by Tim Ellis
‘And the children – how old are they?’
‘All four are under school age.’
‘Is the man you live with the father of all the children?’
‘Yes, but let’s not go there. That’s a conversation for a miserable rainy day.’
‘Why can’t we simply install a team . . . ?’
‘If the people at Lancer Communications find out what we’re doing, the person who has given me the information will be killed. Also, we know what they’re doing now, but if someone else takes over the operation . . .’
‘So these female operatives would be working undercover?’
‘Definitely. I was thinking relatives – maybe a sister and a cousin – of the women living in the house.’
‘That might work. And how long would this . . . situation go on for?’
‘I’m hoping not for long – maybe a week. Action is being taken to neutralise the threat. So, can you provide two people?’
‘Do you want to know the costs involved?’
‘No.’ She still had access to the five million pounds they’d taken from the twelve paedophiles who called themselves the Apostles. ‘How about I transfer fifty thousand pounds to your account? You tell me when you run out, or return any loose change with an itemised receipt when it’s over.’
‘That would be acceptable. Do the two women living in the house know they have relatives arriving?’
‘No – not yet. Tell me their first names and I’ll give them a call.’
‘One moment . . .’
There was a clunk as Carole put the phone down. Lucy then heard a couple of clicks, some other noises and then, ‘Annabelle and Beth.’
‘Okay, I’ll let the women know that they’ll be there later today.’
‘That will be fine. Address?’
‘St Thomas’ Church, Godolphin Road, Shepherd’s Bush – it’s been converted.’
‘And the names of the two women?’
‘Ruth and Duffy.’
‘Can I have the man’s name as well?’
She wondered whether she should give her Quigg’s name. As he lived there it seemed pointless not to. ‘Quigg – Detective Inspector. He’s in the Murder Investigation Team at Hammersmith Police Station?’
‘A police officer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want my operatives to carry guns?’
‘He’ll be happy as long as they keep everybody safe.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Oh . . . the women aren’t pretty, are they?’
‘Why – is that a requirement?’
‘No, but Quigg has history. Why do you think he has so many children?’
‘Our operatives know better than to become romantically involved with the clients.’
Romance wasn’t the problem, she thought – it was the sex. ‘If you say so. And in emergencies – Annabelle and Beth should know that there’s a secret tunnel under the church. Tell them to ask Duffy and she’ll show them how to access it.’
They sorted out the transfer of funds, and Lucy gave Carole Arnold her new mobile number. ‘In case you need to contact me.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything else then, Lucy.’
‘Okay. Goodbye, and thanks for your help.’
‘Thank you for trusting us.’
The line went dead.
She had to trust somebody, and just hoped that her trust in Raid Security wasn’t misplaced.
Next, she phoned Duffy using her old phone.
‘Is that you . . . ?’
‘Go downstairs – there’s another phone there.’
‘Downstairs?’
‘Now’s not the time to be stupid, Duffy.’
She turned the old phone off again. The last thing she needed was someone with an app like GPS TRACKER tracking her GPS signal, which they could do if the phone was switched on. She used the new mobile to call the number of the phone she’d hidden in the tunnel.
‘Is that you Lucy?’
‘Who else would it be?’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it when I come back.’
‘You’re coming back?’
‘Yes, but not just yet.’
‘That’s great. Why am I sitting in the tunnel answering a call from you on a phone I didn’t know existed?’
‘It’s a long story, but people want to kill you.’
‘Me?’
‘And Ruth, Quigg and the children.’
‘Surely . . .’
‘Remember how Quigg’s first wife used to work for Lancer Communications?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, they’re a group of assassins, and they want to kill Quigg and everyone connected to him.’
‘But why?’
‘They think he knows too much.’
‘He doesn’t know anything.’
‘I know, but it’s easier to kill everyone than run the risk of being discovered.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘It’s high stakes, Duffy. There’s an organisation involved who are wielding power behind the government. They’ll do anything to remain in the shadows, and that means killing all of us.’
‘We have to get out of here.’
‘No, you can’t do that. They’ll find you wherever you are. I’ve arranged bodyguards for you, Ruth and the children.’
‘Bodyguards?’
‘Yes. You have a sister and a cousin coming to stay – Annabelle and Beth. They’re security operatives from a company called Raid Security.’
‘Coming to stay?’
‘Until it’s all over.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I’m working on it. I have someone on the inside at Lancer Communications, so I know what their plans are. I’m trying to shut them down permanently.’
‘Like they’re trying to do to us?’
‘Exactly. So, the two women will stay with you as long as necessary. Show them where the tunnel is – just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘I don’t think we need to go there, Duffy.’
‘Does Quigg know?’
‘No, not yet. I don’t want to call him in case they’re monitoring his calls, so tell him to ring me using that phone when he gets home.’
‘Okay.’
‘And don’t forget to switch off the phone and leave it in the tunnel.’
‘I won’t. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘I’ll tell you when I come back, but we need to talk about Quigg getting the chop.’
‘We were only discussing that at breakfast this morning.’
‘So Quigg’s in agreement?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think he’d rather wrestle a rattlesnake than have a vasectomy.’
‘We’ll have to come up with a plan.’
‘We will. How are you, Ruth and the children?’
‘Until you rang we were fine. Ruth and I have been working out and we’ve nearly got our pre-baby bodies back.’
‘I bet Quigg’s been sniffing round like a dog on heat?’
‘It’s funny you should say that . . .’
‘Well anyway, I’ve got to go now, but keep Quigg away from Annabelle and Beth.’
‘Are they pretty?’
‘Don’t know, but their boss said they’re not allowed to fraternise with the clients.’
‘That’ll stop him.’
‘Yeah – right.’
She ended the call. Now to find out who Nicholas Myers was and track down the Druid Council.
Chapter Sixteen
He parked his four year-old blue Ford Ka in the village car park and paid for four hours of hassle-free parking. He wasn’t planning to stay in Fairlight Cove for that long, but he could claim the two pounds back on expenses, so the cost wasn’t extortionate.
As he slid the ticket onto the dashboard, he noticed that the car was looki
ng the worse for wear – inside and outside. It desperately needed cleaning. Maybe he’d take a detour through a carwash on his way back to Shepherd’s Bush. Besides that, the wheel arches were bubbling with rust, there were dents and scratches in the paintwork and the front tyres needed replacing. The boot was also a struggle to close properly, so he tried not to use it if at all possible. He’d certainly had his money’s worth out of the car, but it had become a dray horse of uncertain parentage instead of a sleek Arabian thoroughbred with documentary evidence proving lineage all the way back to Alexander the Great’s favourite horse Bucephalus. He was the senior investigator at Bulldog Investigations and as such should drive a car that reflected his elevated position. A Porsche, or maybe a Mercedes, a BMW or a four-by-four. The Arabian thoroughbreds were out there just waiting for fearless riders, and he was such a man, Rodney the Great. He nodded to himself at the thought.
Of course, there was no need to rush into any purchase. He’d discuss the matter with Sandrine. They could lie in bed naked together after swapping bodily fluids and sweating like whores on the nightshift, and talk about the car that would be suitable for a man of mystery and danger.
Now that he was here, he didn’t really want to venture into the newsagents, but what other options were open to him? If he wanted to know about Leonard and Fanny Tomkins, then the only person who knew everybody in the village was Susan Howe and she was in the newsagents. The problem, although some men wouldn’t see it as a problem, was that he’d be required to service her pipes, gaskets and vents; and check out her u-bends and backflows. Previously, it hadn’t been a problem, but now he was servicing Sandrine Dibble.
‘Hello, Mister,’ the dark-haired teenager behind the counter said. ‘You come back for more?’
‘More! More what?’
‘Answers to questions?’
‘Oh! Yes – more answers to questions. Certainly. Is Mrs Howe in?’
‘Sure. I’ll give her a call.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She was nice as pie for days after the last time you came and asked her questions, so I’m hoping you’ll be asking her lots of questions again this time, because she’s been out of sorts lately.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is she often out of sorts?’
‘I don’t mean to tell tales out of school, but it’s like working for the Devil – only Mrs Howe doesn’t wear Prada.’
‘That can’t be much fun.’
‘My mum says you don’t go to work to have fun.’
‘That’s very true.’
‘MRS HOWE?’
‘What now, Megan?’
‘There’s that man come to see you again.’
‘Man?’
He heard somebody coming down the stairs.
Sheila Howe appeared behind the counter. She was a large attractive woman in her early fifties with blonde hair that she’d curled into Baby Jane ringlets, a red slash of blood-red lipstick on her mouth, gold butterfly earrings and a skin-tight white top underneath a red crocheted cardigan that emphasised her 38DD breasts.
‘Well I never, Rodney Crankshank. I was only thinking about you the other day.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Come on up.’
‘I can’t stay long.’
‘Of course you can’t. Well, we’d better get a move on then.’
He gave Megan a smile like a condemned man on his way to the gallows and followed Sheila Howe up the stairs.
‘In here,’ she said, heading for the bedroom.
‘I . . .’
‘Get your clothes off.’
‘I . . .’
‘You’re here for information that I keep in my head, aren’t you?’
‘I have information for you.’
‘Oh, I see. You think you can come here and play swapsies with me. I give you my information, you give me yours and we part like civilised human beings.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Get your clothes off, Rodney. I’m only interested in what you’ve got inside your shorts, not what’s inside your head.’
‘But . . .’
‘I thought you were short of time.’
‘I am . . .’
‘Then get your clothes off.’
He looked around for some route of escape, but there didn’t seem to be any alleyways, tunnels or holes he could slither through. If he wanted the information, he knew he had to submit to her demands. With what he’d found out about Sally Tomkins and Lancer Communications he thought he could barter with her on equal terms, but she’d neutralised his trade goods. All he had left now was what she wanted inside his shorts – he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He stripped off his clothes.
To be honest, Sheila Howe had looked after herself. She was big, but not fat. She had a good figure, impressive breasts and thighs that could crush walnuts.
‘I see you’ve come prepared,’ she said, taking hold of his erection and pulling him towards the bed.
‘Dib, dib, dib.’
‘You were in the scouts?’
‘Briefly.’
‘Well, if you rise to the challenge, Rodney, I might reward you with an activity badge.’
‘I like badges.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
***
There wasn’t a spare seat in the press briefing room. Somebody had produced a bad smell, which seemed to permeate the air and nobody would own up to. Due to the number of people crammed into the small space it was impossible to pinpoint the culprit. He could see people glancing sideways and covering their noses with perfume-scented tissues as if the smell was a foreshadowing of the imminent arrival of bubonic plague.
He sat down, cracked open a plastic bottle of fresh water, poured himself a drink and took a swallow. It had obviously been sitting on the table since yesterday and was lukewarm.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
The room went quiet, but he could still hear someone whispering into a mobile phone.
He waited until they’d finished.
A man at the back mouthed ‘Sorry.’
‘Identifying the victim has become a full-time activity in itself,’ he began. ‘It would appear from our inquiries that the young woman had been living under a stolen identity . . .’
‘Joy Rowley-Morris from the Knightsbridge Register. Can you give us a name, Inspector?’ a young woman with scraped back hair, wide eyes and eyebrows that seemed to be half-way up her forehead said.
‘No, that wouldn’t be fair on the person whose identity had been stolen. And to be honest, it’s irrelevant. We’ve moved on from that identity and are pursuing other leads.’
A woman with staring eyes and a nose ring stood up. ‘Mags Sheahan-Parry from the Craven Cottage Republican. Can you enlighten us as to those leads?’
‘I can only say that we’ve discovered an address, which might be her actual address.’
‘Margaret Donnelly from Galaxy TV,’ a tall oddly-shaped woman with ginger frizzy hair said. ‘Can you tell us why you still have two police officers wasting their time at the crime scene when actual crimes are being committed in and around Highgate that need investigating?’
‘I can assure you that the two police officers at the cemetery have not been withdrawn from other areas, Miss Donnelly. If a crime has been committed in Highgate then it will be investigated by other highly-trained officers. I also plan to examine the crime scene again later today to decide whether to continue with a police presence in the cemetery.’
‘Steve Davis from Battersea Life,’ a spotty-faced man said. There was a layer of dandruff on the shoulders of his jacket, and he had a twisted bulbous nose. ‘Are you any closer to identifying a suspect yet, Inspector?’
He took another sip of water. The briefing seemed to be going well. Although it was hardly a briefing, more like a question-and-answer session, but he didn’t mind. If they were happy throwing questions at him, then he was happy batting the answers back. ‘A lot closer, Mr Davis. Today could be the turning point in our inv
estigation.’
‘In what way?’
‘In that we have a number of people to interview and leads to pursue.’
A woman with blonde hair in pigtails, a black sleeveless t-shirt with a white skull-and-crossbones on the front, long feather earrings and the tattoo of a wild flower on her left shoulder stood up. ‘Paula Koch representing Channel 40. I have it on good authority that you visited the Satanist LC Club on Deacons Rise yesterday. Is it your belief that they’re involved in the murder?’
‘No. It was a lead that we followed up, but subsequently eliminated from our investigation.’
‘Nicola Thorpe from Horizon News,’ a black woman said. Her hair had been fashioned into a high bun on top of her head, and she wore a short bright red, yellow and green striped caftan. ‘Have you any idea why the woman was murdered yet, Inspector?’
‘No. But we do have a couple of theories that I’m unable to share with you at this time.’
A grey-haired woman with large glasses and thin lips stood up. ‘Alexandra Hudson from the Paddington Star. Yesterday you said you’d know more after the post mortem. Our understanding is that the post mortem has now taken place. What can you share with us following the pathologist’s findings?’
He wasn’t going to mention the confusion over the time of death, which probably had no bearing on the murder. ‘We now believe the cause of death was poison – not blood loss, which resulted in major organ failure, but as yet the pathologist has been unable to identify what poison was used.’
Alexandra Hudson spoke again. ‘Isn’t it true that the victim had been involved in an orgy prior to her death, Inspector?’
How had she found out that? He wondered if there was a leak in Doctor Solberg’s department. ‘I’d like to know where you . . .’
‘And isn’t it also true that she’d recently had an abortion?’
‘Yes, that is true, Miss Hudson. We’ve also been able to identify the victim’s fiancé – James Baglio – who we’re currently questioning, but who has an alibi for the time of the murder.’
‘What about the orgy?’ someone called out. ‘Tell us about the orgy.’
‘We understand that the woman was involved in an orgy prior to her death. Other than that, I have no further comment.’
‘Gary McCann from the Mercurius Aulicus based in Chiswick. Have you had any assistance from the public following our request?’