by Tim Ellis
‘There will always be some people who don’t want to be a statistic,’ Quigg said. ‘What’s ironic though, is that they inevitably shift from one statistical list to another. Everyone is a statistic. It proves that you once existed.’
‘I have something else as well,’ Doc Inglehart said. ‘We found a dental match for one of the skulls – a Margaret Wilcockson.’ She passed Quigg a piece of paper. ‘Her next of kin is her brother – Vivian Westwood. That’s his address.’
‘Very efficient.’ He knew they weren’t going to be able to visit Westwood today, but there really wasn’t any rush to confirm Margaret Wilcockson had been homeless.
‘We aim to please. What about the remaining skulls, do you want Chouka to carry on reconstructing their faces?’
‘It can’t do any harm.’
‘And are you going to publish the face of the woman to find out who she really is?’ the Doc asked.
‘No. One, it doesn’t really matter who she is. And two, as far...’ He had a thought. ‘Maybe we could.’ He told them about his Bubonic plague story. ‘Publishing a picture of Sally would lend credence to my revelation of finding one recent skull. Also, and it’s sad to say, but the press won’t be too interested in a homeless woman. Have you taken pictures?’
Chouka passed him an envelope with half a dozen 8" x 4" colour photographs inside.
‘Well, it was worth coming. Thank the nice ladies Kline, and let’s be on our way.’
In reception Quigg said, ‘Right, you go out to the...’
‘I want to come up and say hello to Walsh.’
‘You don’t even know her.’
‘And I never will unless you let me come up and meet her.’
His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You’re not going to upset her, are you?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Well, I don’t know. Being an exceptionally gifted policeman I just wonder about your motives.’
‘If you hadn’t noticed, and what I’ve discovered about men is that they don’t notice what’s staring them in the face, is that I’m trying to be nice.’
‘I see. Your underlying motive is to worm your way into my good books by being nice, so that you can replace Walsh should the opportunity arise?’
‘You make me sound like a cold calculating bitch.’
‘Am I wrong then?’
She turned and headed towards the lifts. ‘Are we going?’
In the ICU Duffy was sitting by the bed laughing and joking with Walsh.
‘Hello, Duffy.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘Hello, Walsh,’ he said and kissed her as well. ‘Has Duffy brought everything you asked for?’
‘Yes, thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure.’ He waved a hand to his left. ‘This is Tallie Kline, my temporary partner until you’re back on your feet again Walsh.’
Kline leaned forward and offered a hand.
Walsh shook it. ‘All three partners in the same place at the same time,’ she mused.
‘And this is Duffy who used to be my partner.’
‘I’m still your partner, Sir.’ She grinned. ‘But in a different way.’
This was exactly one of the reasons he didn’t want to bring Kline up with him. Now she knew he was the one who had got Duffy pregnant. As soon as they got out of here, she’d be asking him questions as if he were a suspect.
‘So, how are you feeling Walsh?’
She smiled with her mouth and her eyes. ‘Much better. Not much pain. And I know this sounds crazy, but I can feel my leg getting better instead of dying.’
‘Excellent. Well, we’re only here on a flying visit, but I’ll pop back this evening to check with the doctors, and make sure you’re being a model patient.’
As soon as they were in the lift Kline started.
‘You omitted that minor detail about you being the one that got Duffy pregnant, didn’t you?’
‘We could play, "Twenty Questions" if you like, but we have to take turns – you’re first. ‘Why do you hate men so much?’
Kline didn’t answer.
‘That game didn’t last long, did it?’
Outside, he passed one of the photographs of Sally Parker to a reporter and said, ‘Sorry, I’ve only got the one. You’ll have to copy it and distribute it among yourselves. Anyway, we’d be interested in finding out who that might be. Thanks for your help.’
At the car he said, ‘That’ll keep them happy while we get on with some police work. Right, you start the car up, Kline. I’m going to make a quick phone call.’
‘You make a lot of secret phone calls.’
‘By secret, you mean you don’t know about them?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Unlike you, I have a life beyond the confines of work.’ He wandered away and called Maggie Crenshaw’s number.
‘The Crenshaw residence. Mrs Margaret Crenshaw speaking?’
‘Maggie, it’s Quigg...’
He heard her bellow down the phone, ‘Beryl, it’s Rudolf Valentino,’ and then laughter.
‘What are you pestering an old woman for now, Quigg?’
‘Your house is ready, mum.’
‘This isn’t another one of your tricks is it, Quigg?’
‘Tricks! What tricks?’
‘I suppose you want me to pack everything immediately and move over there?’
‘No, mum. On Friday you’ve been invited to take a look at your new house, and then we can arrange for you to move back in sometime afterwards.’
‘Invited to look at my own house!’
‘You know what I mean. I’ll come and pick you up at ten o’clock on Friday morning.’
‘I suppose I’ll see you then, Quigg.’ She put the phone down. He wondered what was wrong with her.
***
It was five to twelve when they arrived at Charing Cross Hospital. There were five people they wanted to see – Frederick Sawbridge, Francis Stuart, Fernando Sausalito, Victor Ramos and Vincent Rawlinson.
They were given a disused storeroom and the people were organised for interviews at fifteen-minute intervals. Frederick Sawbridge was a theatre porter in his late forties, and had worked at the hospital for three years. Francis Stuart was a female maker of prosthetics for amputee patients. Fernando Sausalito worked in the incinerator room, struggled to speak English, and they had to arrange for an interpreter through Human Resources. Victor Ramos was a reformed gang member who was covered in tattoos, but now worked in the hospital’s on-site crèche. Finally, Vincent Rawlinson was a sixty-five year-old heart transplant surgeon with the early signs of Parkinson’s Disease. They all agreed to have their photographs and fingerprints taken.
‘I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy,’ Quigg said.
‘Why, did you think the killers would simply walk right in and confess?’
‘It was more of a faint hope floating around in the back of my mind rather than a concrete thought.’
‘What now?’
‘Lunch.’
‘I’ll pay for my own.’
‘That’s very generous of you. I was going to offer to pay for yours as well.’
‘It’s all right for you rich DI’s, but I can’t afford to keep buying you lunch.’
‘You’re free and single. You get paid £25,000 if memory serves. What the hell are you doing with your money?’
‘None of your business. All you need to know is that I’ll pay for my own lunch from now on.’
‘Please yourself, Kline. Let’s go and find the cafeteria. We’ve got twenty-five minutes before I have to update the Chief Executive.’
The cafeteria was located on the second floor. It was desperately old. There were rumours that the hospital had been earmarked for closure. Questions had been asked in Parliament, but the Health Minister Gillian Burtwell – Member of Parliament for Barking South – had denied all rumours. Confidential emails between civil servants had been leaked, but still Mrs Burtwell denied
the hospital had been earmarked for closure. The Prime Minister refused to be drawn on the issue, referring any questions to the Health Minister’s statement.
Quigg had a rather frazzled hotpot. Kline nibbled on an oatmeal biscuit.
At two o’clock they were shown into Liz Fox’s office.
‘We’re in the process of closing off the tunnel. However, once the case is closed, you might want to seal off that hidden door in the boiler room.’
‘There won’t be any need. The hospital is scheduled for closure early next year. That’s confidential, of course.’
‘I thought the Health Minister said it wasn’t closing?’
‘They have to say that, don’t they? Don’t want the opposition to get one up on them.’
He shook his head and sneered. ‘Politicians, you can’t believe a thing they say. Anyway, we’ve found no connection between what we found in the caverns and the hospital. I want to examine the staff records for the last five years if that’s all right with you?’
‘I’ll let HR know you’re coming.’
‘Thank you. Once we’ve done that we’ll be out of your hair. Obviously, if we find anything we’ll let you know.’
Human Resources was on the second floor of the Pilot Wing and a grey-haired woman with grey eyes, grey clothes, and an angular face called Jayne Thorne welcomed them.
‘Coffee?’
‘I was beginning to think nobody drank coffee in this hospital,’ Quigg said.
‘It’s hospital policy – promulgated by HR of course – to only offer coffee if people look particularly dehydrated.’
Quigg smiled. ‘I can confirm that the policy is working.’
She stood up and walked to a percolator bubbling away in the corner. ‘Would you care for a coffee?’ she said to Kline.
‘I’m happy with water if you have it?’
‘Ice?’
‘Please.’
Once they had their drinks Jayne Thorne said, ‘Right, you tell me what you need, and I’ll work out the best way to let you have it.’
‘Any males who have left the hospital in the past five years with the initials FS or VR,’ Quigg replied.
‘We can go back fifteen years, if you want?’
‘Fifteen would be better.’
She turned to her computer. ‘I’ll create a database query with those parameters – it shouldn’t take too long. So, can you tell me what it’s all about?’
‘Sorry. And to be honest, you probably wouldn’t want to know.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. Okay, here we are.’ She leaned over to her printer, withdrew a sheaf of paper and fanned them. ‘I’d say about thirty pages. They’re in reverse order – 1997 to 2012. What might be an idea is if you move over to the easy chairs, go through them and highlight the ones you’re interested in, and then I can get one of my assistants to help you by pulling out the old personnel files one at a time. How would that be?’
Quigg pursed his lips and nodded. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and then stood up and walked over to it. ‘Interesting clock.’ It was a circular twelve-inch cog that moved round and through the clock mechanism that hung on the wall. The numbers were in black against the white painted metal He worked out that the time was around twenty to three, but he confirmed it by looking at his watch.
‘My father designed and made it.’
‘He was a clock maker?’
‘No, he was an accountant, but he had this gift for making things in his spare time.’
He noticed she used the past tense. ‘It certainly was a rare gift. I would buy a clock like this if they were available. I like unusual things.’
‘Oh they are. Someone saw this design and bought the patent from my father. It made him very rich.’ She passed him a card. ‘This is where you can get one.’
‘Thanks.’ He pocketed the card. ‘Anyway, before I got sidetracked by clocks, I was going to say that we have to be down in the tunnel at three o’clock, but after that we can do things the way you’ve suggested. What if we come back here for four o’clock?’
‘Sorry, I’m fully booked now until six, but if I warn Gina you’re coming you could go straight to Personnel Records, on the first floor. Ring the bell and ask for Gina Towler.’
‘Thanks very much for your help.’
They shook hands.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Inspector.’
‘So do I.’
Chapter Seventeen
Between three o’clock and twenty-past – two men with oxyacetylene torches opened the second hatch so that Quigg could see what was behind it.
Wearing an all-in-one zip up forensic suit, a yellow hard hat with a spotlight moulded into the top, and latex gloves, he stepped through into the darkness followed by Kline, and then Janet. They walked in the direction of the Thames for twenty minutes, and then reached a dead end.
‘This is fucking disappointing,’ Kline said, pushing at the stone wall in front of them as if she was expecting it to move by force of willpower alone.
‘Isn’t it?’ Quigg said. He shone the light in every direction, but there was no sign of another doorway.
‘Why would they build a long tunnel that went nowhere?’ Janet asked.
‘Get your people down here and examine it properly. Seal the door into the hospital, and then brick up the tunnel behind it.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I feel really let down. I expected all the answers to be waiting for us behind that hatch. Instead, there’s nothing.’
‘Welcome to my world,’ Quigg said. ‘Right, come on, Kline. Let’s go back to the hospital and carry on with our police work.’
They left Janet and her team in the tunnel and made their way back to the hospital through the boiler room and Mental Health Wing.
‘Why do you think they created a tunnel that didn’t go anywhere?’ Kline asked.
‘Do I look like the Oracle of Delphi to you?’
‘If you grew your hair longer, and sprouted breasts you might pass for a priestess in the dark.’
‘Very kind. Maybe they started the tunnel for a particular reason but never got round to finishing it. Who knows? Forget it, and let’s focus on finding suspects.’
***
Outside Personnel Records – on the first floor of Pilot Wing – Quigg pressed the buzzer and when a head appeared behind the bullet-proof glass that looked as though it belonged to someone who had already been embalmed, he asked for Gina Towler.
‘Do you keep money here?’ Kline said as they were let in.
‘Used to be accounts,’ the old woman who owned the head at the window said, ‘but that’s on the fourth floor now.’
‘At least you’re well-protected,’ Kline observed with a smile.
‘Penniless, but safe,’ the woman replied as she led them through a large room full of filing cabinets to an office.
Gina Towler was a well-proportioned and attractive blond-haired woman in her early thirties.
They both shook her hand.
‘Thank you, Agnes,’ she said to the old woman who waddled back to the entrance. Shaking her head she whispered, ‘Agnes Beattie has been here since they opened the hospital in 1861. And wouldn’t you know it, our own "Age Discrimination" policy prevents us from getting rid of her. So, you want details of past hospital employees, I believe?’
‘We have a list,’ Quigg said waving the sheaf of papers in the air.
‘Okay. What I don’t want to do is end up with a stack of records that someone then has to put back again. As you can see, we’re ever-so-slowly transferring paper records onto computer, and I really don’t want any more work. You can’t take the records away from the filing cabinets where they belong because we’d never get them back again. The only logical way of working is if we deal with the names a year at a time.’ She called over a young female who had spiked white hair and a ring through her top lip. ‘I have important work to do, but this is Nikki Adam who will find the files for you,’ she turned to the girl, �
��and then you put them back again in the right place, Nikki.’
‘I ain’t stupid, Miss Towler.’
‘I know that, Nikki, but sometimes you get confused with complicated instructions. Put the files back in exactly the same place you get them from.’
Gina turned back to them. ‘You tell Nikki the year and the name, she’ll pull the file out. You skim through it, and if the person might be someone you’re interested in, you read through the file in more detail and take notes. When you’re finished with the file you give it back to Nikki – who puts it back in exactly the same place she got it from – and you move onto the next person. Anybody confused about the instructions?’ Not only did she look at Nikki, but she also looked at Quigg and Kline.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Towler,’ Quigg said. ‘I think we can manage to follow those instructions.’
Once she had gone, Nikki muttered under her breath, ‘Fucking bitch.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Kline said.
They began in the manner Gina Towler had outlined. It was slow at first until they became familiar with the files, and where to look for the information they needed.
‘You got many more to go?’ Nikki said at half past five.
‘Another three pages of names,’ Quigg said.
‘I ain’t staying. I gotta a gig at the Apollo to go to tonight. Slash are gonna rip the place apart.’
‘Slash are brilliant,’ Kline said.
‘Yeah, you could come. I could sneak you in a side door, if you’re up for it?’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think my boss would like that.’
‘Fucking bosses,’ Nikki said.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Kline echoed.
‘We’ll have to finish first thing in the morning then,’ Quigg said. ‘What time do you get in?’
‘Half eight normally, but tomorrow I’ll miss the bus, and there’s the road works on Fulham Palace Road, the bomb alert at the Afghan takeaway, the old woman who’ll have an epileptic fit... Oh, I can’t see me getting in before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’