The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf (Quigg Book 4)

by Tim Ellis

  Lucy laughed. She’d taken a liking to Springfield immediately. She was older, but that was okay. What she didn’t want was for someone who hadn’t even left school to tell her she was rubbish. She could accept some criticism from someone who was older, not ancient, but a couple of years.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-seven going on ten and a half. And you?’

  ‘Twenty-three, but I tell everyone I’m twenty-one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You’re not going to go ape shit, are you?’

  ‘I might, depends what you say.’

  They sat down in front of the master computer. Against her better judgement Lucy let Springfield sit in her chair. ‘Well, I found you, so the Apostles could as well. I don’t know who they’ve got looking after their security, but they’re not stupid.’

  ‘They must have recruited someone new because the security has got a lot tighter, but I can still get in. This morning I’ve written a Trojan Horse, which they’ve downloaded onto their computer already. I control all their accounts now, and they have no idea. Here look.’ She used the second keyboard and brought up the Trojan Horse code.

  ‘Wicked, but if you add these two lines.’ She typed like a hummingbird looking for nectar. ‘Their computer will respond like nothing is wrong. Think of a CCTV camera showing what’s happening in real time. If you put a recording taken previously in front of the camera, it means you can do whatever you want without being seen.’

  Lucy screwed up her eyes, and her lip curled up. ‘I thought that’s what I had?’

  ‘Yes, but see that line there...’ She pointed to a line of code two-thirds of the way down the screen. ‘If they use this sequence of key strokes...’ Her fingers skimmed over the keyboard. ‘It allows them to see behind the recording.’ The view on the screen changed.

  ‘Well, fuck me stupid. I should have known that.’

  ‘It’s easily missed. I used to do it the same as you, until I woke up one day and my brain hurt.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Yeah, my brain hurts a lot.’

  And Springfield showed Lucy a couple of tweaks here and there, which further enhanced security. Then together, they transferred £53 million via a hundred and twenty accounts in seventeen banks, but which ended up in a numbered account in Liechtenstein with one signatory – Mr S Quigg. In effect, it became untraceable.

  ‘I pleaded with the fucking bastard, but he wouldn’t tell me what the S stood for.’

  ‘Springfield?’

  ‘Don’t you start. I had a million guesses, but he still wouldn’t tell me. It’s something really weird and obscure, because I guessed all the usual names.’

  Springfield laughed. ‘I haven’t even met this Quigg, but I hate him already.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Springfield put a memory stick in one of the USB ports. ‘Here are some useful programs I’ve written,’ she said creating a new folder called "Springfield" and copying hundreds of files into it. ‘Each one has a "Read Me" file attached to it that tells you what it does. I particularly like "Random Name", which attaches a random number to each letter of your online name when you switch it on, so Tornado Jane becomes a different string of numbers every time you use it.

  ‘And you can switch it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cool.’

  And that was it. They promised to keep in touch, and even though Springfield didn’t say so, Lucy knew she’d be watching what she was doing.

  ***

  No sooner had he stepped out of the Toyota Celica at the station than his phone vibrated.

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘It’s Maggie Sheahan-Parry. Tony Carter has just returned to the office. He’s done his security review of the house. Have you got time to meet tonight?

  He checked his watch. It was twenty past four. He did some calculations in his head and then said, ‘Six o’clock?’ He’d go there first, and then go on to the hospital to see Walsh. Doctor Iacobellis hadn’t got back to him, so there must have been no problem with the specialist.

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Kline said.

  ‘Need to know,’ he said, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Are you running two investigations?’

  ‘Sometimes I think so.’

  ‘Can I take the pool car back now?’

  ‘Unless you want to take it home and use it again tomorrow?’

  ‘I can do that?’

  ‘Not really. You’ll piss off the mechanics at the carpool, but I think you’ve already done that, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but I think a couple of them fancy me.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like men?’

  ‘I don’t, but it doesn’t mean I can’t use them to get what I want.’

  ‘Sometimes, I think you’re not a very nice person.’

  ‘I aim for not being a nice person all the time, so I must be slipping up.’

  His lip curled up. ‘Yeah, you’ll have to try harder.’

  ‘Do you want me to take the Charing Cross staff list home with me? I can look through it tonight.’

  ‘You sure you want to do that? You’re not going out on the town man hunting with your friends?’

  ‘I’ll let you know what I find out tomorrow morning,’ she said ignoring the second question.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘What were those two letters on the metal hatch?’

  ‘I know you’re just seeing if I remember, even though you know what they are.’

  ‘That’s a slur on my good character, Kline.’

  ‘FO.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Anyway, I’m going up to forensics to annoy Perkins for a few minutes, and ask him if he knows what FO means.’

  ‘You’re not going to do anything else, because I can stay if you want?’

  ‘No, nothing else. I’m going to see Walsh.’

  ‘Is she doing okay?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Even though I’ll get sent back to the wilderness, I hope she gets better, Sir.’

  ‘See, you can be a nice person when you want to be.’

  ‘Bollocks! I only said that because you expected me to.’

  ‘Of course you did. Go home. Pick me up at nine-thirty here tomorrow morning. Goodnight, Kline.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sir. And you do know it was TC and not FO?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and smiled.

  He let himself in through the keypad-controlled security door leading from the car park, and took the stairs up to the squad room two at a time. Kline was mellowing. Today he had caught glimpses of a normal person peeking out from behind the defensive wall. They were beginning to gel, but it would take more time. With Walsh’s leg the way it was, they probably had a bit of time anyway, but as soon as Walsh was fit again, Kline would be history. Walsh was his partner, so he shouldn’t get too fond of Kline. He smiled. If "fond" was the appropriate word. Could someone actually get fond of a schizophrenic scorpion?

  At four-thirty, he expected the squad room to be empty – it wasn’t. The unshaven DS Jones was sitting at his desk. When he saw Quigg he quickly closed a manila file he was looking at and stuffed it in his drawer.

  ‘What are you doing here at this time on a Saturday, Jones?’

  ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of an investigation.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, you haven’t got anything on at the moment.’

  ‘What do you know? I hear you didn’t want me as your partner when Walsh got injured.’

  ‘You heard correct. I wouldn’t want you as a partner if you were the last detective in London. I can’t stand you, Jones. I think you
’re a slimy crook who got into the police force under false pretences.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual.’

  ‘Oh, I know, and I’m grateful for small mercies. The sooner you get transferred the better.’

  Jones sniggered. ‘I’m not going anywhere. The Chief likes me, and he doesn’t like you, so I think I’ll stay here and wait for you to fall on your arse.’

  ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell, Jones.’

  Jones locked the drawer of his desk and walked towards the stairs. ‘I can wait. I have a friend in the meteorological office.’

  God, he hated Jones. He rang Perkins’ number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Your voice sounds a bit high-pitched Perkins, are you coming down with a cold or something?’

  ‘You know very well it’s me, Sir.’

  ‘Where’s Perkins, Janet?’

  ‘He’s at the cavern. We’re taking turns.’

  ‘Maybe you can help me then?’

  ‘It’s not anything illegal, is it?’

  ‘You said you had a man who could open doors?’

  Her voice sounded hesitant. ‘Maybe?’

  ‘You’ve not got him hiding up there, have you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m having trouble getting into a desk drawer.’

  ‘Is it your desk?’

  ‘You don’t want to know that, Janet?’

  ‘It’s not your desk, is it?’

  ‘It could be, and I have a question to ask you.’

  ‘I’ll come down.’

  ‘And you’ll bring your man with you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll bring Howie with me.’

  ‘Howie?’

  The phone went dead.

  Janet came down with a shifty looking man about the same age as Quigg with long brown greasy hair parted in the middle, an untrimmed goatee beard like Billy Connelly, and a gormless expression.

  ‘This is Howie,’ Janet said. ‘He does things with audio and visual evidence.’

  Quigg shook his hand. ‘Hi Howie.’

  ‘Hi Mr Quigg. Which drawer?’

  Quigg pointed to the top drawer in Jones’ desk.

  ‘Turn around,’ Howie said.

  Quigg and Janet turned.

  ‘There you go,’ Howie said after approximately ten seconds.

  ‘You’ve done this before, Howie?’

  ‘Something I picked up on my travels. Those Vietnamese know a thing or two about locks.’

  ‘Thanks, Howie. You were never here.’

  ‘Never where? I don’t work on Saturdays, Mr Quigg. Everybody knows that.’ He walked back along the corridor towards the stairs.

  ‘So, what’s this question you want to ask me? And although I’m tempted, no I don’t want to run away with you to some exotic island in the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘I’m broken-hearted, Janet. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love again.’

  Janet put her hand up to her mouth and feigned a yawn.

  ‘Any idea what TC means?’

  ‘Top Cat?’

  ‘That’s not really what I had in mind.’

  ‘Well, you have to provide some context.’

  ‘You know those iron plates over the hatch in the tunnel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Kline and I went down the sewers this afternoon – with two sewage workers – and saw the other side. After scraping off the muck, there was a maker’s stamp at the bottom of it – TC.’

  ‘That’s an easy one.’

  ‘Do I have to beg? You’re picking up some bad habits from Perkins. He makes me beg for scraps.’

  ‘I’ll let you have this one for free – Thomas Crapper.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What more do you want? He was the man who made the flushing toilet fashionable. His company used to reside in Chelsea, and also made manhole covers and the like for the sewers, but it closed in 1969.’

  ‘Crap!’

  ‘You should be on the stage.’

  ‘I’m often told that.’

  ‘You’re in luck though. A historian and collector of antique bathroom fittings by the name of Jill Mora bought the company in the 1980s. They’re located in Stratford upon Avon now and produce authentic reproductions of Crapper’s original bathroom fittings. Oh, and for your information, the word "crap" has nothing to do with Thomas Crapper.’

  ‘I could kiss you, Janet.’

  ‘That’s how babies are made, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think so.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  He passed her the copies of the blueprint for the sewers that Katja Sweeney had given him. ‘Get someone to examine these, and see if they’re of any use in determining who built that cavern system.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And this,’ he said, giving her the DVD. ‘It’s from last Thursday at Charing Cross Hospital Mental Health Wing. There’s no CCTV camera covering that door, but you never know – have someone take a look, will you?’

  She nodded.

  He sat on the corner of Jones’ desk. ‘Have you got anything for me?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow, or better still – Monday morning.’

  ‘Okay. Tell Perkins I want you at the briefing, you’re far prettier than he is.’

  ‘That’s not saying a lot.’

  After Janet had left, he pulled open Jones’ drawer. On the top was DC Tallie Kline’s personnel file marked "Private and Confidential". The corner of his mouth curled up. Jones and Monica – the Chief’s secretary – had been an item once, and Jones must have made copies of Monica’s keys. The bastard was lower than a slug’s slime trail.

  As he was about to open and read Kline’s file, he realised that it would make him just as bad as Jones. He went into his office, and put the file at the bottom of his metal cabinet under some boxes. He’d give it back to Monica on Monday morning, and tell her to get the locks changed at Jones’ expense.

  Jones would know he’d got into his desk drawer and taken the file, but what could he say? Both of them were forced to remain silent because of criminal acts.

  He checked his watch – five past five. There was still a bit of time left. He phoned 181181 and asked for the telephone number of Thomas Crapper & Co. Ltd. in Stratford upon Avon.

  ‘The number you want is, 01789 450522. Would you like us to connect you?’

  ‘Yes please.’ He was hoping there was still someone there.

  A man’s voice said, ‘Thomas Crapper and company, how can I help you?’

  ‘Jill Mora, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, she is unavailable at the moment.’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Quigg from the Hammersmith Murder Investigation Team. It’s reasonably urgent that I contact her.’

  ‘I could give her your number, and ask her to ring you?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll ring you in the next half an hour, Sir.’

  He gave the man his number, thanked him, and then made his way down to the car park. As soon as he climbed in the Mercedes his mobile vibrated.

  ‘DI Quigg.’

  ‘Jill Mora, you wanted to talk to me?’

  He explained what he was doing, and what he’d found in the sewer. ‘And I’m wondering if you have any records?’

  ‘You’re a bit desperate then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. It’s just one more lead we’re pursuing.’

  ‘You’ve got a date?’

  ‘Sorry. Somewhere between 1888 and 1891.’

  ‘That’s a lot of records.’

  ‘You’ll be helping me catch a killer.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find. I’m sure my husband and children will understand when I tell them I can’t go sailing with them.’

  ‘Sailing makes you sick.’

  He heard her laughing. ‘I’ll contact you, probably tomorrow evening, and let you know if I’ve found anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The call ended. If she came back to him
and said that so-and-so had ordered two of those covering plates, then what? What would it mean? Would that person be the first torturer? It would certainly give him a name to pursue. The trouble was, it was over a hundred years ago. Would there be any records of the person? Where would he go to find information of someone who lived at the same time as Queen Victoria?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bartholomew was back at his home on Culross Street in Mayfair. He had spent all day at the Sevenoaks estate supervising the building work, and of course, disposing of the troublesome Emma Potter. The four Apostles had twice had turns satisfying their carnal desires, and then he had ordered them to kill her without further ado. They had all been implicated in her rape and murder, and as such there was no question of anyone tittle-tattling to the authorities.

  One of the additions he had insisted on at the Sevenoaks site, which had not been available at Cobham, was a state-of-the-art gas-powered incinerator. Unfortunately, it wasn’t operational yet, so he’d had to make alternative arrangements. The four had each helped to dig a grave into which they had thrown Miss Potter’s carcass, together with her clothes and bag. He had made sure the SIM card was removed from her mobile phone and destroyed. A splash of petrol, a match, and they’d had themselves a bonfire.

  He recalled camping-trips with his father, potatoes wrapped in kitchen foil and thrown in the embers, too-hot-to-eat jackets burning the tongue and the insides of the mouth. Then into the sleeping bag to wait for his father to satisfy his warped predilections. He hadn’t brought any potatoes with him, and he’d murdered his father a long time ago.

  ‘Are you in for the night, Peter?’ his wife – Poppy – asked.

  He’d had no choice but to marry Poppy. There had been rumours once he’d returned from university. He needed to hide behind a facade, and Poppy had fulfilled that role.

  She hadn’t asked too much of him. At first he’d tried to give her babies, but she’d had an inhospitable environment. And then, to add insult to injury, his sperm weren’t up to the job. So, they’d remained childless, and to his mind it was probably best all round. At least he hadn’t done to his own child what his father had done to him – the cycle had been broken.

  Slowly, Poppy had come to terms with the situation. She’d thrashed about a bit, asking for IVF treatment, wanting to adopt, and such like, but he’d counselled her in no uncertain terms, and told her it was all for the best. She’d had affairs with other men, become pregnant, but he’d insisted that she’d had the necessary abortions. He certainly wasn’t bringing up another man’s brat. Yes, all in all, Poppy had been a decent enough wife.