign out a vest?’

  She blushed and pulled her jacket closed over her breasts. ‘They didn’t have one to fit me and have ordered a special size from Hendon. It’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘A "special size"? What does that mean, Duffy? What size are your breasts?’

  ‘You shouldn’t ask a lady things like that, Sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘38B, Sir.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything to me, Duffy.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘Morbid curiosity, I suppose. OK. Make sure you wear it when it does get here. I’ve promised the Chief I’ll give you back in one piece.’ He didn’t want to admit it to himself or to her, but he liked Duffy a lot and wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

  ‘Where are we going, Sir?’

  ‘In the interests of national security, I can’t tell you that, Duffy. Are you still here?’

  He shrugged into his duffel coat and, with great difficulty, put his hands in the pockets. He took a handful of mostly paper from the left-hand pocket and spread it out on his desk. He planned to make two piles: one for throwing in the bin and the other one for returning to his pocket. He had only put two items on the ‘bin’ pile when he came across the piece of paper Ruth Lynch had given him. He opened it up and flattened it on the desk. At the top in the middle, single-spaced and in a size 12 font, she had typed the following:

  About 6’
/>   Black open-face ski mask

  Donkey jacket

  Military style black trousers tucked into black boots

  Heavy eyebrows

  Thin nose and lips

  Young, probably 23/24

  Silenced Glock45

  He guessed the shooter had used a silencer, but what raised the hairs at the back of his neck was – how did Ruth Lynch know the shooter had used a Glock45 pistol? Was she a weapons expert? He’d have to ask her the next time he saw her.

  ***

  Quigg had met Surfer Bob during an investigation into stolen identities and took an instant liking to him. Bob, although that was not his real name, had a chip on his shoulder Quigg could have had his supper on. Hadn’t appeared above ground for years and wore the pallor of a ghost. But he had been particularly helpful in solving the case for which Quigg received a commendation.

  Surfer Bob, Quigg explained to Duffy as they were standing outside the front door of the nondescript detached house in a cul de sac close to Fulham Cemetery, was his online name. He was a hacker, not a cracker, which meant that he could infiltrate systems and destroy them, but that’s not what he did. He got paid bagfuls of money for writing programs and applications to improve company network security, which gave him the freedom to feed his computer habit.

  ‘How much money?’ Duffy asked with the tact of a Molotov cocktail.

  ‘Your social skills need some work, Duffy,’ Quigg said.

  ‘Is that you, Quigg?’ a disconnected male voice came through a black speaker next to the CCTV camera.

  ‘Slightly damaged, but yes, it’s me, Bob.’

  ‘I know a good plastic surgeon that specialises in providing new identities for the slightly damaged. He’s been struck off, but when he’s sober he’s as good as he ever was.’

  ‘I’m flattered, Bob, but I need help with something a bit more in line with your particular skills.’

  The deadbolts clanked in the steel front door and it opened. The upstairs of Bob’s house had been modified to hold the guts of his computer system and a back-up power generator, which could have kept the whole of Fulham lit up for Christmas. As soon as they stepped through the front door, a metal grate in the floor slid back to reveal steps into an underground room.

  Bob was standing at the bottom of the concrete steps. He was six foot four and aged somewhere between forty and sixty, but because of his waist-length grey ponytail, ZZ Top beard and the whiteness of his skin, it was hard to pin an exact age on him.

  ‘Oh!’ Duffy exclaimed as Bill came into view. ‘You didn’t say he was an albino, Sir.’

  ‘Sorry, Bob,’ Quigg said. ‘She’s new.’

  ‘New!’ Bob said, looking Duffy up and down appreciatively. ‘She’s still in the wrapper. And a very nice wrapper it is, as well.’

  ‘Bob is not an albino, Duffy,’ Quigg admonished her. ‘Try to keep your comments work-related in future.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘And stop apologising.’

  ‘Sorry…’

  ‘What brings you to the centre of cyberspace, Sergeant?’

  ‘Detective Inspector.’

  ‘It’s been a long time, Quigg. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks. You haven’t aged, Bob.’

  Bob gave Duffy a look. ‘No harmful gamma radiation, that’s what keeps me young.’

  Quigg looked around the cellar. It had been eight years since his last visit, but it still looked like his idea of Mission Control at NASA. There were large flat plasma screens hung everywhere, some with views from the CCTV cameras located in and around his house, others were blanked out, still others were running programmes of varying complexity. Embedded in a semi-circular table in the centre of the room were numerous consoles and gadgets.

  Bob went and sat in a large high-backed black chair in the middle of the table. ‘Well, DI Quigg - what do you want for free this time?’

  Quigg smiled. ‘Think of it as helping the police with their enquiries, Bob.’

  ‘Anyone else would charge a six-figure consultancy fee.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be community-spirited.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The MOD.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I need everything you can get me on a George Sandland. They won’t tell us anything; say the information has been classified for reasons of national security.’

  ‘National security? Ah, yes, I’ve heard of that. It’s a film with Martin Lawrence in, isn’t it?’

  ‘Still got the attitude, Bob?’

  ‘Keeps me warm in the winter, Quigg. Anyway, I can only sneak in through the back door of the MOD during the small hours, so you’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’

  As Quigg followed Duffy up the concrete steps to the front door, she swivelled her head and said, ‘What you’re asking him to do is illegal, isn’t it, Sir?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Duffy.’

  ‘Breaking into the MOD system.’

  ‘I know it’s late in the day, Duffy, but pay attention. When I say "I have no idea what you’re talking about", that means we were never here; you never met Surfer Bob; I never asked him to do anything illegal. Are you getting my drift now?’

  They stepped out into a cold November evening. The door banged shut and the deadbolts sliding home sounded like the clanking of a prison cell door. A movement-activated light came on as they walked down the path towards Duffy’s car. ‘It’s a bit unethical, isn’t it, Sir?’

  ‘Let me tell you about Vietnam, Duffy.’

  ‘Who, Sir?’

  ‘It’s a country in south-east Asia, Duffy. Geography or history not your favourite subjects at school?’

  ‘History was OK, but geography was like algebra.’

  ‘I see, and in the numerous years you spent at school, Vietnam never cropped up?’

  ‘Not that I know of, Sir. I could have been off with chicken pox or glandular fever when Mr Panghorn talked about it.’

  ‘There was a war over there, Duffy. American troops held back the tide of communism.’

  ‘What’s communism?’

  ‘Drive me to Putney Bridge tube station.’

  ‘I can take you home if you want, Sir?’

  ‘Thanks, but it’ll be easier for both of us if I catch the tube. And anyway, I have to go somewhere else first.’

  Duffy pulled away from the curb. Quigg made sure his seat belt was done up properly and held on to the door handle.

  ‘You were telling me about Vietnam, Sir.’

  ‘I’m wondering whether the point I’m trying to make will be worth it, Duffy.’

  ‘Go on, Sir, I’ll try not to fall asleep.’

  He looked at her, but didn’t see any sarcastic puckering of the lips. ‘The Americans lived in fenced-off camps and when they went to fight the Vietcong they were taken to the jungle in helicopters.’

  Duffy listened intently as she pulled into the slow-moving traffic on the A219 towards Putney Bridge. She had to cross the bridge to get home to Wandsworth.

  ‘The problem, Duffy, was that the Americans were fighting in the Vietcong backyard. The only way to fight the Vietcong was to go and live in the jungle, and that’s what some Special Forces units did. Have you seen Apocalypse Now with Marlon Brando?’

  ‘Apoco’ who, Sir?’

  ‘Never mind, Duffy. It was a slim chance anyway. So, did you get the point I was making?’

  ‘Mmmm, was it…?’

  Quigg sighed. ‘If we’re going to fight criminals, Duffy, we need to get down in the mud with them.’

  ‘Were there lots of criminals in Vietnam, Sir? And where did the mud come from?’

  He felt as though he were swimming through jellied eels. ‘Pull over here, Duffy. It’s not far to the station; I could do with some fresh air.’

  ‘Are you sure, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She put her indicator on and stopped.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Duffy. Good day’s work.’

>   ‘OK, Sir - thank you.’

  He pushed the car door shut, jumped over the metal fence at the side of the road and waved at Duffy as she pulled back into the traffic. Walking in the direction of Putney Bridge tube station, he started thinking of how to get from the District to the Central line. The quickest way to East Acton was to change at Notting Hill Gate and from there walk to the hospital. It had been awhile since he’d had to juggle tube stations in his head. He was so used to travelling by car he’d forgotten there were other modes of transport.

  ***

  Bartholomew waited at the Clockmakers Museum in the Guildhall Library for Peter and John. He had last visited the museum in 2001, before the refurbishment, and was looking forward to seeing the new horological curiosities and, of course, his old favourite: John Harrison’s 1761 H5 maritime timekeeper.

  ‘Bartholomew,’ Peter said as he and John came into the Library together. ‘This is a strange place to meet.’

  Bartholomew shook hands with both of them. ‘It is only strange if one fails to have an interest in social history or is incapable of appreciating fine British craftsmanship.’

  ‘Oh, in that case, Bartholomew,’ John said, ‘let us take a look. Lead the way, old chap.’

  Carrying bowler hats and umbrellas, they unbuttoned their cashmere coats and strolled into the one-room museum.

  ‘Let me show you this,’ Bartholomew said, moving towards a display case. He opened his arms as if he were revealing something he had crafted himself. ‘The beautiful Conyers Dunlop’s gold and enamel watch made for Queen Charlotte. And this -’ he strode purposefully to the end of the room to another display case, ‘Pasquale Andervalt’s gas-powered clock.’

  John laughed. ‘Gas-powered?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Bartholomew said. ‘The man we hired has been disposed of, by the way. There will be no connection to us.’

  Peter leaned towards the glass, peering closer at the gas-powered oddity. ‘And the video tape? Did it work?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Peter. Simon assures me that the biological method they have been working on to circumvent CCTV technology is foolproof for as long as the subject remains alive.’