by Tim Ellis
The corner of Bartholomew’s mouth rose slightly. ‘You’ll love this.’
James rolled his eyes. ‘I have a distinct feeling of unease.’
‘See that lamppost?’
‘I can hardly not see it, Bartholomew. We’re standing directly in front of it.’
‘That, my dear friend, is a Webb sewer gas lamp.’
James’ brow furrowed. ‘A Webb sewer gas lamp?’ he repeated. ‘You’ve lost me. Why would one want a gas lamp in a sewer? And not only that, wouldn’t a gas lamp in a sewer be particularly dangerous, especially if some addled buffoon lit the damn thing?’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘You’re exactly right in what you say, old friend.’
‘I expect you’re going to put me out of my misery, and then we can go to the Savoy, which I might add, is where I thought we were going until you led me up the garden path.’
‘Soon, James. This lane has a nickname. It’s called Farting Lane.’
‘You’re descending into the sewers yourself, Bartholomew.’
‘In the 1950s the gases from the sewer illuminated the bulb in the lamp. Or, to be more precise, the bowel movements of the guests at the Savoy lit up the street outside.’
‘How disgusting, Bartholomew. I’m quite sure you take an obscene pleasure in upsetting my weak constitution. You know very well that I have an extremely dicky stomach.’
‘Not only that, it could be considered as an early form of recycling.’
‘Very droll, Bartholomew. I don’t suppose it still works as intended?’
‘No, far too dangerous. Health and safety would be all over it.’
James took an embroidered white handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to his nose. ‘Maybe some leakage is taking place. Shall we retire a safe distance to the Savoy?’
‘Most definitely, old friend.’
They walked to the south side of the hotel and entered the Art Deco influenced River Restaurant overlooking the Thames. Bartholomew had previously booked a table for lunch, and was directed to the seat that Errol Flynn had once sat in. He’d always had in mind that he might be the reincarnation of the dashing ladies’ man. The fact that he preferred children was neither here nor there.
Bartholomew ordered the smoked salmon for starters, the pan roasted guinea fowl supreme for the main, and for dessert a blackberry mousse.’
‘And to drink, Sir?’ the waiter said.
‘I think I’ll partake of a Bloody Mary.’
‘An excellent choice, Sir.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘And you, Sir.’
James squinted at the menu. ‘Foie gras terrine, the pan seared Atlantic cod fillet, but not too pan seared, and gingerbread parfait for dessert. To drink, if we’re having cocktails, James, and you’re paying, I’ll have a Black Russian.’
Clicking his heels and nodding like an SS soldier, the waiter did an about turn and left to communicate their requirements.
‘Tell me about Quigg now that we have at last arrived at our destination,’ James said.
Sir Peter Langham had once been a Colonel in the Royal Logistics Corps. He had managed to rise up the proverbial ladder without too much trouble, and because his Commanding Officer had a KBE, he had been kind enough to put his Second-in-Command – Peter Langham – forward for the same award. Interestingly, the knighthood had been approved. All that was a long time ago though. Now, he was Chairman of the Hammersmith & Fulham Police Complaints Committee.
‘Two things, James. First, I have managed to slip a man into Quigg’s little redoubt. And second, he has Uptown Girl in there.’
‘Is it a harem, old chap?’
The waiter returned with their cocktails.
Bartholomew raised his glass. ‘Cocktails in the middle of the day. Whatever next, James?’
‘Whatever next, Bartholomew?’
After taking a mouthful of his Bloody Mary Bartholomew said, ‘If my tastes were different, old friend, I might be jealous of Quigg. In the female department, he seems to have landed on his feet.’
James pulled a face. ‘A matter of opinion, old friend. Not only has he to contend with three demanding women, but soon he will have at least two caterwauling offspring as well.’
‘It would be a kindness to put him out of his misery.’
James nodded as if he had lost control of his neck joint. ‘My thoughts exactly, Bartholomew. So, what is our plan of action?’
‘For the moment, our man inside will feed us information.’
James raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to terminate Quigg?’
The waiter brought their starters. ‘Bon appétit.’
‘Not yet, old friend. We need to discover what he knows, and what he’s been doing these past four months. Quigg is not one to forget what we did.’
‘No, taking his daughter was probably a mistake.’
‘Twenty-twenty hindsight is always easy, James. We need to forget the past and move forward.’
The waiter removed their empty plates and returned with their main courses. ‘Bon appétit.’
Bartholomew screwed his face up like an old five-pound note and said, ‘I wish he’d stop saying that, surely once was enough.’
James examined the pan seared Atlantic cod fillet to ensure it had not been too seared underneath, and then shook his head. ‘The lower classes, Bartholomew. It’ll be the only French he knows. Likes to use it at every opportunity like a talking parrot.’
‘Bon appétit, pretty boy,’ Bartholomew said in what he thought was a parrot’s voice.
James stopped chewing and stared at him. The lower classes mimic us, Bartholomew, not vice versa.’
‘Of course, stupid of me.’
‘I don’t want this Quigg-watching to drag on too long, Bartholomew. And the sooner we dispose of that hacker, the safer I’ll feel.’
‘I understand, James.’
They raised their glasses and chinked.
‘We have a plan then, Bartholomew,’ James said, and smiled like a crumbling gargoyle.
Chapter Two
Quigg followed Walsh down the metal ladder. Although it had been secured at the top of the hole by chains, it felt decidedly rickety.
‘Are you okay, Walsh?’
‘Will you stop making the ladder shake.’
‘Sorry. I’ll wait until you’ve reached the bottom, shall I?’
‘That would be good.’
‘I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for you, Walsh. What surprises me is that I haven’t ever won "Inspector of the Month".’
‘I don’t think you’re ever going to win that, Sir.’
‘But if I did, it would go a long way towards achieving a positive outcome on your annual evaluation.’
The distance was only twenty-four feet, but it seemed much longer. Spotlights had been positioned around the enormous cavern, and white-suited figures were moving about like spectres at a wake.
The cave wasn’t constructed of bricks and mortar – it had been hacked from the very rock. Rubble had been moved to one side, which Quigg guessed – as he craned his neck to look up at the hole above him – had fallen from the roof of the cavern when the floor of the warehouse had given way.
‘Hello, Sir.’
Quigg gratefully put his two feet on the ground. The panic had gradually increased with each rung of the ladder. He’d had to force himself to complete the descent. How many years had he been a murder detective now – certainly a few? He should have conquered his fear of dead bodies by now. Maybe he needed to see a therapist. ‘Perkins, I bet there are no UFOs down here?’
‘We haven’t found any yet, but I wouldn’t put anything past this government.’
He swivelled his head to examine the roof and walls. ‘Is this a natural cavern?’
‘No and it’s not recent either. I’ll have to check the records, but I suspect it was created during the Victorian era.’
‘Why?’
Perkins shrugged. ‘And this isn’t the only cavern either.’
‘O
h?’
‘It’s a maze down here. I have a team mapping it out at the moment.’
‘A maze?’
‘Well, not a real maze, of course, simply a figure of speech.’
‘You should learn to say what you mean, Perkins.’
They were standing at the foot of the ladder talking. Quigg hadn’t yet looked around the cavern at what had brought them down here, but now he did. The space was approximately a forty-foot square, but with round corners, and there were a few uneven rocks jutting out of the walls in places. Underfoot, it appeared to be flat. With his back to the ladder, the cavern extended away from the river in the direction of Fulham Palace Road, and in the far wall was a twelve-foot arched entrance leading to and from the cave.
Around the walls were six-foot tables, and what could only be described as contraptions. Two things, however, stood out. First, the horrific stench of death, and second, the cones of skulls scattered around the cavern and rising up from the ground like stalagmites.
Walsh passed him her small pot of Vicks VapoRub. He scooped a helping from it with his index finger, wiped it under his nose, and passed it back. ‘Thanks,’ he said to her. ‘Why does it smell so much, Perkins?’
‘Okay, you would think that because we’ve got skulls here they would be old, but they’re not. Well, that’s not strictly true...’
‘Come on, make your mind up, Perkins.’
‘I prevaricate, because not only have we got a number of caverns in this complex, but we also have a number of skulls, and...’
‘How many skulls?’
‘They’ve not been counted and catalogued yet, but I would estimate over a thousand.’
‘Jesus!’
‘But... and this is the problem...’
‘You do surprise me. I didn’t think there would be any problems in finding that many skulls.’
Perkins ignored his sarcasm. ‘There’s a timeline associated with the skulls. We obviously haven’t had the time to establish what that is yet, but I can tell you that some of the skulls are at least a hundred years old, and seven are recent.’
‘Recent?’ Walsh said. ‘How recent?’
‘Within the last six months, and one within a week.’
‘I would say the last one was two days ago,’ a female voice said. ‘You must be Quigg? Doctor Katja Inglehart. I won’t shake. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
She was about the same height as Kline, but wider. Apart from her dark brown eyes, which were covered by a pair of designer glasses with thin oblong frames, he couldn’t see much of her. He guessed – due to the absence of wrinkles, a wisp of shiny black hair, and her smooth forehead – that she was about his own age.
‘Who’s been singing my praises now?’
‘Doctor Dewsbury briefed me before he began his ascent of Everest.’
‘It’s all lies...’
‘He spoke very highly of you.’
‘In which case, you can take what he said to the bank. Jim was the most truthful man I ever had the pleasure of working with. Did you find that, Perkins?’
‘You’ve been talking about skulls,’ Walsh interrupted them. ‘What about the bodies?’
‘We haven’t found any bodies, Heather,’ Perkins said.
‘No bodies,’ Quigg said. ‘Over a thousand skulls, and no bodies. Where are they?’
‘That’s a good question, Inspector Quigg,’ Doc Inglehart said. ‘We’re obviously still looking, because as Mr Perkins has said this place is a maze, but we haven’t found one bone yet.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Quigg said. ‘What’s this all about? Is it a burial chamber or something?’
‘If it were, we’d have archaeologists here not murder detectives,’ Doc Inglehart said.
‘So, you reckon all these people have been murdered? That’s a bit far-fetched.’
Perkins said, ‘Follow me, I’ll give you the mini guided tour.’ He led Quigg and Walsh in a clockwise direction around the tables and contraptions. ‘This,’ he said pointing to a metal device on the first table, ‘Is a Head Crusher.’
‘A what?’ Quigg said.
Perkins ignored the question and carried on. ‘It does what it says on the tin. A head goes into the space provided. The chin is placed over the bottom bar, and that crown shaped piece sits on the top of the head. The torturer then simply turns the screw to suit requirements.’
Walsh pulled a face. ‘Torturer?’
‘The head is slowly compressed. First the teeth are shattered into the jaw, the eyes are squeezed from the sockets, and the victim dies an agonising death.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ Walsh said.
‘During the Inquisition it was found to be very effective in extracting confessions.’
‘Call me slow-witted, Perkins, but what’s it doing here?’
‘This whole underground complex is a torture chamber.’ He carried on round the cavern. ‘That is a Judas Chair. It’s covered in around fifteen hundred spikes, and the victim is forced to sit in it naked.’ He pointed to a set of three devices on another table that looked like small, medium and large versions of the same instrument. ‘That is called the Pear of Anguish, which is inserted into one of the human orifices – the small one is for the mouth, the medium and large ones can be used interchangeably between the vagina and the anus. The screw at the top is then slowly turned, and the four leaves of the pear open. I think you can imagine the damage it can do.’
‘I don’t want to know about any of the other devices,’ Walsh said, holding a hand to her mouth and taking deep breaths.
‘Are you sure, Heather? Over there is the Virgin of Nuremberg, in the next room we have the Spanish Tickler, and the Heretic’s Fork. In other rooms...’
‘How do you know about all this stuff, Perkins?’
‘You’ll recall my penchant for collecting Hammer Horror films. They used a lot of these medieval torture devices in those films.’
‘You’re weird, Perkins.’
‘Thanks, Sir.’
‘Are you saying that all these skulls belong to people who have been tortured?’ Walsh said.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, let me get this clear in my head,’ Quigg said. ‘This whole place is a torture chamber that’s been in use for at least a hundred years?’
Perkins nodded.
‘And all these skulls belong to victims of said torture?’
‘Yes, and...’
‘Let me finish, Perkins. So, we don’t know where the bodies are, but we’ve got the skulls? I have one question: Who is the torturer?’
The corners of Perkins’ eyes creased up. ‘Only one question, Sir?’
‘I have a question as well,’ Walsh said moving back to the ladder. ‘Is this the only way out?’
‘Actually, Heather, it isn’t a way out. Remember, that particular access point was created by accident.’
‘We’re not leaving yet anyway, Walsh,’ Quigg said. ‘But it’s a good question. Where is the entry and exit?’
‘We’re still looking...’
‘Oh God,’ Walsh said leaning against the ladder. ‘We’ll never get out of here.’
‘You can use the ladder, if you want to, Heather, but it’s a bit dangerous.’
‘Walsh isn’t going anywhere, Perkins.’ He turned to Walsh. ‘You’re just having a panic attack. Get yourself a brown paper bag and blow into it. Right, let’s get back to my original question, who’s the torturer?’
‘That, if I’m not mistaken, is the sixty-four dollar question.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Well, clearly the same person didn’t torture and kill all these people. What’s your role in all this, Doc? I mean, without bodies you’ve not got a lot to do really, have you?’
‘I’m focusing on the seven recent skulls...’
‘It’s just occurred to me,’ Quigg interrupted her. ‘Where’s the flesh?’
Perkins gave a laugh. ‘I knew you’d have more than one que
stion.’
Quigg stared at him, but said nothing.
Doc Inglehart responded. ‘Whoever the current torturer is, he has a thing for skulls. I’m assuming that once the victim has died from the torture the skull is removed from the body, all the soft tissue is extracted from the skull, and then he disposes of everything else. As I was saying, I’ve bagged the recent skulls, and I’ve also taken samples of fresh blood and tissue we found on a table over there,’ she pointed to a table near the arched exit, ‘which appears to be where he does his best work.’
‘I suppose you’re swimming in DNA?’
‘Yes, with this much human bone and tissue, I’m afraid the chances of identifying your torturer from the DNA would not only be close to impossible, but fantastically expensive as well.’
‘So, presumably you’re going to examine those skulls?’
‘Come by the mortuary about two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what we’ve got.’
‘Okay, Doc.’ He turned back to Perkins. ‘I’m finding it hard to wrap my brain around the scale of this,’ He said scratching his head. ‘And there are more caverns like this?’
‘Yes,’ Perkins said.
‘Are we sure it’s just one torturer?’ Walsh said.
‘Panic attack over?’ Quigg asked.
She ignored him.
‘We’re not sure of anything at the moment, Heather,’ Perkins said. ‘Certainly, the current torturer can’t be the same person who started all this, but other than that...’ He spread his gloved hands.
‘Right,’ Quigg said. ‘Walsh and I will leave you to get on with whatever it is that you forensic types do, and we’ll wander about and see where we end up. When we come back, I think it would be helpful if you could provide me with the name and address of the torturer, Perkins.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Sir.’
‘I’m not sure I want to wander about aimlessly,’ Walsh said. ‘We’ll get lost. Have you got a map, Peter?’
‘I thought you had a strong disposition, Walsh. I’m seeing a different side to you down here. Anyway, Perkins has already said he doesn’t have a map, and we don’t need one anyway. I have an unerring sense of direction.’
‘You’ll need torches.’ Perkins said pointing to a stack of blue forensic boxes. ‘They’re in the box marked "Torches".’