by Tim Ellis
‘Well, there was one time me and Jimmy were called out to this house where . . .’
The curtain moved and a naked woman backed into the shower.’
He wedged himself into the corner.
She turned the shower knob on.
Warm water drenched him.
She began to soap her breasts.
He wondered what to do. Should he just stay where he was and hope she didn’t notice him? Should he try to slip out without being noticed? Should he . . . ?’
She turned round, handed him the soap and said, ‘Do my back will you, Inspector Quigg.’
Crap! He’d been found out. He began soaping her back. He’d be lucky to keep his job after this. He’d be the laughing stock of the station – the police force . . .’
She began unbuckling and unzipping him.
‘Excuse me.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think you should say anything, Inspector Quigg.’
The curtain was drawn back and the two other women stepped into the shower cubicle.
‘Isn’t that right, girls?’
‘That’s right, Sarge.’
‘Who’s got the soap?’
Afterwards, he sat in the basin of the shower. He’d had to satisfy all three of them and would never complain about going without sex again. The water was still running and he resembled a prune in more ways than one.
It was late. He had to get out of the locker room before any more female officers came in and forced him to do unspeakable things to them.
His clothes were still dripping wet, but he really didn’t have a choice but to put them on.
On his way out of the locker room he noticed that his name had moved up the chart two places, and that the score in one of the categories had increased by nine points.
He grinned.
His visit hadn’t been a complete disaster, after all.
***
Saturday August 10
He knocked on Nicky Wright’s front door.
‘Round the back, Quigg,’ a voice filtered out to him.
‘As promised, here I am to complete the odd jobs you mentioned,’ he said as he walked into her back garden.
‘I see you’re dressed in old clothes – Good.’
‘What’s first?’
‘Mow the lawn. The mower is over there.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Did you think I was joking about odd jobs?’
‘Well . . .’
‘You did, didn’t you? You thought I’d asked you to come round here for something else.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Get mowing. After that, there’s the weeding front and back. The shed needs clearing out, and there’s the attic . . .’
He worked like a Trojan all day until five o’clock. His muscles, bones, sinews and ego were probably damaged beyond repair. Maybe he needed a holiday. Maybe two weeks in the Maldives would paper over the cracks.
There was no answer when he knocked on the back door.
‘Nicky?’
Maybe she’d gone out.
He stepped inside. ‘Hello?’
Nothing.
He took his shoes off, left them on the mat at the door and ventured further into the house. ‘Nicky?’
‘Up here, Quigg.’
‘You want me to come up?’
‘Yes. I have more work for you up here.’
‘More work?’
‘A lot more work.’
Maybe he should just go home and climb into a hot rejuvenating shower.
He made his way up the stairs.
‘Where?’
‘In here.’
He could smell fragrances, soap, shower gel and shampoo. Steam drifted through the open door. He edged inside. It was the bathroom. Nicky was lying naked in the bath.
‘Well?’
He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the bath at the tap end.
She held up one of her feet. ‘I’ll tell you when to stop.’
As he began massaging her toes, she rubbed his erection with the toes of her other foot.
***
Sunday, August 11
‘Hello.’
‘Quigg, is that you?’
‘Mum, is that you?’
‘Have you sold my house yet, Quigg?’
‘Never mind that, mum. Where are you?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Where?’
‘Bago.’
‘Where the hell’s that?’
‘Burma.’
He glanced at the clock. It was three-fifteen in the morning.
‘What are you doing in Burma?’
‘Maggie and me have opened an English cafe.’
‘In Burma?’
‘And I got married again, Quigg.’
‘Married? You’re joking.’
‘And you’re going to have a little brother or sister.’
‘You’re pregnant?’
‘That’s usually the way it goes.’
‘But you’re nearly a hundred years old, mum.’
‘Wash your mouth out with carbolic soap, Quigg. I’m in the prime of my life.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘And I can’t believe you haven’t sold my house yet.’
‘There’s been a problem, mum.’
‘You’re the problem, Quigg. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Get my house sold. I’ll ring you next month and tell you where to send the money.’
The line crackled and then went dead.
Burma! What was she doing in Burma? How had she got there? Who had she married? At her age, how had she become pregnant? Jesus! Mothers weren’t meant to behave like this. She was eighty-seven years old for God’s sake.
Maybe he should fly over to Burma and bring her and Maggie Crenshaw back.
***
He’d heard nothing from Lucy since Thursday. She hadn’t come out of her room for drink or food.
Now it was an emergency.
He opened up the underground tunnel, went down the steps and held his nose at the smell.
There was a dead body at Lucy’s end of the tunnel.
He felt faint.
Lucy!
But it wasn’t Lucy.
It was a dead blonde-haired woman with big breasts and a knife sticking out of her neck. She had a note pinned to her chest:
Hey, Quigg!
This was meant to be your surprise.
Instead, she surprised me.
She was one of those Black Sun Nazis.
Check out her tits.
Anyway, I had to kill her in self-defence.
I’ll leave you to get rid of the body.
Now I’ve got to go.
I didn’t tell you two things:
I thought I was pregnant this week, but it was a false alarm;
And
I love you.
Maybe we’ll see each other again.
Lucy
XXX
He lifted up the blonde’s top and bra. She certainly had an impressive pair of breasts. On the left one was tattooed “Heil”, and on the right one “Hitler”.
What was he going to do without Lucy? She was his rock, his friend, his lover. He sat there for a long time thinking about how much he loved Lucy Neilson. What had he done that had made her leave? He tried to phone her, but it was an unobtainable number. Maybe she’d come back soon.
That night, he drove to Kent and buried the blonde in a forest next to Mervyn Jones.
***
Monday, August 12
‘What’s this?’ he said, waving the brown envelope at Kline with his name on the front.
‘Read it and find out.’
She’d just walked into his office as if the past week had never happened.
‘And where the hell have you been?’
‘Germany.’
‘I don’t remember signing a holiday request form for you to go to Germany.’
‘It’ll all be in my report.’
‘I was worrie
d about you.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘Is the professor still alive?’
‘Yes. Thankfully, two Mossad agents got out of the other mine and came back to haul us out of the mine we went in, otherwise we’d still be there. Anyway, read the letter.’
He ripped the envelope open. ‘It better not be a transfer request.’ He opened the folded piece of paper and read the letter.
She paced in front of his desk.
‘You’re joking.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You’re resigning?’
‘That’s what it says.’
‘Resigning?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve got the word wrong, haven’t you? You obviously meant to write “holiday” instead of “resignation”.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Kline. I won’t allow it.’
‘You know I killed DI Caesar.’
‘I know nothing of the sort.’
‘Yes you do. And you know I tortured and killed Rufus Murdoch.’
‘Nothing I wouldn’t have done myself.’
‘I’m not a police officer anymore.’
‘Yes you are – one of the best police officers . . .’
‘I planned to kill the others as well, but Emilia made me see that if I wanted to have a life I had to let go of the past. Being a police officer is part of my past.’
‘No . . .’
‘Yes. I’m going to Israel.’
‘You’re going where?’
‘They’ve asked me to become a Mossad agent.’
‘I absolutely forbid it. You’re obviously suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We’ll get you seen by a doctor today. We’ll . . .’
She began to cry. ‘You’ve been the best boss and partner ever, Quigg.’
‘You’re just saying that. I’ve been rubbish. There’s a chart downstairs that tells people what a rubbish boss I am.’
‘That’s not a real chart, you know. They just have that to wind the more gullible Inspectors up.’
‘Of course, I knew that. Please don’t go, Kline.’
‘I have to, Sir.’
‘You’re going to work your notice though?’
‘Of course. I’ve agreed two weeks with the Personnel Department. The rest will be paid holiday.’
‘Two weeks! What am I going to do without you, Kline?’
‘You’ll find someone, Sir.’
####
The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights
(Quigg 7: A Novella)
Tuesday, August 20
It didn’t take them long to reach the Cannon Green housing estate, which was rife with all manner of problems from drugs to murder.
He’d never heard of Apocalypse Heights, but it was probably an apt name for a high-rise in this part of Hammersmith. There were seven concrete monstrosities in the shape of a cross. Apocalypse Heights was the central block. Above it was Tenaron House, to the left – Acheron Point, to the right – Stull Tower, and below – Curtius Refuge, Avernus Citadel and Hekla Ridge.
Kline did a hand-brake turn into a gap between a burnt-out Jaguar XFR-S and an old vomit-green Citroen C2. He was going to miss her when she left to go to Israel next week.
‘I’m not optimistic that this is a good place to park a car,’ she said.
‘We should have hailed a taxi.’
‘You’ll be able to claim on your insurance.’
‘Maybe we should pay someone to look after it for us.’
‘We?’
‘I thought possession . . .’
‘Except where any payments are required, and then the vehicle reverts back to the original owner – don’t you know anything?’
‘Obviously not.’
They climbed out of the Mercedes.
The new forensic truck had been parked up against the building, and the tattooed driver was drinking a can of beer, listening to ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ by Pink Floyd and had his bare feet on the dashboard.
Quigg spotted a boy who looked as though he still had some decency left in him, and held out a twenty pound note.
The boy laughed. ‘What do you want me to do with that, shitface?’
‘Look after my car.’
‘The going rate is a pony.’
‘FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!’ He knew about cockney rhyming slang. Christ! He could buy another car for a pony. ‘Well . . . just save what you can.’
The twenty pound note disappeared and the urchin grinned like a magician’s assistant. ‘Maybe a wing mirror, but the paintwork will probably need a touch-up.’
Another group of boys shuffled towards them licking their lips.
‘Hey babe,’ one of them said to Kline. He looked all of ten years old. ‘I’ve got it, if you want it. Whad’ya say?’
Kline laughed. ‘Use it or lose it is what I say, but I’ll need to inspect the goods more closely before I agree to anything.’ She gnashed her teeth together. ‘Know what I mean?’
The corner of the boy’s mouth went up. ‘Yeah, right. You show me yours first and we might have a deal.’
She jerked her body towards them and they scattered like rabbits.
Out of nowhere, a brick hurtled through the air towards Quigg’s head.
He ducked.
The brick bounced off the roof of his car.
‘Bastards!’ he shouted after them.
A five-man team of uniformed officers in riot gear carrying shields, batons and tasers stood on guard at the door.
‘Been any trouble yet?’ he asked.
‘No,’ a Sergeant replied. ‘The natives have been surprisingly subdued. I expect they’re stocking up on Molotov cocktails and bricks as we speak.’
‘Let’s hope not.’
They went inside the graffiti-daubed entrance.
‘What floor?’ Kline asked.
‘Haven’t got a clue.’
He pulled out his phone and called Perkins.
‘Hello?’
Perkins’ voice sounded as though it was being percolated through a coffee filter.
‘Is that you, Perkins?’
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘Quigg.’
‘You sound a bit strange, Sir.’
‘Me? You’re the one that sounds strange. Where the hell are you?’
‘Twenty-seventh floor.’
He moved the phone away from his mouth and said to Kline, ‘How many floors are there in this place?’
She shrugged. Walked over to one of the two lifts, pressed the button, and when the doors opened looked at the number of buttons on the control panel. ‘Forty,’ she said. ‘With two basement levels.’
He spoke into the phone again. ‘The Chief was a bit unclear on what’s been going on here, what exactly have you got up there?’
‘Evidence.’
‘That’s not like you, Perkins.’
‘Yes, well. Normally we have a body with no evidence. This time we’ve got evidence without a body.’
‘And it’s evidence of a murder I can hang my hat on?’
‘I would say so. Lots of blood, a heart and a bucket full of small intestines.’
‘Okay. Twenty-seventh floor, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Kline and I are on our way up.’
‘See you soon.’
They shuffled into the lift.
Kline pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor and the doors sighed shut.
Quigg didn’t feel as though the lift was moving. He glanced at the buttons on the control panel, but the light wasn’t shifting beyond “G”.
‘We’re not moving, Kline.’
‘You saw me press the button.’ She pressed it again, but still nothing happened.
He grunted. ‘It clearly isn’t working. Open the doors.’
She pressed the button.
The doors opened. They stepped back into the entrance hall. A light had begun to flicker in a recess above the residents’ metal post
-boxes, and the uniformed officers had moved away from the doorway.
‘Let’s try the other lift,’ he said.
He pressed the button to call the second lift, but it appeared to be stuck on the thirty-fifth floor.
‘We could go up the stairs,’ Kline suggested.
He gave a laugh. ‘Twenty-seven floors? Do I look like I’ve got twenty-seven floors in me?’
‘Now you come to mention it.’
‘I could . . .’
‘I don’t think so. It would still leave me down here unable to investigate the murder I’ve come to investigate. We need to call a lift engineer. Is there a telephone number to ring in case of emergencies?’
Kline stepped into the first lift again. ‘Here it is: Trojan Lifts – 07901 872098.’
He called the number and paced around the lobby.
‘Apollyon Lifts?’
‘Detective Inspector Quigg from Hammersmith.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m at Apocalypse Heights on the Cannon Green estate. There’s been a murder on the twenty-seventh floor, but the lifts don’t seem to be working properly.’
‘Have you tried pressing the button?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll send an engineer.’
‘When . . . ?’
The line went dead.
He opened his mouth to speak to Kline, but the lobby was empty and the lift doors had closed.
He pressed the button, and then noticed that the first lift was just passing the sixteenth floor on its way up, and the second lift had reached the twenty-first floor on its way down.
What the hell was going on?
Why had Kline left him standing in the lobby?
He rang her?
‘Yep?’
She sounded a million miles away, and he was reminded of the conversation he’d just had with Perkins.
‘Why did you leave me down here?’
‘I came back in the lift to see if it was working again. I pressed a few buttons, and the doors closed while I had my back turned. The next thing I knew I was travelling up.’