by Tim Ellis
‘Good morning, Mandy.’
She’d dyed her hair straw blonde overnight, and the strands were tied together on top of her head with a piece of frayed string like a haystack. She had on a low-cut patterned top, a short rainbow ruffled skirt and a pair of multicoloured leggings. ‘No bra today?’
‘I thought I’d let ‘em roam free.’
He nodded his head like a true believer. ‘They’re certainly doing that.’
‘Yeah. I always thought you was a breast man. I know you been wantin’ a gander at my melons for ages, so . . .’ Before he knew what was happening she slipped the straps of her thin sleeveless top off her naked shoulders and bared her heavy breasts. ‘Well, what d’ya think, ‘Spector?’ she said, cupping them in the palms of her hands and weighing them up and down as if she were selling them on the fruit and veg stall at the local market – buy one get one free.
He looked round nervously. ‘They’re fabulous, but you’d better put them away before someone thinks I’m taking advantage of your youth and innocence.’
She squeezed them back into her top. ‘My Wayne says you don’t get many of them to the pound.’
‘Your Wayne knows his melons.’
‘He certainly does.’
‘Anyway, I’m up to my eyeballs with this new case I’ve been given. And I’m only here because I’m on my way to the briefing room to let the press know how the investigation is going.’
‘No, that ain’t what I meant when I said I was surprised to see ya here in your office.’
‘Oh?’
‘I mean, you being a laughing stock an’ all.’
‘A laughing stock?’
‘Everyone knows about how you got caught by the Chief tryin’ to roger his new secretary.’
‘No, don’t say that, Mandy.’
‘Just ‘cause I don’t say it don’t mean it ain’t true.’
‘But the Chief didn’t catch me doing anything. I went up to the attic . . .’
‘That’s not what’s going round the station.’
‘Who’s spreading these vicious rumours?’
‘Well me, and some of the other girls, but Christy Tinkley told us what happened to start with . . . in confidence, of course. And I suppose it just toadstooled from there.’
‘Mushroomed.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It mushroomed from there – not toadstooled.’
‘Is it important how it spread? I mean, you just slithered a whole handful of points down that chart, you know? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the first ever ‘Spector in the history of that chart to reach zero.’
‘I don’t seem to be having much luck with that chart, do I Mandy?’
‘You’d probably have better luck in the music charts. You could bring out a single. You know, start taking singing lessons, maybe get yerself a boy band, start jammin’ with some like-minded musicians and so on – something like that.’
‘I’ll give it some thought. You couldn’t help me could you?’
‘Me? I don’t know nuffink’ ‘bout music, ‘Spector Quigg.’
‘No, I mean with moving up the chart.’
‘You’ve asked me that afore, and as I said then – it wouldn’t be right . . .’
‘Surely there’s something, someone . . . ?’
‘You never heard it from me?’
‘I don’t even know who you are, Mandy.’
‘I’m the girl who brings the post . . .’
He rolled his eyes upwards and shook his head. ‘I was merely emphasising that I wouldn’t tell a soul.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She laughed. ‘I like you, ‘Spector Quigg. I keep telling the girls that you’re not half as bad as people say you are, but I’m a lone voice in the whirlpool.’
Life was too short to keep correcting her. He knew what she meant. ‘What did I never hear from you?’
She leaned in close and whispered. ‘Norma Gipson.’
His brow furrowed. ‘I don’t . . .’ Then it came to him. ‘Isn’t she the Met weightlifting champion? Black moustache? Looks like a lumberjack?’
‘Yep.’
‘What . . . ?’
‘I’ve said more ’n I ought to, Spector. She’s the one you wanna be gettin’ close to, if you know what I mean? Anything to do with the chart – she’s your man.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for your help, Mandy.’
‘Help! I ain’t been any help.’
‘Of course not. Is there any post this morning?’
‘You betcha.’ She passed him a handful of brown envelopes.
‘Thanks.’
‘Have a good one, Spector.’
‘And you, Mandy.’ He gave her a wink.
‘You got something wrong with your eye, ‘Spector?’
‘I was winking.’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind.’
‘See ya later, alligator,’ she said, and breezed out of the door.
‘In a while, crocodile,’ he called after her.
He threw the mail on his desk and hurried down the stairs to the press briefing room.
Norma Gipson! He wasn’t that desperate. It looked as though he was going to remain at the bottom of the chart for the foreseeable future.
Chapter Fifteen
She’d slept on the floor in the office in Hickes House. It wasn’t the lap of luxury she’d become accustomed to, but it was certainly better than sleeping on the cold bricks in the maze with a horde of rats.
Before going to sleep, she’d planned to phone Ruth and Duffy, but then thought better of it. It had been in her mind that she could warn them, tell them to grab the children and run for the hills. But she knew that if they did, the people at Lancer Communications would know that her father had spilled the beans, so she decided to arrange protection for them similar to what they’d had before. But first, she needed to know who the people working for Lancer Communications were.
Once her laptop had fully charged, she logged in, piggy-backed onto a local wifi connection and opened her Cygwin terminal to enter commands. She pinged the system to see if it was active – it was – the ICMP protocol hadn’t been shut off. Next, she ran a scan of the ports using nmap and found which ports were open, that the operating system was Windows Server, and using the O-switch that they were using Virtual Router. She gained access to the system through port 22 by brute force running her Python script and using the graphics card as another processor to increase the power. Once she was in the router she hijacked a user’s account who wasn’t logged into the system and gave them administrative privileges, so that she could access everything. Then, she created a backdoor in the compiler to enable future visits.
She had full access to the Lancer Communications computer network. As always, she limited herself to five minutes in a system. Any longer, and there was always the chance that she’d be detected by an administrator. There were only thirty users with accounts, so it was a small network. Of those thirty, only seven were currently logged in. With that amount of users, there was an increased risk that an administrator could easily identify a user on the system who wasn’t actually there.
It took her five more visits through the backdoor to identify all thirty-one members of Lancer Communications. There were twenty operatives – including her father – and ten people in supporting roles. The leader wasn’t on the system, but she found a reference to him anyway. She also discovered their current locations, what they were working on and where they lived. One operative – Jared Deakes – had been allocated to the Quigg case. Her father needed to terminate him first, she thought.
Also, before she could arrange the protection for Ruth, Duffy and the children, she needed to know if they had any people who were embedded in other organisations. The last thing she needed was to contact a security organisation that had sleepers working for Lancer Communications.
But she was tired. It had been after midnight by the time she’d reached that stage, so she closed everything down and went to sleep on th
e floor thinking that her father could at least have organised a waterbed, maybe a hot shower with a couple of ripped men to massage her aching shoulders and other body parts, and possibly breakfast in bed.
Instead, she had to traipse to the High Street using her uncanny knack of finding places to eat, which had led her to the Pot Boiler Cafe. The place was busy with people eating before work, after work, or instead of work. One table was taken up by a group of mums who had just dropped their brats off at playschool for the day. Two of the women had buggies with babies in them, which were blocking everybody’s access to the entrance, the toilets and the counter. It was like the fucking Marines’ obstacle course and the women didn’t seem to give a shit. One of the babies – who was either teething or unhappy with the choice of cafe – was screaming blue murder.
She wanted to tell the woman to shut the fucking rugrat up, but she restrained herself and put bits of paper napkin in her ears to reduce the decibel level. An open apology by the woman to the other customers would have been appreciated, but the bitch simply carried on chatting to her friends in-between texting on her mobile.
If she needed any reminding why she hated kids and why she was never going to get pregnant and produce some of her own – this was it. Maybe . . . she could talk Quigg into getting the chop. He had enough kids now to populate a small country, and she was sure Ruth and Duffy wouldn’t mind. A local anaesthetic, a small incision either side of the scrotum, cut and seal the tubes, and a couple of sutures to finish off – nothing to it. A fifteen-minute minor operation, a small amount of bruising and swelling of the scrotum and testis with some slight discomfort, which would be a small price to pay for unfettered sexual satisfaction in the future. She knew what a baby Quigg was, so she’d help him through the operation, give him some encouragement, nurse him back to health. Yes, she’d discuss the matter with Ruth and Duffy. They’d all gang up on him. Maybe – if the operation was so minor – it might be possible to perform the procedure at home.
‘Full English with four pieces of toast?’
She nodded.
‘Sorry about the racket,’ the waitress said as she put the plates down on the table.
‘You’re not making the noise, are you?’
‘No. Is there anything else I can get for you?’
‘A shotgun?’
The waitress gave her a weak smile and shuffled off.
She’d woken up just before five. After going to the toilet and swilling her face she accessed Lancer’s system again. It didn’t take her long to carry out a search and find the list of sleepers – there were over two hundred of them.
Now, she took out her tablet while she was shovelling food into her mouth and began scanning the list. None of the names jumped out at her until she reached Jane Dwyer – Vice Squad at Hammersmith Police Station. Her heart was in her mouth, but then she realised that detectives who worked in Vice didn’t also work in Murder, and vice versa – they were completely different sections. Still, it was a bit close to Quigg for comfort. Maybe Dwyer needed to be eliminated. She’d ponder on that for a while. What did that Chinese General say? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
What interested her was the fact that there were no senior people on the list – they were all worker bees: foragers, mortuary bees, drones, water carriers and guard bees. She also found no mention of the Druid Council. However, she had one name that didn’t seem to fit into any of the other categories: Nicholas Myers. Who was he?
A tramp came in through the door like a bad smell.
People stopped talking, the caterwauling baby took a breath and it was spooky how the buggy obstacles seemed to evaporate between the entrance and the table where she was sitting.
He barged into her arm as he made his way to the next table.
‘Hey! Watch where you’re going,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
The waitress came over. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Tea and . . .’ He rummaged in his overcoat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. ‘What can I have for thirty-nine pence?’
‘Two pieces of toast if the thirty-nine pence isn’t paying for the tea as well.’
‘Oh!
She turned her head to the waitress and said, ‘Give him a full English with the toast – I’ll pay.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I don’t need no charity, lady,’ the tramp said.
‘Okay, forget the full English – just the toast . . .’
‘Well, maybe I could take your money this one time, but I don’t want you thinking I’m a charity case.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She nodded at the waitress.
‘Yes, you’re my Lucy all right,’ the tramp said.
She swivelled on her chair and stared at him. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’
‘Have you done what you said you was gonna do, lady?’
‘I have a list of the operatives, and one of them is working on the Quigg case – Jared Deakes. You want to kill him first.’
‘You bet, lady.’ He passed her a slip of paper. ‘Send everything there. Now stop pestering me. Just ‘cause you’re buying me breakfast, don’t mean you can pester me.’ He turned his back to her as the waitress came up with his cup of tea.
‘Well, fuck you, Mister ungrateful,’ she said, turning back to her own meal. She slid the paper with the email address on it into the front pocket of her rucksack.
Next time she turned round he’d gone. The plate had been wiped clean and every drop of tea had been drunk. Her father was good. Even when she was staring at him, she didn’t recognise him.
She paid the bill and left the cafe herself.
Back in the office, she sent everything she had to the email address he’d given her, and then carried out an internet search for security companies in London who undertook personal protection. She selected one near the bottom of the list.
‘Raid Security,’ a female voice said.’
‘Do you offer personal protection?’
‘We do, Madam. We offer a comprehensive bodyguard service.’
‘A bodyguard?’
‘That’s correct. If it is the bodyguard service you require, it would be helpful if we could meet with you to discuss your specific security requirements.’
‘No, I can’t do that. Let me explain the situation over the phone now, and then you can tell me what the solution is.’
‘As you wish, Madam.’
‘And stop calling me “Madam” – my name’s Lucy.’
‘Let me pass you onto one of our senior directors, Lucy.’
‘Sure.’
She heard a click.
‘Lucy – my name is Carole Arnold. How can Raid Security be of assistance?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated is our speciality.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I live with a man . . .’ She waited for the woman to say something, but no utterance was forthcoming. Maybe lots of women lived with men. ‘. . . There are also two other women and four children who live with him as well . . .’ Still nothing. ‘So anyway, I’ve recently found out that all our lives are in danger . . .’
‘Including the children?’
‘Yes, the children as well.’
‘And when you say “their lives are in danger” what do you mean by that?’
‘They want to kill us all.’
‘Do you know who “they” are?’
‘Yes . . .’ But she didn’t say anything further.
‘And?’
‘I’m just wondering whether to trust you or not. They have sleepers in hundreds of organisations.’
‘There are no sleepers in Raid Security.’
‘Would you know if there were?’
‘Our people have a full background check prior to employment, and we carry out random security checks at three-monthly intervals.’
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know your company aren’t on the list.’
; ‘What list?’
‘The list of sleepers they have in organisations.’
‘I won’t ask how you obtained such a list.’
‘Probably a wide decision. All right, I suppose you should know who you’re dealing with. And you don’t need to tell anyone else, do you?’
‘I don’t have to, no.’
‘Good, because the fewer people who know the better. They’re called Lancer Communications.’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘That’s because they kill everyone who has heard of them. Did you read about the three people who were murdered at Bulldog Investigations in Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was them. I employed the detective agency to find my . . . boyfriend’s ex-wife and daughter. During his search the investigator stumbled across Lancer Communications. The next thing was, all three of his colleagues were murdered. I now know someone who works for Lancer Communications. He told me that it’s merely a front for a small group of operatives who do whatever they’re told to do by a shadow organisation who hide behind the elected government of the day.’
‘This isn’t one of those fake calls from a radio station, is it?’
‘I don’t blame you for thinking that, but what I’m telling you is deadly serious.’
‘Okay, Lucy. So you’d like a personal protection team . . . ?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Here’s what I’m thinking . . .’
‘Please – feel free.’
‘You do have female bodyguards, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And they carry guns?’
‘Carrying firearms is not permitted in the UK.’
‘But sometimes . . . ?’
‘Shall we move on?’
‘If they don’t carry guns, they need to. The people we’re dealing with don’t mess about. They’ll kill your operatives first and ask questions later. So, you send two female bodyguards to live in the house – one for each of the women . . .’
‘I thought you said there were three women . . .’
‘I’m not living there at the moment – I’m off the grid.’
‘Okay. What about the man?’
‘He can look after himself.’