by Tim Ellis
‘Is that what you think?’
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think now. I’ll pay, of course, and we can organise . . .’
‘I don’t want shit from you, Quigg. Get out of here and don’t come back. NURSE! NURSE!’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Cheryl.’
A nurse came running down the ward. ‘You’d better leave before security arrive and . . .’
‘I’m going.’ He had no doubt Cheryl knew exactly what she’d been doing just as much as Duffy had. The trouble was, he had no feelings for Cheryl. The threesome in the shower had been very nice, but a one-off, and in retrospect – a stupid mistake. She had chosen to get pregnant. She had chosen to keep the baby, even though he’d said he wasn’t interested in a relationship. She had tried to force him to change his mind, and now things were the way they were – a bloody mess. Lucy was probably right – he should be neutered.
On his way to the cafeteria he stopped on the mezzanine floor overlooking the main atrium. After a dozen calls he managed to make a shore-to-ship call to the Maritime Cruise Ship Scylla and spoke to the First Mate – Michael Brooks.
‘Mabel Quigg? Just one moment, Sir . . .’
It was more like a hundred moments as he paced up and down the corridor. ‘Hello?’
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘Well?’
‘Your mother and her travelling companion – Mrs Margaret Crenshaw – failed to return to the ship following our visit to Vietnam five days ago.’
‘FIVE DAYS AGO! And what did you do?’
‘We left without them.’
‘YOU DID WHAT?’
People passing stared at him.
‘All passengers are left in no doubt as to their responsibility to return to the ship at the appointed time, and that failure to do so will almost certainly result in them being stranded wherever they happen to be.’
‘You left my mother in Vietnam?’
‘We had no choice, Sir, but each passenger is provided with an emergency contact number at the British Embassy in Hanoi should they get into difficulties.’
‘I can’t believe you left my mother and Maggie Crenshaw in Vietnam.’
‘There are fifteen-hundred passengers aboard the Maritime Cruise Ship Scylla. We could not delay our departure for two people.’
‘Do they have passports, money, clothes . . . ? Christ! If anything happens to my mother . . .’
‘We’ve notified the British Embassy in Hanoi.’
‘And what will they do?’
‘If your mother contacts them, they will assist her and Mrs Crenshaw in returning to the UK – for a price.’
‘And what if she doesn’t contact them? And what if she doesn’t have the money to pay for her return?’
There was a long silence on the other end. ‘The number for the British Embassy is: 84439360561, which includes the international code, Sir.’
‘You’re washing your hands of two old ladies?’
‘As I’ve explained . . .’
‘Just wait until the press get hold of this.’
‘I don’t think . . .’
He ended the call and stared at the phone in disbelief. What in God’s name was his mother thinking of? Maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe she’d been kidnapped by terrorists wanting to hold the British Government to ransom. Maybe . . . No, it was bound to be her fault. He had no doubt that she and Maggie Crenshaw had talked themselves into trouble. The question was – could they talk themselves out of it? He’d ring the Embassy later and see if they’d heard from her. What a mess. He should never have let her go. He should have put his foot down and said no. Huh! As if that would have worked.
The hospital cafeteria was busy.
‘Hello, Perkins,’ he said when he approached the table. ‘Are we having briefings in here now?’
‘I don’t see why not. The atmosphere is a lot friendlier here than at the station.’
‘Let’s eat. Are you buying, Perkins?’
‘I thought you were buying?’ Kline said.
‘That was before I realised how much money all these babies were going to cost me.’
‘I’ll pay, Sir,’ Perkins said. ‘I like to do my bit to help the poor people of the borough.’
Quigg laughed. ‘You’ve got that right, Perkins. “Poor” is my middle name.’
‘At least we know one of your Christian names,’ Kline said as she ordered the double quarter-pounder with fries and coleslaw.
‘Aren’t you concerned about your figure?’ Perkins asked her.
‘Why? Is there something wrong with my figure?’
‘That’s not . . .’
‘Don’t get sucked in, Perkins,’ Quigg said the man’s elbow. ‘There’s no way out of a conversation like that. Anyway, why are you here?’
‘He’s got testicular cancer,’ Kline threw over her shoulder as she made her way back to the table.
Quigg’s mouth dropped open. ‘She’s joking, right?’
‘I have a lump. They’ve done a biopsy. Now I have to wait for the results.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Perkins.’
‘It might be benign.’
‘I’m going to keep my fingers and toes crossed for you. What the hell would I do without you?’
‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘Why does everybody think I don’t care all of a sudden? Of course I care. Right . . .’ he said, when they were sitting down and had begun to eat, ‘. . . let’s hear what you’ve got for us, Perkins. And leave out the bits about the Devil, the hordes of blood-sucking vampires and the increase in alien abductions. Kline, you take notes.’
‘I’m eating.’
‘Are you saying you can’t do two things at once? I thought women were meant to be better than men at multitasking.’
‘Fuck!’
Chapter Seven
Perkins dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘I’ve made an appointment for you both at the London branch of the Wiesenthal Centre, which is housed in the Strand Campus of King’s College. You’re seeing a Professor Emeritus Emilia Razinsky at four-thirty this afternoon.’
‘Why?’ Quigg said, forking a mishmash of cottage pie, carrots and green beans into his mouth.
‘You wanted me to find out what the number on the victim’s breast meant.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Professor Razinsky knows.’
‘And?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me. I explained how the number had come into our possession, and she became quite excited. She said that if you wanted to know more you had to meet with her and bring photographs of the victim and tattoo with you.’ He withdrew a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘The photographs are in there.’
‘Very convenient that you happened to be carrying them around with you.’
‘I knew you’d be here.’
‘Mmmm!’
‘What’s the Wiesenthal Centre?’ Kline asked.
‘You’ve never heard of Simon Wiesenthal?’
She shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘Holocaust survivor and Nazi hunter?’
‘Nope.’
‘How quickly we forget,’ Perkins said.
‘You’ve heard of the Second World War?’
‘I’m not completely stupid.’
‘When the war ended, a lot of Nazis disappeared . . .’
‘. . . And Simon Wiesenthal hunted them down and brought them to justice?’
‘There we go. That wasn’t too difficult, was it?’
‘You’d look good with a broken nose and a few missing teeth, you know.’
‘See what I have to put up with, Perkins.’
‘Also, DC Kline gave me a credit card number and asked me to identify the owner. It belongs to a woman called Nicola Brennan who runs an antique jewellery shop in Hatton Garden called: The Jewellery Box. You have an appointment with her at two-thirty.’
‘I could take you on as my secretary if you’re
interested.’
‘What’s the pay and working conditions like?’
‘Terrible, but I take care of the people who work for me – just ask Kline.’
Kline blew a raspberry with her mouth.
‘It’s a tempting offer.’
He finished his meal and began looking at the desserts on the menu. ‘You’ve not said anything about the cloven hooves. Why is that, Perkins?’
‘I was wondering when you’d mention those. Doctor Solberg rang me earlier.’
‘Would you like to make any comment?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Probably a wise decision. What else have you got for us?’
‘We found fibres, but . . .’
‘There’s always a “but” with you.’
‘. . . But they’re common. In other words, even if you found the killer, the fibres couldn’t be used as reliable evidence in any court of law.’
‘So much for the leaps and bounds made by forensic science. Anyway, I was going to ask the pathologist to arrange for the face to be repaired, so that photographs could be taken, but . . .’
‘Yes, we could upload a photograph into Photoshop and airbrush any damage away if that’s what you’re asking?’
‘For tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. If we haven’t identified the victim by then I’ll give the photograph to the press and ask the public for their assistance.’
‘You were telling me about that drawing I sent you?’ Kline said.
‘The black sun?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it was a wheel,’ Quigg said. ‘It certainly looks like a wheel.’
‘Here’s what I remember about it,’ Perkins continued. ‘It’s an occult symbol . . .’
‘Not more of your supernatural gobbledegook?’
Perkins ignored him. ‘The Germans call it a Sonnenrad – Sun Wheel. During the Third Reich, Heinrich Himmler, the leader of the SS, ordered a mosaic of the sun wheel to be incorporated into the design of the floor of the ground-floor room of the North Tower at the castle of Wewelsburg in North Rhine-Westphalia, which was the ideological centre of the order of the SS and – according to Himmler – the centre of the New World.’
‘What relevance does all that have now?’
‘The Order of the Black Sun.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s a secret order, which arose from the unification of the Lords of the Black Stone, the Teutonic Order and the Black Knights of the Thule Society, which eventually became the Black Sun – the elite of Heinrich Himmler’s SS. Today, they’re called the Order of the Black Sun.’
‘Today? Why have I never heard of them?’
Kline smiled. ‘It might be something to do with them being a “secret” order.’
‘Exactly,’ Perkins agreed.
‘And what exactly does this “secret order” do?’
Perkins shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Because it’s secret,’ Kline added.
‘Exactly,’ Perkins echoed.
He sighed. ‘I’m still confused about what relevance it has to our investigation.’
‘I can’t help you there, but take a look at this . . .’ He pulled out his phone and found the photograph of the drawing of the black sun that Kline had sent him. ‘There are three swastikas in the wheel.’ He traced them with his index finger. ‘Also, there are twelve reversed SS victory sig runes,’ which he pointed out as well.
‘Fabulous,’ Kline said. ‘There’s more to this case than a simple copycat murder, isn’t there?’
Quigg’s brow furrowed. ‘Or . . . the police officer and the black sun wheel design on his ring has nothing to do with the murdered woman.’
‘You don’t believe that, Sir. There’s the concentration camp number . . .’
‘If that’s what it is. We only have Perkins’ word for that.’
‘I never gave you my word,’ Perkins objected. ‘I merely expressed an opinion because the number was tattooed on the victim’s left breast.’
Kline added, ‘That professor at the Wiesenthal Centre is excited about the number.’
‘Exactly, Perkins repeated.
Quigg glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll see.’ He stood up, went to the counter and returned carrying a spotted dick and custard in a dish.
‘You’re a pig,’ Kline said.
‘Did you miss the lesson at Hendon on how to address senior officers?’
‘I think that was the day I stayed in bed.’
‘So, is that it, Perkins?’
‘I suppose you want to know about the hair found gripped in the victim’s hand and snagged on the nut and bolt in the alleyway?’
‘My day wouldn’t be complete without knowing about that.’
‘Horse hair.’
‘Not Devil hair? I’m shocked.’
‘Black horse hair.’
Kline’s eyes opened wide. ‘That police officer was riding a black horse. I’d say that was conclusive proof of a connection between him, the black sun design and the victim.’
Quigg grunted. ‘Hardly conclusive.’ To Perkins he said, ‘Did your people find anything belonging to the victim – clothes, handbag, ID, mobile . . . ?’
‘Nothing.’
He pursed his lips and then said, ‘Solberg thinks the woman was murdered somewhere else, which probably means the killer still has all her possessions, or he’s already disposed of them. Are you done?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He spooned in the last of the spotted dick and custard and said, ‘We’d better go. Take care, Perkins.’
‘And you, Sir.’
***
‘That fucking bastard thinks we sit around here all day doing nothing,’ Lucy said to Duffy as she rang the number taken from the Yellow Pages lying open on her knee, and held the phone to her ear.
‘We do.’
‘You mean you and Ruth do. I’m like the resident fucking slave.’
She hadn’t even heard Quigg leave earlier. In fact, after she’d satisfied her carnal urges, she was exhausted and had drifted off to sleep. At nine-thirty she woke up again, went through into the kitchen and made a couple of slices of toast and honey for breakfast, said hello to Duffy and then had a shower. It was twenty past ten by the time she sat down in front of her computer. The ten encrypted messages stared back at her like elephants looking for a place to hide. She picked up the first three sheets of paper and scanned the five-letter code groups. Given a million years she could probably crack them, but she didn’t have a million years. She hated to admit defeat, but codebreaking on this level was not her area of expertise.
WWIXF-LVVPM-EGVGF-LTROZ-SQPAA-BKIPS-DKUNT-ISUKZ-KMFDG-JWWUP-TKDBA-REIEX
NQIVO-ZCIYC-CJRLF-LMWRN-ACZJU-XARCZ-GKSNI-MMYOO-VPDHL-VWFPC-BOPZD-JOHQL
PYSQU-NEPZB-HSXJP-LQWUI-FIGCV-WEVWO-QMWNR-GVOSC-GDRHR-SRWAH-DPWXK-YNKCD
She’d converted the binary codes into cipher text, but she was none the wiser – they still made no sense. Each message would require a random generated KEY to start with, and then she’d have to find out which algorithm was used to encrypt the message before she could decrypt it – and that would be a full-time job on its own, because there were a number of algorithms that could have been used such as: Blowfish, DES, Enigma, Cast 128 or 256, Gost, Loki97 and a few other obscure ones.
And the thirteen Twitter account names weren’t much better:
HED3LTSXRhM
OKgdiLrz7lxPzPD44PkzuQ
yBZ9aVJ+Ygo
emSf/AXnTco
qDQ8UmPJULE
xiUuVN3N6ag
qIIRkOFRGI4
tXmYhaIU2C0
U0DrTvu7vv0
F0tQ1+KFdiByjvzjTtE9Sw
ZQiF0itWdqw
69LJnAL4SW0
0ejk/iREApQZRjr/eR/iVw
No, she had to ask for help. As luck would have it, she’d kept a list of her old pals from when she’d been known as Uptown Girl – before the threat from the Apostles had forc
ed her to change her online name to Tornado Jane.
She sent an email to Gatekeeper: I need help.
She’d expected to wait for a reply, but her inbox pinged almost immediately: Ha!
I’ll pay.
How much?
£1,000.
I was expecting something around £100.
She grinned and typed. OK!
What do you want?
I need ten messages and thirteen Twitter names decrypted.
As in proper decryption?
Yes.
Make it £2,000.
OK.
Where’ve you been?
It’s a long story.
I love long stories.
Do the work, then I’ll tell you the story.
Send.
She sent him everything she had: How long?
Is a piece of string?
Fucking arsehole.
I was wondering what had happened to that sweet innocent Uptown Girl I used know.
Ha!
‘Flops Recruitment Agency. Jessie Seigel speaking – how may I be of assistance?’
‘Oh yeah! I need a housekeeper and a nanny.’
‘I see. Is that one or two people?’
‘Mmmm! Two probably. Someone to look after the house, and another person to look after the kids.’
‘Name?’
‘Lucy.’
‘Do you have a last name?’
‘I don’t normally . . . Oh, you want the name of the person who’s going to be paying the bills?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quigg – he’s a Detective Inspector at Hammersmith Police Station.’
‘And does Mr Quigg have a first name?’
‘I guess so, but I don’t know what it is. Hang on . . .’ She put her finger over the microphone. ‘What’s Quigg’s first name? She asked Duffy, who was reading a magazine on how to get her pre-pregnancy body back.
Duffy shrugged. ‘He doesn’t tell anybody.’
‘That’s useful.’ She went back to the woman. ‘No, Quigg hasn’t got a first name.’
‘Everybody has a first name.’
‘Look, do you want the work, or not?’