by Tim Ellis
And if that were not enough, his private life was full of questions as well. How could he get the money to see a solicitor? Should he really get a bank loan for his car or use it to obtain access to Phoebe? Was he an awful father for putting his car over his daughter? Would Phoebe still remember he was her father?
Then there was Duffy. What the hell was going on with her? And Cheryl for God’s sake! He felt like a stickleback in a tank of piranha with those two. Ruth Lynch kept jumping into his mind as well. Gwen Peters was lurking in the shadows like a ghost from his past and DS Jones, with the help of Martin the mole, was just waiting for the opportunity to rat him out to the Chief. Christ, the threads of his life were tangled up like wool in a bag.
He finished his coffee, but left half the cookie. When he arrived back at Debbie’s room he found Mr Poulson had left.
‘Hi Debbie. Your dad was here earlier. I met him on Wednesday morning when you were first brought in. I think he blames me for getting you shot. Hardly surprising when I blame myself as well.’
Leaning over, he kissed her on the cheek. He felt it would have been presumptuous to kiss her on the lips. They’d nearly had a date, which was the extent of their relationship. Although he’d like it to go further, she first had to wake up and also want it to. Maybe, after getting her shot, she’d want to stay as far away from him as she could get.
He sat in the chair vacated by Mr Poulson and held Debbie’s hand. ‘My mum’s on my back about Phoebe, her granddaughter, who neither of us has seen for six months. Caitlin, my ex-wife, although we’re not divorced yet, keeps her from me and I can’t afford a solicitor to sort the access out.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘My life’s a bloody mess, Debbie. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to get into bed with me. Sorry, a figure of speech - and not a very good one under the circumstances.’
Sighing he said, ‘We’ve had no luck finding the shooter yet, but we will. And the fire at Mugabe Terrace has been confirmed as an accident, by the way, so everything that’s been happening is because the boiler blew up when it shouldn’t have done. Duffy and I went to the town council because someone had removed the residents of Mugabe Terrace from the electoral register and the only man that could have done it, didn’t. I tell you Debbie, there’s something strange going on. Oh - and then there’s Surfer Bob and Uptown Girl. Yeah, I know, I meet some weird people in my job. Anyway, between them they found out about George Sandland and I’ve decided the crusts of skin were put on the mortuary shelf as a red herring. He has nothing to do with the missing body.’
He looked at his watch; it was quarter to eight. ‘I’ll have to think about going soon, my mum will be wondering where I’ve got to. Remember me telling you about the two extra people that the Chief gave me? Well, they’re on board and one of them is a mole. There’re a lot of politics at the station and the Detective Sergeant in the team is using Martin as a spy and then tells the Chief about me. He wants my job. Duffy’s turning out to be a find, though. She keeps me up to date with all the gossip through her mate Cheryl. I think that’s the seven o’clock news over with.’
Quigg stood.
‘Evening, Inspector,’ Nurse Robertson said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, nurse. More to the point, how’s Dr Poulson doing?’
‘She’s holding her own, Inspector. She’ll be getting herself ready for waking up soon, you mark my words. All this talking to her will be exercising her brain for sure.’
Quigg leaned over and kissed Debbie goodnight. ‘Thanks, nurse. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Inspector.’
***
For a change he went all the way to Liverpool Street on the Central Line and changed onto the Hammersmith & City Line to Upton Park. It wasn’t any quicker and he was sure two men dressed in black were following him.
He reached Upton Park at nine fifteen. After exiting the station he crossed over Green Street and made his way along Redclyffe Road towards William Morley Close. Leaves blew everywhere in the biting November wind. It was only as he reached the bus garage that he heard the two men behind him. He stopped and turned to face them, but they carried on walking towards him. The streetlights didn’t work here and he couldn’t see their faces. Maybe they weren’t following him. Maybe they were going somewhere legitimate just as he was. They passed him. As he turned around to continue on his way, they jumped him. One of them put something like a woollen bag over his head while the other kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over and slumped to his knees. Then the blows rained down on his head and face, and his stomach, chest and back. Although he hated the dentist, he knew he’d have to go and see him after this. He felt ribs crack on the right side of his chest and a searing pain in his left arm as a boot trod on it.
‘Forget you ever heard about Mugabe Terrace, or the next time we come to see you we won’t be so nice.’
He felt something heavy hit the back of his neck and then blackness enveloped him. He dreamt of a cold place with rushing winds, a place of pain and torture, of temptation and sadness. He wanted to reach out to someone he knew, but it was too painful to move his arms.
‘Hey, mate, are you OK?’
He heard the voice. Was it part of his dream?
‘Maybe we should call an ambulance, Stuart?’ A female voice.
‘No, he’s coming round, Sharon. Hey, mate - someone’s done a number on you, all right.’
Quigg opened his eyes. Two blurred people slowly came into focus. He tried to speak, to say thanks, but only a croak came out of his mouth.
‘It’s all right, mate. Take yer time. Ain’t no rush to get nowhere.’
‘Please… help me up.’
The two Samaritans took an arm each and began to lift him. He cried out in pain and they let go.
‘Christ, mate. You’re in a pretty bad way. You want me to call an ambulance?’
‘No, I’ll be all right. Please… lift again.’
They lifted him up again. Quigg grimaced at the pain in his ribs and left arm. At last he was standing on wobbly legs.
The young man flicked a lighter. ‘It looks like the bleeding has stopped, mate, but if I were you I’d get yersel’ down the emergency.’
‘Thanks, I don’t live far. I’ll be all right.’
‘OK, if you say so, mate.’
Quigg started to hobble off down William Morley Close until he reached Priory Road. He stopped frequently, clinging to gateposts, lampposts and telegraph poles like palm trees in the desert. When he reached Seymore Road he took a sharp left and then a right into Boleyn Gardens.
He knocked on the door of No.5 - could see the kitchen light on. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool glass. His keys were in the left pocket of his coat, but his wrist throbbed and it would have been agony to get them out.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Mum.’
‘Is that you, Quigg?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Why don’t you use your keys if it is you?’
‘I’ve been attacked, Mum.’
‘Attacked! What do you mean attacked? I knew it! It’s the animals from the zoo, isn’t it? They’ve escaped, haven’t they? Was it a tiger? Or a lion?’
‘Two men, Mum.’
‘Two men – what, to round them up, you say. Can’t have been many animals that escaped then, probably just one enclosure. It wasn’t the penguins that attacked you was it? I saw it on the Geography Channel that they’re pretty vicious.’
‘Please let me in, Mum.’
‘Is that you, Quigg?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Why have you knocked? Where are your keys? It’s a bit late; I was just off to bed.’
Relieved, he heard the lock click. The door opened.
‘Oh, Quigg!’ Beryl said, grasping his arm. She helped him in and shut the door. ‘Let’s get you into the kitchen, get those clothes off and see what we’re dealing with.’
‘I’m OK, mum.’
‘I’m not as st
upid as you think I am, Quigg. Here, sit down on this chair.’ She unbuttoned his coat and threw it on the floor. His shirt and tie followed it, but he stopped her when she began fumbling at his belt.
‘I’m OK down there, Mum. It’s my head and face, and I think I’ve got a cracked rib and my left arm feels broken.’
Pouring hot water in the bowl, Beryl cut a flannel-sized square from an old towel and rinsed it in the water. She began dabbing at the caked blood on his scalp and face.
‘Who did you upset this time?’ She asked the question as if he were beaten up regularly on Friday nights.
‘I was coming back from visiting Debbie in the hospital when two men attacked me by the bus garage. They were following me. It’s the case I’m working on, Mum. They warned me off.’
‘I knew it. That job is going to get you killed, Quigg. Who’s Debbie?’
‘The woman I went out with the other night.’
‘Why is she in the hospital?’
Quigg realised he’d let his guard down. ‘She’s having her appendix out.’
Beryl stopped what she was doing, put her hands on her hips and said, ‘How can you sit there and lie to your own mother, Quigg?’
Chapter Eleven
His phone vibrated insanely on the bedside table. Not another explosion, he thought. He felt as though rigor mortis had visited him overnight as he reached to switch on the bedside light – five past three on his digital clock! Christ, don’t people sleep anymore?
‘Quigg.’
‘You have not rung me.’
Her sultry voice sounded as though he was on the end of a sex line. Quigg might have been interested if it hadn’t been five past three on a Saturday morning and his body hadn’t been wrecked. As an undercover DS, he had listened to a number of sex calls, so he had an empirical basis for comparison. Although the majority of women at the end of the phones in the undercover operation had been eighty year old grannies, Ruth Lynch certainly had the voice to raise heartbeats.
‘Are you on the nightshift or something? It’s five past three in the morning.’
‘I woke up. You were on my mind.’
‘A nightmare, huh? I’m sorry to hear that, but couldn’t you simply have turned over and gone back to sleep?’
‘Why have you not rung me?’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Busy avoiding me?’
‘I see we know each other well, Miss Lynch.’
‘Ruth… Meet me for Sunday lunch at The Cuban Restaurant in Ropemaker Street, just a short walk from Moorgate tube station. I will pay.’
He was going to go into the office and look through the evidence again, but a free Sunday lunch with a beautiful woman sounded much better. ‘I have work to do.’
‘You have no work to do, Quigg. Too many pieces of the jigsaw are missing. If you are nice to me, I will give you a corner piece.’
A corner piece! Shit in a bucket. That was what he needed: a piece to hang other pieces on. Maybe she knew more than he did. Maybe he had been hasty in not ringing her. Using the pad and pencil he kept for emergencies on his bedside table, he wrote down the name of the restaurant and the address. ‘What time?’
‘Twelve thirty.’
‘OK. Now let me get back to sleep, otherwise I’ll be grumpy all day.’
‘Goodnight, Quigg.’
The phone went dead. He found it hard to believe it was quarter past four already. Ruth Lynch had the knack of making time disappear. He switched the light off, but instead of sleep, her face, her eyes and the sensuous curves of her body invaded his thoughts. Should he tell her everything? Did he have a choice? Did she have some of the missing pieces he needed to make sense of the little he had got? If so, how had she acquired them? Would she be safe possessing the knowledge? It seemed that information about Body 13 was the currency of death. He’d better make sure he wasn’t followed to the restaurant. He didn’t want to lead the killer to her.
He couldn’t sleep. He sat up slowly, deciding to call a taxi to Newham Hospital and have his chest and arm checked out. It wasn’t too far away and the cemetery was just up the road should he be worse than he thought.
But first he had to write and email his daily report to the Chief Constable. He’d remembered through the pain last night, but hadn’t felt up to it.
Afterwards, as he crept to the bathroom, he realised that washing and dressing was going to be a problem. Just as his face was beginning to heal he now looked like the victim of a road traffic accident again. He managed to wash and dry his hair, face and under his arms with just the right hand. When he got back to his bedroom he found a pair of tracksuit bottoms with an elastic waist he had forgotten he owned, a pair of slip-on shoes and a crew-neck jumper. None of it matched, but it was still dark outside and it wasn’t as if he was going on a date or anything.
***
The taxi journey cost him £12 and he doubted whether his money would last him until Monday. If his date with Debbie had gone according to plan, he’d be broke now.
After booking in at the reception desk he had to wait in an area full of chairs, which appeared to attract some strange-looking nocturnal people. There was a woman with a shopping trolley full of crushed cans who lay across three chairs and could have snored for England; a man who had taken his shoes and socks off and was cleaning the dirt from his toenails with a stick; another man, who was dressed like a vicar, strolled around the waiting area with an open Bible in his hands, mouthing silent prayers.
There were other people, but they were either drunk or looked nervous and frightened – normal people. It was five past five on Saturday morning. He hoped he wouldn’t be here all day like last time. Half smiling, the thought crossed his mind that he was becoming a regular visitor. This was the second time he’d been here for treatment this week.
‘Mr Quigg?’
He stood up. The night shift was certainly more efficient than the day shift, but uglier. A nurse in a dark blue uniform escorted him into a cubicle and pulled the curtain across. She had hair on her face and arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place at PT Barnham’s Great Travelling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan and Hippodrome. She could have made a fortune as the Werewoman.
‘Please take your clothes off, Mr Quigg.’
They always had to make you take your clothes off. Maybe it was to stop you escaping. Or, if you did escape, you were easily recognisable running down the road in an open-backed gown showing your arse with you bits bobbing about. Although, there would be more shrivelling than bobbing in this weather; it must have been zero or below outside.
He had rescued his duffel coat from the kitchen floor before his mother stuffed it in the washing machine as it was. His filing system would have been washed clean, the pockets filled with dried-up globules of useless paper.
‘I’m Staff Nurse Hanratty, the nurse-practitioner. What seems to be the problem, besides the mess you’ve made of your face?’
‘I’m a detective inspector and I was attacked last night.’
Scepticism spread like a virus over Staff Nurse Hanratty’s wereface.
He reached over to his coat and pulled out the warrant card from his inside pocket.
‘Oh, you really are a police inspector?’
‘Is it common practice to disbelieve everybody who comes in for treatment?’
‘You’d be surprised. Already tonight I’ve treated two Napoleons, Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley and someone who was the spitting image of Victoria Wood - even spoke like her.’
He tried to grin, but his face told him painfully that it was not a good thing to do. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he said. ‘I see most of them out there before they come in here.’
‘Yes, you probably do. Now, let’s see if we can sort you out so that you can go back out there and stop the oddballs coming in here.’
‘I think I’ve cracked some ribs.’ He pointed to a large black bruise on the right side of his chest and, wearing a hangdog expression like a pantomime mask, he lifted up his lef
t arm. ‘And my arm is broken.’
She poked and prodded unnecessarily, then said, ‘We’ll get some x-rays done to see what’s going on.’ She wafted through the curtain. Things were moving quickly. No sooner had he thought it than two men in brown coats came in, unlocked the wheels of the gurney and began manoeuvring him out of the cubicle and along the corridor.
‘I can walk if it’ll help?’ he said.
‘Against the rules,’ the black man at the foot of the gurney said.
‘Where…’
‘X-ray.’
‘Oh.’
There was no queue in X-ray. A tall, thin female technician, with an east European name that would have tangled his tongue into a knot, directed the two porters to wheel Quigg straight into the x-ray room and move him onto a bed underneath the x-ray machine. That done, they disappeared with the gurney.
The technician communicated with grunts and hand-signals. No wonder she was on the night shift, Quigg thought. After about twenty minutes, the two porters came back, slid him onto the gurney and wheeled him back to his cubicle in A & E.
The unhurried quiet at this time of the morning, broken only by the hum of machinery and the intermittent click-clack of shoes on the shiny linoleum, acted as a sedative to Quigg, who had fallen well short of his sleep quota. He began to dream of the women in his life, of a white-water rafting competition, of teams in dinghies and back-up crews with food, tents and sleeping bags. He was the prize. Team Beryl took an early lead, closely followed by Team Cheryl. Team Duffy began paddling hard and moving up, while Team Guevara came up on the outside using guerrilla tactics. He was standing on the side of the bank looking for Team Debbie, but she wasn’t there. In her absence he didn’t know which team to cheer for. They stared at him, shouted for him to choose…