by Tim Ellis
‘All right. Mr Quigg will suffice for now.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Address?’
‘St Thomas’ Church, Godolphin Road, Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘A church?’
‘No, it’s not a church . . . Well, it used to be, but they sold it and we bought it.’
‘So you’re Mrs Quigg?’
‘Am I fuck.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Look – it’s complicated. All you need to know is that Quigg’s paying the bills.’
‘That’s fine. How many children are there?’
‘Four, but none of them are mine.’
‘I see. Ages?’
‘Dylan and Lily-Rose are twins and they’re nearly five months old. Máire is a month old, and Luke was born yesterday and is still at the hospital with his mother.’
‘I’m slightly confused. How can . . . ?’
‘You don’t want to go there. As I said, it’s complicated.’
‘I think the best thing would be to come for a visit, so that I can take a look at the property, meet the children and . . . try and understand your . . . situation.’
‘Good luck with that endeavour. When?’
‘No time like the present. I could be with you in half an hour.’
‘Okay – see you then.’
‘She’s coming here in half an hour.’
Duffy’s eyes opened wide. ‘We’d better tidy up.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. Your mess will make it obvious we need some help.’
‘My mess?’
‘Well, it’s hardly my fucking mess – I live somewhere else.’
‘I suppose,’ Duffy said picking up her magazine again.
Next she rang Gibbs Landscapes.
‘Steve Gibbs Landscapes.’
‘Hello Steve, this is Lucy.’
‘Hello Lucy. What can I do for you?’
‘I need my garden maintaining once a month.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Do you think you can fit me in?’
‘Where do you live?’
‘St Thomas’ Church, Godolphin Road, Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘You’re not a nun, are you?’
Lucy laughed. ‘Am I fuck.’
‘That’s all right then.’
‘So, can you come and take a look?’
‘Let’s see . . . would four thirty this afternoon be okay?’
‘See you then.’
She flipped through the yellow pages again until she reached “Private Investigators” and rang a number at random.
‘Bulldog Investigations – Tracey Hawkins speaking.’
‘I need someone found.’
‘And you’d like to employ our company to find that someone?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘Could I ask you for a few details?’
‘Ask away.’
‘Name?’
‘My name’s Lucy, but I wouldn’t be the one employing you or paying the bills.’
‘Who would?’
‘Mr Quigg.’
‘First name?’
‘Fred.’
‘Mr Frederick Quigg.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Address?’
Lucy gave Tracey the details she requested.
‘And who is it that needs to be found?’
‘Caitlin Quigg and her five year-old daughter Phoebe, but it would be better if the investigator meets with Mr Quigg tonight because he has all the details.’
‘I think we could arrange that.‘
‘What’s the charges?’
‘Three hundred and fifty pounds a day plus any expenses.’
‘Fucking hell! Sounds like money for old rope to me. Do you need any investigators?’
‘We’re always looking for experienced investigators madam, but I can assure you that our investigators work . . .’
‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. So, can you send someone round tonight?’
‘At what time?’
‘Say seven o’clock?’
‘That will be fine. A Mr Rodney Crankshank will be with you at that time.’
‘Will he be the investigator?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘He won’t be using any of his camouflage technique when he arrives, will he?’
The woman pretended to laugh. ‘Madam has a wicked sense of humour.’
She wandered down the corridor to her annex wondering if Gatekeeper had decrypted anything yet.
***
He was getting used to Kline chauffeuring him around on white-knuckle rides. The satnav said it would take twenty-one minutes from the hospital on Du Cane Road to Hatton Garden – Kline did it in fifteen.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘You say the nicest things.’
She parked half on the pavement like a drunk and they jingled through the door into the Jewellery Box.
It was a small shop selling antique jewellery. He had the idea that it might be a pawnbrokers, but it wasn’t. There were two small glass counters displaying gold and silver rings, a stand with a variety of watch straps hanging on pegs and four glass-fronted cases with watches, bracelets, necklaces and other jewellery inside. He cast his eyes over a few of the prices and saw lots of zeros.
A woman behind the glass counter looking like mutton dressed as lamb said, ‘Let me guess – Madam is looking for an engagement ring?’
‘Engagement ring! To this worn out old fossil. Got any money, Sugar daddy?’
‘You do recall how many children I have, don’t you?’
‘You’ve just blown your one and only chance with me.’
‘Easy come, easy go.’ He smiled, glanced at the woman and said, ‘Nicola Brennan?’
‘Yes.’
He proffered his warrant card. ‘DI Quigg and DC Kline.’
‘The man I spoke to on the telephone wasn’t particularly clear. He said it was about what happened to Catherine last night.’
‘You’re aware what occurred outside the restaurant in the early hours of this morning?’
‘You mean the woman who was murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘Have you seen or heard from Catherine at all today?’
Nicola Brennan went white and her knees began to crumple.
Quigg moved quickly round the counter and held onto her.
‘You don’t think . . . ?’
‘We don’t think anything at the moment, we’re merely asking questions.’
Kline locked the door, turned the sign to “Closed” and took out her notebook.
Quigg guided the woman to the single plastic chair in the shop.
‘What’s Catherine’s last name?’
‘Bernado.’
‘And your relationship to her?’
‘She’s my step-daughter.’
He glanced at Kline. Clearly, the manager of the restaurant had misinterpreted the signals between the two women.
‘Have you heard from her since last night?’
‘No, not yet. I said she could stay at my place, but because she was flying to Reykjavik from Heathrow at five-thirty this morning, she went home. Her flat is much closer to the airport.’
‘Where does Catherine live?’
‘Brent Cross – 74 Elms Avenue.’
‘Why was she flying to Reykjavik?’
‘She’s an freelance journalist, and she’s going to Iceland to hike up the volcano that erupted in 2010 and grounded all the planes.’
Kline snorted. ‘What the hell for?’
‘There’s a rumour it’s going to erupt again. Volcano Monthly want to know if there’s any truth in that rumour, and they’re paying Catherine a large amount of money for a four-page spread and some amazing pictures.’
‘Now that’s what you call crazy, Sir.’
‘And you’ve not heard from her since last night?’
‘No. She said she’d phone me tonight to let
me know she’d arrived safely. They’re on the same time as us.’
‘Tell me about the man who came into the restaurant and assaulted her.’
‘Mickey Stine. Catherine dumped him last week, and he’s struggling to come to terms with it. He was terribly drunk last night.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
She looked at Kline. ‘Could you get my handbag from behind the counter?’
Kline pulled a face, found the bag and passed it to her.
She found a small address book and rifled through it for Stine’s address. ‘Here it is: 27 Peel Street in Notting Hill.’
‘How did he know where she’d be last night?’
‘We arranged the dinner over three months ago when Catherine knew what date she was going to Reykjavik. If she hadn’t dumped him, Mickey would have been at the dinner.’
‘Why did she break off the relationship?’
‘I think she’s found someone else.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘No. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t pry.’
‘Did Catherine have a tattoo on her chest?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Do you happen to know if your step-daughter is pregnant?’
Her head jerked up. ‘She never said. Are you sure?’
‘As I said, we’re not sure of anything yet. Could you try ringing her? If Catherine answers, then all this is for nothing, and you can all get on with your lives.’
‘Of course.’ Nicola Brennan found her phone and rang her step-daughter’s number. ‘Hi Catherine. It’s Nicola. Can you give me a call as soon as possible, please?’ She glanced at Quigg. ‘I was diverted to voicemail.’
Quigg passed her a card. ‘Can you keep trying, please? If you hear from her, please call me.’
‘I’m so worried.’
He squeezed her shoulder. ‘Don’t be. Until we know something for definite – it’s merely speculation. Do you have a photograph of Catherine?’
Kline unlocked the shop door and hurried outside.
They heard her shouting at someone.
‘Not a very good one, but . . .’ She stood up, went back round the counter, wrote a web address on the top page of a small “Jewellery Box” pad and passed it to him. ‘That’s Catherine’s website. There’s a lovely picture of her on the welcome page.’
‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Brennan. And please don’t worry until we know exactly what’s happened. The murdered woman could be someone entirely different, which is looking increasingly likely.’ He checked the piece of paper she’d given him. ‘I have your number on here. I’ll call you if we get any . . .’
She held out her hand. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number as well – just in case.’ She took the paper back and scribbled the number on the reverse.
‘I’m going to call the station and have them check whether she boarded the flight this morning. If she did, then we can be sure your step-daughter is not the woman found in Bleeding Heart Yard this morning. As soon as I hear anything I’ll call.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
He followed Kline outside.
‘What’s going on?’ he said, as Kline kneed a parking attendant in the testicles.
The man crumpled to the floor.
‘I was just showing Wayne here, what I do to parking enforcement officers who don’t support the fucking police in their efforts to keep criminals off the street.’
Wayne was lying on the pavement in the foetal position. His hands were between his legs holding his nuts, and he was making strange noises with his mouth.
‘He was going to give you a ticket?’
Kline grunted. ‘He might try and argue that at a disciplinary hearing, but it was clear to me that he was about to make a lewd suggestion in return for him not giving me a ticket. If I’m not mistaken, sex for parking tickets is against the law, Sir.’
Quigg leaned down to speak to Wayne. ‘You’re just lucky we’re on an investigation, otherwise we’d take you down to the station and torture you some more.’ He walked round to the passenger side and said to Kline, ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Eight
‘Jessie Seigel from Flops Recruitment Agency,’ the woman at the door said. A blue halter-neck dress barely covered a 36C braless chest and a fabulous figure. Her hair was blonde tipping over into ginger that she wore in a ponytail, she had wide-set eyes and a wide mouth.
Lucy thought the woman was pretty fit albeit a bit bony and angular for her tastes. She didn’t normally fancy women, but when there was a famine you had to get your victuals where you could.
‘You’d better come in,’ Lucy said.
Jessie smiled. She had more teeth in her mouth than an alligator.
They went through into the lounge.
‘This is Duffy.’
‘Mavourneen,’ Duffy said, standing up with difficulty and shaking the woman’s hand.
‘She’s not long had a baby by caesarean section, and some other stuff as well.’ Lucy didn’t think that Jessie needed to know about Sergeant Jones stabbing Duffy, her shooting the bastard and then Quigg getting rid of the body.
‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘It’s Irish for “my darling”.’
Duffy eased herself back down.
‘The two rugrats in the sin bin are Dylan and Lily-Rose,’ she said, pointing to the twins sleeping top-to-tail in the padded playpen, which had dangling toys and side pockets for all the essentials. ‘They’re five months old.’ She directed Seigel’s gaze to the crib next to the sofa. ‘That’s Duffy’s baby Máire, she’s a month old.’
‘They’re all beautiful-looking children.’
‘Yeah, that’s one thing you can say about Quigg, he produces some nice looking sperm. So, should I give you the guided tour?’
Jessie nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
Lucy led her into Ruth’s bedroom first. ‘This is where Ruth sleeps. She’s in hospital at the moment.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘I’d say giving birth to a fucking bowling ball is pretty serious.’
‘Another baby?’
‘I said it was complicated.’
‘Is this a cult or something like that, because . . .’
‘No, it’s not a cult. Quigg is a Detective Inspector at Hammersmith Police Station who catches murderers. He’s on a case right now – the body found in Bleeding Heart Yard.’
‘Ah yes! I saw him on the news. He’s good looking.’
‘If you like that type of thing. Anyway, he got Duffy and Ruth pregnant and instead of making him choose between them, they all decided to live together.’
They carried on with the guided tour, back through the lounge, the atrium and into the kitchen.’
‘Very spacious.’
‘Ruth’s a multi-millionaire and she bought the place.’
‘What about the twins? Who do they belong to?’
‘You’re asking all the right questions, Miss Seigel.’
‘It’s Mrs – I’m married.’
‘Really?’ She hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on Jessie’s finger. ‘Yeah, the twins are Quigg’s as well. There was another woman he got pregnant, but she died and he ended up with them.’
‘Mr Quigg certainly likes to spread himself around.’
She was thinking of Caitlin and Phoebe, but decided that less was more. ‘This is Duffy’s bedroom. As you can see, we need a bit of help with the tidying up.’
‘Hence – the housekeeper.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the nanny is for the children?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where do you fit into all of this?’
‘I’m the resident fucking slave,’ she said, holding up her plastered hand. ‘But as you can see, I’m not one hundred percent at the moment.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Are you . . . ?’
Lucy led her along the corridor, showing her the
other rooms and ending up at the connecting door.
‘Am I what?’
‘No . . . it’s none of my business.’
‘I came here as a guest and ended up staying.’ She opened the door and said, ‘This is my place.’ She didn’t think Jessie needed to know about the Apostles, her relationship with Quigg, or the fact that she might be fucking pregnant.
‘Would you like either the housekeeper or the nanny to be resident employees?’
Lucy laughed. ‘I don’t think we should put any more temptation in Quigg’s way. Nine to five will do.’
‘Yes, men are so weak.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘A bit of a computer whiz?’ Jessie said, looking at the vast array of computer equipment.
‘I like to dabble,’ she said, shutting the door.
How it happened, she had no idea. One minute they were talking like two heterosexual businesswomen, the next they were thrashing about naked on Lucy’s bed as if they were the main attraction at a lesbian love-in.
‘You’ve done this before,’ Lucy said.
‘I never have. My husband left me six months ago . . .’
‘He’s a fool.’
‘I know. And I haven’t had sex in all that time.’
‘You’re a fool.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ Duffy said when they shuffled back into the lounge.
Lucy’s lip curled up. ‘We had some issues to settle.’
‘And did you settle them?’
‘I think so. Jessie’s going to provide us with a housekeeper and a nanny starting from tomorrow morning at nine.’
‘Women?’
‘Don’t worry, Jessie will make sure they’re not Quigg’s type.’
‘Good. We don’t want to put any more temptation in his way.’
‘That’s exactly what I said.’
After Duffy had signed the relevant forms, Lucy showed Jessie to the door.
‘I’ll ring you later with the names of the two women the agency will be sending along in the morning,’ Jessie said. ‘I’ll obviously need to come here on a regular basis to check everything is going okay as part of our monitoring programme.’
Lucy smiled. ‘I understand.’
When she returned to the lounge Duffy said, ‘I hope you got a good deal?’
‘Oh yes! I think I got the best deal available under the circumstances.’