by Tim Ellis
It was eight o’clock and still nobody was up. He needed to speak to them before he had to meet Kline, but he still had an hour before he needed to leave. Letting them sleep in another half an hour wouldn’t hurt, and in the meantime he could phone the ICU and see how Walsh had navigated through the darkness.
‘ICU, Staff Nurse Alexandra Hudson.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector...’
‘...Quigg?’
‘That’s right...’
‘We’ve been waiting for your call. Just one moment, Sir.’
His heart rate increased. What the hell was going on?
‘Hello?’
‘Is that you Walsh?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ve got tears in my eyes.’
‘You shouldn’t be peeling onions at this time of the morning.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t think there’s a polite word to describe how I feel.’
‘I phoned that bastard Muchamore.’
‘Who?’
‘And I think you’re going to hate me, but I went round to see...’
‘Not my mother?’
‘Yeah, I know... sorry.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Sir.’
‘I probably know that now, but what’s done is done. Listen, I’m over the moon you’re feeling better.’
‘They’re making me eat porridge. I hate porridge.’
‘I’d hate for you to die, Walsh, so eat your porridge.’
‘The nurses tell me it’s because of you I’m still alive?’
‘A story for another time. I’m watching your back is all you need to know.’
‘Thanks, Sir. I’d better go, I think there’s a lovely male nurse coming to give me a bed bath.’
‘I’d like to know what type of hospital they’re running there? I’ll be in to see you later.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘Later, Walsh. You focus on getting better. If you’re not one hundred percent improved by this afternoon, there’ll be trouble.’
‘See you later, Sir.’
Now, he felt ready to face the day. He’d had enough bad news over the last couple of days to last him two lifetimes. It was great to get some good news for a change.
He wandered into each of the three bedrooms and told them they had ten minutes before he came back with a bucket of water full to gunwales with ice cubes.
‘You wouldn’t?’ Lucy said.
‘I think I’ve already proven I would.’
‘I feel randy as hell. You could have me every which way if you wanted right here and now.’
‘Have the Apostles been reduced to ruins yet?’
Ignoring the question she slunk out of bed like a boa constrictor wearing a pair of lace briefs. ‘You know you want to grab my tight little arse and...’
‘You do know it’s Sunday?’
‘Sunday is my best day for being extra dirty.’
‘Well, now that you’re out of bed, get your tight little arse to the breakfast table.’
He turned and descended back down into the tunnel.
‘I’m sure one of those security guards wouldn’t mind a piece of hot little ass if you’re not interested,’ she shouted after him.
Once they were all sitting at the breakfast table he told them about his meeting at Halcyon Security.
‘And they’ll be here at ten o’clock to start work under the supervision of Tony Carter.’
‘Ten o’clock?’ Ruth said. ‘And what are we supposed to do while they are here smashing and crashing?’
‘All three of you have work to do.’ He gave Lucy the bank details he’d accumulated yesterday. ‘Transfer one-point three million to Halcyon Security, and one million to Hammersmith Hospital.’
They stared at him.
‘To repair Walsh,’ he clarified.
‘You’re getting soft in your old age, Quigg,’ Lucy said.
‘I must be if I’m putting up with you.’
‘Ha ha! I’ve never laughed so much.’
‘So, we have all their money. Now we need to dispose of all their assets. You’ve identified what they have and where it all is?’
Duffy nodded. ‘We have a large map of the world in the Chapel. On it we’ve catalogued everything we’ve found so far.’
‘Sell it all, and have the money transferred to our new account.’ He looked at Ruth. ‘All the incriminating evidence we have on these bastards needs to be communicated to media outlets worldwide, but anonymously. The Apostles will know who’s destroying them, but I don’t want anyone else to find out. This is not about us, it’s about getting justice for all the children they’ve abused and killed. By the end of the month, I want the Apostles to be penniless and languishing in jail.
***
Kline was waiting for him in the Toyota Celica as if she owned it. Music was blaring out of the speakers.
‘Turn that rubbish off.’
‘Rubbish! This is "Walking Away" by Craig David.’
‘I thought you didn’t like men?’
‘I love his voice.’
‘Well, get it out of the CD. You do know this isn’t your car, don’t you?’
‘Did you fall out of bed onto your head this morning?’
She pulled out of the station car park and headed towards the Charing Cross Hospital Archives on Exhibition Street in Knightsbridge.
‘I’ve had a good day so far, and I don’t want to spoil it by listening to someone moaning that he’s walking away.’
‘Don’t you listen to music?’
‘Far too busy solving murders.’
‘So, why have you had a good day?’
He told her about Walsh being taken to theatre again. ‘But it looks like she’s on the mend, so I’m pleased about that. Also, Janet in forensics knew what TC meant.’
‘Oh?’
‘Thomas Crapper & Co.’
Kline shrugged.
‘No, I’d never heard of him either, but apparently he used to make manhole covers. The company closed, but a historian called Jill Mora – who has all the company records – salvaged it. She’s searching through said records and will ring me later today to tell me if she’s found anything.’
‘Forgive me if I’m being a bit dense here, Sir, but even if she finds the name of the person who ordered the two metal plates, how does it help us?’
‘You’re asking the same question I asked myself, Kline. It gives us another lead. Don’t forget we’re investigating the past and the present – nibbling the cheese at both ends. Yes, we could simply focus on the present. Catch the two killers, put them behind bars, and leave the rest to the historians. But I think there’s a lot more to this case than locking up two murderers.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And, Lisa Evans – the woman who fell through the floor of the warehouse and has been in a coma since – woke up.’
‘Oh?’
‘She saw something. It was all a bit vague, but she thought she saw a man’s forearm with a tattoo, which she described as a coat of arms with a number "10" inside. Perkins is looking into it.’
‘One of the killers?’
‘Who else would have been in the cavern? What about you, any luck with the Charing Cross staff list?’
‘Three people had the initials FS and two VR.’
‘Well done. We’ll have to go back there tomorrow morning, find out who they are, and maybe interview them.’
Because it was Sunday they could park outside the unassuming three-storey building on Exhibition Street. The archives weren’t open for business, but the archivist had agreed to come in to help them. They buzzed, posed in front of the CCTV camera like party guests, and were let in.
Mrs Heather Ross was probably as old as Charing Cross Hospital. There were sparse patches of grey hair dotted about her scalp. Her skin was red and blotchy, her breasts heavy and pendulous. There were long dark hairs on her forearms, and when she spoke it was as if she’d chisel
led each word from granite.
‘Personnel records from 1891! You’re joking, aren’t you?’
Quigg smiled. ‘No, no joke.’
‘No wonder they say I can’t retire. No one would take on this job if they paid the idiot three times the peanuts that I earn. And let me tell you, I earn a minuscule amount of peanuts. And it’s an incontrovertible fact that if you pay peanuts you get monkeys. Well, this monkey has had enough peanuts...’
Quigg wondered why she was moaning about the amount of peanuts she was being paid, and then saying she’d had enough of them. Maybe she wanted to be paid in walnuts, or Brazil nuts. Maybe it wasn’t the amount, but the quality of the nuts being offered...
They’d followed her along two corridors and then into a lift. This particular lift had no "up" buttons, only "down" buttons. There were twelve lower floors. She pressed No.12 and the doors closed.
‘...All the money that the hospital wastes on people who don’t deserve treatment. People who inflict injury on themselves should be transported to somewhere like Devil’s Island. That was a punishment that worked. Drug addicts, drunks, suicides, anybody who is just wasting other people’s hard-earned money. And then there’s those who don’t want to work for a living – Why should I pay for their treatment? Oh, don’t get me wrong, I know these are extreme views, but if you asked people to be honest I’m sure they’d say the same thing. People aren’t honest anymore. They say what Big Brother wants to hear. You’re not allowed to have extreme views now. They lock you up. There are laws against having extreme views. We all have to think the same. Robots, that’s what we are. Robots... on peanuts.’
Kline elbowed him and grinned.
The door to the lift opened.
They followed her into an open space, and in every direction there were passageways disappearing between metal shelves stacked with boxes. She led them down one such passageway. There was a fine white dust everywhere, and Quigg wondered what it was. The lights came on in front of them as they walked. The cardboard boxes on the shelves were stacked side by side, one on top of the other.
Every thirty or so yards there was a load-bearing wall containing an archway, which they walked through into the next section. They took a left and a right, and throughout this journey Heather Ross waxed lyrical about all sections of society, and put forward her manifesto to make Britain a fairer place for all – except for those she planned to sacrifice for the greater good.
At the sound of a distant rumbling she stopped. ‘Hold onto something,’ she said, clutching a stanchion of the metal shelving.
Quigg and Kline glanced at each other as the rumbling became louder and louder. And then it was too late to hold onto something because they were thrown to the floor. Everything shook, the noise was deafening, and a fine white dust fell on them.
‘What the hell was that?’ Quigg said, pushing himself up and brushing the dust off his clothes.
Heather Ross looked at her wristwatch. ‘That was the ten-thirteen from Gloucester Road to Knightsbridge.’
‘The tube?’ Kline said.
‘Yes. When they bored out the tunnel for the Circle Line, they made sure the buildings wouldn’t collapse, but they forgot about these lower basement floors, and they forgot about the noise. It was only afterwards, when the trains began to ply their trade, that the noise became apparent.’
‘So what did they do?’ Kline asked.
‘Shrug.’
‘Shrug?
‘Well, they weren’t going to fill the tunnel back up, were they? They weren’t going to stop running the trains, were they? So they shrugged. They argued that this was just a storeroom. That people very rarely came down here, and that the building wouldn’t fall down, and that... So, they told everyone to just forget about it, and try not to come down here too often.’
Kline’s eyes opened wide. ‘Why?
‘Deafness. If you stay down here for a while, you’ll go deaf. Also, there’s a risk of bodily injury, as you just experienced. No one knows what the long-term effects of staying down here might be. They say that it would not only cause physical, but psychological damage. Right, here we are. Now, 1891 you say. What exactly are you looking for?’
‘Names that might match these initials,’ Kline said, pulling out the list Perkins had provided for them. February 1891 – AP.’
‘You’ll understand that they didn’t have computers in those days. Everything was written by hand. Laborious, time-consuming, and a heavy reliance on paper. They were fastidious about keeping records, which means there are lots of them. There are a hundred and seventeen boxes filled with administrative records for 1891, and I won’t even mention the thousands of patient’s records, and all the other records associated with running a busy London hospital.
‘So, how do we find what we’re looking for?’ Kline asked.
Mrs Ross’ eyes narrowed as she stared at Kline. ‘I’ll give you one guess?’
‘You mean we...’
The light went off.
‘Oh yes, you have to keep moving as well... Hold onto something.’
This time they grabbed the metal shelving as the train flew by beneath them.
‘The ten twenty-seven from South Kensington to Lancaster Gate on the Piccadilly Line,’ Heather Ross said matter-of-factly. She pulled a cardboard box off the bottom shelf and pushed it at Kline. ‘Let’s begin.’
‘We could be here forever.’
‘Ah! Let me guess. You want me to do the work while you stand there and watch?’
Kline glanced at Quigg. ‘Well...’
‘You’re not one of those temporary police officers, are you? You know the ones who help old ladies across the road, and give directions to immigrants?’
‘No I am not.’
‘You’ll have to sit on the floor, there are no tables and chairs on this level – it discourages people from spending longer down here than is good for them.’
The ten thirty-eight between Earl’s Court and Victoria thundered underneath on the District Line.
Quigg was beginning to think he’d be a basket case by the time he got out of there.
They rifled through the boxes one at a time. Thankfully, he’d decided to wear casual clothes in the form of chinos and a polo shirt because it was Sunday. He certainly wasn’t scruffy by any stretch of the imagination, but the white dust lying everywhere made a complete mess of what he had on. Kline was the same, but Heather Ross seemed to be able to avoid coming into contact with the particulate. The trains roared past beneath them every ten minutes or so, and they learned to tell the time by the trains that came and went.
At one-thirty they all returned to the surface. Quigg offered Mrs Ross lunch, but she decided to stay in the building and eat her sandwich. Both he and Kline needed to get out of the building and regroup their brain cells. They walked along Princes Gardens to the Library Cafe in Garden Hall at Imperial College. Quigg had three blue cheese roast beef wraps.
‘Three?’ Kline said.
‘Have you transferred to the ration squad?’
‘I’m watching your back, I don’t want you to die of a heart attack before you’ve given me a glowing report.’
‘I’m touched.’
‘I don’t know if I can do another hour down there, Sir.’
‘Be a man, Kline.’
‘Very helpful.’
***
‘The computer seems a bit sluggish today, Bartholomew,’ Phillip said.
They were in the flat located on the Duchess of Bedford’s Walk in Kensington, which had been purchased to entertain special guests. It was rarely used, so Bartholomew had installed a computer with a firewall. The previous Phillip had set up the wireless Internet connection via a convoluted series of hosts, so that anyone trying to trace the computer back to its source would spend many fruitless hours following false leads.
‘Everything seems to be as it should be.’
‘Excellent. I need to conduct a stock take, so that I can present a complete breakdown of our inve
stments at the Last Supper on Thursday.’
Phillip worked throughout the day producing a consolidated report of the Apostles’ assets while Bartholomew used a laptop to make arrangements for the Last Supper. He had to agree additional funds to obtain the caterers that they usually had because the dinner would be in Sevenoaks. The same applied to the Security Company that provided the manpower and dogs for the evening.
Once he’d arranged the catering and security, he organised the little entertainment parcels from Romania, and then sent out the invitations to the other Apostles.
He was looking forward to the first Last Supper at the Sevenoaks complex. They had spared no expense. Everything was state of the art, and would be ready to go at the appointed hour.
***
At two-thirty they walked back.
Mrs Ross was waiting for them. Drumming fat fingers on her wristwatch like a Madam in a whorehouse waiting for her girls. She led them back down to the basement where they started on the boxes again.
As the two forty-seven between Sloane Square and Marble Arch on the Circle Line rumbled beneath them, Kline found the box they were looking for. Because of the ear-shattering noise, neither of them heard her cry of relief, but they did see her waving a sheaf of paper with a look of excitement on her face.
‘I’ve got the fucking...’ they heard as the train moved away. ‘Oops, sorry.’
The list of staff employed in the hospital during 1891 ran to eighteen pages. They checked through each name and found eight people with the initials AP:
Arthur Pennington
Annie Poulters
Andrei Pandele
Andrew Peters
Alexander Pedachenko
Andrew Patterson
Ariel Plaistow
Augustus Pugin
‘We can forget about the women,’ Quigg said. ‘Which reduces the number to six. Now we have to find information on the men.’