by Tim Ellis
‘Inspector,’ Nurse Hanratty’s werevoice pierced through his unconsciousness. ‘I’ve looked at the x-rays. You have two cracked ribs, which I’ll give you some painkillers for, and your ulna is broken. It’s a clean break with the two ends still in place, so you don’t need any manipulation under anaesthetic. We can put a plaster cast straight on. But first, I’ll send one of our trainee nurses in to see if we can improve your looks.’
As she whisked out he thought that she had no room to talk. It wasn’t long before a sour-faced young girl came in with a sterile pack on a trolley. She opened the pack, spread everything out and decided to speak to him.
‘I’m going to clean up your cuts,’ she said. ‘I’ll look to see if you need any sutures or just Steri-Strip.’
Quigg lay back and closed his eyes. ‘Feel free,’ he said. He liked being ministered to. It reminded him of Suzie Haslam from next door, of playing nurses and patients underneath a tent made of clothes hung on the clotheshorse. Suzie was a good nurse and he was an even better patient.
He must have drifted off, because he jerked awake when a black man in a light blue top and trousers came in pushing a white trolley with a half-full bowl of water inset into the top. On a shelf lay half a dozen rolls of plaster bandage.
Nurse Hanratty popped her head in. ‘You’re getting five-star treatment this morning, Inspector. This is Balondemo; he’s going to put your plaster cast on.’
Quigg smiled and said, ‘Hi.’
‘You’re a policeman?’
‘I am.’
‘A white policeman?’
Quigg knew he was in trouble then. ‘I think so.’
Balondemo took hold of Quigg’s left arm and said, ‘Take arm out of sleeve now or cut it off later.’
Quigg got the gist of what Balondemo was saying and slipped his arm out of the sleeve of the gown.
The man unravelled a roll of cotton wool and wrapped it around his forearm. Then he dunked a plaster roll in the water and began to fashion a cast that extended from his knuckles to his elbow.
‘What you goin’ to do ‘bout the oppression of black men, Inspector?’
‘Excuse me?’ Quigg didn’t realise that he had to barter for his treatment. The National Health Service had obviously taken a turn for the worse.
‘The stop and search of black people has risen by 322 percent. What you gonna do ‘bout that?’
Quigg was just glad that Balondemo didn’t have a scalpel in his hand and wasn’t carrying out a life-saving operation on him. ‘I’m sorry; I can’t do anything about it. I’m a homicide detective.’
‘The black prison population is 27 percent, but black people only make up 6 percent of the British population. Ya gonna do somethin’ ‘bout that, or what?’
He could feel the heat from the plaster as it began to dry and was thankful Balondemo had finished. ‘As I said, I deal with murder. Stop and search is nothing to do with me, and the majority of murderers I put in prison are white. I admit, the disparity in the prison and British populations is damning evidence, but I believe it is a reflection of the wrongs in society rather than support for institutionalised police prejudice and discrimination.’ He was glad now that he’d taken a course on the social aspects of criminology at university.
‘Yeah, well, y’all remember - black people won’t be oppressed much longer. We’ll rise up and when we do, there’ll be the blood of the white oppressor runnin’ freely in the gutters.’
‘OK, thanks for the plaster... and the warning.’
Before Balondemo left the cubicle, mumbling to himself, he thrust a white piece of paper at Quigg, which contained a list of the dangers of having a plaster applied and other vital information.
Nurse Hanratty pulled the curtain back. ‘You’re free to go, Inspector.’
He looked at his watch – it was seven fifteen. The A & E was becoming busier, as if getting up in the morning was a dangerous activity. He was impressed at how quick he had been treated. ‘You’re releasing me with a caution, then?’
‘Very droll.’
He caught the bus home, found some clothes to put on, which looked reasonably colour-coordinated, managed to make toast and coffee by the ingenious use of a knife slipped under his cast and left for work before Beryl could get up and interrogate him.
***
For a Saturday morning the station was eerily quiet. The squad room resembled a haunted house. Quigg went straight to the incident room. Duffy and Walsh were sitting there waiting for him, chatting about clothes, shopping and men.
‘My God, Sir - what happened to you?’ Duffy asked.
‘You noticed? Somebody thought we were getting too close and decided to warn me off.’
‘Too close?’ Walsh said. ‘We haven’t got a clue who Body 13 is or why it was stolen.’
‘I remember thinking the same thing myself when I was being kicked in the face, Walsh.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘No, don’t be sorry - you’re quite correct, Walsh. Why would they warn me off when we’re struggling to connect anything or anyone to Body 13 and Mugabe Terrace?’
‘Maybe we are getting close, but we don’t realise it,’ Duffy offered.
‘Again, I was thinking the same thing,’ Quigg said. ‘Let’s examine what we’ve got. Have forensics obtained the copy of Mr Ahmed’s hard drive, Walsh?’
‘Came in late yesterday, Sir.’
‘At last, and…?’
‘It’s password protected. They’re trying to get in.’
‘We’ll be old and grey and using Zimmer frames by the time we get a look at those records. After this you and I will go and pressure them.’
‘OK, Sir.’
‘Duffy and I finally found out about George Sandland yesterday and decided he was a red herring. Let’s work on the assumption that both he and Patrick Griffiths are red herrings; what’s left?’
They all looked at the board.
‘Duffy, cross out any reference to Sandland and Griffiths.’
She stood up and followed Quigg’s instructions. ‘We’ve wasted a week chasing those two leads,’ she said.
‘Don’t forget, Mave’, we’ve eliminated Sandland and Griffiths from our enquiries,’ Walsh said. ‘That’s a lot of what we do. Even though it’s a waste of time, it has to be done.’
‘We know that the fire at Mugabe Terrace was an accident,’ Quigg reminded them. ‘We have a picture of Dr Poulson’s shooter, but not the bomber at Fire HQ. We’ve got a copy of Mr Ahmed’s hard drive, but we can’t access the files.’
‘We’ve also got four bodies and a coma patient,’ Duffy added.
Putting on his well-used wretched look, Quigg lifted up his arm. ‘And a detective inspector with two cracked ribs and a broken arm.’
‘Not really a lot for a week’s work, Sir.’ Duffy asked.
‘Let’s follow the events after the fire at Mugabe Terrace, which seem to be the catalyst for subsequent events. The day after the fire, Body 13 was stolen from Hammersmith mortuary and false evidence left in its place, which has resulted in us wasting a week trying to find a connection. Rather than dismiss the false evidence out of hand, what it highlights is the fact that someone, or a number of people with a lot of power, is involved.’
‘Why, Sir?’ Duffy asked.
‘Because they had access to classified MOD files and the remains of a Special Ops soldier who died seven years ago. They also had the connections to order a murder in Wormwood Scrubs and arrange the bombing at Fire HQ. Again, it suggests the involvement of someone powerful because of the access to some kind of advanced technology in order to avoid CCTV surveillance. They ordered the attempted murder of a police detective inspector, which is not something your average criminal would do, then the bombing of Ahmed Property Management, and also had the power to arrange for records on the electoral register to be permanently erased. Finally, they arranged for me to be assaulted last night.’
‘I see where you’re going with this, Sir,’ Walsh said.
/> ‘I knew you would, Walsh. What I’m thinking is that maybe we need to focus our attention on who has the power to arrange all these things.’
‘I don’t think it’s just one person, Sir,’ Duffy said.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, if it was one person, they’d have to possess a lot of power and know a lot of people to have done everything they’ve done.’
Quigg was reminded of Surfer Bob’s astute observation that it was "serious shit". ‘Yes, I think you’re right, Duffy.’
‘Also,’ Walsh said, ‘they seem to know a lot about what we’re doing. You were assaulted because we’re still investigating the case. How did they know?’
Quigg thought about this while he accompanied Walsh to forensics. Walsh was right. How did they know what they were doing? Apart from members of the team, the only other people who knew what they were doing were Chief Bellmarsh and DS Jones, possibly Cheryl and, of course, the Chief Constable: no one who shouldn’t know. How were they getting their information?
When they arrived at forensics, Quigg was relieved to find Perkins on a day off and they had to deal with the harmless Asquith, who was quiet and malleable.
‘Any luck on the password, Asquith?’ Quigg asked him.
‘Unfortunately…’
When they began with "unfortunately" he knew he was about to be disappointed.
‘…the guy who generally deals with passwords is off sick with swine flu. I have it running through Cain, our password cracking software, but it’s steam-driven. The program has been running all night and, to be honest, without a nudge in the right direction, the password could be anything, especially as the user was Indian.’
Quigg gave Asquith’s words some thought, then said, ‘We might be able to help you there.’
They went back to the incident room where Duffy was tidying up the board.
‘Duffy, have you still got Janice Dobbs’ address?’
‘In my notebook, Sir.’
‘We’ll go and visit her to see if she has any idea about a password.’ To Walsh he said, ‘You can carry on analysing Ahmed’s bank records. If we get anything, we’ll phone it through so we’re not wasting any more time.’
***
It took Duffy an hour and a half to navigate through the Saturday shoppers to the Peabody Estate, near Chancellor’s Road. It was twelve forty-five by the time they found a parking space, walked through the newly refurbished sunken garden and located the mid-terraced house at 17, Crisp Road.
Quigg knocked.
‘I knew you’d be back,’ Janice Dobbs said when she opened the door in her dressing gown smoking a cigarette. ‘Liked what you saw and couldn’t resist the urge to come back?’
‘I need your help, Miss Dobbs.’
‘I don’t do anything really weird, but I’m open to new experiences.’
Quigg wondered what the hell she was talking about. ‘We’ve managed to acquire a copy of Mr Ahmed’s records, but they’re password protected. Have you any idea what type of password he might have used?’
‘You mean you’re not here for me?’
‘I’m sorry if I gave you that impr…’
The door slammed in his face.
‘That went well, Sir,’ Duffy said. ‘I think you’d better go and wait by the car. I’ll try and speak to her.’
Quigg shrugged and walked back along the row of terraced houses to the car.
After five minutes, Duffy appeared. ‘You have the habit of disappointing women, Sir.’
‘Thanks for that, Duffy. Let’s concentrate on why we’re here, shall we?’
‘Mr Ahmed had two daughters: the younger one is called Garima and the elder one, Aarushi. She said he always used one of those as his password.’
‘Phone it…’
‘Already done, Sir.’
Quigg’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Quigg?’ He listened intently for thirty seconds.
‘Come on, Duffy - the Marine Support Unit think they’ve found our shooter floating in the Thames.’
Chapter Twelve
They arrived at Dove Moorings, Upper Mall near Hammersmith Pier at two forty. Quigg was starving, but he didn’t have any money for lunch. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry leaving the house to avoid Beryl this morning, he could have filled a large Snap-On container with a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches, an egg custard tart and a packet of crisps. He could have also made a flask of coffee to swill it all down. Instead, his stomach was rumbling with hunger.
Duffy had parked some distance away from the water’s edge. Quigg was leaning against the car and could see an ambulance and the Fast Response Targa 31 boat belonging to the MSU bobbing on the Thames.
‘You go down there on your own, Duffy,’ Quigg said. He wasn’t in the mood for dead bodies and all the feelings they generated. He’d give it a miss this afternoon. ‘Find out if it is our shooter, what killed him and which mortuary he’s being taken to.’
‘On my own, Sir?’
‘Why not, Duffy? You need the experience. Are you telling me you’re not up to it?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘And don’t let them walk all over you.’
She smiled. ‘There’s not much chance of that happening, Sir.’
No, he thought, as she started off down the path to the mooring dock. She’d probably take them to the cleaners with her sparkling eyes and flashing smile.
He got back in the car, pulled the recliner handle and lay down in the threadbare seat. Closing his eyes, he began to drift off. Any investigation of the shooter’s background and connections, he knew, would be a waste of time. Whoever was behind it all wouldn’t have left the shooter’s body to be found if it could tell them anything useful. Now all they had left was Mr Ahmed’s computer records.
It was half an hour before Duffy came back and woke him up. ‘It looks as though it is our man, Sir. He was executed: shot in the back of the head. The exit wound took away the lower half of his face, but the forehead, eyebrows and nose were very similar to the drawing. They’re taking him to Ravenscourt Park Hospital; the pathologist said the results of the post-mortem will be faxed to the station by Monday afternoon.’
‘Good work. See, Duffy, no need for me to be there at all. We’ll make a detective of you yet.’
She grinned. ‘I hope so, Sir. I’ve decided that it’s definitely what I want to do.’
‘At the moment you’re breaking the rules and going against all the laid down procedures and guidelines. To be a detective you need at least five years’ service, to have attended and passed a three-month’s detective course at Hendon, and they’re like rocking horse droppings to get onto, apply for an opening and be accepted by a DCI or DI into a team. This little stint will stand you in good stead when you do apply.’
‘Five years, Sir, but…’
‘Those are the rules, Duffy, so make the most of what you’re doing now. Right, let’s go back to the station and see how Walsh is getting on and whether we’ve got access to Mr Ahmed’s records.’
Duffy walked round to the driver’s side and climbed in. ‘We’re not doing so well on this case, are we, Sir?’
‘What makes you say that, Duffy?’
‘The dead man isn’t going to give us anything, so unless we get a list of who lived in Mugabe Terrace, we won’t have any leads.’
‘Did I tell you how pleased I am with your performance? When this is all over, I’ll write you a glowing report.’
Duffy blushed. ‘Thank you very much, Sir.’
‘You’re welcome, Duffy. On the way back, have you got enough to buy me lunch?’
‘I’ll buy you lunch, Sir; you don’t have to flatter me.’
‘Excellent, Duffy. Well, come on then, let’s go.’
***
It wasn’t the first time Bartholomew had been to Kew Gardens, but James had never ventured into the wilds of Richmond before. There was something new to see each time that Bartholomew visited Kew. Today he had decided to look in th
e Palm House. First, they came to the display of the world’s tallest palm trees in the Centre Transept. They strained their necks trying to see the tops of the peach, babassu and coconut palms. Next, they wandered into the South Wing, marvelled at the African oil palm and the Madagascar periwinkle from which anti-leukaemia drugs were developed. They saw the rare triangle palm and the double coconut palm from the Seychelles before they strolled into the Americas. Here, they saw specimens of cocoa, rubber, bananas, papaya, soursop, cherimoya and mammee-apple. They could touch the Mexican yam, parrot flowers and white spider lilies.
‘This is marvellous, Bartholomew,’ James said, sniffing the sweet frangipani and the Venezuelan brownea..
‘Glad you like it, James. I come here often. I always find something I haven’t seen before. It’s like being Livingstone on the trail of a rare flower.’
Before they could explore Asia, Australia and the Pacific in the North Wing, with its dwarf palms, climbing rattans mangos, starfruits, breadfruits and jackfruits, it was time to go.
‘Quigg discovered the black ops Sandland took part in,’ Bartholomew said as they were walking back towards the exit. ‘He found them irrelevant and eliminated Sandland from his investigation, as we knew he would eventually.’
‘He epitomises the British bulldog, Bartholomew.’
‘Snores loudly and drools?’
They laughed.
‘He is bullheaded, determined and persistent.’
‘He is definitely that, James. I arranged for two men to discuss the error of his ways with him last night, but it has in no way deterred him. He is back on the case this morning sporting a plaster cast and his wounds.’
‘Have they found the shooter yet?’
‘I have heard that the man was found in the Thames about three hours ago. Quigg and the constable have been to view the body. They will find nothing to connect him to us, James.’
‘I would hope not. What about the computer files?’