The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf (Quigg Book 4)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘And you’ve not heard from your sister during that period?’ They followed Mr Westwood into a living room that was clearly a repository for clutter, and found somewhere to sit.

  ‘Excuse my little trinkets. Wherever I go I can’t resist a little trinket or two – sometimes three or four.’ He laughed. ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Now where’s Boo Boo gone? Boo Boo?’ he called.

  A really ugly dog found its way to the front of the sofa. It looked as though it had the weight of the world on its back. It stood no higher than twelve inches, mostly hairless except for a mop on the top of its head between a pair of bat ears.

  ‘That’s an interesting looking dog,’ Quigg said, trying to be kind.

  ‘Ugly is the word you’re looking for, lovey. It’s a Chinese crested hairless.’ He picked Boo Boo up and ran his fingers through the mop on top. ‘Aren’t you, Boo Boo? A very beautiful Chinese takeaway.’ He looked at Quigg. ‘How can I help you, lovey?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your sister has been found dead.’

  ‘It was only a matter of time, I’m afraid. She was a crazy old woman in the end. We were never close, but something tipped her over the edge. She was the local bag lady. Used to wheel around a shopping trolley full of junk all day and sleep in alleyways. I saw her sometimes, but she didn’t recognise me. Had no idea who I was the last time I saw her. You say she’s been found dead, but to be truthful, lovey, she’s been dead a long time to me.’

  ‘You should contact Doctor Inglehart at Hammersmith mortuary to arrange for collection of your sister’s remains, but you might want to prepare yourself, because we didn’t find very much of her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I won’t go into details Mr Westwood, but we only recovered your sister’s skull.’

  ‘I see. Well, don’t you worry, lovey, I’ll give her a good send off, see if I don’t.’

  Outside the house Kline said, ‘It just confirms what we already knew – they were torturing and killing homeless people.’

  ‘So it would seem. Okay, let’s recap. We know who the victims were – homeless people. We probably know who started it all off – Alexander Pedachenko and Michael Ostrog. We know what they did to their victims and why. We know where they disposed of the bodies – down that hole – and the victims are going to be cremated if they haven’t been already. The press thinks there are bubonic plague victims beneath Eternity Wharf. The one skull we say we’ve found is a homeless person who was murdered by an unknown killer, so they’re unlikely to bother us.’

  ‘We just don’t know who the current killers are, do we?’ Kline said.

  ‘No, but maybe when we get to Lister Hospital that will all change.’

  ‘What if this Flannery Shipp isn’t one of the killers?’

  ‘We’ll have to go back to the drawing board.’

  ‘Which drawing board?’

  ‘It’s a saying.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘To start something again because the previous attempt failed.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just say that?’

  ‘Idioms are so much nicer.’

  ‘Only if you understand them. People use crap like that to feel superior. Is that what this is about, you wanting to feel bigger than me?’

  ‘I’ll try not to use them in future. How would that be?’

  ‘Let’s drive.’

  ‘You’re not going to kill me, are you?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were such a wimp, Sir.’

  ‘Well, now you do, so drive slowly.’

  She didn’t. She drove like someone with the devil whispering in her ear.

  ***

  ‘Good morning, Sir and Modam. How can Lister Hospital help you through your difficult times?’ the far-too-polite receptionist said. The trouble was, the wonderfully polite voice didn’t match her appearance. She was obese, with long blond hair, three chins, and red-rimmed glasses that matched the top stretched over enormous breasts.

  ‘We’d like to see Mr Flannery Shipp, please.’ He showed his warrant card.

  ‘Please take seats in the visitor area, Sir and Modom. Is there anything I can obtain for you from our extensive range of refreshments, such as tea, coffee, sparkling water or maybe champagne?’

  Champagne! He hated champagne. ‘Draft Guinness?’

  ‘We don’t keep it on the premises, Sir, but I can send...’

  He held up his hand. ‘I was joking. I’m on duty.’

  ‘Ecstatically hilarious, Sir. It really is no trouble.’

  ‘If you could just get Mr Shipp, that would be sufficient.’

  ‘Please seat yourselves in our visitor area, Sir and Modam. I will expedite your request forthwith.’

  Kline burst out laughing, and Quigg nudged her towards the visitor area.

  ‘Sit, and stop embarrassing me.’

  ‘You should have taken her up on the Guinness.’

  ‘It’s ten past nine in the morning.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that you never let yourself go.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Kline. I can hang out with the best of them when I have a mind to.’

  ‘Hang out! It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  A woman approached. She must have been at least six foot seven inches tall. Quigg wrenched his neck looking up at her, and she made Kline look like a Hobbit. ‘I am Carolyn McClay, Mr Shipp’s Head of Department. How can I help?’

  Quigg’s brow furrowed. ‘Is Mr Shipp not here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t seen him since last Wednesday.’

  ‘Has anybody spoken to him since?’

  ‘Personnel have tried to contact him, but it’s as if he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Can you describe what Mr Shipp looked like?’

  ‘I can do better than that, Inspector, I can give you a photograph. We take a photograph of each employee when they begin working for us.’

  ‘Excellent. What was he like?’

  ‘I’ve had a number of complaints about Mr Shipp since he’s been working for us.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Kline said. ‘He likes to hurt people?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Isn’t that what physiotherapists are meant to do?’ Quigg said.

  ‘I can assure you... Ah, a joke.’ She gave him a vacant stare. ‘You should be on the stage.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m often told that.’

  Her lip curled up. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Did Mr Shipp have any tattoos?’ Kline asked.

  She pointed to her left forearm. ‘Some type of shield or coat of arms with a "10" inside.’

  ‘Is it possible to obtain a copy of his handwriting, and also his home address?’

  ‘I don’t see why not? What has he done?’

  ‘We’re not sure he’s done anything yet, we’d just like to ask him some questions.’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  Quigg’s phone vibrated.

  ‘My men have found something in that tunnel, Sir.’

  ‘You like playing this game don’t you, Perkins? It’s a power thing with you, isn’t it? You say, "Hey, I’ve found something", and then I have to grovel to find out what it is you’ve found. You could just come out and tell me what you’ve found, that would be a lot simpler.’

  ‘But not as much fun.’

  ‘Okay, so what have you found?’

  ‘You’ll have to come and see for yourself.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a number of places to go to today. Maybe later this afternoon or tomorrow morning I might find the time to pop by. Yesterday I made a detour, and to be honest it was a bit of a damp squib. Yes, those creatures were all very interesting, but in terms of the case – and on a scale from one to ten – it was a minus three.’

  ‘This is relevant to the case.’

  ‘So you say. Anyway, I’ve got to go now, so I’ll see you when I see you.’

  He ended the call as Caro
lyn McClay came back.

  ‘There you are, Inspector,’ she said, passing him an enlarged portrait of Mr Flannery Shipp and a piece of paper with an address on.

  Mr Shipp had shoulder-length black hair, cold grey eyes below bushy eyebrows, and pale skin. He was in his late thirties, and didn’t look like a man who had tortured and killed at least seven people.

  ‘Thank you very much Mrs McClay.’

  ‘Glad I could help. If you do speak to him, tell him to contact us soon. We’ll give him another week, and then we’ll assume he has resigned his position.’

  ‘If we see him, but I’m not optimistic.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bartholomew had travelled down to Sevenoaks to supervise the arrangements for the Last Supper. The project manager he had employed – Carl Brown – had already handed over to him and left. It had taken just over two hours and his head was throbbing with all the things he needed to remember. There were the electricity and gas controls, swimming pool controls, the code number for the secret door into the underground complex, the CCTV and lighting systems... an enormous list. Thankfully, he had written everything down.

  What he needed was an estate manager, and as soon as the supper was over he’d get right onto that. It had to be someone who kept their own counsel, and could look the other way when required.

  The entertainment packages were also arriving later, and he needed to make sure everything was prepared underground. There were twelve secure rooms. Each room had a king-sized bed with satin sheets; a selection of sexual toys, fragrant oils, and other paraphernalia, and, of course, CCTV to record what went on in each room, so that the occupant could take a DVD away with them to watch in the privacy of their own home.

  The caterers were also arriving between two and three to bring the crockery and silverware, and some of the food and wine, to familiarise the chefs with the kitchen, and the waiters with the layout.

  He’d also asked the Security Company to send an advanced guard – just to be on the safe side. If the entertainment packages were going to be in the underground complex overnight, then he needed to ensure the site was secure.

  He planned to stay overnight himself, and he certainly didn’t want any unwanted guests wandering in off the street. Not that there was a street. In fact, the nearest road was half a mile away, and wandering in would require the person to scale a twelve-foot wall and elude motion detectors and CCTV surveillance.

  At first he had a mind to return home, but if the young boy was here he knew that he couldn’t. His desires far exceeded his willpower, so he had decided to stay and enjoy two nights of passion instead of one as originally planned.

  He’d contacted a local cleaning company and arranged for them to come in and give everywhere above ground level the "once over". It was a large house with dozens of rooms, and if it weren’t for the regular monthly activities that went on he might have been able to employ a staff to run the place. But how could he do that? Everything they did had to remain secret. If just one person found out what they were doing here it would be the end of the Apostles, and he couldn’t let that happen.

  Quigg had a good idea what was going on after the fiasco at Surrey, but he didn’t know about this site. He’d have to deal with Quigg after the supper – get the job done once and for all.

  ***

  From Chelsea Bridge Road Quigg decided they should keep to schedule and go to the Ten Bells pub in Spitalfields. Flannery Shipp’s flat was at 87c Lonsdale Road in Notting Hill, which would have meant a convoluted detour doubling back and turning themselves inside out.

  Following instructions from the satnav, Kline drove over Vauxhall Bridge crossing the Thames onto the A202. After driving round The Oval cricket ground, she joined the A3 and drove like a demon just released from the confines of hell to Lambeth. At the Elephant & Castle she switched to the A100 and crossed the Thames again at Tower Bridge. She followed the A1210 and A1202 into Whitechapel. The Ten Bells pub nestled on the corner of Commercial Street and Fournier Street opposite Spitalfields Market and the London Fruit Exchange as it had done since 1753.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Sir?’

  ‘I’ll be okay in a minute. I’m just waiting for my organs to shift back to where they started. It’s not every day the devil drives you across London in a chariot of fire and brimstone.’

  ‘And I was driving slowly as well.’

  ‘I’m driving back.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Sir. This car doesn’t respond to old-aged pensioners. It has a DNA key, which means the car will only activate for young crazy people.’

  ‘Crazy is right.’

  Inside the Ten Bells Quigg ordered a Guinness. Kline asked for a pineapple juice with ice.

  ‘We may as well eat here,’ Kline said.

  ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘No, I’m bloody not.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll pay... again.’

  After scanning the bar menu Quigg ordered a cheese and onion panini with curly fries and side salad. Kline asked for a ploughman’s.’

  They stood at the bar and looked around.

  ‘What’s so special about this pub, Sir? Why would a killer have the pub sign tattooed on his arm?’

  Quigg pointed to a wall to the right of the bar with a sign high up that read "Jack the Ripper".

  They walked over and began looking at the pictures and reading the material in frames.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Take a look at this list of Jack the Ripper suspects.’

  He moved to his right and began to read the long list. ‘Bloody hell, Alexander Pedechenko and Michael Ostrog are here.’

  ‘You don’t think...?’

  Quigg began putting together a timeline and using his notebook to help him. ‘The last victim was Mary Ann Kelly on 9th November 1888, and the first journal entry was 18th February 1891. That’s two years four months between the two events – it seems unlikely.’

  ‘But look at this.’ She pointed to a framed page from the London Evening Standard with the title, "Other Murders". ‘Rose Mylett was murdered on 20th December 1888; Alice McKenzie on 17th July 1889; a torso was found in Pinchin Street on 10th September 1889, and Frances Coles was murdered on 13th February 1891 – that’s five days before the journal entries started. It fits perfectly. They were learning their trade, and waiting to shift location.’

  ‘It’s all a bit too convenient for my liking.’

  ‘No, this is where it all started – I just know it. It’s where Jack the Ripper was born – not literally, but on the night he murdered his first victim – Mary Ann Nichols on 31st August 1888.’

  ‘And you think there’s been a Jack the Ripper ever since then?’

  ‘Two! It makes perfect sense. Pedechenko was the original Jack, and Ostrog was his apprentice. Then Ostrog became Jack, and he recruited an apprentice...’

  ‘And now we’ve got Flannery Shipp and someone else?’

  Her face was flushed. ‘Yes. God, this is why I love being a detective. Thanks for having me as your partner, Sir. This is the best case I’ll ever work on.’

  ‘It’s a nice story...’

  The plump barmaid brought their food. ‘Where ya sittin’?’

  Quigg shrugged. ‘Here will do.’ They sat beneath the wall used to tell the tale of Jack the Ripper.

  ‘It’s a nice story. It ties up all the loose ends. Jack was actually Alexander Pedachenko – a surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital. He didn’t disappear; he simply shifted location. There he refined his modus operandi, and took on an apprentice. The press would love this story, but they’ll never hear it.’

  ‘We’d be famous as the two detectives who finally solved the Jack the Ripper case.’

  ‘If you want to be famous you’re in the wrong job. Why do you think Shipp has got that tattoo on his forearm?’

  ‘I bet it’s Jack’s mark. I bet they all had that tattoo – it signified that they were Jack the Ripper.’

  Quigg
burped as the last of his panini went down. ‘It’s all speculation anyway. There’ll never be any proof linking what we’ve found in those caverns and Jack the Ripper. Shipp might have got that tattoo engraved on his arm for any number of reasons. Maybe he liked the design, or it reminded him of a girl he met here, or he needed something to cover up another tattoo he no longer wanted.’

  ‘I was excited for a while, but now I’m fed up.’

  Before they left, Quigg took pictures of everything on the wall with the camera on his phone.

  ‘Why have you taken pictures?’

  ‘Just in case. I’d hate to have to come back if we decide there’s something on that wall we want to look at again.’

  ‘I thought there was no connection between our case and Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘That’s right, there isn’t.’

  ***

  Kline wouldn’t let him drive. She promised to slow down, but she didn’t.

  ‘You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’m trying to keep my lunch down.’

  ‘I’m driving slow.’

  ‘You should have taken up Formula One racing.’

  ‘I still might,’ and she pushed the accelerator to the floor. ‘I’m going to ask for this car every day.’

  ‘I’ll ring them and tell them it’s for me, so they won’t give it to you.’

  ‘Then I’ll kill you. If the mechanics at the carpool tie us two together, I’ll never get another pool car as long as I live. I’ve told them I work for DI Singh in robbery.’

  He knew she was right and sighed. He didn’t like coincidences, and it was too much of a coincidence that Alexander Pedechenko and Michael Ostrog were on the Ripper suspect list. There was definitely a connection between Jack the Ripper and what they’d found beneath Eternity Wharf. But had they really found out who Jack was? Did the story unravel as they’d said? It all sounded a bit far-fetched, but then there were over a thousand bodies in a cavern system that had been hacked out of the rock in the shape of a twelve-spoked wheel, there were the journals, a whole Aladdin’s cave of torture devices, and of course those damned creatures. If they existed, why couldn’t the story have unfolded as they’d suggested?