Body 13 (Quigg Book 2)

by Tim Ellis

  He went back to his office, sat in his executive chair and pulled out his phone. Before he could even look up the number of the bank’s call centre in India, the phone vibrated and made him jump.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Uptown Girl. I was asked to ring you about two seats to the pantomime.’

  He hadn’t been in contact with anyone about a Christmas pantomime. ‘I’m sorry - I think you have the wrong number.’

  ‘Surfer Bob said you wouldn’t remember.’

  Then it came to him. ‘Pantomime! Ha, I forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘You want to know what those things are that Bob found for you?’’

  ‘Yeah, the…’

  ‘Don’t speak in clear on an unsecured line.’

  ‘Oh!’ What the hell was an unsecured line? She sounded like she worked for the CIA.

  ‘I don’t work for free like Bob, though.’

  ‘I have very limited funds upon which to draw. In fact, the funds are that limited I have nothing.’

  ‘Don’t you pay police informers?’

  ‘Obtaining authorisation for a police informer takes weeks.’

  Quigg heard her sigh.

  ‘This one time I’m gonna’ tell you what you want to know as a favour to Bob because he vouches for you, but you ever want anything else, you better have a wedge of fifties in your hand.’

  A wedge of fifties! If he had a wedge of fifties he’d keep them for himself. Information was obviously an expensive business. ‘I’m very grateful to you… Uptown Girl.’ He felt stupid calling her that.

  ‘Meet me in half an hour at the…’

  ‘Can we make it three thirty? I have something I need to do first.’

  ‘Do you want this information or not?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d like it at three thirty if at all possible.’ He was fed up with women telling him what to do all the time.

  ‘Three thirty then, at the Internet café on Notting Hill Gate. You think you can find that?’

  ‘I’m a detective - I’ll find it… and thank you.’ The last part was spoken into a dead phone. Uptown Girl had already disconnected her mobile. He checked his watch – it was five past one. He found the number for the bank in his contact list and wished he had the ability to stop time.

  ‘Hello, this is your friendly call centre. How can I be of assistance?’ He knew it was going to be a long call.

  It took him thirty-five minutes to arrange the meeting for ten o’clock on Monday morning. Famished, he sauntered along to the canteen.

  ‘You’re late, Sir.’

  She was sitting at a table against a wall with a bottle of water and some leaves on a plate. Cheryl was sitting next to her and gave him a frosty look.

  ‘Listen, Duffy - you seem to have forgotten that I’m the inspector and you’re the constable. We’re not married, engaged or going out. You’re helping me temporarily with this case because we’re short on the ground. That’s it. So don’t start saying I’m late to places. I have things to do. I’m my own man. I arrive when I arrive and not before.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. Because my mum died when I was young, I’m so used to organising my dad and brothers I forget where I am.’

  Quigg felt guilty about reprimanding her and he knew he shouldn’t have done it in front of Cheryl. ‘Let me get some lunch, Duffy, and then we can talk. We’ve got somewhere to be by three thirty, so there’s not a lot of time.’

  ‘OK, Sir.’

  He was too lazy to make decisions about food and ordered the first meal on the ‘special offer’ board of fish, chips and peas with a mug of coffee and two slices of bread. When he got back, Cheryl had left. ‘Cheryl not joining us?’

  ‘She’s already had her lunch hour, but you’re not her favourite person at the moment, Sir.’

  Forking chips and a few peas with his right hand into a piece of bread held in his left hand, Quigg said, ‘Can’t win them all, I suppose.’

  As he took a bite from his chip butty, Duffy asked, ‘Where are we going?’

  Quigg talked while he ate, but mostly he listened while Duffy kept him in the loop about what was happening in the station. Pretty soon he’d know as much as the Chief. Oh shit! The Chief! He hadn’t seen Bellmarsh at all today. Well, he couldn’t brief him now. He’d go and see him after he got back from Notting Hill.

  ***

  They were wading through the Poetry and Dream collection in Room 3 – The Elements of Chance – on Level 3 of the Tate Modern at Bankside.

  ‘Surrealism must be an acquired taste,’ Bartholomew said. He was standing next to James in front of the Constellation According to the Laws of Chance by Hans Arp, circa 1930. ‘I don’t get it. Black and white blobs is all I see.’

  ‘This particular piece,’ James said, ‘evokes the forms and laws of nature without copying them. It represents something different to each consciousness.’

  ‘The side of a cow -’ Bartholomew observed, tilting his head to the right, ‘is that what it’s meant to be?’

  James smiled as if he were standing next to a child learning the rudiments of art appreciation. ‘I see clouds and planets, flux and chance characteristic of the inaccessible order of nature.’

  ‘Quigg’s a resourceful chap,’ Bartholomew said as he shuffled to the next painting. ‘Ah, now this is something I can understand: a bird in a forest.’

  ‘Forest and Dove painted by Max Ernst in 1927,’ James read from the guide. ‘The forest is a metaphor for enchantment and terror and the dove is symbolic of the artist trapped among the menacing trees.’

  Bartholomew was bored. He didn’t like things he didn’t understand and surrealism appeared to be one of the things he didn’t understand and, therefore, didn’t like. ‘He has already managed to find out about Sandland’s service record. It will be only a matter of time before he discovers what type of work Sandland did in the army.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, it is totally irrelevant. I merely make the point to illustrate Quigg’s doggedness. Thaddeus has also informed me that Quigg, and that large-breasted police constable, have visited the council offices looking into the absence of residents from Mugabe Terrace.’

  James turned to face Bartholomew. ‘Again, is that a problem?’

  ‘No, he will not discover who deleted the records. I simply mention it to highlight his thoroughness and the pattern of his investigation.’

  ‘Should Quigg get too close to the truth, we always have the final solution. Now, should we move on, Bartholomew?’

  ‘Unfortunately, James, I have just realised I must be somewhere else.’

  James smiled knowingly. ‘Somewhere there are no surrealist pictures, Bartholomew?'

  Bartholomew smiled back. ‘I see you understand, James.’

  Chapter Ten

  Before he could get out of the station, the Chief caught him in the corridor walking towards the back stairs with Duffy on the way to the car park. ‘My office - now, Quigg.’

  Another couple of steps and he would have been clear. ‘I’ll see you in the car park as soon as I can get away from the Chief,’ he whispered to Duffy.

  She nodded and went through the door leading to the stairs.

  Quigg walked back to the Chief’s office. ‘You wanted to see me, Sir?’

  Instead of offering him a chair or a coffee, the Chief said, ‘You’re a baboon, Quigg.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ Quigg stuffed his hands in the pockets of his duffel coat. ‘You really know how to improve the morale of your staff. Why am I a baboon?’

  ‘Because, Quigg, you’re scratching your arse when you should be in here telling me what’s going on.’

  ‘When you gave me a week to solve the case, Sir, you didn’t say most of it would be spent in here telling you how far I’ve got.’

  ‘And that’s not very far, if my sources are correct.’

  ‘Yes, DS Jones is correct, but we’re moving in the right direction, Sir.’

  ‘The right direction! You have no idea whi
ch direction you’re going in, do you, Quigg?’ The Chief leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together over his extensive belly.

  ‘And not only that, Sir - what’s the point in me coming in here to brief you when I send you a copy of the Chief Constable’s daily report and DS Jones has already told you everything I’m doing and where we are?’

  ‘That’s not the objective, Quigg, as you well know. It’s about respect for your superiors. And talking of respect, what’s this about you thinking I’m too old for promotion?’

  ‘You are, Sir. How long have you got left until retirement?’

  ‘Oh, you’d like to know that juicy detail wouldn’t you, Quigg? You’d like nothing better than to see me retired. Well, Quigg, I might wait around until you’re booted out. Yes, I might very well do that.’

  ‘Can I go now, Sir? I’ve got somewhere to be in twenty minutes and now I’m late.’

  ‘Yes, you can go, Quigg, but remember: I want briefing first thing Monday morning. I shouldn’t have to wait until DS Jones finds out what you’ve been up to and then comes and tells me. You should come and show me some respect.’

  ‘I’ll be in here first thing on Monday baring my soul, Chief.’

  ‘You’d better be. And stay out of trouble over the weekend. I don’t want to come in on Monday and find I have to manage a disaster that you’ve created.’

  ***

  The windows belonging to the Internet café on Notting Hill Gate were like those of an abandoned house. In fact, the whole place looked as though nobody cared. Flakes of purple paint lay in twists on the pavement; cobwebs with cocooned insects hugged the corners of the window, and the smell of stale coffee seeped through the wood and glass door.

  Quigg led the way as if he were journeying into the jungles of Borneo. ‘Keep close,’ he said to Duffy, expecting cannibals to leap out.

  ‘Why, Sir?’

  ‘You never know in these places.’

  ‘Never know what?’

  ‘You just never know.’

  Obviously, the smoking ban did not extend to Internet cafés. They both coughed, squinting to peer through the smog in the room. A girl, who looked terribly young with shoulder-length black hair and a haunted expression, waved them over.

  ‘Uptown Girl?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘Depends if you’re Quigg or not?’

  ‘I’m Quigg.’

  ‘Then I’m Uptown Girl. You haven’t told anyone you’re here, have you?’

  ‘No. Like who?’

  ‘The government.’

  Quigg shook his head to escape from the fantasy world he had stumbled into. ‘I’m sorry…?’

  ‘You’re just pre-programmed robots, Quigg. I’m sure if you examine yourself close enough, you’ll find the chip.’

  He glanced at Duffy, who merely shrugged with a look of utter confusion on her face. Unable to prevent the words spilling from his mouth, he said, ‘A chip?’

  ‘Implanted in the base of your brain when you were born.’ She lifted up her matted unkempt hair. ‘Can you see it?’

  Quigg and Duffy leaned over to examine Uptown Girl’s neck. There was a small horizontal scar barely visible through her hair.

  ‘Had mine removed. If you want, I can speak to people - get yours removed; it won’t cost a lot.’

  Quigg shivered. ‘I don’t think so. Now, about…’

  ‘Yeah, the one thing about being a robot is you don’t know you are one until you’re not one.’

  ‘…George Sandland?’ He wondered how kids got so screwed up. Probably a combination of the Internet, the games consoles their parents gave them when they were young to keep them occupied, a thousand television channels, iPods, mobile telephones, satnavs and satellite aerials - all irradiating the brain to leave seriously damaged kids.

  ‘The information you’re going to take from me for free, you mean?’

  ‘I could buy you a coffee?’

  ‘I’ll have a mug with seven sugars.’

  ‘Duffy, can you…?

  Duffy looked around and spotted a coffee machine. ‘Do you want one, Sir?’ She asked as if she already knew the answer.

  ‘I don’t think so, Duffy. Just get Uptown Girl what she wants.’

  ‘Here,’ Uptown Girl thrust a filthy stained mug at Duffy.

  ‘Do you want me to wash it?’ Duffy asked.

  ‘Are you joking? There are nanobots in the water. Boil everything; it’s the only way to destroy them.’

  Duffy walked over to the coffee machine. A spotty kid with greasy hair and black eyeliner stood up as Duffy approached him. He wore a long, black leather coat, black clothes and silver chains hung everywhere. ‘Hi babe,’ he said with a mid-puberty voice.

  ‘Sit down you idiot,’ Duffy said.

  The boy tried to shrivel up and disappear as he sat down again.

  Quigg pulled the sheet of paper with the list of George Sandland’s operations on out of his pocket. ‘Surfer Bob said you might be able to tell me what some of these names mean.’

  ‘Sshhh, keep your voice down.’ She looked around nervously.

  Quigg thought she was as mad as Perkins. Maybe they knew each other.

  Duffy came back with the filthy mug of coffee. Uptown Girl grasped it and took a gulp like an addict getting her caffeine fix. ‘Pull up chairs and sit down,’ she said.

  They did as she asked.

  ‘All the names are codenames for black ops.’

  Quigg had seen enough American movies to know what ‘black ops’ entailed.

  ‘I’ll start with the last one,’ Uptown Girl said. ‘OPERATION DAYLIGHT was…’

  ‘How do you know what the names mean when they’re all classified?’ Duffy asked. ‘I mean, you’re a bit young, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I’m a hacker, one of the best there is. Better even than Surfer Bob. My dad was in the SAS. He disappeared when I was young and nobody would tell my mum where he was or what he was doing. She never got his body back to say goodbye. Now I know where he was and what he was doing. One of these days I’ll go and get his body back; give him a decent burial.’

  ‘Let’s get on shall we, Duffy…?’ He turned to Uptown Girl, ‘OPERATION DAYLIGHT was…?’

  ‘Yeah, they sent Sandland out to the old Yugoslavia to assassinate President Milosevic, but within days of him getting there the people had overthrown Milosevic and he didn’t get the chance.’

  ‘Not really connected to our current case, Sir,’ Duffy said.

  ‘Carry on,’ Quigg said to Uptown Girl.

  ‘NIGHTFALL involved a trip to Cambodia and the assassination of high-ranking members of the Khmer Rouge.’

  Quigg was beginning to wonder where this was all leading.

  ‘He was sent to Somalia in OPERATION RAIN to kill warlords who were destabilising the area.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard enough,’ Quigg said. ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of a body from a mortuary and bits of George Sandland were left in its place. Any ideas?’

  Uptown Girl swivelled on her chair, logged onto the Internet and began accumulating web pages like the Grim Reaper collecting souls. ‘He died on 27th February, 2002, in Gujarat, India. Muslims fire-bombed a train he was on. He was burnt to death. What was left of his body was flown back and, according to the records, he was cremated.’

  ‘Either somebody kept a bit of him,’ Quigg said, ‘or he wasn’t cremated at all.’

  ‘Maybe the bits of him that were left on the mortuary shelf were put there to throw us off the scent,’ Duffy speculated.

  ‘Not bad, Duffy. I’m beginning to think along those lines myself.’

  ‘So, all this work I’ve been doing for you was for nothing?’ Uptown Girl said.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Uptown Girl… Have you got a first name? I promise I won’t pass it on to any government agencies.’

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Well, Lucy, you’ve been extremely helpful. Now we know that George Sandland is a false clue and has nothing to do with th
e missing body. His remains were put there to mislead us, to waste our limited resources. So, no, it wasn’t for nothing.’

  ‘Yes it was - all I got was a lousy coffee.’

  He gave her one of his cards. ‘Keep it safe. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, ring me. You know I can be trusted: Surfer Bob has vouched for me’

  Lucy slipped the card into the pocket of her jeans. ‘Thanks, Quigg. Don’t forget you owe me.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Quigg stood and put the chair back where he’d found it. ‘Come on, Duffy. Time to go.’

  Outside, Quigg checked his watch. It was four thirty. ‘I’m going to call it a night seeing as it’s Friday,’ he said to Duffy. ‘I’ll catch the tube from here. Are you all right driving back on your own?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Sir. See you tomorrow at ten.’

  ***

  Quigg caught the tube from Notting Hill Gate direct to East Acton and walked to the hospital to see Debbie. He was earlier than usual and nodded at the copper on the door. Mr Poulson was sitting next to Debbie’s bed dozing in an easy chair. Feeling let down, he didn’t know whether to stay or go. He wanted to talk to Debbie. That’s what he had come for, not to talk to Mr Poulson. Although at some point he would have to if Debbie pulled through, but tonight he didn’t feel up to it. He decided to find the hospital café, get a coffee and take a breath. He’d come back after that and see Debbie.

  He found the café easily by following the signs. It wasn’t called the café. The powers that be had given it a suitable name. Quigg smiled as he walked into The Eatery, detaining a mug of coffee and a double chocolate chip cookie at the counter. He sat by a window and could see the clock tower on the old Victorian building.

  What the hell was the case all about? Who had left bits of George Sandland and Patrick Griffith’s fingerprint on the mortuary shelf? Where did they get Sandland’s remains? Why? What was the purpose of it all? Who deleted the residents of Mugabe Terrace from the electoral register? Whoever was doing all this had extraordinary access to the MOD, the council offices and advanced technology. There was a lot more to the case than a missing body. He and Duffy had wasted days finding out about Sandland, and for what? He suspected that Patrick Griffiths would also turn out to be a red herring, but he couldn’t take the chance that the murderer might be connected to Body 13.