by Tim Ellis
Jack put plastic restraints around the man’s wrists and ankles, and then slammed the boot shut.
He threw the bag of weapons onto the back seat, took off the ski-mask and slid into the driver’s seat. ‘How are you feeling, Ruth?’
‘I have felt better.’
‘I’ll soon have you home, or should I take you to the hospital?’
‘No, take me home.’
The traffic had thinned out, but it was still slow going. It took him forty minutes to reach Godolphin Road.
He left the engine running while he helped Ruth to the front door. ‘I’ll leave you here.’
‘No, you must come in.’
‘Thanks, but I have things to do. Tell Lucy to double the guard in case they get any more ideas.’
‘I will.’ She turned and hugged him. ‘Thank you, Jack.’
‘My pleasure.’
He left her, returned to the Audi, checked that everything was at it should be in the boot and headed back towards the Hoboken Machinery warehouse.
***
‘Tell your officers I’ll meet them at the front,’ Quigg said to Inspector Mark Robson. ‘I had a meeting at five o’clock, which I’ll just go and put off until tomorrow morning.’
‘Five minutes?’
‘Ideal.’ He hurried back up the stairs to find DS Hawking exactly where he’d left her. ‘I have to go out, Sergeant.’
‘We had a meeting.’
‘I know, but DC Rummage is missing. I think her life may be in danger.’
‘Oh! Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. I have back-up, but thanks for the offer.’
‘I think I’ve discovered who took your son.’
He stopped rushing about to stare at her. ‘Really?’
‘The Apostles are all where they’re meant to be – locked up in jail. None of their relatives have visited them in prison, or spoken to them on the telephone, which is hardly surprising. If it was my husband or father . . .’
‘If you’ve eliminated all the possible suspects, who’s left?’
‘Someone you might not have considered – Paul Pratchett.’
‘DI Gwen Peters’ ex-boyfriend! He’s dead. He committed suicide by driving his police motorbike into a wall.’
‘Yes, but he had a younger brother.’
She was right, he hadn’t considered Paul Pratchett’s relatives, and probably never would have done either. Certainly, Pratchett had blamed him for DI Peters getting pregnant, but it was hardly his fault. She’d made up her mind that she wanted Quigg’s baby and not Pratchett’s because Pratchett was bald. In the end, neither of them had had any input into the decision.
‘Have you tested this theory yet?’
‘Yes and no. The younger brother – Peter Pratchett – was released from Wormwood Scrubs three weeks ago after serving five years for grievous bodily harm, so he has form.’
‘Not for abducting children?’
‘No, but for revenge. The GBH was against a new boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend who’d had enough of his abuse.’
‘Okay. What’s your plan?’
‘I’m going to obtain a Search Warrant, raid his house and bring him in for questioning.’
‘Speak to Inspector Mark Robson downstairs in operations. Tell him I’ve authorised it, and to give you everything you need.’
‘Good luck finding Rummage, Sir.’
‘Good luck finding my son, Hawking.’
On his way down the stairs he called Justine Chevalier.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m on my way to 55 Staveley Road in Chiswick, W4 2SK.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
He hurried down the stairs and round to the front of the police station. Two squad cars were waiting for him. He climbed into the rear of the first car and said, ‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Staveley Road in Chiswick, Sir?’
‘Don’t spare the horses, Constable. DC Rummage’s life, and possibly her virginity, could be in danger.’
The female constable in the front passenger seat turned round and looked at him. ‘Her virginity?’
He recognised her as one of the three females who’d caught him hiding in the shower of the ladies’ locker room and forced him to have sex with them. ‘It’s a long story, Constable Willard.’
Raising an eyebrow she said, ‘You remember me, Sir?’
‘I remember you.’
She grinned. ‘I remember you as well.’
‘That’s good. We both remember each other.’
‘I’m Constable Liam Derwent, Sir,’ the officer who was driving said.
‘I don’t remember you, Derwent.’
‘No, I didn’t expect you would. We’ve never met. So, what’s all this about, Inspector?’
‘Sex.’
‘Sex?’
‘Yes.’ He told them about the two decapitated corpses that were found on Monday; about how the investigation had led them to a sex cult called The Children; and about how Rummage had obviously gone there on her own against all his advice and the regulations.
‘And you think her life is in danger?’ Willard said.
‘The cult may embrace free love, but they’re also murderers. I don’t know the details, but they seem to have taken sexual gratification to the next level. Sex and death are taboo subjects in normal society, but both can lead to fetishes and eroticisms. The two victims were raped and sodomised by multiple perpetrators, and then decapitated. We had one of the perpetrators, but he’s just committed suicide in his cell. So, we know it was some kind of ritualistic killing. Sigmund Freud argued that sex and death are fused, and that the death instinct pervades sexual activity. The French call orgasms petit mort, or “mini-deaths”. Sexual desire is intensified with the possibility of death.’
‘Could the victims have been willing victims?’
‘It’s certainly a possibility. In which case, they could argue that it wasn’t murder, but rather assisting a person to die. However, that’s still against the law. It’s also unlikely that a jury would go along with that either.’
‘Which is probably why they discarded the bodies in the lay-by,’ Derwent said.
‘Could be. In the animal kingdom, there are numerous instances of death being the price for reproduction. Also, humans sometimes dice with death during sex – take autoerotic asphyxiation, for example.’
Juliet Chevalier was already at the address, which was a nondescript single-storey detached brick building set back from the road in its own grounds behind a line of oak trees. The windows were opaque and the doors were heavy wood.
‘Can you hear that?’ Willard said.
They all listened to the faint sound of chanting.
‘Okay,’ Quigg said to the four constables. ‘You’re not paid to stand around swaying in the breeze. Let’s get into that building and find out what the hell’s going on.’
Derwent took a hand-held battering ram out of the boot of the squad car and approached the front door.
Quigg nodded.
Willard stepped forward and turned the handle – the door opened.
They hurried inside and came to an abrupt halt.
A dozen or so naked male and females were dancing around a pentagram inset into the floor chanting:
Hail Lilith full of lust,
The lord be with you,
Lustful are you amongst women
And lustful is the fruit of thine womb,
Beautiful Lilith mother of Jezebel,
Grant to us now
The fruits of your children.
Naked and spread-eagled in the centre of the pentagram with restraints around her wrists and ankles was DC Jezebel Rummage.
‘Call the station for forensics and a meat wagon, Willard.’ He guessed that this was the original crime scene.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Chevalier was making the most of her exclusive by taking photographs and describing what was happening into her phone.
The other thr
ee officers were chasing down the chanters who had scattered to the four corners of the hall, but they didn’t seem to be getting very far as they all appeared to be under the influence of drugs.
Beyond the pentagram was an altar behind curtains that were held open by cords. As well as magic and sexual objects, there was an open steel box on a plinth with what looked like a shrivelled decapitated head inside.
‘Can you release me please, Sir?’ Rummage said.
He stood between her splayed legs looking down at her. ‘No, I don’t think so, Rummage. You got yourself into this mess, so I think it’s only fair that you should get yourself out of it.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Now, if you were to tell me some of your secrets, I might be able to find a way of getting you out of those manacles, but they’d have to be pretty substantial secrets. For example, why have you got symbols tattooed all over your torso?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘My secrets are my secrets.’
‘You have a nice body, Rummage.’
‘Thanks for saying so, but I’m not telling you my secrets.’
‘Is your virginity still intact?’
‘I’m not going to answer that either.’
‘I don’t see why not. It’s a legitimate question . . .’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing here anyway, Rummage? Didn’t I tell you not to? Aren’t there regulations about doing your own thing? Being a lone wolf? A loose cannon?’
‘I thought . . .’
‘You thought you’d get all the glory?’
‘No. I was just . . .’
‘Thinking of joining the cult and getting some sexual magic for yourself?’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘I’m enjoying finding you alive. If I’d simply gone home, you’d have been raped, sodomised and turned into a headless corpse by now.’
‘I know.’
‘You know what, Rummage? Have any lessons been learned?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He began releasing her. ‘I certainly hope so, because as I said to you when you arrived, I can’t afford to lose another partner.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
He turned. ‘Willard, get Rummage a blanket before her nipples freeze and fall off.’
Willard found a blanket thrown on a chair, picked it up and hurried over with it.
Just then, Perkins came through the door followed by two forensic officers. ‘In the nick of time, Sir?’ he said.
‘Thanks to you, Perkins.’ He glanced at Rummage. ‘You have Perkins to thank for finding your phone signal when he did. Another fifteen minutes . . . Well, I think we both know what would have happened, don’t we?’
‘Thanks, Mister Perkins,’ she said.
‘That’s all right. I’m just glad that Forensics could make a difference for a change.’
‘Let’s not overegg the pudding, Perkins. Right Rummage, I expect your clothes are lying about here somewhere. So, once you’ve got yourself dressed I think it’s only right and proper that you finish up here, process the suspects back at the station and do all the reports for my perusal in the morning.’
‘Me?’
‘Unless, of course, you’d like me to refer your wayward conduct to Professional Standards?’
‘You can leave everything to me, Sir.’
‘Very kind of you, Rummage. I’m going home now. Where are the keys to my Toyota Aygo?’
‘They’ll be here somewhere.’
‘You can get a lift back to the station in one of the squad cars.’
‘Okay.’
On his way out he received a call from Duffy.
‘Yes, Duffy?’
‘Jack just brought Ruth home.’
‘Thank God. Is she all right?’
‘A bit bruised and battered, but otherwise she’s fine.’
‘I’m on my way home now, so I’ll see you soon. Thanks for letting me know, Duffy.’
‘I thought you’d be worried.’
‘I was.’
He decided to call the Chief.
‘I’m just sitting down to my evening meal, Quigg.’
‘Cooked by Mrs Belmarsh, Chief?’
‘Unfortunately yes. What do you want?’
‘I just called to tell you that Ruth is back home.’
‘That’s good to hear. You can fill me in on the details tomorrow morning.’
‘Will do, Sir. Enjoy your meal.’
The line went dead.
If Jack and Lucy Neilson were involved, he doubted very much whether he could fill the Chief in on the details.
***
He arrived home at seven-thirty.
His heart jumped at the sight of his Mercedes. He hoped it was still in one piece and that everything still worked as it should. It occurred to him that it was getting a bit old now. Maybe he should think about part-exchanging it for a newer model. Maybe a different colour – silver was boring, maybe he’d get a yellow one, or red . . .
There were two men on the gate now, and three men in the grounds with Monty.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked as he strode past one of the guards in the grounds.
‘All I know is that an increase in the threat level has triggered a comparable response to the security arrangements.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Glad I could help.’
He tried the front door, but it was locked.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Quigg.’
The door opened a crack.
‘I live here.’
‘Okay.’
He went inside.
‘Just you in here?’ he said to the man who opened the door.
‘We thought three outside would be better than cluttering up the house.’
‘Probably wise.’
He put his briefcase in his own bedroom and then walked through into the living room.
All three women were there, but he hurried to Ruth. ‘God! What happened to you?’
‘They beat me. I told them everything they wanted to know.’
Lucy interrupted. ‘It doesn’t matter though, because Jack killed DCI Thackeray and took Commander Andrew Wyatt to a secret location in preparation for one of my user-friendly confessions.’
He remembered that the Chief had mentioned both of those senior officers, and he’d said that they weren’t aware of any operations. He held out his hand. ‘While I think about it – car keys?’
Lucy wriggled her hand into her jeans pocket, pulled out the keys and handed them to him. ‘I’ve made copies.’
‘If you have, you’ll find yourself serving twenty-five years to life in Bronzefield Prison.’
‘As if. Anyway, I have a full driving licence now, so your Mercedes is safe with me.’
‘How is that possible? You haven’t passed either your theory or practical tests.’
‘Minor details. Also, I have a new motorbike coming.’
‘Motorbike! You haven’t passed your motorbike test either.’
‘I have a full licence, so I must have done.’
‘I feel as though I’m harbouring a criminal.’
‘That’s what turns you on at night, Quigg.’
‘So, tell me what you’ve been doing for the last couple of days?’
‘Do you want to be an accessory to murder after the fact?’
‘Murder!’
‘It was either them or us.’
‘God! What have you and your father done, Lucy?’
‘Tell him, Ruth,’ she said.
‘It is true, Quigg. If Jack had not arrived when he did, I would be dead by now.’
‘A police Commander and a DCI?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what about the others – the eight police officers you abducted?’
‘All dead – no witnesses.’
‘Dead! The world is going to hell in a handbasket.’
‘Stop being a drama queen.’
‘I can’t believe they w
ere as bad as you make out.’
Duffy turned on the television and said, ‘Watch this, unbeliever.’
The eight o’clock news came on:
“Good evening. This is Susanne Beaufort and the Eight O’clock News. The breaking news story is investigative journalist, Ruth Lynch-Guevara’s report on police corruption within the Metropolitan Police Service . . .”
The camera cuts to Ruth:
“I am investigative journalist Ruth Lynch-Guevara reporting to you from outside Shoreditch Police Station in London. Recently, I was contacted by a whistle-blower – John Lupton – who was the Clerk of Committees at the Independent Office for Police Conduct. I say “was”, because he has since been murdered by a hired assassin to stop the truth from coming out, but as Launcelot in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice once said: “Truth will out”. I am here to make sure that truth comes out.”
The camera cuts to Valerie Cowley’s confession:
“My name is Valerie Cowley. I’m a police constable with the Metropolitan Police Service and I work . . . used to work at Shoreditch Police Station. I’m a single mother to a three year-old boy called Ethan, and a two year-old girl called Emily. Eighteen months ago, because I was struggling financially, I accepted a bribe of five hundred pounds from a journalist with the Daily Sentinel to reveal information about a sex trafficking case. Three months after that, Inspector Paul Raynham, who also works at Shoreditch, told me that I was being investigated for misconduct by the IPCC, which is now called the IOPC. He said that, if the case was proven, I would be dismissed from the police service and probably receive a custodial sentence for perverting the course of justice . . . I thought my life was over and that my children would be taken from me. He said that there were people who could make it all go away, but I had to agree to join them. What choice did I have?”
The camera cuts back to Susanne Beaufort in the studio:
“There has been no comment from the Police Commissioner yet, but already an attempt at a news blackout has been refused by the High Court. Ruth Lynch-Guevara has promised at least a dozen more confessions, which name names, identify the crimes committed and the money involved. Stay tuned for a special report after the news on the wider implications of this alleged corruption in the capital’s police force. Is it possible that this crisis could topple the government?”