by Tim Ellis
Instead, a portly man with white hair and a bushy white beard appeared. ‘Hello?’
Rodney smiled and produced his identity card. ‘Sorry to bother you, Sir. My name is Rodney Crankshank from Bulldog Investigations in Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you Mr Kenneth Hughes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to talk to you about a ten year-old girl you and your wife adopted in 1995 called Sally Tomkins.’
‘Adopted?’
‘Yes. She spent eighteen months in foster care at Stone Cross in Eastbourne with the Perez family.’
‘In 1995?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Our ten year-old child – Caitlin – died in 1995.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but . . .’
‘And then my wife threw herself under an articulated lorry on the High Street shortly afterwards.’
‘That’s terrible, Mr Hughes.’
The man began rolling up his sleeves. ‘So what’s your game, Mr Crankshank?’
‘Game? No, there’s no game. Here, let me show you . . .’ He walked back to his car, opened the boot, took out the copy of the Social Services file on Sally Tomkins and then returned to the open front door. Proffering the open file towards Mr Hughes, he pointed to the man’s name and address. ‘There – Carol and Kenneth Hughes living at this address.’
‘And we’re supposed to have adopted this Sally Tomkins from Eastbourne Social Services?’
‘Yes.’
‘No – we never adopted another child. I don’t know what this is all about, but in 1995 I buried my own daughter and then my wife, and I’ve lived alone ever since. Oh, I’ve been out with a few other women, nearly got engaged a couple of times, but none of them were Carol.’
‘Can I ask, what did your daughter die of?’
‘She was killed in a hit and run accident on the High Street. The police never found the driver or the car. According to witnesses, the driver mounted the pavement, ran her down and then carried on as if nothing had happened. Witnesses gave the number plate to the police, but the car was stolen apparently. And then Carol killed herself in the exact same place a week after Caitlin’s funeral – she was devastated. So, what’s this all about, Mr Crankshank?’
‘One more question, Mr Hughes. How old was Caitlin?’
‘She was the same age as that other girl Carol and I were supposed to have adopted – eight years old. If she’d lived, she would have been twenty-eight now.’ Kenneth Hughes squeezed the tears from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
‘I could do with a coffee, Mr Hughes.’
‘Of course.’
Rodney was ushered into a living room, which was functional rather than aesthetic. It was a room frozen in time, which wasn’t exactly a shrine to his wife and daughter, but there were a hell of a lot of framed photographs of his wife and daughter on the walls, the mantelpiece and on a long sideboard in front of the window.
‘Sugar, milk?’
‘Yes please – two sugars.’
‘Strong, or as it comes?’
‘As it comes.’
Once Mr Hughes had left, he picked up a picture of Carol and Caitlin Hughes off the sideboard. The woman was pretty. Not a raving beauty, but pleasing to the eye. Caitlin was much the same, with frizzy brown hair and freckles. They’d been a normal suburban family who had obviously been targeted because they had an eight year-old daughter, but so did a million other couples. How had the Hughes family risen to the top?
He told Kenneth Hughes what little he knew. ‘. . . And I think your daughter was killed so that Sally Tomkins could become Caitlin Hughes and disappear.’
‘You mean my daughter was murdered?’
‘I’m only guessing, but I would say so – yes.’
‘Who would do such a thing to an eight year-old girl? We have to go to the police.’
‘I’m already working with the police.’ He told Hughes about DI Holm from Shepherd’s Bush, but he didn’t say anything about Lancer Communications or DI Quigg.
‘But who . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry Mr Hughes, I have no answers for you yet. But I promise that when DI Holm and I do have the answers, one of us will come here and tell you what those answers are.’
‘It’s the government, isn’t it?’
Rodney shrugged. ‘For now, my advice is to keep your own counsel.’ He told Mr Hughes what had happened to Deidre, Sue and Peter.
‘And the police don’t know who these people are?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, I’ll say nothing for now, but I’m not a very patient man, Mr Crankshank.’
‘Impatience will probably get you killed, Mr Hughes. What work do you do?’
‘I’m a Safety Inspector for the Office for Nuclear Regulation.’
‘That must be interesting?’
‘It is.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Lunch?’ Dwyer said, starting the engine.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘I’m not paying.’ She pulled out into the light traffic on Deacons Rise and headed towards Highgate Village along the A1. ‘A Sergeant gets paid considerably less than an Inspector.’
‘That might be so, but you don’t have my outgoings.’
‘Which is neither here nor there.’
‘Well, it is when I haven’t got any money.’
‘Why – it’s only the second day of the month?’
‘The Child Support Agency steal three quarters of my salary on the first of every month.’
Dwyer shook her head. ‘Is it true that you live with three women and God-knows how many children?’
‘Four children. And only two women at the moment, but I think the third one has seen the error of her ways and is coming back to me.’
‘Why did she leave in the first place?’
‘She’s troubled, and she doesn’t know what she wants or what’s good for her.’
‘Weren’t you married before?’
‘And divorced. She’s dead now – murdered apparently.’
‘Murdered?’
‘DI Erica Holm from Shepherd’s Bush is looking into it. Well . . . that’s not strictly true. She’s investigating a triple murder at a detective agency. I employed a private investigator from that agency to find my wife and daughter who have been missing for quite a while, and he found my wife in a mortuary. She’d been processed under another name . . .’
‘Under another name! Why?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘What about your daughter?’
‘Phoebe?’
‘Is that her name?’
‘Yes. No – no sign of her.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘No, I mean if you’re wife’s dead and your daughter is missing – why are the CSA still taking your money? Where’s the money going? Who’s your wife’s next-of-kin?’
‘You ask some interesting questions, Sergeant.’ He pulled out his phone and called Celia Tabbard.
‘Hello, Quigg.’
‘Hi, Celia. We need to talk.’
‘Just talk?’
‘Well, all right. We can do that as well, but I need to talk to you about the CSA payments.’
‘Okay. I have a nurse’s uniform.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. What about tonight?’
‘I’ll try, but I’m running an investigation at the moment. I’ll call you later one way or the other and let you know.’
‘I look forward to it.’
The line went dead.
Dwyer slowed down. ‘Shall I pull in here?’
He looked at the name of the pub on the swinging sign: The Red Lion and Sun. ‘One place is as good as another, I suppose.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yes.’
She pulled into the car park a
nd drove into a space between a white Fiat 500 called Sydney and a purple VW camper van with a plethora of flowers stuck all over the paintwork.
‘Who was that you called?’
‘My solicitor.’
‘You have a solicitor?’
‘It’s complicated.’
She pulled a face. ‘Everything about you is complicated.’
‘That’s true, but it wasn’t always this way. I remember when life used to be as simple as snow.’
They made their way into the bar.
‘Not too late for lunch are we?’ he said to the tasty-looking barmaid.
The woman smiled at them as if they were the first customers of the day. Her hair hung past her naked shoulders and was a mix of blonde and a strange brown curled up in a fifties style quiff. The tattoo of a heart surrounded by flowers had been inked into the top of her right arm, and she wore a black and white polka dot bodice that uplifted her substantial breasts. ‘I think we have some leftovers if you’re interested? I’m sure the pigs won’t mind.’
‘We’re interested,’ Quigg said. ‘Let the pigs get their own leftovers.’
‘Hog roast okay?’
‘I’m game. What about you, Dewey? Even a skeleton needs to eat.’
‘I suppose I could try some.’
‘Two hog roasts it is then,’ the barmaid confirmed. ‘Anything to drink?’
Quigg ran his tongue over his dry lips as he imagined licking extra-cold Guinness out of her cleavage. ‘Orange juice for me.’
‘Lemon and lime, please,’ Dewey said.
Once the barmaid had poured their drinks and placed the glasses on the bar in front of them, they found a table next to a window overlooking the front of the pub and sat down.
Dwyer took a sip of her lemon and lime and said, ‘Did you believe her?’
‘The barmaid?’
‘Lilith?’
‘She didn’t look like a vampire.’
‘What do vampires look like?’
‘Not like her. She was too . . . you know, buxom to be a vampire.’
‘Vampires are a lot skinnier are they? With no breasts?’
‘That’s it.’
She puffed out her flat chest. ‘A bit like me?’
‘Ah!’ He noticed the barmaid heading in their direction with two plates and grinned. ‘Saved by a hog roast.’
The Gloucester Old Spot hog roast looked juicy and tender, and came with side dishes of Greek salad overflowing with tomatoes and feta; white bean salad; coleslaw; potato salad with diced red onions; a plate of foccacia bread and skin-on chips.
‘Nobody said anything about a feast,’ Dwyer said, pulling a face.
‘Get stuck in, Dwyer. It’ll put some meat on your . . .’
‘. . . Breasts?’
‘Would that be such a bad thing?’
Dwyer pursed her lips. ‘Well?’
‘Forget the LC Club and the Satanists. The bodily fluid they’re interested in doesn’t come in red.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’
‘Have I told you that I don’t like you, Quigg?’
‘I think you’ve been more than forthright about your views on that topic, Sergeant.’
‘Good. I’d hate there to be any confusion in that regard.’
‘No. Absolutely no confusion on my part.’
They were quiet for a time while they ate.
Quigg broke the silence. ‘What I’m interested in is who’s on that DVD.’
‘Because?’
‘If you recall, our victim had an abortion recently.’
‘I know absolutely nothing about orgies, but I imagine that if you get pregnant following participation in an orgy it would be extremely difficult working out who the father was.’
‘If you know nothing about orgies, I’d like to know what they’ve been teaching you in Vice, Sergeant.’
‘Not about orgies, that’s for sure.’
‘Mmmm! Well, it’s not worth asking for a transfer to Vice then. I was thinking more about a motive. What’s the motive for killing a beautiful young woman? Forget about the cause of death, which I’m guessing is more likely poison rather than a vampire virus. Why would someone want to kill her?’
‘Jealousy.’ Dwyer seemed to be focussing on the salad rather than the meat. ‘Maybe the fiancé wasn’t the father of the foetus. She gets rid of it, but he still finds out that she’s cheated on him and in a fit of rage – kills her.’
‘It’s a possibility that he killed her out of jealousy, but not in a fit of rage. She was murdered by a cold and calculating individual. There was no evidence of rage.’
‘Maybe she was killed because she knew too much.’
‘About what?’
‘What about revenge?’
‘For what?’
‘Hate?’
‘No.’
‘Money?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Drugs?’
‘There’s no evidence of anything relating to drugs.’
‘Crime of passion?’
‘Passion infers rage – no evidence of rage.’
‘We’re discounting the murderer being a vampire then?’
‘I think we can put the vampire theory in a coffin and forget about it. Also, we can dismiss the notion that it was a random killing. There was nothing random about the marks on her neck, or the way her body was arranged.’
‘Okay, so the number one suspect is the fiancé?’
Quigg shovelled a mishmash of meat and salad into his mouth. ‘Uh huh.’
‘Why was she at the LC Club?’ Dwyer said.
‘I don’t think you need me to answer that.’
‘You say that, but she was engaged to someone who could afford a diamond as big as the rock of Gibraltar, so why was she there? And did her fiancé accompany her? If not, why not? If he did, what happened to him? And why hasn’t he reported her missing?’
‘Maybe they were an enlightened couple.’
‘Swingers, you mean?’
‘Is that what they’re called?’
‘Yes, but just because I know what they’re called, don’t get any stupid ideas.’
‘I think you’re overestimating my capacity for idea-generation.’
‘Probably.’
‘Jealousy could also encompass a previous boyfriend. Remember, seven women on average every month are killed by an ex-partner.’
Dwyer gave a deep sigh. ‘All this speculation isn’t really getting us anywhere. We need to know who the victim is.’
‘Yes we do.’ He pulled out his phone and called Perkins.
‘Hello . . . ?’
‘Never mind sucking up to me, Perkins. Have you got anywhere with tracing the Sekonda watch or the diamond ring?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was just about to call you.’
‘I’ll believe that when you actually do call me.’
‘Well, there’s no need to call you now, because you called me.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘As I said yesterday, forget the watch. The ring, however, was bought at The Vault Jewellers in Hatton Garden.’
‘Why does that sound familiar?’
‘There was a heist there three weeks ago. The thieves got away with over two hundred million pounds in cash and jewellery.’
‘Why have I got a bad feeling about this, Perkins?’
‘I don’t know, Sir. Anyway, the ring was bought by a man called James Baglio. He lives in the penthouse apartment of Cambridge Towers on Lawford Road in Kentish Town.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘He’s a futures trader at Morgan Trading, which is located on Bread Street in the city.’
‘Oh, one of those people?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, thanks for your help.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Oh, where is Baglio now?
’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know? Are you expecting me to waste my valuable time trying to locate him?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Find out where he is and ring me back.’
He ended the call.
‘You were a bit hard on him, weren’t you?’
‘I can imagine you and Perkins in bed together. It would be like two skeletons rattling in a coffin.’
‘Thank God I’m only partnering you for this one case, otherwise you’d be investigating your own murder.’
His phone vibrated. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s at home, Sir.’
‘Good.’ He ended the call. ‘Right, eat up, Dwyer. We have somewhere to go.’
‘I’m still not paying.’
‘I’ll pay. It looks like I won’t be funding the CSA’s monthly piss-ups anymore.’
***
‘You pushed me off the platform.’
‘I had to see if you were really my Lucy.’
‘Your Lucy? I haven’t been your Lucy for sixteen years.’
‘You’ll always be my Lucy.’
‘I could have died.’
‘But you didn’t, did you?’
‘No thanks to you. You’re meant to be my father.’
‘I am your father.’ He was nothing like she remembered. Although he’d often not shaved, now he had a full beard. It was mostly grey and bushy. His hairline had receded, but he still had a full head of hair. He’d put on a few extra pounds as well. Before, he’d been lanky, now he was beefy. There were crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, ridges across his forehead and laughter lines round his mouth. Shabby and torn clothes hung off him like a tramp. She guessed he was getting on for sixty years old now.
‘Why are we here in this maze?’
He sat down with his back against the wall. ‘I stumbled onto it when I left you and Billy. This is my secret place. It was designed and built by an eccentric Victorian called Henry Wise. He had the idea that it would attract visitors who were sightseeing in London, but he died before he could open it up to the public. After that, it was forgotten. Even now, nobody knows it exists.’
‘Except you . . . and now me?’
‘Yes.’
‘That doesn’t explain why I’m down here and why I had to complete all those stupid puzzles.’
‘It was part of the test to see if you were my Lucy.’