by Tim Ellis
‘I’m sure. By tomorrow morning?’
‘Of course.’
She ended the call.
The yard was empty of forensic officers, the crime scene tape had been removed, but a few of the press were still hoping for a scoop. It occurred to her that she could create an indisputable alibi and sauntered over to where they were standing.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said.
Someone recognised her. ‘DC Kline. Remember me – Tony Roberts from the Holborn Hippogriff.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Can you tell us what’s been happening?’
‘If I did, I’d probably lose my job.’
‘Off the record. We wouldn’t use your name.’
A ginger-haired woman said, ‘I’m Sue Hutton from the Smithfield Scimitar. We’d refer to you as: “A source close to the investigation”.’
‘No television cameras, no photographs and no voice recording?’
They all nodded.
She looked left and right and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Do you know about the history of this place?’
‘No – what?’
‘I thought that you journalists did your research.’
‘We do.’
‘Obviously not very well, otherwise you’d know about the four-hundred year-old murder that seems to have been copied in the early hours of this morning.’
‘Lesley Connor from the Embankment Embalmer. Do you have any suspects?’
‘No.’ She started to back away. ‘I think I’ve said too much already.’
‘Gary Furber from the Independent Press Monitor. What about evidence?’
‘I shouldn’t . . .’
‘But you will.’
‘There was a tattoo on the victim’s breast . . .’
‘A tattoo? What type of tattoo?’
‘A number . . . That’s it – I can’t say anymore.’
‘Oh come on – you can’t keep us dangling.’
‘Sorry . . . and I’d better not see or hear my name in relation to any of this information.’
They called out more questions as she headed towards the flower shop – Sheila’s Shoots – but she ignored them.
The door of the shop was open and she walked right in.
‘We’re just closing,’ the white-haired woman behind the counter said.
Kline brandished her warrant card. ‘Police.’
‘Ah! I was wondering when you’d get to me.’
The woman was probably in her late fifties, wore an old green-stained light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a black and white printed maxi skirt and wide-rimmed glasses.
‘Wonder no more. Are you Sheila?’
She nodded. ‘Sheila Simpson – I’m the owner.’
‘Do you live above the shop?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your own?’
‘With my partner – Linda Kenealy.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She runs a small coffee and pastry shop in Smithfield’s Market.’
‘Did either of you see or hear anything relating to what happened in the yard last night?’
‘Our bedroom is at the back of the flat. We only found out that something had happened in the yard when we opened the curtains and looked outside. It was a bit of a shock seeing the people in their white suits covering up body parts.’
She passed Sheila Simpson a card. ‘If anything comes to mind.’
‘I’ll call you.’
Next, she aimed herself at the Yard Tavern on the corner. As soon as she entered, a waitress passed her with a steaming plate of meat pie, chips and peas and she realised that she hadn’t eaten all day.
She ordered the ham hock and pea soup with half a French stick, a cranberry juice and asked to see the manager.
While she waited, she sat at a table overlooking the yard and wondered what possessed someone to replicate a four-hundred year-old-murder.
‘DC Kind?’ a bald-headed man wearing a black shirt, trousers and tie asked.
‘Kline,’ she corrected him.
‘Sorry. I’m Pete Longstaff – the manager. You wanted to speak to me?’
She signalled for him to sit.
‘You’re here about last night, aren’t you?’
‘Do you know anything that might help us?’
‘Such as?’
‘The identity of the killer or the victim?’
He shook his head. ‘But there was a man sat where you’re sitting now. He was drinking beer and whisky chasers, kept staring out of the window as if he was waiting for someone, and wore an expression that suggested he was going to kill the person when he saw them.’
‘Name? Address? Car registration?’
He smiled. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful? The best I can do is tell you what he looked like.’
A grubby-looking waiter brought her food.
‘You don’t mind if I eat, do you?’
‘Not at all.’
She tucked in. ‘You were saying?’
‘Scruffy hair, unshaven, probably in his thirties, but I’ve never been much good at telling people’s ages.’
‘What time did he leave?’
He twisted sideways on his chair and spoke to a dark-haired young woman serving drinks behind the bar with a dolphin tattoo swimming round her neck. ‘What time did the man sitting here leave last night, Katja?’
‘Twenty past eleven,’ the woman said with an east European lilt.
‘I don’t need CCTV when Katja’s working – she has a photographic memory.’
‘Really? Do you know if she saw anything else?’
He called Katja over.
‘Hey, what about my pint?’ a young man in a pin-striped suit said.
Kline stood up, walked over to the man and flashed her warrant card. ‘Do you want to spend the night in a six-by-six cell that stinks of piss and shit?’
‘I was only . . . No.’
‘Manners cost nothing – you want to try using them.’
She returned to the table.
‘This is Katja,’ Longstaff said unnecessarily.
Kline gave her a quick smile. ‘I’m investigating the murder of a woman last night. Did you see or hear anything unusual?’
Katja’s eyes rolled upwards into her head as if she was having a seizure.
Kline had heard about eidetic memory and wished she had even a small amount of Katja’s ability. It would also be good to forget as well. Especially some of the things that she’d seen as a murder detective – and, of course, the rape.
‘A police officer on a horse. It is the first time I have seen one here in the yard.’
‘About what time?’
‘Seven minutes past ten.’
‘Can you describe him?’
She shook her head. ‘It was only out of my eye corner.’
‘The corner of your eye?’
‘That is it, but I did see a number on his jacket – MXC144.’
She stopped eating, and her mouth hung open like the entrance to Wookey Hole. A collar number, which would be easy enough to check. MXC was the code for the Specialist Crime Directorate and 144 was a Sergeant’s designation.
‘You can go,’ she said to Longstaff, and signalled for Katja to sit in his place. ‘But you can stay. Tell me everything you can recall about the police officer and his horse.’ She took out her notebook.
‘Nothing more.’
‘What was the police officer wearing?’
‘A bright yellow jacket.’
‘Fluorescent yellow – high-visibility jacket?’
‘Yes.’
‘With or without sleeves?’
‘No sleeves.’
‘Where was the number?’
‘Underneath “POLICE OFFICER” on the back of the jacket.’
‘Was he wearing a hat?’
‘A police riding helmet.’
‘What colour was his hair?’
She rolled her eyes again.
Kline spooned a mout
hful of green sludge into her mouth while she had the opportunity, and followed it with a chunk of bread.
‘Black hair.’
‘Good. How old do you think he was?’
She shook her head. ‘I could not tell, I but there was no grey in his hair.’
‘So, between twenty and forty?’
Katja shrugged.
‘Anything else?’
‘I see his hands holding the horse’s reins. He wore a ring on his third finger.’
‘What’s the ring like?’
Kline saw the whites of her eyes.
‘It is gold, with a round face designed like a wheel.’
She passed Katja her notebook and pen. ‘Can you draw what you see?’
‘I’ll try.’
She drew the wheel, but it looked to be more than a wheel. Sprouting from the central twelve-spoke wheel were zigzags – or lightening flashes.
‘That’s great. What about the horse?’
‘It was all black.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Nothing.’
She gave Katja a card. ‘If you do remember anything more, give me a call.’
Katja left.
Kline finished her soup, and then sipped the cranberry juice while she stared at the drawing. Why was a Sergeant from the Specialist Crime Directorate riding a horse through Bleeding Heart Yard at seven minutes past ten at night? Was he even related to the murder? Well, it was easy enough to check, and until she found out what he was doing there, the gold ring he was wearing wasn’t relevant.
She looked up at the vintage Guinness clock above the bar. It was quarter to seven – time to call it a day and go home. Nobody could say she hadn’t earned her money today.
***
His knock reverberated on the front door of the eating establishment. He was definitely feeling peckish, and hoped that the food was to his liking and that the staff were up to the task of meeting his simple needs.
Ruth agreed with him that they needed help in the house, and then had promptly fallen asleep. Also, as conversationalists went, Luke had a lot to learn, so he had stayed for a little while and then left in time for his dinner reservation.
The door opened.
‘Good evening, Sir.’
He nodded. It was best not to get too familiar with the staff.
She showed him to a bedroom where he kept a wardrobe of spare clothes, and he changed into something more appropriate.
‘Please follow me, Sir,’ the waitress said to him when he reappeared.
She was wearing a tight red and white striped short-sleeved low-cut top with a zip up the front that revealed her ample cleavage and the diamond piercing her navel, and a matching short flared skirt with a white lace apron. Encasing her legs were white hold-up stockings and red stiletto shoes on her feet. When she stopped and bent over slightly to smooth out a wrinkle in the leg of a stocking, he noticed that she had on a pair of white frilly knickers.
He adjusted himself. ‘Am I to be kept waiting in the hallway like a tradesman while you touch yourself?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir.’
She showed him to his table.
‘Thank you . . . ?’
‘Sally.’
‘Thank you, Sally.’
‘Would you like wine, Sir?’
‘Lager.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
His main meal arrived shortly after his lager.
‘What’s this?’ He asked when she put the steaming food in front of him.
‘Cannelloni all’Etrusca.’
‘Does it come with an English translation?’
‘Pasta stuffed with mushrooms in a creamy sauce, Sir.’
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’
She smiled and brought him a plate of garlic bread.
Everything was going fine until Sally brought out the strawberry and cream dessert. The cannelloni had been hot and delicious, the lager cold and tasty, and the service acceptable up until that point. Sadly, events took a turn for the worse.
She slipped as she was placing the dessert in front of him, and the strawberries and cream ended up in his lap.
‘Oh, Sir! I’m so sorry,’ she said, trying to wipe the mess from his trousers with a napkin.
He stood up. ‘I’m afraid that sorry isn’t good enough . . . and what you’re doing with that napkin isn’t helping matters either.’
‘Please let me . . .’ She unbuckled his belt, undid his button and was about to peel his zip down.
He gripped her hands in his. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’ll take them to the kitchen. It will be much easier to clean them properly there, Sir.’
‘I’m sure it would, but while you were doing that I would be sitting here in my underwear – a laughing stock, an object of ridicule. I think you had better ask the manager to come out and speak to me.’
‘Please, Sir. I’ll be dismissed.’
‘That’s hardly my problem.’ She sank to her knees in front of him.
‘Would you see me on the street living in a cardboard box, Sir? Please . . . I’ll do anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything, Sir.’
He let his trousers fall to the floor and sat back down. ‘I’m sure that with some encouragement, I can be persuaded to forget the incident just this once.’
‘Oh Sir! I can see that my clumsiness has upset you greatly.’
‘Engaging in conversation was not what I had in mind, Sally.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
She was certainly a lot better at fellatio than she was at waitressing. Before he exploded, he pulled her up, bent her over the table and pulled her frilly knickers down.
‘Oh Sir! You mustn’t.’
‘Mustn’t I? Is the manager on the premises?’
She let out a sob.
He slapped her white arse with the flat of his hand.
‘That hurts, Sir.’
The smack of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the room. ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child has always been my mantra.’
When the cheeks of her arse glowed red, he pushed into her from behind.
‘Please don’t get me with child, Sir.’
‘A man shouldn’t have to worry about trivialities such as that – it is a woman’s problem.’
‘Yes . . . Sir!’
It wasn’t long before she shuddered beneath him. ‘Oh God! I am undone, Sir.’
He emptied himself into her.
‘I’m really sorry, Sir,’ she said pulling up her knickers and standing up. ‘It will never happen again.’
His face creased up. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I thought . . .’
‘Well, you thought wrong, Sally. I haven’t had my strawberries and cream yet.’
‘Of course, Sir. I’ll go to the kitchen and get you another helping.’
When she returned and placed the dish on the table he said, ‘Take your clothes off.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir.’
‘You heard me. Your punishment is a long way from concluded.’
‘But . . .’
‘Must I call the manager and have you explain to him my disarray?
‘No, Sir,’ she said as she began to take off her clothes.
‘Lie on the table.’
She did as she was told.
He poured the strawberries and cream over her breasts and flat stomach.
‘Ooh! It’s cold, Sir.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon warm up.’ He began licking the cream off her breasts, gradually working his way down over her stomach to . . .’
‘Sir . . . I’m sure strawberries aren’t meant to go in there.’
‘Strawberries are a very versatile fruit, Sally.’
After they’d had sex on the dining table and then in the shower, they sat in Celia Tabbard’s living room to discuss the issue of Caitlin and Phoebe.
‘Until you can find your ex-wife,’ Celia said, ‘you know there is nothing I can do.’
He nodded. It had dragged on long enough. ‘I’ll employ a private detective to find them.’
‘It seems the logical course of action.’
He stood up. ‘I must go.’
At the door she said, ‘I enjoyed tonight, Quigg.’
‘So did I, Sally. At least you won’t be living in a cardboard box for another month.’
‘There is that.’
Chapter Five
‘Fucking hell, Quigg,’ Lucy said as she stretched out in the hot water beneath a froth of bubbles. ‘Are you sure you’re human? You have the touch of a Greek god.’
He was massaging her neck, shoulders and breasts. ‘I’m getting lots of practice.’
‘Now, if you could see your way clear to getting neutered you’d be the perfect man.’
‘That’s a bit extreme.’
‘In your case, it would be a kindness to womankind.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I mean every word. Down a bit . . . a bit more . . . keep going – I’ll tell you when you’re in the right . . . yes, that’s exactly the spot.’
‘Ruth told me you did a good thing today.’
‘Don’t say things like that. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘And anyway – dogs get neutered not men.’
She grinned. ‘I haven’t noticed any difference between you and a dog . . . Christ – don’t stop! . . . And stop talking – you’re distracting me.’
Duffy walked in wearing a silk dressing gown. ‘I could do with some of that.’
‘Are you sure, Duffy?’ he asked, concern evident on his face.
‘I’m sure. How long has it been, Quigg?’
‘A while.’
‘A long while. I’ve nearly forgotten.’
Lucy’s eyes opened. ‘You don’t have to stop moving your hand just because your mouth is opening and closing, you know. If I’m not mistaken they work independently of each other. Climb in, Duffy. Quigg’s got two hands.’
Duffy let the gown fall to the floor and slid into the bath.
‘Get working, Quigg. You have two women to please now.’
***
Tuesday, August 6
She woke up clinging onto the edge of the bed. Duffy was hanging on the other side, and Quigg was sprawled out in the middle like someone doing a star jump. If it hadn’t been for Duffy and the baby, she would have squeezed Quigg’s fucking nuts until he bounced off the ceiling.