by Tim Ellis
They were sitting around the Queen Anne table in the banqueting room of the Surrey estate. This was the Last Supper, although they never called it by that name in anyone else’s hearing. To observers they were merely eleven friends having a meal, as they did on the last day of every month.
James nodded at the maitre d’, who in turn nodded at his second-in-command, who relayed the nod to his line of waiters. Almost immediately swing doors swung outwards and a stream of waiters poured in carrying warm tartlet of goats’ cheese, cream of mild Stilton & broccoli soup and consommé Julienne on silver salvers.
The building they were in, one could hardly call it a house due to its size, was set in its own grounds, well back from the rarely used road in Cobham, and enclosed by a twelve-foot high brick wall that shielded it from prying eyes. Although it had twelve bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, six reception rooms, a banquet hall, a ballroom and a games room, the most important aspect of the estate could not be seen. In fact, only eleven people knew of its existence. The building boasted a large underground complex with a swimming pool and a variety of other rooms that had been allocated for different purposes.
The estate belonged to a holding company, which was part of an offshore portfolio of companies owned by another holding company. If one were able to navigate through the maze of complexity associated with the ownership of this particular estate, they would find that these eleven men were all directors of the parent company called Palessot, having paid £500,000 when they had been invited to join the Apostles. That half million was now worth £3 million and increasing daily. Each of the men was very pleased that the activities of the business, not all of them legal, had increased their original investment and made them multimillionaires.
The starter had been served and the conversation was convivial. The Apostles were taking their time, savouring the anticipation of what – or, more appropriately, who - waited for them in the underground complex – the evening’s entertainment.
The waiters brought each person’s choice of main course on silver salvers, selected from beef bourguignon, pork escalope Portuguese, roast breast of pheasant and halibut of Wellington.
Not all of the Apostles had dessert. Some, such as Bartholomew, were watching their weight.
Finally, they were left with only the port decanters, glasses, ashtrays and boxes of Cuban Montecristo cigars for those who partook.
‘Gentlemen,’ James brought a hush to the assembly. ‘I believe we have something to celebrate, Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew stood. He held a glass of port in his right hand and a Montecristo cigar in his left. ‘Thank you, James. As you are all aware, Phillip is no longer with us. After an unfortunate accident at one of our properties we had to arrange for the abduction and proper death of his body. His obituary appeared in The Times last Tuesday. Following Phillip’s death in a fire at his home, his family has arranged the funeral for next Wednesday afternoon at the church of St Bartholomew the Great in Bath.’ Bartholomew smiled at the irony, took a sip of port and a pull of his cigar. ‘No one from our group is expected to attend. Following Phillip’s removal from Hammersmith mortuary, Detective Inspector Quigg was ordered to investigate his disappearance. Since Quigg’s appointment, we have led him a merry old dance. I will spare you the details, except to say that his investigation has now come to an end and his personal life is in tatters.’
The remaining Apostles clapped, chinked glassed or banged the table at Bartholomew’s success. He nodded in gratitude at their applause and sat down.
‘So, it is over?’ Mathew said.
‘He has five days of his appointment left, but I fear five days will be reduced considerably. When he reports that he has no leads, no suspects and no evidence, he will be jettisoned in favour of Detective Inspector Gwen Peters. She is much worse than Quigg and lacks the imagination to conduct an effective investigation.’
‘Well done, Bartholomew,’ Simon said. ‘Knowing his every move, you did of course have the advantage.’
‘One should always know more than one’s adversary,’ Bartholomew said, standing. They were the last two at the table; the others had made their way to the hidden stairway. ‘Should we?’ he said.
Simon threw back the last of his port. ‘We should.’
***
Quigg wept.
‘Mum…’
‘We don’t know for sure she was in the house, Sir. Let’s question the crowd to see if anyone has seen her. It’s only half-past five; she probably got out of the house.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, grasping at the shortest of straws. Trust him to think the worst. He moved towards the crowd and saw Gertie Hobbs from number 7. ‘What happened, Gertie?’ he asked.
‘It was your house, Quigg. My Gawd - a massive explosion, that’s all I know. Must have been your gas or something. I was watching the Antiques Roadshow and my windows shattered; glass flew everywhere. Good job I was in the living room, that’s all I can say. The net curtains saved me from being quartered like a melon.’
‘Have you seen Beryl?’
‘You mean she’s not with you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh Gawd, Quigg. Don’t tell me she’s still in there?’ Gertie jerked her head at the crumbling house, horror etched into the lines of her face.
Quigg and Duffy threaded their way through the crowds. They all knew Beryl, but no one had seen her. By nine thirty the fire was smouldering and Quigg went to speak to the leading fireman.
He showed his warrant card. ‘Do you know what happened? I live in the middle house - number five.’
‘You mean you did live there, Inspector. I don’t think anyone will be living in these three houses for some time to come. And no, the investigation won’t begin until we consider it safe to enter, which probably won’t be until tomorrow morning.’
‘Do you know if there was anyone inside any of the houses?’
‘Sadly, we found a body in the middle house…’
Quigg didn’t hear any more. Tears streamed down his face. ‘Oh, Mum,’ he kept saying over and over.
Duffy managed to manoeuvre him into her car. ‘You can come back to my flat, Sir. Stay the night there.’
He didn’t hear her. All he could hear was Beryl telling him to be careful. It was no accident. After Debbie getting shot, after he was attacked not far from his home, he should have realised that Beryl was in danger. She had been partly right: his job had got her killed, not him.
Duffy pulled up outside her flat at North Fields overlooking Wandsworth Park and a sliver of the Thames, which could be viewed from a front window if one was standing on a chair and peered between two other buildings with one eye closed. It added £25,000 to the asking price of the flats in the building.
‘Come on, Sir. What you need is a coffee and a sleep. You’ll be worn out after the day you’ve had.’
Quigg only vaguely heard Duffy’s voice. Yes, he was tired - bone tired. The case paled into insignificance at the thought of Beryl burning to death in the house.
Duffy made him a mug of coffee, but he simply nursed it between his hands and stared into the whirlpool of his guilt.
After a time, Duffy took him to her bed. He was still fully clothed and had on his duffel coat when he lay down in the foetal position. Duffy put the quilt over him, switched the light out and left, leaving the door ajar.
***
Quigg heard his phone ring. He opened his eyes, but the recognition modules in his brain failed to activate. He was on the wrong side of the bed and his phone seemed to be in his duffel coat, which lay on the floor in a heap next to the bed. He reached down and rummaged in the pockets until he found it.
‘Quigg.’
‘Is that you, Quigg?’
His heart missed a beat as he recalled the fire. Was his mum ringing him from the grave? Haunting him? ‘Mum, is that you?’
‘Who else would be ringing you at six o’clock in the morning?’
‘But I thought…’
‘You tho
ught what, Quigg? That you’d got rid of your poor old mother? That your money troubles would be over with the insurance windfall? That…’
‘I thought you were in the house, Mum.’
‘I’m at the house now. I thought I’d get home before you got up. What the hell happened to the house, Quigg?’
Yes, that was a good question. If it wasn’t Beryl who died in the house, who the hell was it? He didn’t have to think too hard before he came up with the Apostles. ‘An explosion, Mum, but they found a body in our house. I thought it was you.’
‘You have the memory of a sieve, Quigg. I go to bingo on a Sunday night, and because it went on a bit late I decided to stay at Maggie’s. Not that you cared. You don’t care where your poor old mother sleeps. Now you’re probably disappointed I wasn’t in the house; disappointed that the insurance money has just slipped through your fingers like jelly.’
‘I love you, Mum.’
‘Never mind all that gushy stuff, Quigg. Where are we going to live?’
‘Are you OK staying at Maggie’s for a while, Mum?’
‘Maggie will put me up, but everything has gone, Quigg: my clothes, my knick-knacks... everything. What are we supposed to do now?’
‘The first thing you need to do, Mum, is contact the insurance company and tell them what happened. They’ll send an assessor round. The sooner we get that rolling, the sooner we’ll get a new house.’
‘That’s easier said than done, Quigg. All the policies were in the sideboard in the front room.’
‘Ring the bank, Mum; they’ll tell you the name of the insurance company you’re paying the direct debit to, then ring them. I’m glad you’re safe, Mum, but I’m going to have to go now. I’ve just noticed something. I’ll call round to Maggie’s later to check you’re all right. Goodbye, Mum.’
He disconnected the call. Duffy was sitting cross-legged on the bed watching him.
‘Why am I naked, Duffy? And more to the point, why are you naked in the same bed as me?’
She smiled coyly. ‘We made love, Sir.’
He looked at her. She looked away. He saw the map of her body traced in the fine blue lines etched into the translucent perfection of her porcelain skin. Her breasts were matchless. It was the first time he had seen her long black hair cascading over her marble white shoulders. She was so young and beautiful.
‘You took advantage of me, Duffy? When I was in a fragile state, you exploited me to satisfy your own desires?’
‘You had desires as well, Sir.’
‘We’re not talking about my desires, Duffy.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘I mean, there we are straightaway; you’re calling me "Sir" in bed, Duffy. Why would you want an old man like me? I’ve been through the mill. I have no money, few career prospects, a money-grabbing ex-wife and now, no house to live in. Then there is…’
Duffy dived under the quilt.
‘What are you doing, Duffy? Get your… head… out… of… there… Duf…’
***
Wondering what it would feel like, Quigg sat in the Chief’s chair, leaned back, swivelled, put his elbows on the desk. Duffy had driven him in. They were slightly early, because the roads had been unusually trouble-free. What was he going to do about Duffy? He had told her that their lovemaking had never happened. That it was a one-off – twice. She had grinned at him. Grinned at him for God’s sake! The respect had gone from their relationship. How could he discipline her with a picture of her nakedness in his mind, the sweet smell of her youth in his nostrils and the sound of her orgasmic moaning in his ears?
The chair didn’t feel any different than his chair. The desk was much the same only slightly larger. He stood. He’d better get out of the Chief’s chair before…
‘Not as long as you’ve got a hole in your arse, Quigg,’ the Chief said, coming fully into the room. He dropped his briefcase on the desk, took his coat and scarf off and hung them on the coat stand in the corner between the filing cabinet and the wall. ‘So, you’ve got designs on my chair have you, Quigg? Well, there’s about as much chance of you being promoted twice to sit in my chair as there is of Fulham winning the Premier League, and they’ve got no chance of doing that.’
DS Jones chuckled.
‘Have you got no work to do, Sergeant?’ Quigg said, trying to save face, but he knew he had lost any credibility he might have still had with ‘golden boy’. Jones would spread his embarrassment all around the station. He wondered whether now was the time to mention Monica and their illicit sex in the cleaner’s cupboard. That would direct the Chief’s attention elsewhere. No, now was probably not the time.
‘You did, didn’t you, Sir?’ DS Jones said with shock on his face. ‘Chief, he made love to Duffy.’
‘Shit! Is that right, Quigg? It’d better not be. If it is, I’ll lose a damn fortune.’
Quigg didn’t say anything. How did DS Jones know? Had Duffy put an indelible stamp on his forehead? One that only other people could see with ultraviolet light like they give people to get in and out of night-clubs. He didn’t feel any different. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He did feel slightly euphoric. He had mixed feelings about Duffy. And he felt slightly guilty, not least about not visiting Debbie last night, but she would understand about the fire. Having sex with Duffy – twice – was another matter. How could he explain that away? He’d have to try - tell her he was weak. Aren’t all men weak? He would need to produce a convincing argument about how he was used as a plaything, at Duffy’s mercy, helpless… He sighed. It would need some thinking about; even he didn’t believe what he was saying. If he fell now, at the first fence, he was unlikely to be considered suitable material for a stable, long-lasting relationship. One failed marriage was also testament to his unreliability.
‘Yes, you’re right, Sergeant. It’s written all over his face. Duffy must have initiated it. In all this we forgot about Duffy. Quigg hasn’t got the balls, but Duffy. I’m beginning to see her in a new light.’
He should have been on his guard. He’d seen Duffy’s dark side on the drive to Wormwood Scrubs - knew she was capable of getting what she wanted if she set her mind to it. Christ! He’d even warned DS Jones about her. He hadn’t listened to his own advice, and now Duffy was probably nailing his scrotum and testicles to the wall in the female toilets. Underneath, she’d write: DI Quigg - well and truly fucked.
The Chief and Jones were speaking about him as if he wasn’t in the room. ‘Excuse me, Sir - I am still here, you know. I thought you wanted me to brief you?’
‘How much does Quigg get, Jones?’
‘Five hundred pounds, Sir.’
‘Five hundred pounds! Bloody hell, Quigg - I should just sign my life savings over to you and have done with it. Not only do you get to deflower Duffy, but you get my money as well.’
Five hundred pounds! He didn’t realise he was going to get any money. A fleeting smile crossed his face. If he’d known about the windfall, he might have let Duffy have her way with him sooner and avoided the need to meet with the bank manager this morning to extend his loan. Oh well, seeing as he had no home and nowhere to stay now, the money would probably come in useful. He couldn’t stay at Duffy’s, that was for sure. If he did, he’d end up as a sex toy. Not that he’d have much trouble with that, but his life would turn to shredded rhubarb and lumpy custard. His sad excuse for a life was bad enough as it was without entering into a doomed relationship with his temporary partner who was fourteen years his junior. The memory of her nakedness came flooding into his brain: her skin, soft like butter in the sun, the baby powder smell of her and the exuberance with which she engulfed him in her desire. She was so young. Maybe he was as bad as the men he was chasing.
DS Jones left and shut the door.
‘Well, Quigg - what’s going on? I noticed you didn’t email the Chief Constable with an update last night.’
‘I was otherwise engaged last night, Chief.’
‘I hope it’s not serious with Duffy, Quigg. You kno
w relationships between colleagues are not permitted and a DI with a PC would be frowned upon at the highest levels. It might even affect my promotion prospects, and that would never do.’
‘I didn’t mean, Duffy, Chief. My house went up in flames last night and I thought my mum had been burned alive. I was distraught; Duffy let me stay at her flat and then took advantage of me.’
‘Took advantage of you? You sound like a spineless jellyfish, Quigg. Where were you when she was taking advantage of you – sleeping?’
‘Well no, but emotionally I was a wreck.’
Chief Walter Bellmarsh bellowed with laughter. Tears came to his eyes and he had to pull a paper tissue out of the box on his desk. ‘You crease me up, Quigg,’ he managed to say once he’d wiped his eyes. ‘Emotionally I was a wreck,’ he mimicked. ‘Are you on female hormone tablets? The men that I know don’t have emotions.’
Quigg knew he wasn’t going to win this argument.
‘So, Quigg, which part of "don’t let me come back to a disaster" didn’t you understand?’
‘The same people who blew up Fire HQ and Ahmed Property Management, shot Dr Poulson and had me beaten up were responsible, Chief.’
‘Who are they, Quigg?’
‘On Saturday I thought I’d have to admit defeat after we exhausted all our leads. But yesterday Dr Dewsbury, who’s standing in for Dr Poulson, and Ruth Lynch, who you put me in contact with, gave me two major pieces of the jigsaw. The explosion at Mugabe Terrace was an accident and Body 13 was taken because he was doing something illegal with two eight year old children…’
‘What? Where did the children come from?’
‘That’s what I’m saying, Sir. Dr Dewsbury discovered that of the four children who died in the fire, two of them were not related to any of the other adult bodies.’
‘So, you think Body 13 was a paedophile abusing two children in one of the flats?’
‘Yes, Sir.’