Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

‘That type of biotechnology will be worth a fortune on the black market -’ John observed, ‘once they sort out the side effects.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, John,’ Bartholomew said.

  Chapter Eight

  It was quarter to seven by the time he reached the hospital. He nodded to the armed copper on Debbie’s door and showed his warrant card.

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yes, Sir - nothing to report.’

  ‘Thanks for doing this - I know it’s boring.’

  ‘There’s a lot of hanging about in the ARU, Sir. You get used to it.’

  ‘It’s not as if you can read a book or anything, is it?’

  ‘Some of the nurses are worth a second look, and there are two of us doing an eight-hour shift. We do an hour on and an hour off, so we don’t get too bored.’

  ‘What, with the nurses?’

  The man grinned. ‘I wish, Sir.’

  ‘Well, thanks, anyway…?’ Quigg looked, but couldn’t see a name badge.

  ‘Barclay, Sir.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the guy who’s got all my money?’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong Barclay, Sir. You’re thinking of my wife.’

  ‘Take care, Barclay.’

  ‘And you, Sir.’

  In Debbie’s room, nothing seemed to have changed. There was no evidence Mr Poulson was about. He hadn’t asked Debbie’s father where he was staying, whether he had somewhere to stay, or if he was local. He’d have to be a bit friendlier the next time he saw Debbie’s dad; didn’t want to go falling out with him before he’d even got off the mark.

  ‘Hi, Debbie.’ As long as no one came in he’d be all right talking to her, but if there were someone else in the room he’d feel self-conscious. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘It’s been a bit of a day for me. How’s your day been?’

  He eased himself into the orange chair next to the bed and held her hand. It felt warm and fitted into his as if it was meant to be there. She still had the conical bandage wrapped around her head and fluids continued to drip-drip from plastic bags on metal stands into the back of her other hand. A few people walked past the door, but everywhere was quiet and smelled of starched sheets instead of disinfectant.

  ‘They’re keeping you clean and presentable; you’re looking good. Not as good as you looked last night in that black number you had on, but…’ He was going to say: "But then you didn’t have a bullet in your head". ‘Trouble is you’ve got a bit of competition now. That’s how it goes with buses - none for ages, then two come along… Not that you’re a bus, and we won’t talk about Duffy and Cheryl. Her name’s Ruth Lynch-Guevara. Sound familiar? Would you believe she’s the granddaughter of Ché Guevara? But don’t worry, she’s way out of my league… not that you’re not…’ As usual when talking to women – even comatose ones – he made an ass of himself. ‘All I was trying to say was hurry up and get well. I’ll stick to talking about work should I? I know what I’m talking about on that subject.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The Chief Constable is on my back about this case. He wants reports every day and a result by the end of next week. I blackmailed Bellmarsh into giving me two more people; told him I’d inform the Chief Constable if he held out on me.’ He smiled thinking about the Chief’s face. ‘Yeah, and guess what? That Ruth Lynch I was telling you about, she saw who shot you last night and gave us an artist’s impression. So we now know what the shooter looks like. All we have to do is find him and ask him what the hell’s going on. Oh, by the way, my car’s going to cost me a monkey to get it fixed. You’re wondering what a monkey is, aren’t you? I was the same when the mechanic told me – it’s five hundred pounds in cockney slang. Yeah, I know it’s a fortune. I’ll have to extend my loan to pay for it ’

  ‘Good,’ Staff Nurse Robertson said as she walked in. ‘I’m glad to see you’re talking to her.’

  He looked at his watch; it was five to eight. Time he went. It was a fair old journey home. ‘I’ve just finished - gave her the seven o’clock news. Got to go now. How’s she doing?’

  Picking up the chart at the end of the bed, Staff Nurse Robertson scrutinised the squiggly lines, then said, ‘Not much change, I’m afraid.’ The layers of chins that quivered when she spoke fascinated Quigg. ‘The operation went well; it’s just a matter of her waking up now. Think of the coma as a way of the body repairing itself. When her brain recovers from the trauma, she’ll wake up - mark my words. We have to believe that.’

  ‘Thanks, nurse.’ He stood and moved towards the door. ‘I know she’ll wake up; I just hope she doesn’t remember everything I’ve been saying to her.’

  Staff Nurse Lillian Robertson smiled. ‘Goodnight Inspector.’

  ‘Goodnight, nurse.’

  A tall copper with greasy hair and a Mexican moustache had replaced Barclay. Quigg nodded at him then made his way to the lift.

  ***

  If he’d stayed on the District Line, or lived near one of the stations along the Central Line, he could have got home to Upton Park without changing trains. Instead, he travelled to Mile End on the Central Line, then switched to the District Line, and was putting his key in the door of 5, Boleyn Gardens by ten to nine.

  ‘What time do you call this, Quigg?’

  It would have started the evening’s entertainment if he’d answered, so he kept quiet.

  ‘I’m just glad I gave up cooking for you when I did.’ Quigg smiled at that. Beryl hadn’t cooked for him since his dad had died when he was eight years old. He didn’t blame her. Liam Quigg, navvy, had been quick with his rough hands if food wasn’t on the table at the specified time. He’d added five minutes onto his journey by calling in at the Happy Friar by the station. He wasn’t getting his five vegetables a day and the saturated fat in the fast foods he did get was slowly clogging up his arteries. ‘Imagine how I’d feel if I’d cooked you a roast dinner and you were coming home three hours late. No phone call, no message…’

  ‘I’ve got fish and chips, Mum. Fancy some?’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Quigg. I hope it’s proper cod and not any of the other muck they’re trying to palm off on us these days.’

  ‘It’s proper cod, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t put too much salt ‘n’ vinegar on, there’s a love, and I’ll have two pieces of bread. Spread the butter on thick; we’re not on rations anymore.’

  He knew exactly how she had her fish and chips and her two slices of buttered bread. She was sitting in the living room in front of the television. Coronation Street had just finished and The Bill was playing out on mute. He put the tray on her knee and sat in the chair that used to be his father’s. He could still remember the tall, hairy man snoring while he played quietly with an old toy car on the linoleum floor in the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know, Quigg. You came home after midnight last night and tonight it’s nine o’clock. I worry you know. I lie in my bed imagining all sorts of things. The least you could do is phone me, let me know you’re all right. No wonder that wife of yours left you. Selfish and inconsiderate, Quigg, that’s what you are.’

  ‘Enjoying the fish, Mum?’

  ‘Don’t try and change the subject. When am I going to see my granddaughter again? It’s been six months now. She’ll have forgotten both of us by the time you get round to seeing a solicitor.’

  As if he had money for a solicitor. The question was like a recurring nightmare, only he was awake each time his mother asked it. Caitlin knew damn well he couldn’t afford to get legal representation and that was the reason she was able to keep Phoebe away from him. Once he’d solved the case, or the Chief had replaced him with Gwen Peters, he’d have to go round to the semi in Bermondsey and speak to Caitlin.

  ‘I’ll go and speak to her, Mum.’

  ‘I haven’t got long left, Quigg. If you don’t get something sorted out soon, I’ll be sitting on a cloud watching Phoebe putting flowers on my grave.’

  ‘There’s no need to be over-dramatic, Mum. And what makes you think you’re going to heaven?’


  ‘After everything you and your father have put me through, where else would I be?’

  ‘I’m off to bed now, Mum. I’ve got to write and send an email to the Chief Constable and be up early in the morning. Without a car, it takes me ages to get to work.’

  ‘Yes, you go to bed, Quigg. But just remember, I’d like to see my granddaughter once more before I die.’

  Quigg leant down, put his hands gently on Beryl’s fragile shoulders and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘I’ll remember, Mum. Goodnight.’

  ***

  The idea that there was one hour in the morning, between eight and nine, which could be deemed ‘rush hour’ was preposterous. Rush hour lasted from six until ten, and he’d been in the middle of it. If he’d been a crow, he could have flown the distance in fifteen minutes; as human flotsam on the tube it took him an hour and fifteen.

  He was in work by eight twenty. People stared at him as if he was a stranger. DS Jones was already at his desk.

  ‘Hello, Sir,’ Jones said in his musical Welsh accent. ‘Your mum thrown you out?’ At thirty-nine, DS Jones was a couple of years older than Quigg. He had short-cropped greying hair, heavy bags under his eyes and, surrounding a crooked mouth, he’d recently grown a goatee beard. Quigg wondered whether Jones was eating the same crap as he was, because his face had filled out and his neck was thicker. He looked more like a rugby player now than he did when he’d been playing.

  ‘My domestic situation has nothing to do with you, Sergeant Jones. Why are you in so early?’

  ‘Showing willing, Sir. The Chief is keen to pass this inspection with flying colours; he’s heard there’s a Commander’s post up for grabs.’

  Now Quigg knew why Bellmarsh was being so tight-fisted with the manpower. ‘He’s too old and too close to retirement to be considered for promotion.’

  ‘I’ll let him know you said that, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Sergeant. And is there a whiff of promotion for you, as well?’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that, Sir.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘So, have you had the pleasure yet, Sir?’

  ‘If you’re talking about PC Duffy, Sergeant, I could haul you up on charges. Running a book on when a colleague has sex is hardly the behaviour of a sergeant, or a newly promoted inspector come to think of it.’

  ‘It’s a bit of fun, Sir. Duffy knows what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh, she does, Sergeant. And if I were you, I’d wear your groin guard whenever she’s about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Trust me, Sergeant, PC Duffy is not a person you want to get on the wrong side of. You do know she has four older brothers?’

  ‘Yes, I knew that.’

  ‘Well, coming from a male-dominated family, you should have guessed she isn’t the fluffy air-head you make her out to be, otherwise she wouldn’t have joined the police force.’

  ‘She’s just another tart in a uniform, Sir.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant, when you’re sitting on the sharp end of the flag pole with your dick in your mouth wondering when it all went wrong, think of this as a defining moment.’

  He left DS Jones scratching his head and sauntered along to the storeroom. Switching on the light, he saw that the board was as they’d left it. No one appeared to have discovered Quigg’s alternate incident room. It was quarter to nine; the others would be here soon. He sat down, put his feet on the table and pondered.

  Today they’d be able to answer some of the questions on the right-hand side of the board. He already knew the fire in Mugabe Terrace was an accident. Surfer Bob would be able to tell him what was so special about George Sandland sometime this morning. Martin should have some information on Patrick Griffiths. Perkins hadn’t had much luck identifying the bomber from the Fire HQ tape, but they had a sketch of Debbie’s shooter and it was probably the same guy. Walsh should have found out where Mr Ahmed kept his off-site records and hopefully obtained a copy of them. But there was still the big question: Why was Body 13 stolen? Maybe some of the information they acquired today would point them towards an answer, but someone was determined not to make it easy. What had happened to Mugabe Terrace on the electoral register? Too coincidental to be an error, someone must have deleted the records on purpose. He had a week left before Gwen Peters came in and trampled all over his career. Hopefully, the three members of his team would agree to work overtime and, instead of a five-day week, he’d get a seven-day week out of them.

  He needed the toilet and a coffee, in that order. He left the incident room and wandered along the corridor to the toilet. Relieved, he walked out of the gents and wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Martin, the mole, talking to Jones, the weasel, in the stairwell. Now that he knew of Martin’s rodent status, he could supply him with misinformation and keep the important stuff from him.

  Walsh and Duffy were already in the incident room when he returned and Martin, the foul-smelling mole, followed him in.

  ‘Right,’ he said, sitting down, ‘let’s dispense with the niceties and get on with it; I’ve got a lot to do today. Duffy, you’re in charge of the board. Walsh, you go first.’

  ‘I took the warrant to the manager at Barclays and he gave me access to Mr Ahmed’s bank statements. The company he was paying for off-site back-ups was called Data-Safe and they’re located in India.’

  ‘India!’ Martin said. ‘A warrant won’t be any bloody good over there.’

  ‘I love the way you always look on the bright side, Martin,’ Quigg said. ‘Carry on, Walsh.’

  ‘I went onto the Internet and found their telephone number, which I rang, and it was like talking to my senile granny in the old people’s home.’

  A sound came from Martin.

  ‘What was that, Martin?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Walsh said.

  Quigg stared at Martin until he looked away. ‘Go on, Walsh. What happened next?’

  ‘I found an Indian to interpret for me. Well, when I say interpret, that’s not quite accurate because everyone spoke English. It's just that the English they spoke was not the same as the English I speak or could understand, especially over the telephone. Anyway, it didn’t do any good even through the interpreter, and when I say interpreter, that’s not quite accurate because it was an English Indian customer in a sari who came into the bank and agreed to help. So, after getting nowhere, I brought it all back here and gave it to forensics. I checked with them last night, but they were having as much trouble as I was. I’m going back this morning to check on progress.’

  ‘So, you got nothing, Walsh?’

  She smiled. ‘Life’s never that simple, Sir.’ She had on a pair of black slacks with flat shoes and a red ribbed jumper. She looked warmly presentable. ‘Once I’d passed the ball to forensics I had nothing left to do, so I decided to analyse Mr Ahmed’s bank statements. I looked at the payments in because I was wondering if the tenants at Mugabe Terrace paid their rent by cheque or bank transfer. I’m still working on it, but I’ve got a long list of account numbers and names to check with other banks and against the electoral register to find out who lived where.’

  ‘Well done, Walsh. It’s good to see someone using the brains they were born with.’ Half turning to Martin, he said, ‘What about you, Martin?’

  ‘I’m still working on Griffith’s life story, but there’s not a lot to tell. I pulled his details off the database and they tell me everything I need to know, but I’m checking a few gaps, acquaintances and so on. Up to now I haven’t found a connection with Sandland, but until we know a bit more about Sandland, I won’t be able to tell whether their lives intersected at any time. I should know everything there is to know about Patrick Griffiths by the end of the day.’

  ‘You’ve been to the Scrubs, then?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘The Scrubs?’ Martin eyed Quigg suspiciously. ‘Well, no, what would be the point of that?’

  ‘The point, Martin, is that Griffi
ths was killed in there. Someone knows something. Now, I’m not as stupid as to think you’re going to discover who killed him, but you can find out what he was doing in there, who he was friends with and so on. Do you understand me?’

  Martin slumped in his chair. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Here.’ He passed Martin the list of prisoners that Governor Richards had given him. ‘The prisoners who were in the shower with Martin.’ That should keep him out of the way and occupied, Quigg thought.

  Martin took the list reluctantly.

  ‘And while I’m on the subject of work. The Chief has agreed for overtime this weekend. I hope I can count on everyone?’

  ‘What? He’s agreed to overtime payments at time and a half on Saturday and double time on Sunday?' Martin queried.

  Quigg smiled. ‘Not exactly payments, but you can have the time off in lieu when the case is over.’

  ‘I’ve booked to go away this weekend,’ Martin said. ‘Sorry, Sir - can’t be rescheduled.’

  He expected as much from Martin the mole. ‘What about you Walsh?’

  ‘I can work Saturday, but not Sunday, Sir, I’ve got family coming down from Manchester and it’s too late to put them off now. Any other time and I would have said yes.’

  ‘Saturday’s good, thanks, Walsh.’

  ‘I can work, Sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Duffy.’

  ‘What did you find out, Sir?’ Martin asked.

  ‘The fire at Mugabe Terrace was an accident, so you can rub out the 15 in brackets, Duffy. Perkins in forensics had no luck extracting the bomber’s face from the Fire HQ tape - made a brouhaha about the impossibility of it, but it was double-Dutch to me.’ He passed round the sketch of the shooter. ‘A witness came forward who described Debbie Poulson’s shooter and this has been distributed to all the uniforms.’ He wasn’t going to tell Martin about Ruth Lynch. The less Jones knew about the case the better.

  ‘Could be anybody.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Martin - as hopeful as ever.’

  ‘We’ve got someone…’