by Tim Ellis
The fireman looked at the Sub-officer, who nodded.
‘Thanks.’
‘Hang on,’ the Chief said. ‘Where’s your radio?’
‘Back at the office.’
‘A fat lot of good it is there. There are two constables outside, aren’t there?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘The firemen will create an entry into the passageway while you go down and tell the two constables to give you their radios.’
‘Where’s your radio, Sir?’
‘You just focus on what you’re meant to be doing, Quigg. Never mind about me.’
He hurried down the steps and ordered the constables to part with their radios. Once he’d returned to the fourth floor, he gave one radio to the Chief, picked up the torch and stepped into the passageway.’
‘Keep in touch, Quigg,’ the Chief said.
‘Will do, Sir.’
***
‘You look like crap, Rodders,’ Deirdre Fishlock, the office manager, said to him as he skulked in at twenty to nine.
Rodney Crankshank had been practising his enigmatic smile in the bathroom mirror of his bedsit, and used it now. ‘If you knew what I’d been doing last night I’d have to kill you or marry you.’
Bulldog Investigations was located on Pennard Road wedged in the triangle between Shepherd’s Bush Market, the tube station and the Bush Theatre. They were also surrounded by a newsagents, a cafe, a tanning studio and a florists. The office was on the top floor of a two-storey flat-roofed building with private parking for four cars at the rear. Because they were on a direct line to Mecca, if they opened the windows to get some fresh air, they could hear the midday and afternoon prayers emanating from the mosque on Loftus Road.
‘You’re a tosser, Rodders. I do know what you were doing last night. You went to see Detective Inspector Quigg at that old church in Shepherd’s Bush, and then you went home to your crappy bedsit and looked at porn on the internet all night.’
‘Oh yeah!’
‘Well, did you get us the job?’
Bulldog Investigations had been started by Ron Dring, but he was a sleeping partner now due to his leg ulcers and agoraphobia. Mick Amato ran things in Ron’s absence, but he was off with sciatica and shingles, and had left Deidre in charge during his protracted illness. There were two other operatives besides Rodney – Sue Hutton was on flexi-time due to her three children – who all had different fathers – and her current boyfriend working strange shifts at the computer keyboard factory, and Peter Minshall, who Rodney didn’t particularly like because he was young and possessed a full head of long hair.
‘Of course. They took one look at me and knew they’d found a man who lives on the edge.’
Deirdre stuffed another stick of gum into her mouth. ‘Yeah, but the edge of what? So, do you want me to do anything for you?’
The thought of Deirdre doing the dance of the seven veils ticker-taped through his mind. He licked his lips and said, ‘I’ll write a list. You look good enough to eat this morning, Deirdre.’
‘Fuck off, Rodders.’
Even though Deirdre Fishlock was a couple of years shy of fifty, he liked her a lot. What he didn’t like was what came out of her mouth sometimes. He also didn’t like that she chewed gum at nine o’clock in the morning and carried on chewing all day long, he didn’t like the blue nail polish and matching eye shadow that she wore, he didn’t like the way she kept spraying hair spray on her puffed-up hair so he couldn’t breathe, he didn’t like the way she dressed in really short skirts and low-cut tops so that every man who saw her wanted to take a piece of her home with him, and he especially didn’t like the fact that she didn’t like him. Yeah, he really liked Deirdre Fishlock. He would have married her at the drop of a hat.
They had a small whiteboard for each case that the operatives were working on, so that everyone could see at a glance what was going on with the investigation and where they were up to. At the top of the board he wrote:
Quigg Case
Rodney Crankshank
(Man of Danger)
He would liked to have put “International Man of Danger” like the man in the film, but the furthest he’d been was Southend-on-Sea for a works’ outing when he’d been the assistant night shelf-stacker at the supermarket on Clancy Street.
Using a non-permanent green marker pen he began the list:
Mission:
To find Caitlin Quigg (ex-wife) (née Hughes) and Phoebe (daughter) of DI Quigg.
Leads:
Check she hasn’t gone to Canada with her old boyfriend Richard Dodge
Go to 5 Boleyn Gardens, Bermondsey – check for forwarding address and talk to neighbours.
Check with Lancer Communications – Caitlin was PR Consultant.
Check Caitlin’s bank A/C, credit card A/C, mobile phone records, CSA payments: BN/500897442/Q.
Check schools for Phoebe.
Check Fairlight Cove in East Sussex for traces of Caitlin.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Deirdre asked him.
‘Yeah. He was married to Caitlin for a couple of years, but he didn’t seem to know much about her.’
‘So, you want me to follow up on 1, 4 and 5? I’ll get Bob and his computer involved in 4 and 5.’
‘You’re wonderful, Deirdre. I’ll take you out for a romantic meal for two when I’ve solved the case.’
‘Fuck off, Rodders. So, you’re going to deal with 2 and 3 this morning?’
‘That’s my plan, but then I’m going to come back and see if you’ve changed your mind about marrying me.’
‘Save yourself the trip – I won’t have.’
He passed her the photograph of Caitlin and Phoebe. ‘Could you make a couple of copies, please.’
‘Pretty woman, good-looking kid,’ she said.
‘He was a workaholic. The relationship was doomed from the start. If I had a beautiful wife – like you – I’d know where my priorities lay.’
Deirdre feigned a yawn, walked over to the photographic printer and made two copies of the picture. She passed one to Rodney, tossed one on her desk and stuck the original on the whiteboard.
Rodney perched on the corner of Deirdre’s desk and ogled the cheeks of her arse as she sashayed around. Her lime green mini skirt was so tight he wondered if it was cutting off the circulation to her brain. He definitely liked the fishnet stockings she was wearing, and caught a glimpse of her gold lamé thong as she reached up to tack the photograph at the top of the whiteboard.
‘What a waste,’ he mumbled.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said you’ve got a lovely thin waist.’
‘Haven’t you got somewhere to go?’
‘I suppose so. Are you sure you won’t consider a summer wedding. I know a lovely little naturist beach in Brighton for our honeymoon.’
‘You’re a fucking pervert, Rodders.’
***
‘If the Einsatzgruppen have all the pieces as well,’ Kline whispered. ‘Why are they coming after you?’
‘I do not know. I can only think that they are unable to fit the pieces together.’
‘Ow!’ Kline said as the back of her head hit a stone wall.
‘What is it?’
‘It seems that we’ve come to the end.’
‘Oh!’
They both knew that there wasn’t much time. The splashing was getting louder and thus – closer.
Kline pulled Emilia over to one of the columns. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back,’ and she disappeared under the water.
Using the wall to guide her, she swam straight down until she thought her head would explode, but then found an opening at the base of the wall.
There was no light now, and she had to feel the way with her hands. She kicked her legs and swam through the opening into a tunnel that was about six feet long, but felt like a hundred.
As soon as she reached the end of the tunnel, she kicked for the surface and burst out of the water gulping for air.
She was beginning to think she’d never breathe again.
There was a dim light emanating from somewhere, and she could hear the whoosh of trains in the distance. She had a quick look around, and thought that she might be in an overflow tank for the cistern. If she could just get Emilia to swim through the tunnel, then she knew there was a chance they could escape.
After taking in a lungful of air, she returned the way she had come. This time – because she knew where she was going – it wasn’t so hard, and didn’t take her as long.
Emilia was where she’d left her – clinging onto the column.
The splashing was really close now. Another couple of minutes and the Einsatzgruppen would have two more victims.
‘We’re going to swim down the wall to reach a small tunnel at the base, which will take us to an overflow tank that we can climb out of.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You must. Compared to what you did at Babi Yar, this is nothing. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and hold my hand. I will take you through. Ready?’
‘Ready,’ Emilia said, and then took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Kline grabbed her hand and dived, dragging Emilia with her. It was slow going because she couldn’t use one of her hands, and half-way through the tunnel she felt Emilia go limp.
She kicked harder, and as they were rising to the surface she put her mouth over Emilia’s mouth and gave her the last gasp of air she had in her lungs.
When they reached the surface, she began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, scrambled out of the overflow tank and dragged Emilia with her onto the stone floor where she began giving five chest compressions to one breath.
A waterfall of tears fell from her eyes.
‘Live, Emilia. Don’t let the fucking bastards beat you now.’
Chapter Thirteen
Quigg was a fucking bastard for treating her like a criminal. She was having his baby and he was treating her like a serial killer. Yeah, all right she might have shot a few people, but every one of those men needed to die, and he seemed to have forgotten that it was always her or them. Maybe he’d have preferred it if they’d all have died instead of the men who had been sent to kill them. She was a heroine who deserved a George Cross for God’s sake.
She burst into tears.
It wasn’t Quigg. It wasn’t even about him thinking she was a murderer – it was about her being pregnant. She couldn’t take a morning-after pill because she didn’t even know when the morning after had been. A termination was the only answer. First though, she had to make sure she was definitely pregnant. She’d go down to the chemist later and buy one of those pregnancy-test kits. Once she knew for sure, then she could make a decision.
She was lying in bed trying to sleep, but it was like pushing a piece of string uphill. The two women from the agency were due any minute. Why was it up to her? It shouldn’t have been left up to her. That fucking Quigg again. Maybe she should take a holiday. The bastard needed to see what things would be like around here without her – he needed to appreciate how beautiful and fantastic she was.
The doorbell chimed.
She padded along the corridor in a pair of boxer shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt that had more holes than material, and left nothing at all to the imagination.
‘Yeah?’ she said to the two plain Jane’s on the doorstep.
‘Janet Thomas and Amanda Oliver from Flops Recruitment Agency,’ the fatter of the two women said.
‘You’d better come in then. I’m Lucy.’
They followed her into Duffy’s bedroom.
Duffy was sprawled sideways across the bed with her naked arse on show.
‘Wake up, Duffy.’
‘I don’t think I want to do that.’
She looked at the two women. ‘Which one’s the nanny?’
The uglier of the two women put her hand up. ‘I am – Amanda Oliver.’
‘There are three children in here somewhere. The baby is called Máire and the twins are Lily-Rose and Dylan. Your job is to find them and then look after them. Do you think you can do that?’
She nodded.
‘Off you go then.’ To the other one she said, ‘You must be the housekeeper?’
‘Yes – Janet Thomas.’
‘So, keep house, Janet Thomas.’ She pointed through the atrium towards the lounge. ‘My advice would be to start at that end.’
‘Are there . . . ?’
‘You’re not going to ask me about vacuums, dusters and things like that, are you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Next, you’ll be expecting me to do your job while you sit around drinking tea and biscuits. They’re out there somewhere – find them.’
The woman nodded.
‘Excellent. If you two want to know anything else,’ she called after both of them. ‘Ask Duffy.’ To Duffy she said, ‘They’re all yours, I have things to do.’
And another thing: Who did that bastard Quigg think he was? If she wanted to meddle in an active police investigation, then she damn well would.
But how? That was the question.
She grabbed a pen and paper.
What had she learned by going to Gatekeeper’s house? Hardly anything at all. Except . . . the thirteen people who were sending messages to each other on Twitter, who created the ten encrypted messages, who killed Gatekeeper and his family were supposedly members of the SS. Surely not! She’d heard of German neo-Nazi groups such as: The German League, the Racial Volunteer Force and Combat-18, but the SS! Were they making a comeback? She knew that the 18 in Combat-18 was derived from Adolf Hitler’s name – A and H were the first and eighth letters of the Latin alphabet.
That SS identity card certainly looked genuine with Himmler’s signature. And who was Hans Fröbel? She recalled his place and date of birth: Königsberg, November 17, 1984. Maybe she could follow up on that. Then there was the ring. What did Quigg call it? A black sun ring. Yes, she could certainly find out about that.
She still had thirteen Twitter names and ten messages that needed decrypting – how had they found out she had sent everything to Gatekeeper?
Christ! The only way was through her computer. She was meant to be the best, yet they’d burrowed into her hard drive as if she was an old-aged pensioner with an antique ZX Spectrum. She switched the power off at the wall to all her computer equipment. A computer hacker without a computer to do any hacking – she was dead in the water.
It would take her ages to disinfect the hard drive, and without her computer she was fucked. She couldn’t do any research at all. Unless . . . she got another computer and created a new online presence.
But . . . that wouldn’t tell her anything about how they’d hijacked her computer, and she didn’t really have the time to find out. Although . . . she knew a woman who did – Morticia.
She took a shower, got dressed and called a taxi.
Duffy was pottering about in the kitchen.
‘I’m going down the town.’
‘I could do with some retail therapy myself.’
‘Maybe another time. I’ve got some ass to kick.’
The taxi arrived. ‘Later alligator.’
On her shopping list was: a new Macbook Air 13, a pregnancy test-kit and a hardware specialist called Morticia.
***
As he edged forward along the passageway, he noticed scuff marks in the layers of dust on the concrete floor. Feeling like a man-tracker, he squatted and saw that the marks were footprints. He could make out the imprint of a small flat shoe and a much larger Army-type boot print.
Not only was he sure that Emilia and Kline had come this way, he was also sure that the Einsatzgruppen were following them. How long since Kline and the professor had moved along the passageway and how many men were chasing them he had no idea.
What he did know was that he didn’t want to lose another partner, and he certainly wasn’t going to let some German thugs kill an old woman who had survived the Nazi death camps.
He hurrie
d forward, following the tracks in the dust. Climbing steps upwards, moving left and right along the passageways like some tragic figure in a maze. Then, he was climbing down . . .
‘Quigg?’
‘Hello, Chief. How are you?’
‘You were meant to be keeping in contact with me. What’s happening?’
‘Nothing much. I’m following tracks.’
‘And?’
‘There’s a whole series of secret passageways running through the buildings. Is there anyone with you from the university?’
‘Doctor Andrew Paxton – the Director of Operations – is here. He also wants to know what’s going on.’
‘Did he know about these passageways?’
‘Hello, Doctor Andrew Paxton here.’
That was a hell of a mouthful and he wasn’t a real doctor. ‘Hi, Andy. So, did you know about these passageways?’
‘There were rumours.’
‘You didn’t know, did you?’
‘No. We have the architect’s drawings, but he left the passageways out.’
‘No idea where they might lead?’
‘Not really. Are you going up or down?’
‘Sideways at the moment. I was going up, but now I seem to be climbing down.’
‘There’s been rumours.’
‘Go on?’
‘That beneath the third basement level there’s a Roman bath, which used to be a cistern. This cistern purportedly fed Queen Anne of Denmark’s fountain, which was built in 1612. I have never seen the cistern, or spoken to anyone who has seen it, but the rumours have persisted.’
‘What happened to the fountain?’
‘There are drawings in the boardroom. Apparently, it was ten meters high. At the summit the mythical winged horse Pegasus was poised prancing about with his wings outstretched while Apollo played a violin surrounded by the Muses and they all moved gently under a thin mist of spray from jets around the pool, which were powered by hydraulics. Unfortunately, it was destroyed during the Civil War I’m afraid, but. I can tell you that there is a disused tube station beneath the third basement called Aldwych. I believe the students are trying to organise a shooting range down there.’