by Tim Ellis
Denktash smiled. ‘They said you were good, but I didn’t realise how good.’
Denktash didn’t like him, that much was obvious. ‘They?’
‘The lads at the station. Some of them have heard of you.’
‘I see. And you haven’t?’
‘Not until now – no. They said you have three wives.’
‘Did they? I think we both know that bigamy is illegal.’
‘Is it true what we’ve heard about Merv Jones?’ Sergeant Ainsworth asked.
He ignored the question. As far as he was concerned, Sergeant Mervyn Jones no longer existed. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I read an initial report on what was found at the crime scene, a rough description of the tattooed man and wondered if any of it was connected to what I’m working on at the moment.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The murder in Bleeding Heart Yard.’
DS Ainsworth chipped in. ‘Everyone’s heard about that. Why do you think our guy is involved?’
‘My guess is that a right-wing group are responsible.’
‘Hey, our guy . . .’
DI Denktash elbowed him to shut him up. Co-operation clearly wasn’t at the top of his list. ‘Any group in particular?’
‘Process of elimination, but I’ve mislaid my partner so I’m pissing into the wind at the moment.’
Ainsworth was determined to get his fair share of the conversation. ‘You’ve got that crazy bitch Tallie Kline, haven’t you?’
‘That’s the one.’
Denktash continued: ‘So, a family of three were butchered, someone shot the guy who did it and then left the crime scene without providing their name and address. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Why would I know anything about it?’
‘My gut hurts.’
‘You’re in the right place then. Maybe you should lie down on the table and let the Doc here open you up and take a look. I hear she sews people back up really neat.’
‘Hey, you’re a funny guy.’
‘Not intentionally. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to speak to the Doc in private.’
‘You’ve not seen the last of me, Quigg. I’ve got a feeling about you.’
‘Well, I can tell you now that any feelings you might develop for me will not be reciprocated.’
Ainsworth grabbed Denktash by the arm and guided him out. ‘Come on, Sir. He’s not going anywhere.’
When they’d gone Solberg smiled at him and said, ‘I see you know how to win friends and influence people.’
‘It’s one of the many talents that I’m famous the world over for.’
‘I am not convinced. Remember I was investigating the familial DNA of the foetus?’
‘Yes.’
‘I did not find any on your database.’
‘Another dead end. So, did you get the report and the photographs for me?’
‘That is why those unpleasant men were here.’ She passed him a file, and it struck him how attractive she was. Her hair came in different shades of blonde. It had been braided and pinned at the back of her head in loops. She had a button nose, thin sensuous lips and a petite body with small breasts.
‘I presume you’ve looked through it. Any comments?’
‘The dental work is German.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
He opened up the file and began rifling through the pictures of the tattoos that were on Hans Flöbel’s body. ‘Interesting.’
She shuffled round to stand next to him, so that she could look at the photographs as well. ‘Neo-Nazi,’ she said. ‘We have them in Norway also – they are the eleventh plague.’
Her expensive perfume drifted up his nose.
As he came to each photograph she leaned in close, pointed at the tattoo and told him what it was. He had a good idea of most of the tattoos, but he didn’t stop her.
He could smell the coconut in her shampoo as her hair brushed his cheek, and something dormant was stirring between his legs.
‘That is the Iron Cross. It originated in the Napoleonic Wars, but it has become associated with Nazi Germany’s Third Reich.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘The Swastika. I think you know what a swastika is.’
‘Uh huh.’
’14, which is the 14-word rallying slogan of white supremacists: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for our white children.”’
‘Crazy.’
‘Yes it is. That is 88 – the eighth letter of the alphabet is H. Two eights mean Heil Hitler.’
‘Okay.’
‘That is the valknot – three interlocking triangles that symbolise the Norse afterlife and the member’s willingness to sacrifice their lives for the cause.’
‘What possesses these people?’
‘You do not want to start delving into the psychology of their behaviour, do you?’
‘No, not really. I’ll leave that to the shrinks.’
‘The AB stands for Aryan Brotherhood, and that tattoo there is the . . .’
‘. . . Black sun.’
‘You do know something after all then.’
‘Just a little. Can you send what you’ve got to the German Bundeskriminalamt and ask them to give us everything they’ve got on him – and can they put a rush on?’
‘I will do that for you. These are very scary people.’
‘Yes, I know. And I think they’ve got Kline.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, I hope not, Quigg.’
‘So do I. Now, I have to go. I’ve got a suspect in the cells and a press briefing at four o’clock.’
‘You are not lying on my couch?’
‘Not today, but you can do me a favour.’
‘What?’
He told her about Duffy.
‘I shall visit her tomorrow morning before work. She will be in – yes?’
‘Yes.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Ingrid..’
‘You English have a word for that kiss.’
‘We do?’
‘It is called a down payment.’
‘That’s two words.’
***
Kline looked around, but apart from a light cable with a bare electric bulb in a socket, the brick tunnel they were now in was completely empty. Kline had the idea that the tunnel was built by the Victorians to empty sewage directly into the Thames when that was still an acceptable method of disposal. She had no idea what it was used for now, or why there was a light in the tunnel.
What concerned her was that she had no way of stopping the skinhead from coming through the opening after them. All she had was the twisted piece of metal in her hand that she’d used to break through the grill.
A cool breeze whistled along the tunnel and caressed their skin. They both knew that they were close to reaching the outside.
‘I want you to start making your way towards the opening,’ she said to Emilia.
‘I will not leave you.’
‘You must. I have an idea. It won’t be long before he climbs up here. I must stop him, otherwise we will not reach the surface.’ She touched Emilia’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I will catch you up.’
At last the professor nodded. ‘You will be careful?’
‘I’ll be careful.’
Once Emilia had started along the tunnel she smashed the bulb, crouched down and waited in the darkness.
She could hear him coming up the ladder, and she knew that he knew she’d be waiting for him – he came anyway.
He pushed the grill open and waited.
She waited.
He pushed his head through the opening, and then ducked back down again.
She held her breath and waited.
He had no choice but to come through the hole. Soon, his head appeared.
She was behind him and to his right, and as his head came through she stabbed the sharp end of the metal into his neck and twisted it.
‘Gott im Himmel!’ he screamed an
d fell back down the ladder.
She heard a grunt as he hit the concrete.
‘Fucking bastard,’ she shouted through the hole.
He laughed. ‘It is not over, whore. Now, I am coming after you personally. When I catch you – as I surely will – you will beg me to kill you.’
She ran after Emilia and soon caught up.
‘Did you kill him?’ she asked.
‘No, but I disabled him. We have a bit of time before he starts after us again.’
‘Then that will have to do.’
The air was becoming fresher. They were in reach of the outside.
‘You went into the forest?’ Kline prompted the professor.
The old woman chuckled. ‘So I did. I wandered through the forest for two days. I used the snow to slake my thirst and ate what little food I possessed sparingly. Soon though, I could go no further. I sat down in the snow with my back against a tree and closed my eyes. I knew it was my time, and I was happy to die in the cold beauty of the forest.’
‘But you didn’t die.’
‘This is why you are such a good detective.’
Kline laughed. ‘For an old woman you have a wicked mouth.’
‘They found me.’
‘The Germans?’
‘If the Germans had found me they would have shot me. No, the partisans found me. I was unconscious and they took me to their camp. They saved me and I joined them.’
‘You became a resistance fighter?’
‘Yes. Many of the women looked after the children, cooked and did women’s things. A few of us wanted to fight alongside the men and kill Germans.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes. I became second-in-command of a platoon.’
‘You’re full of surprises.’
‘There are more surprises to come, little one.’
At last, they reached the opening. There was another grill, but it wasn’t locked. It was heavily rusted though, and they both had to shake it free before they could open it.
They stood and breathed in the fresh air. It seemed like forever that they’d been underground. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and they could hear the sounds of people and traffic above them.
The tunnel opened out – as Kline had guessed – into the Thames. The trouble was, they were half-way up a wall. They couldn’t climb up – there were no ladders, no foot holes, nothing to grip onto. The only saving grace was that the wall below the opening sloped outwards like a slide and ran into the lapping water.
To their left – about a hundred feet away – a set of steps climbed out of the river as if the remains of a submerged city lay beneath the dark green water.
‘Come on,’ Kline said to Emilia. ‘No time to think about it. We slide down the wall, swim to the stairs and escape.’
‘The simple plans are always the best,’ Emilia said, as they inched down the wall on their backsides. The water was cold, but refreshing after what they’d been through.
Kline turned on her back again, grabbed Emilia under the arms, and kicked towards the steps. ‘When we reach the steps . . .’ she began.
‘. . . We will go to Germany,’ Emilia finished for her.
‘That’s not really what I had in mind.’
As they reached the steps, the Einsatzgruppen shot out of the tunnel like a bullet from a gun and landed in the water.
‘It is the only way – trust me. He will never stop. As long as he has breath in his body he will keep coming. If we kill him, others will take his place. We have to go to the place where it all began.’
Chapter Nineteen
He arrived back at the station at five to four feeling as though he was participating in the gruelling Dakar rally.
After logging into the computer network and visiting Catherine Bernado’s website to confirm that she was the victim from Bleeding Heart Yard, he went straight into the press briefing room.
He’d have to brief the Chief afterwards.
The room was like a sauna with hot coals from an active volcano, which was made worse by the number of heaving sweating bodies and the heavy-duty television lights shining in his eyes.
Where the hell was Kline when he needed her? She’d been missing about sixteen hours now. What had happened at the university? Had she and Professor Razinsky been taken by the Einsatzgruppen? Were the two of them lying somewhere dead?
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The last time he conducted a press briefing he hadn’t told them anything. In fact, he wanted to know who their “source close to the investigation” was before he did. Now, he didn’t want to know – he already did. The only person it could have been was Kline, but he didn’t want anyone to say it out loud because then he’d have to do something about it.
‘As you know, a woman was murdered at Bleeding Heart Yard in Holborn in the early hours of Monday August 5. We now believe that woman to be a freelance journalist called Catherine Bernado. The motive for the murder is still unclear, and although we are pursuing a number of leads, as yet we do not have a suspect in custody.’ He wasn’t going to mention Mickey Stine in the cells. If he did, he knew that the man would become public enemy number one in a matter of hours whether he was guilty of anything or not.
He also wasn’t going to mention the Order of the Black Sun, the Einsatzgruppen, the ghostly policeman on a black horse, the missing DC Kline and Professor Razinsky, Frank Bernado or Nicola Brennan . . . In fact, there was a hell of a lot he wasn’t going to mention.
‘Phil Lonsdale from the Chelsea Courier. Does the murder of Lady Elizabeth Hatton in 1626 have any bearing on the current investigation?’
‘No, we think it was merely a smokescreen to deflect attention away from the real motive for the murder.’
‘Gary Furber from the Independent Press Monitor. How do you know it was a smokescreen if you don’t know what the real motive for the murder was? You must have some ideas?’
‘Which I’m not ready to air in public just yet, Mr Furber.’
A ginger-haired woman with freckles and skin like tissue paper stood up. ‘Sue Hutton from the Smithfield Scimitar. We understand that a number was tattooed on the victim’s chest. Can you give us any more information about that?’
‘No, I’m sorry. We’re still unclear whether that tattoo has any relevance.’
A woman with short blonde spiked hair, a bent nose and no breasts stood up. ‘Lesley Connor from the Embankment Embalmer. You say you’re unclear, and yet you’ve consulted Professor Emilia Razinsky at the Wiesenthal Centre in the Strand Campus of King’s College. Wasn’t there also a fire in the professor’s office in the early hours of this morning?’
This was news to a lot of those present and created a furore.
He waited until the noise had died down. ‘I’m sure you’re well aware that we consult many experts during an investigation in order to expand our knowledge of possible leads and clues. Some of those leads and clues are relevant, some are not and some are in the pending tray. As I said, we’re still unclear about the relevance of that tattoo.’
A short man with the body of a sumo wrestler stood up. ‘Tony Roberts from the Holborn Hippogriff. Is it true that DC Kline and Professor Razinsky are missing?’
‘No.’ He held up his hands for quiet. ‘I think we could all do with some fresh air. Thank you very much for coming along today. I suggest four o’clock tomorrow afternoon as well.’ He stood up and slipped out of the door.
A cold shower and an extra-cold Guinness would revitalise him, but the chances of him getting either were between no chance and non-existent. He walked through into Operations and knocked on Inspector Nichola Wright’s door.
‘Come?’
‘Hi, Nicky.’
‘I hope . . .’
He held up his hands in submission. ‘It’s been one of those days today. I’m going to interview him now. I just popped in to say thanks, and wondered if you’d reached a decision on how I might return the favour.’
She passed him a card with her address on
the back. ‘I’ve been looking for an odd-job man to do some things around the house – come between two and four on Saturday.’
‘Oh!’
‘You sound disappointed, Quigg.’
‘No – just a bit surprised, that’s all, but your wish is my command. Do you want me to bring any tools – a drill, a screwdriver, a big hammer . . . ?’
‘Just yourself. I’ve got all the tools you’ll need.’
‘I’ll see you Saturday, Nicky. Oh . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You couldn’t tell me about the chart I’ve heard . . . ?’
‘Get out, Quigg.’
He sighed as he closed Nicky’s door. Nobody would tell him about the chart. Maybe he needed to mount a night operation to find the chart. It wasn’t that though, was it? The chart was just a chart. Maybe it was a piece of laminated card with names on it. Maybe different coloured stars, emoticons or smiley pigs were used to grade the inspectors. Maybe . . . No, it wasn’t the chart he needed to see, it was the scoring system and the five secret categories. He was being marked and graded on things he had no knowledge of, which was hardly fair. Yes, he’d have to come down here after hours, when everyone had gone home, when the night shift were pounding the beat and search the female locker room – it was the only way.
Mickey Stine had the duty solicitor – Tony Hutchinson – with him.
‘Hi, Tony.’
‘Hi, Inspector.’
Stine was greasy. He had wavy black hair that looked as though it had been gelled with cooking oil, a sheen of greasy perspiration on his unshaven face, and he was cleaning the dirt from beneath his fingernails with his teeth and spitting the grunge on the interview room floor.
‘Okay, Mr Stine. My time . . .’
‘You’ve kept me here all day.’
‘And you’ll be here a lot longer if you keep interrupting me. So, I’m going to get right to the point. Tell me what happened in the Yard Restaurant on Sunday evening.’
‘I don’t have to say anything to you, do I?’ he said, turning to Hutchinson for confirmation.
‘No, you can . . .’
Quigg interrupted Hutchinson. ‘I’ll just charge you with murder then, and tell the media . . .’