The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf (Quigg Book 4)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You want to watch your back from now on, Quigg.’

  ‘That’s no way to talk to a superior officer.’

  ‘Monica told me about the file.’

  ‘Is this the file you obtained illegally?’

  ‘Yeah, I know all about your new partner.’

  ‘Temporary partner.’

  ‘Do you know why she’s a crazy bitch and hates men?’

  ‘Keep what you know to yourself if you know what’s good for you, Jones.’

  ‘She was gang-raped as a fifteen year-old...’

  They both heard a cry behind Jones, and saw Kline running up the corridor towards the toilets.

  ‘I should think that’s your career over, Jones.’ He shoved him out of the way with his shoulder, even though Jones was probably two sizes larger than him, and headed for the toilet.

  He opened the door of the "Ladies" and called, ‘Coming in.’ No one objected so he went in.

  Kline was sitting on the floor next to the sinks sobbing.

  ‘Go away.’

  He sat down next to her. ‘Jones had keys to the filing cabinets in Monica’s office where the personnel files are kept. Because you’re now my partner, he thought he’d find out about you.’

  ‘Now everyone will know.’

  ‘My suggestion is that you request an interview with the Chief and lodge a complaint. Jones’ career would be finished.’

  ‘Yeah, you’d be happy for me to get rid of Jones for you, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t object, but it’s not about me, and it’s not about Jones. It’s about what’s best for you.’

  ‘I’ll ask for a transfer.’ She wiped her runny nose with a crumpled tissue. ‘I don’t want people knowing about my private life, and I don’t want them feeling sorry for me.’

  ‘Running away won’t help.’ He knew there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. She would do what she wanted to do.

  ‘Don’t worry about the briefing. Go and sign out a pool car. I’ll meet you in the car park in half an hour.’

  ‘I can’t have children, you know? They damaged me inside.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He strode along the corridor to the Chief’s office.

  Jones barred his way. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Quigg was seething. He would happily have strangled Jones with his bare hands. ‘Get out of the way before I do something I won’t regret.’

  Jones let him past.

  Monica stood up, bit her lip, and looked at Jones.

  ‘You didn’t tell the Chief, did you?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, we’re getting all the locks changed.’

  ‘And did you tell him why?’

  She looked away from him.

  He took a step forward and knocked on the Chief’s door.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘Please...’ Monica mouthed.

  Quigg went into the Chief’s office and shut the door.

  ‘Bubonic Plague? You have a strange mind, Quigg.’

  ‘Thanks, Chief. Can I talk to you about Sergeant Jones?’

  ‘What about him?’

  He told the Chief everything that had happened since he’d found Kline’s file in Jones’ desk drawer on Saturday. He didn’t mention Janet or Howie.

  ‘Jesus fucking wept, Quigg. You do realise this is going to cost me a secretary and a DS?’

  ‘What choice do you have?’

  ‘Fuck! Sometimes Quigg, you’re a pain in the arse.’

  ‘I know, Sir.’

  ‘Have you got anything earth-shattering to tell me about the case?’

  ‘Not really, Sir. We’re still moving in the right direction.’

  ‘Get out then. I have some sacking to do.’

  He left the door open and heard the Chief shout, ‘Monica, get in here.’

  As he walked back to his office he passed Jones who hissed, ‘You’re a dead man, Quigg.’

  ‘Goodbye, Jones.’

  Everything he was going to do such as delete his emails, shift some files from his intray back into Jones’ intray, and some other strategies he employed to make the workload manageable, had to be forgotten. He strolled down to the incident room where Perkins was sitting on his own.

  ‘Just you and me, Perkins. What have you got for me?’

  ‘Good morning, Sir. Well, I checked on a connection between the Vedic wheel of eternity and Eternity Wharf. If there is one, it was in the mind of the original builders because I found nothing documented.’

  ‘It was a long shot.’

  ‘I have a team examining the tunnel we opened up yesterday inch by inch. If there’s anything to find in there, they’ll find it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’ve found a company that specialises in sending cameras into inhospitable places. I’m meeting them at the warehouse at ten-thirty.’

  ‘We should find out what the hell’s down there then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ***

  ‘You again?’ Agnes Beattie said peering through the bullet-proof glass, and looking for all the world as though someone had dragged her out of her coffin to answer people’s queries.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Quigg said.

  The buzzer sounded. They shouldered their way through the door.

  ‘Hopefully, we won’t be here long.’

  ‘She’s not arrived yet, you know.’

  Just then, the door burst open and Nikki Adam barged through breathing hard and looking as if she’d been sleeping rough. ‘Fucking road works,’ she said.

  As if by sleight of hand, Gina Towler – the Personnel Manager – appeared. ‘What time do you call this, Nikki?’

  ‘There was a bomb scare...’

  ‘Not the Afghan takeaway again? That’s three times in the last month.’

  She winked at Quigg. ‘It’s those Tallybuns, Miss Towler.’

  ‘You mean the Taliban?’

  ‘That’s what I said, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well come along Nikki, Inspector Quigg and his partner are waiting.’

  ‘Works every time,’ Nikki said.

  ‘Were Slash any good last night?’ Kline asked Nikki as she was stuffing her coat and bag into a drawer of her desk.

  ‘Sshhh!’ she said looking where Gina Towler was. ‘I’m sure that fucking bitch has the power of invisibility.’ She grinned. ‘Slash were fucking awesome. You should have come – I did. Some guy I’d never seen before shagged me from behind while I was leaping up and down – it was fucking wicked. Getting shagged by strangers in public really turns me on.’

  ‘I hate to interrupt your orgasm,’ Quigg said, ‘but can we get on?’

  ‘You fucking old people don’t know how to have fun anymore,’ Nikki said. ‘Do you want a coffee? I need one.’

  ‘If I must. Go with her Kline, and make sure she doesn’t spit in mine. You know how I like it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Inspector. I only spit in the fucking bitch’s herbal tea.’

  Eventually they managed to reach the end of the list that the HR Manager Jayne Thorne had given them. There had been seven people from yesterday, but Kline had managed to whittle those down via CrimInt to three: Farrell Salisbury had worked in the Pharmacy; Flannery Shipp was a Physiotherapist; and Vaughan Rooksby was a Mortuary Technician. Today they had found just one person with the initials VR – Vincent Rickards was a Dermatologist.

  ‘Four people isn’t too bad, Kline.’

  ‘Plus, we have to go and see Margaret Wilcockson’s next of kin – Vivian Westwood.’

  ‘And visit the Ten Bells pub in Spitalfields if we have time.’

  ‘It’s five to eleven now, so we’d better get a move on if we’re going to fit that in.’

  They thanked Nikki Adam – who was beginning to deteriorate before their eyes.

  ‘Did you get any sleep last night?’ Quigg asked her.

  ‘Old people sleep, young people party. Once you’ve gone, I’ll find a dark corner somewhere the fucking b
itch can’t find me and have a power nap.’

  They thanked Gina Towler, and told her how helpful Nikki Adam had been.

  ***

  In the car, after looking at where the people they needed to interview were located, Quigg decided that travelling by tube would be the quickest and less stressful means of conveyance. First though, they needed to drive back to the station, park the car up, and then walk to the tube station.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked Kline once they’d set off along Fulham Palace Road.

  ‘I wish you’d stop asking me how I was feeling. I keep trying to forget about everything, and you keep making me remember.’

  ‘Sorry... but now it’s at the forefront of your mind, how are you feeling?’

  ‘I don’t know how I feel.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’

  ‘What’s to talk about? I was fifteen, walking home from school. Five men raped me. They covered my head, bundled me into a van, and took turns to fuck me. Then they dumped me on the road like a sack of rubbish.’

  ‘Did the police ever catch them?’

  ‘No. I got pregnant, and then had to have a termination.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why are you sorry?’ Her voice was as cold as the Siberian winds gusting from the north. ‘You weren’t one of the men who raped me, were you?’

  He ignored the jibe. ‘You’ve had counselling?’

  ‘What fucking use is that? Do you know what it’s like thinking every man you meet is one of the fucking bastards who raped you? No, of course you don’t. Nobody knows except me. If I’d known who they were, if I’d had the chance to look them in the fucking eyes, I would have killed the bastards – I could have moved on. The rape was bad, but it was the never knowing that has ruined my life.’

  She pulled onto the pavement scattering pedestrians every which way like skittles, put the four-way hazard lights on, and burst into tears.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. After a while the sobbing stopped.

  ‘See what you made me fucking do. God, I hate being a victim.’

  He didn’t say anything to Kline, but he knew that when he had five minutes, he’d have to take a look at the case. They must have taken swabs from her when she was taken to the hospital. It was still an unsolved rape. Were the detectives still looking for the men after twelve years? Maybe now, if they ran the DNA from the swabs through the database they’d find one or two matches. Just one match and they could probably find all five rapists. Would Kline want that? Would she really want to re-visit the past?

  The first person on the list was the Mortuary Technician Vaughan Rooksby who now worked at the Central Middlesex Hospital in Acton. From Hammersmith tube station they caught a train to Paddington on the Hammersmith & City Line, switched platforms and caught the next train to Harlesden on the Bakerloo Line. Outside the station they caught a taxi the short distance along Acton Lane to the Middlesex.

  The Middlesex was no different from most hospitals. If one believed the hospital map, the mortuary didn’t exist. A whole department dedicated to death was not something anybody wished to shout about. They had to ask at reception where they kept the dead bodies, and were told "pathology" was on the second floor at the end of a long corridor.

  Vaughan Rooksby was black. He had short hair, a moustache, and a tiny pointed beard, which gave him the appearance of William Shakespeare.

  ‘While you were employed at Charing Cross did you ever venture into the Mental Health Wing?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Did you, or didn’t you?’

  ‘Not that I recall. What’s this about?’

  ‘I’d like a sample of your handwriting that I can take away with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We can do this at Hammersmith Police Station, if you want?’

  ‘I’ve got rights, you know.’

  ‘And you can exercise those rights at the station. Kline, go and call for a meatwagon.’

  ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘Look Mr Rooksby, this would go a lot easier if you just co-operate. We’re trying to eliminate a number of people from our investigation, and you happen to be one of those people.’

  ‘How? Why?’

  ‘You have the initials VR.’

  Rooksby moved to a work surface and grabbed a notebook. ‘Two paragraphs do you?’

  ‘That would be fine, Mr Rooksby.’

  He scribbled the required two paragraphs, ripped the page from the notebook, and passed it to Quigg. ‘That doesn’t give you permission to test it for DNA, or fingerprints, or anything else for that matter.’

  ‘Do you have something to hide, Mr Rooksby?’

  ‘You coppers are all the same. I’ve done nothing, and yet here you are treating me like a criminal.’

  ‘Only because you’re acting like one. Innocent people generally co-operate.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘For now, but don’t leave town.’

  Outside, Kline said, ‘That was hard work.’

  ‘Sometimes they are. Let’s hope they’re not all like that, or I might begin to get a complex. How are you...?’

  ‘Stop asking.’

  They caught a taxi back to Harlesden tube station, walked down to the platform and caught the train to Baker Street. There, they had to change to the Circle Line to travel the one stop to Great Portland Street.

  Vincent Rickards was employed as a Dermatologist by the London Medical Centre, which as located at 144 Harley Street. Quigg and Kline walked round the corner and along Harley Street until the reached their destination.

  ‘Mr Rickards, please,’ Quigg said to the pretty receptionist in a very tight white uniform, black bobbed hair, and deep red lipstick.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Police business.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rickards is fully booked until...’ She looked in a large diary. ‘He could probably fit you in next Tuesday.’

  Kline put both hands on the clear glass table and put her face close to the woman’s. ‘Listen you stupid cow, when we say "police business" that means you get off your fat arse, throw out Rickards’ patient, and show us in. We’re trying to solve a fucking murder here, and you’re getting in our way.’

  Standing up and craning her head back over her shoulder she said, ‘You don’t think my backside...?’

  ‘Mr Rickards?’ Quigg repeated.

  ‘Please take a seat, Sir.’

  She walked up a large winding set of stairs as if she were on the catwalk and had all the time in the world.

  ‘Like two ferrets in a sack,’ Kline said.

  After a few minutes they heard her call from the top of the stairs, ‘Please come up.’

  Vincent Rickards’ consulting room had a polished wood floor, white walls, and bright sunshine sneaking in through the horizontal blinds. In the centre of the room was a chair very much like a dentist’s chair.

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg,’ Rickards said from behind his desk in the far corner to their left. ‘How can I be of service?’

  ‘A bit different from Charing Cross,’ Quigg said.

  In his early fifties, Rickards had slicked back hair with a wide parting on the left, large round glasses, and non-existent lips.

  ‘Sometimes, one must put oneself first. Working for the National Health Service was certainly an experience, and you get to meet such interesting people. Sadly, the pay is meagre compared to private medicine, and the government implemented such Draconian measures. Well... I thought it prudent to seek pastures new. Discretion is the better part of valour, so I’m told. One must live to fight another day. Are you going to clap me in irons, drag me away screaming blue murder, and "fit me up"?’

  ‘Do you want us to, Mr Rickards?’

  Rickards laughed. ‘I see you’ve played this game before, Inspector.’

  Quigg asked Rickards the same questions that he asked Rooksby, and obtained similar answer and a sa
mple of his handwriting. Rickards, however, was a lot more accommodating than Rooksby.

  As they were walking back to the station Kline said, ‘Neither Rooksby nor Rickards are our killers are they, Sir?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Depends if I’ve got to pay, or not.’

  ‘No, I’ll pay.’

  ‘Then I’m famished.’

  ‘If memory serves, there was a shop selling pasties inside the station.’

  ‘You really know how to show a girl a good time.’

  ‘That’s why I am where I am today.’

  They ate the pasties en route from Great Portland Street to Moorgate on the Circle Line. At Moorgate, they had to change to the Northern Line to reach Kennington where the pharmacist – Farrell Salisbury – worked at the Marlborough Pharmacy at 99 Kennington Lane, which was within walking distance of the station.

  The time was twenty past three as the bell jangled above the door of the Marlborough Pharmacy.

  A plump young curly-haired shop assistant in a white coat said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Salisbury, please?’ Quigg enquired, waving his warrant card in front of her face.

  A tall blonde-haired man came through a doorway to the left of the counter behind the young girl. ‘I’m Salisbury,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Police, Sir. Is there somewhere more private we can talk?’

  ‘Not really. You’d better come through here, but keep your hands in your pockets.’

  ‘You have a dim view of the police, Sir.’

  ‘Are you drugs squad?’

  ‘No, murder investigation team.’

  ‘You might be on the level then.’

  ‘And the drugs squad aren’t?’ Kline asked.

  ‘As bent as nine-bob notes the lot of them.’

  Quigg pulled a face. ‘I hope you’ve lodged complaints?’

  Salisbury laughed. He had eyebrows that met in a flurry of hairs in the middle, a wide nose – as if it had been broken – and thick black hair. ‘Then you’d be investigating my death. Yeah, I can see how that might work. You all create work for each other. No need for criminals, you become a self-sustaining entity. Good job if you can get it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Quigg interrupted the tirade. ‘We’re not here to talk about drugs, the drugs squad, or a self-sustaining police force... although I’m certainly drawn to that idea. I’d like to ask you some questions about your time at Charing Cross.’