by Tim Ellis
‘Thank you, Duffy. I’ll tell them about George Sandland.’ He would have to let Duffy know about Martin the mole. If he didn’t tell her, she might divulge information that could get him into trouble, like Surfer Bob hacking into the MOD’s system on his instructions. ‘Duffy and I have a meeting this morning with someone who might be able to give us some background on our classified Mr Sandland. We’re also going to visit the council offices to find out why Mugabe Terrace isn’t on the electoral register.’
‘We’re moving forward, Sir,’ Walsh said. ‘Slow going, but we’re getting there.’
‘Good observation, Walsh. Yes, the mud should start to clear a bit by tomorrow morning. Anything else?’
No one said anything.
‘OK, see you tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll have a lie in seeing as it’s Saturday. Except you, Martin - we’ll see you bright and early on Monday. If you find anything important out today, give me a call. You’ve got your vests, I hope?’
Both Walsh and Martin turned on their way out, lifted up their clothes and revealed white bullet-proof vests.
‘Good.’ Turning to Duffy he said, ‘Don’t forget yours today.’
‘I won’t, Sir.’
‘Sorry for cutting you off before, Duffy, but there’s something you need to know.’
‘You mean about Martin telling DS Jones everything that’s going on?’
‘What…?’
‘I’ve known since yesterday, Sir. Cheryl saw them in the canteen huddled together. She was sitting on the table next to them to find out what they were talking about.’
‘And…?’
‘And they were talking about you and the case, Sir.’
‘I see. And you didn’t think to mention it to me yesterday?’
‘Is it important, Sir?’
‘Of course it’s important, Duffy. Imagine if DS Jones found out about Surfer Bob and what I’ve asked him to do. He’d be able to blackmail me and could possibly get me fired or put in prison. Anyway, you seem to be particularly well informed. Is there anything else I should know?’
He tended to ignore office politics, gossip and who was sleeping with whom, but maybe it had its uses.
‘What, you mean like DS Jones having sex with Monica, the Chief’s secretary, in the cleaner’s cupboard?’ Monica Mathews was quite presentable. A divorcee in her late twenties with mousy hair that reached half way down her back, wide hips and glasses that made her look sexy. She had always given him the frozen shoulder, looking over her glasses at him as if he were a criminal instead of a Detective Inspector.
‘That’s exactly the type of thing I mean, Duffy. Come on, let’s go and see what Surfer Bob has got for us and you can tell me all the juicy bits on the way. In future, be careful what you say when Martin is about. I don’t want DS Jones knowing my business.’
‘I understand, Sir.’
Chapter Nine
‘You’ve opened up a can of maggots with this one, Quigg,’ Surfer Bob said, sitting in his executive swivel chair with one foot on the console.
Quigg and Duffy sat on two stools facing him. They had driven to the house near Fulham Cemetery again – it was ten twenty.
‘In what way?’ Quigg said.
‘The information you asked me to acquire was stashed in the deepest hole of their darkest dungeon. It set off numerous alarms, and if I was an amateur I’m sure I’d have had a visit from the men in black by now. They’d have dragged me screaming into a room that doesn’t exist. I’d be telling them everything I know, and some things I don’t know, before they buried my tortured body in an unmarked grave.’
‘A bit dramatic, Bob.’
‘You should have come here first, Quigg. They know you were asking about George Sandland and are gonna’ connect the dots. I shouldn’t be surprised if you get a visit in the middle of the night soon. In fact, if you don’t I would start worrying.’
‘I’m surprised you tripped alarms, Bob. I thought you’d be in and out without anyone knowing.’
‘Normally the case, Quigg, but, as I said, I had to burrow deep for this information and to get there I had to cross bridges. These bridges were mined; even if I’d turned around and retraced my steps, the mines would still have exploded. I’m using bridges and mines as analogies, Quigg.’
‘I get it, Bob. So, what did you find?’
‘Before I give it to you, promise me you won’t mention my name. This is serious shit, Quigg.’
‘I don’t even know your name, Bob.’
Bob passed the sheet of paper to Quigg. There was a thumb-sized colour photograph of a military-looking man with hollow cheeks, a thin moustache and eyes as black as marbles. Underneath the picture was a list of serious shit with dates.
Transferred to Special Ops – 5 October 1982.
Completed training at Grafenwoehr Germany – 15th February 1984.
OP BLIZZARD – 10 July 1984.
OP HURRICANE – 14 January 1985.
OP TORNADO – 7 September 1986
OP SUNSHINE – 11 November 1987
OP CLOUD – 19 December 1987
OP SNOWFLAKE – 12 March 1988
OP RAIN – 17 May 1993
OP NIGHTFALL – 11 June 1997
OP DAYLIGHT – 2 October 2000
Died – 27th February 2002
‘How do you know this is serious shit? It could just be a shopping list.’
‘The MOD wouldn’t bury a shopping list that deep.’
‘Have you looked at what any of these OP things mean?’
‘Special Operations, Quigg. I tried to find out what the last one was, but they were onto me immediately and locked me out. Then I tried OP CLOUD, but they were tracking me and I had to get out fast before they could locate me.’
‘So, we’re not really any the wiser. We’ve got information that could get us killed, but it doesn’t tell us anything. How can we find out about these Special Ops, Bob?’
‘If I were you, Quigg, I’d leave it alone. Ask yourself whether you need to know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Will finding out what they mean help with the case you’re working on?’
‘If I knew that, Bob, I wouldn’t need to find out would I?’’
‘There’s someone I know who specialises in military shit. She’ll either know what they mean already or be able to find out for you.’
Quigg looked at Bob as if expecting a name and address.
‘No, it doesn’t work like that, Quigg. I’ll contact her and if she’s willing to give you the time of day, she’ll ring you. Give me your mobile and email address.’
Quigg ransacked the right-hand pocket of his duffel coat and found half a pencil and a receipt for a bottle of water, a cheese and onion sandwich, and a Mars bar that was dated July 2007. ‘What’s my mobile number, Duffy?’
‘It’s all right, Sir - I’ve done it.’ She had already written both items of information on a page from her notebook, ripped it out and passed it to Surfer Bob.
‘You’re not meant to rip pages out of your notebook, Duffy; causes problems when the Police Complaints Authority think you’ve got something to hide.’
‘We have got something to hide, Sir.’
‘I suppose so, but still… you don’t want to get into the habit of doing that.’
Duffy smiled. ‘I won’t, Sir.’
‘Have you two finished?’ Bob said. ‘I’ve got better things to do than watch your crappy attempt at a mating ritual.’
Embarrassed, Quigg and Duffy both stood. Ignoring Bob’s comment, and each other’s eyes, they made their way towards the stairs.
‘Thanks, Bob,’ Quigg called over his shoulder. ‘One thing, Bob - how will I know when this woman rings?’
‘She’ll use the password…’ His eyes creased and he scratched his forehead... ‘Pantomime.’
‘Maybe we should call this Operation Pantomime,’ Duffy said and grinned.
Quigg pushed her up the stairs.
***
‘
Council offices now, Duffy. Let’s go and find out where Mugabe Terrace disappeared to.’
‘It could have been an administrative error, Sir.’
‘Far too convenient. Drive.’
Duffy had an old MGB GT. It was green, rusty and far too low to the ground for Quigg’s liking. He felt as though he was in a home-made buggy constructed out of wood, string and pram wheels. The noise that came through the soft-top deafened him and the heater blew cool air. At least Duffy’s jalopy was better than his was at the moment – hers worked.
They arrived at the town hall in King Street at eleven forty-five. Parking was extortionate at six pounds for two hours, but Duffy would be able to claim it back. At the reception desk, a bored-looking slightly overweight Julie Roberts, with a stud in her top lip, asked if she could help. Quigg doubted it, but he showed her his warrant card anyway and said, ‘Town clerk, please.’
‘Have you got an appointment?’
Quigg knew the out-of-work actress was going to be trouble as soon as he saw her. ‘No, I haven’t got an appointment, Miss Roberts. Tell the town clerk that it’s police business.’
‘Please take a seat; I’ll see if he’s available.’
Quigg remembered Julie Roberts making an ass of herself in a film about the FBI. No wonder she was standing on the reception desk at Hammersmith & Fulham Town Council.
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘No.’
Julie put the phone down and said, ‘Go up to the third floor - Mr Seaton will meet you at the lift.’ She pointed to an opening in the wall and signs that said ‘Lifts’.
‘Thank you Miss Roberts,’ Quigg said. ‘Good luck with the acting career.’
Julie didn’t acknowledge Quigg’s remark, but simply turned, with her bored expression unchanged, to the next customer.
They were crammed in the lift with seven other people. Duffy pressed for the third floor. Quigg noticed it was an eight-person lift – or 630 kilograms – and wondered if they would plummet to the lower basement car park because of the extra weight. He was just glad when they reached the first floor and two people got off, but just before the doors closed three more people got on. He felt the lift sag and thought that maybe he should show his warrant card. He smiled to himself – the lift detective – he could spend his days going up and down the three floors of the town hall policing the lift. A weight was taken off his mind when they reached the second floor and four people got off. Once the remaining passengers had dispersed on the third floor, a woman, who reminded Quigg of Billy Bunter, wearing a pair of yellow checked trousers spread over a large backside, was standing before them.
‘Inspector Quigg.’
‘Yes.’
He shook the extended hand and was about to introduce Duffy when she said, ‘I’m Carol, Mr Seaton’s secretary. Please follow me.’
They followed Carol along the tiled corridor through a security door with a keypad to a sumptuous office with a deep pile carpet and original paintings by LS.Lowry, David Hockney and Lucian Freud. No wonder Mr Seaton hid behind a security door, Quigg thought. If the voters knew what their council tax had been spent on, there’d probably be riots. At least the council had bought the paintings of British artists.
Mr Seaton waved them to two matching mahogany chairs in front of his mahogany desk. ‘Tea?’ he asked, but before either of them could answer, he said to Carol, ‘Bring a pot of tea please, Carol.’
‘What can I do for you, Inspector…?’
‘Quigg,’ he said. He waved his arm in Duffy’s direction like the compere on the London Palladium, ‘And this is PC Duffy.’
The town clerk didn’t even glance at Duffy, which Quigg found strange considering she could have been a supermodel on any other day.
‘I’m very busy. What is it you want?’
Quigg kept in the forefront of his mind that Mr Seaton was probably the person who personally signed his salary cheque each month.
‘Having checked the electoral register, Mr Seaton, we discovered that there were no voters living at Mugabe Terrace.’
‘Wasn’t there a fire there last Sunday?’
‘Fifteen people died.’
‘Oh, yes, I recall writing a note to the finance director about the implications to the budget.’
‘Would the residents have been removed from the electoral register already?’
The corners of Mr Seaton’s mouth quivered. ‘I wish we were that efficient, Inspector.’
‘In which case, I don’t suppose you would know who made the alterations to the register?’
‘You suppose wrongly, Inspector. Roger Stapleton, the IT director, is the man you want.’
‘And where would I find him?’
‘Second floor.’ He picked up his phone. ‘I’ll give him a ring - ask him to come up and get you.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Carol came in with a tray, but Mr Seaton waved her out again as he was talking to, presumably, Roger Stapleton. ‘He’ll be up presently, Inspector. Sorry about the tea.’ He stood and moved towards the door. ‘Maybe next time.’
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Seaton,’ Quigg said and shook the town clerk’s hand.
‘You’re welcome. Now please excuse me, I must get on. Council meeting tonight, you understand?’ He blanked Duffy and didn’t wait for a response to his question, but shut the door.
‘Sorry,’ Carol said. ‘He’s a bit distracted at the moment.’
Just then the door opened and a short, bald-headed man came into Carol’s room. ‘Quigg?’ he asked.
‘Detective Inspector Quigg,’ Quigg said.
‘How can I help?’
‘I’d like to know who removed the Mugabe Terrace residents from the electoral register.’
Turning on his heel, he said, ‘Follow me.’
They went out through the security door, walked past the lift and through another door that led to the stairs. ‘It’s quicker using the stairs,’ Stapleton explained, ‘and also gives me a bit of exercise for the old ticker.’
On the second floor, Stapleton ushered them into his office and sat in front of a computer screen. There was a low hum from a rack of computer equipment on the wall, which sprouted wires like a jellyfish.
‘The electoral register, you say. OK, let’s take a look.’ He moved his mouse around and pressed combinations of keys like a professional gamer.
Quigg had no idea what he was looking at. ‘Do you understand computers, Duffy?’
‘I have a basic understanding, Sir.’
‘Do you know what he’s doing now?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘So, really you’re as clueless as I am?’
‘I suppose so, Sir.’
‘You should have said that in the first place then we’d all know where we stand.’
‘I’ve been looking at the user’s log,’ Roger Stapleton said. ‘There are very few people in the council who have administrative access, and certainly no ‘guest’ user, but all the residents of Mugabe Terrace were removed from the register last Monday evening by a ‘guest’ user.
‘You lost me after administrative access,’ Quigg said.
‘Administrative access allows the user to perform functions that normal users can’t perform such as creating and deleting other users, permitting and restricting access, and so on. An administrative user can create a ‘guest’ user and control their access.’
‘Can you tell which administrative user created the ‘guest’ that removed the residents of Mugabe Terrace?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I take it, Mr Stapleton, that wasn’t an admission of guilt?’
‘You’re right, Inspector. I know nothing about it, but I might be able to recover the data.’ He spoke while he worked. ‘We run an online backup each night and it’s kept for a month. I’m accessing last Friday’s backup… Oh!’
‘What?’
‘The file has been deleted.’ Agitated, he clicked the mouse. ‘Shit,’ he glanced at Duffy. ‘Sorry
, the electoral register for the whole damn month has gone.’
‘Who has access to your online backups?’
‘Besides myself, only Paul Jones, my deputy, but he’s been off sick for three weeks and isn’t due back for a fortnight.’
‘Let me see if I understand this right, Mr Stapleton. You created the ‘guest’ user that deleted the residents and then you deleted the backups. I hope you’ve got a lawyer?’
‘You don’t think I sabotaged my own system, do you?’
‘I don’t think anything, Mr Stapleton. Is there no other way of finding out who lived at Mugabe Terrace? Don’t you keep paper records?’
‘No. We try to run a paperless office. Those that need it have access to the register. Some can only look; others can look and print, and so on. Those who maintain the register up to date can make changes to the data, but deletions require the authorisation of a senior manager.’
Quigg turned to Duffy. ‘Let’s go. It’s clear that someone got here before us.’
‘Can I ask what it’s all about, Inspector?’ Stapleton said.
‘A missing body, Mr Stapleton, and somebody’s attempts to prevent me from finding out its identity.’
***
Duffy drove him back to the station. He needed to phone the bank to arrange an appointment with his account manager for Monday. Frustratingly, he knew he’d have to speak to someone in India to do that.
‘Thanks, Duffy,’ he said when they arrived at the station. ‘Your driving hasn’t been too bad today.’
‘I’m trying to drive like a nice girl when you’re in the car, Sir.’
Quigg had no idea what ‘nice girls’ drove like, but he said, ‘I appreciate it. Now, you go and sign out your vest. I’ve got a telephone call to make and then I’m going to the canteen for some lunch.’
‘I’ll sign out the vest, get all the important news from Cheryl and meet you in the canteen at,’ She checked her watch as if she were synchronising the time of a drug bust, ‘one fifteen, Sir.’
It was twelve fifty now. Twenty-five minutes should give him enough time, but what the hell! He’d get there when he got there and not before. He was the boss, not Duffy. Suddenly, she was telling him what to do. ‘OK, Duffy,’ he told her. It wasn’t worth pursuing; he’d take all the time he needed and if he was late, so what? It wasn’t as if she was going to bollock him or anything.