by Tim Ellis
The professor’s office looked more like a storeroom. There were three desks – one she was sitting at and two others against the walls. All had books, files, folders, notebooks and various other things on the top, underneath and jammed in the drawers and cupboards. There were overflowing filing cabinets and bookcases, stacks of books piled up like chess pieces on the parquet floor, a world map stuck to a huge pin-board with coloured string and pins connecting city street maps, photographs of people – some in Nazi uniforms – identity cards, newspaper cuttings, old paintings and objects d‘art, black and white pictures, scraps of text, code and . . .
Quigg looked around like a child at the planetarium. ‘Now this is what I call an office.’
‘Excuse the mess,’ the professor said.
‘I love the mess. This is how offices should be.’
‘I like you already, Inspector . . .’
‘. . . Quigg. Call me Quigg.’
‘And you must call me Emilia.’
Abigail came in with the tray of refreshments and Kline did the honours.
There were two long thin windows in the left-hand wall that let in fingers of light. To open them for fresh air someone would have needed a wealth of experience in attempting severe climbs, a climbing rope, safety harness and a ready supply of carabineers.
‘Now, what’s this about a number?’ Emilia said once they had their drinks.
Quigg took out the brown envelope and passed it to her.
She withdrew the photographs and skimmed through them one at a time without saying anything. Then, she stood up, unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it to one side and revealed a tattooed number in the leathery skin above her left breast: 147658. ‘Snap.’
‘You were in a concentration camp?’
‘My whole family was sent to Treblinka from our homes inside the Warsaw Ghetto in August of 1942 – I was the only one who survived. I was a young girl of fourteen when I went into the camp and an old woman of a hundred and fourteen when I escaped.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Quigg said.
Kline stood up and hugged her.
She shrugged and smiled wistfully. ‘It is what it is – no more, and no less. Now, let us talk about this number,’ she said, waving the photographs about. ‘The SS destroyed most of their records in an attempt to hide what they’d done, but that hasn’t stopped us uncovering the truth and finding those who are still alive. Have you ever heard of Wewelsburg?’
‘Yes,’ Kline said. Before Quigg could get a word in edgeways, she pulled out her notebook, riffled through the pages and showed Emilia the black sun drawing.
Her face went white. ‘Einsatzgruppen,’ she mumbled. ‘My God – after all this time.’
Kline and Quigg stared at each other.
‘What does . . . ?’ Quigg started to say.
‘. . . Einsatzgruppen were death squads created by Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler and supervised by SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich during the Second World War. Historians have estimated that the Einsatzgruppen killed more than two million people, including 1.3 million Jews between 1941 and 1945.’
‘What about the Order of the Black Sun?’ Kline asked.
Emilia began pacing around the available spaces like a caged leopard. ‘We must go back to the beginning, but it will take time . . . Have you got time?’
‘Maybe an hour,’ Quigg offered.
‘An hour? That is like a ripple in the ocean of all that has gone before. You must go now. I need time and space. I need to think.’
‘I can help,’ Kline said.
‘You will not be going home tonight.’
‘Okay.’ She passed Quigg the car keys.
‘Good. Yes, you can help me. A young pair of eyes, a young brain, a . . .’ She glared at Quigg. ‘Have you not gone yet?’
‘What about . . . ?’
‘Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow. I now have all the pieces of thread – the number,’ she said waving the photographs in the air again. ‘I have Wewelsburg, and I have the Einsatzgruppen. Now, I have to tie the knots together. Yes . . . tomorrow. Come back tomorrow. This very beautiful woman you brought with you and I will have answers for you then.’
He stood up. ‘If you’re sure?’
Emilia ignored him.
‘See you tomorrow, Kline.’
Kline ignored him.
He shuffled out feeling dejected.
***
His phone vibrated.
‘Quigg.’
‘It’s Perkins, Sir.’
‘And?’
‘Catherine Bernado’s phone has no signal.’
Now what? Where was the woman? She lied to her stepmother about where she was going, and hadn’t even booked a flight to Reykjavik. So, after the meal last night she went home, or did she? It was time to take a closer look at Catherine Bernado. Who was she really? Nicola Brennan’s step-daughter, but who was she before that?
‘Are you still there, Sir?’
‘Do you have anything else for me?’
‘No.’
‘Goodbye, Perkins.’
‘Goodbye, Sir.’
He found the paper Nicola Brennan had given him and rang her mobile number.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s DI Quigg.’
‘You’ve heard something?’
‘That’s what I was going to ask you.’
‘Nothing. I keep getting diverted to voicemail. I’ve left a hundred messages. It’s as if she’s disappeared.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home. I have a flat not far from the shop. Why?’
‘Catherine didn’t get on the five-thirty flight to Reykjavik. In fact, she wasn’t even booked on the flight.’
‘I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand.’
‘She lied to you about where she was going and what she was doing.’
‘Lied to me?’ the woman repeated, as if she was having trouble assimilating the information.
‘Also, we can’t locate her phone signal, which could simply mean that she’s switched it off.’
‘You think the dead woman in Bleeding Heart Yard is her, don’t you?’
‘As I’ve said, we don’t know anything for sure at the moment. Earlier, you said Catherine is your step-daughter, can you give me some more details please?’
‘She was my late husband’s daughter from a previous marriage.’
‘And his name?’
‘Frank Bernado.’
‘What did he do for a living?’
‘He worked in exhibitions at the Barbican Art Gallery in Silk Street.’
‘Okay, thank you. If you are able to contact your step-daughter, please let me know immediately. Tomorrow morning I should be able to compare a picture of the victim’s face with the photograph of Catherine – I’ll call you then.’
‘Thank you for ringing me, Inspector.’
He ended the call.
Tomorrow he’d have to visit Catherine’s home address – 74 Elms Avenue in Brent Cross, contact Volcano Monthly to find out if Catherine was working for them, pick up Mickey Stine and find out what he knows, and carry out a background check on Frank Bernado.
He made another call.
‘Wright.’
‘Hello, Nicky.’
‘Go away, Quigg. I’m relaxing in a bubble bath with a glass of vintage Pinot Noir.’
‘I bet you look fabulous lying naked in a bubble bath after a hard day at the office.’
He heard her laugh. ‘You’re a crazy bastard, Quigg. Do you know how old I am?’
‘I’m torn between twenty and twenty-one, but I’m sure that if I came round and saw you in the flesh – so to speak – I could probably provide you with a more accurate estimate.’
‘There’s as much chance of that happening as you getting your grubby hands on one of my trucks again.’
‘I bet you’re lying there with your big toes jammed up the tap faucets because you don’t know what else to do with them. I’m sure that I’d fit very nicely at the other
end of your bath. I have a combined degree from the university of life in whole-body massage. I use both hands and natural oils. I begin with the toes, move up to the calves, then the thighs and . . .’
‘You’ve got a part-time job making dirty phone calls, haven’t you? What do you really want, Quigg?’
‘I need someone picking up first thing in the morning.’
‘And what do I get out of it?’
‘As I said . . .’
‘Besides that?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I don’t know, I’ll have to give it some thought. As long as we both agree that you owe me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Give me the details.’
‘You have your notebook and pen in the bath?’
‘Well?’
‘Mickey Stine, 27 Peel Street, Notting Hill.’
‘And what’s he supposed to have done?’
‘Murder suspect, but if he complains tell him that he’s been arrested for grievous bodily harm of Catherine Bernado.’
‘First thing?’
‘First thing. Lock him in a cell. I’ll get to him when I have time.’
‘Can I get back to my soak now?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come round. I could . . .’
‘Goodbye, Quigg.’
Before he drove home, he thought he’d make one last call to the British Embassy in Hanoi, but when he did the number the Scylla First Mate had given him just rang and rang. Then he wondered what time it was in Vietnam. He used his phone to check online and discovered that the Vietnamese were seven hours ahead, which meant that it was one o’clock in the morning over there.
Why didn’t they have twenty-four hour cover? What if someone got themselves into trouble in the middle of the night, or at weekends – as often happened? He tried the number again. After two rings a woman picked up.
‘British Embassy, Hanoi. How can we be of service?’ She sounded young and was breathing heavily.
‘I hope you can, Miss.’
‘We’ll certainly try.’
‘We? Is there more than one of you there?’
He heard whispering.
‘No, just me, Sir.’
‘And you are?’
‘April Robinson – fourth junior attaché.’
‘April is a lovely name.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Were you born . . . ?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Oh, okay. Anyway, I’m Detective Inspector Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station, but I’m not ringing in an official capacity.’
‘I see.’
‘My mother – Mabel Quigg and her travelling companion, Margaret Crenshaw – failed to rejoin the Maritime ship Scylla before it sailed following a scheduled stop in Vietnam five days ago.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, “Oh dear”.’
‘Oh, all right. So, have you heard from them?’
‘I’m afraid not, Sir.’
‘What are you doing to find them?’
‘Well, we’re not doing anything. We can record their names on our board of missing people in big red letters, but other than that there’s not very much else we can do. We have so few staff now due to budget cuts and we’re not equipped to mount manhunts for missing holidaymakers.’
‘But they’re British citizens.’
‘I understand that, but they came here of their own free will. I’m sure that your mother and her friend knew the consequences of missing the ship. If either of the two women contact us we’ll certainly help them return to the UK, but . . .’
‘What if they don’t contact you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘What if they’ve been sold into slavery?’
‘I shouldn’t . . .’
‘What if they’re being held for ransom?’
‘I don’t think . . .’
‘I’d like to speak to the Foreign Secretary.’
‘You mean the British Ambassador?’
‘Is he the guy in charge over there?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then that’s who I’d like to talk to.’
‘First, I’m afraid it’s one-thirty in the morning over here. Second, the British Ambassador is heavily involved in a state visit by the Chinese Prime Minister’s wife. And third, Sir Peter Moulsham doesn’t speak to people without an appointment.’
‘You’re not making this easy for me, April.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Sir.’
‘What am I going to do about my mother?’
‘You could fly out here and search for her yourself.’
‘That’s impossible – I’m in the middle of a gruesome murder investigation. What about the police over there?’
‘That’s not a good idea, Sir. They’re more corrupt than the criminals.’
‘I’m really worried about her, April.’
The line went quiet and he thought he’d lost the connection. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Ring me again at the same time tomorrow night. Sir. I’ll put the word out and we’ll see what we get back.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘But don’t raise your hopes too high. We might hear nothing, or . . .’ She left the sentence hanging.
‘I understand.’
The call ended.
He’d done the best he could do for now. What if the Embassy heard nothing about his mum? What would he do then? He could probably take a couple of weeks’ holiday to look for her, but where? Would a couple of weeks be enough? Vietnam was a big place teeming with people. What if something had happened to them? Did Maggie Crenshaw have anybody who cared about her? What if no trace was ever found of them? He knew all too well that people could disappear without a trace – Sergeant Jones was one such person.
Well, he’d just have to wait and hope for the best. He started the car and pulled out into the evening traffic – no white-knuckle ride tonight. The digital clock on the dashboard displayed thirteen minutes past six. He had time to visit Ruth and Luke in the hospital before his meeting with the private detective.
***
It was ten past seven by the time he reached St Thomas’ Church on Godolphin Road. Duffy and Lucy were sitting in the lounge with a tall ball-headed man in his early forties. He had a shaped beard and moustache, rimless glasses and a thick bulldog’s neck. They’d given him coffee, and in return were being entertained by his tales of derring-do.
‘One time, I had to dive from a third-floor balcony into the murky depths of a river, which will remain nameless to protect the guilty . . . Yes, I was nearly caught that time.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Quigg said offering his hand. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector Quigg.’
‘Just “Quigg” will do.’
‘Rodney Crankshank from Bulldog Investigations.’
‘That’s a hell of a name, Rodney.’
‘My father gave it to me.’
‘I can imagine. Well, how do you feel about finding my ex-wife and daughter?’
‘Bulldog Investigations prides itself in meeting its clients’ needs. Our company slogan is: Don’t suffer in silence.’
‘Okay. What experience do you have in this field?’
‘Obviously, our past cases are confidential, but you can rest assured Mr Quigg that we have a wealth of experience in finding missing family members. I was just telling your two . . . Anyway, you give me the details, and I’ll get onto it.’
‘I see. Well . . .’
Crankshank took out a notebook and began taking notes.
‘. . . In January of this year I obtained a temporary court order to prevent Caitlin – my ex-wife – and her boyfriend – Richie the builder – from taking my daughter Phoebe to live in Canada . . .’
‘Richie the builder?’
‘That’s what I called him. His real name is Richard Dodge – he was a build
er. So, I saw them at Heathrow airport and gave Caitlin the court order. Of course, I was about as popular as the plague. A month later, a family court judge made the court order permanent, which meant that Caitlin was stuck here. Richie the builder decided to end the relationship shortly afterwards and go to Canada on his own. Of course, Caitlin blamed me. She phoned me and said I’d never see or hear from her or Phoebe again, and she promptly disappeared. That was the last time I spoke to her. It’s now been nearly six months since I’ve seen her or my daughter. There’s an international arrest warrant out for Caitlin, but unless I can find her . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Do you think she’s gone to Canada?’
‘How?’
‘There are ways as I’m sure you know. That’s the first thing we’ll check. Where was she living after you prevented her from flying to Canada?’
‘I presume at our old home address: 5 Boleyn Gardens in Bermondsey, but I knew she’d sold it prior to her failed escape to Canada, so I’m not sure.‘
‘Okay, we’ll check that out as well. Photographs?’
He wandered into Duffy’s bedroom to find his old photograph album. Marie and the twins were asleep in their respective cots. He leaned down and kissed all three of them. Nobody was ever going to take his children away again. He found the album, and took out a photograph of Caitlin and Phoebe together. It was over a year old, but it was the best he had.
‘There you are,’ he said giving Crankshank the photograph when he returned to the lounge.
‘What was her maiden name?’
‘Hughes.’
‘Did she have any friends?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t forget, we were separated for a year prior to the divorce. Even before that though, I don’t recall her having any friends. To be honest, I was a bit of a crappy husband and father . . .’
‘A bit?’ Lucy chipped in.
‘Well . . . all right – probably a lot . . .’
‘Probably?’
‘Definitely. I was working – even at weekends. Yeah, looking back, I was definitely a shit husband and father. No wonder Caitlin left me.’
Crankshank brought the conversation back to the present. ‘What about relatives?’
‘No.’