by Tim Ellis
‘We’ve obviously had thousands of calls, and I’d like to thank you all for your assistance, but sadly none of those calls resulted in any additional information regarding the victim’s identity or her murder.’
‘Helen Durant from the Weather Channel. Have you discovered where the woman was murdered yet?’
‘No.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for your time this morning. See you tomorrow – same place, same time, same old . . .’
He made his way up to the squad room. Yes, there must be a leak somewhere. He wondered whether Dewey had spoken to Doc Solberg about the discrepancy over time of death yet. What were the implications if Doc Solberg was adamant her times were correct? Could the LC Club and Metro Minicabs be locked in a conspiracy to pervert the true path of justice? Or was there something more sinister going on?
Miss Tinkley was sitting at her desk looking as inviting as a punnet of strawberries and double-whipped cream. She wore a blouse that didn’t seem to have any buttons on it, and without the required number of buttons the material had splayed open in a V-shape from neck to navel revealing a substantial view of her naked chest and the side of her firm breasts. He wanted to . . . and then it came to him. Why would the Chief allow his secretary to dress in such a provocative manner? It was a trap. The Chief would know Quigg couldn’t resist such a beautiful woman. He wanted to get rid of him – that was the only explanation, and . . . Miss Tinkley must be in on the plan as well.
She leaned forward.
He could hardly breathe. The scent of her rushed up his nose, flooded his brain with dopamine and kick-started his lust synapses. He wanted to throw caution to the wind, rip off her clothes and have sex with her then and there on the desk.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know how he could have found out. I hope you’re not in any trouble?’
Trouble was his middle name. He’d have to think of a way to outwit the Chief and have sex with Miss Tinkley. He put his hand over hers. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find a way. It’s only a matter of time before you and I become joined at the hips.’
‘QUIGG! GET IN HERE.’
‘Coming, Chief.’ It was spooky how the Chief could see through doors.
He went into the Chief’s office. ‘Good morning, Chief. How are you on this grey and dismal morning?’
‘Is there something wrong with you, Quigg?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Isn’t it enough that you get my last secretary pregnant . . . ?’
‘That was hardly my fault, Chief. I was manipulated into . . .’
‘And then one of your colleagues decides to kill her . . .’
‘You surely can’t blame me for the crazed actions of DS Jones?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder whether we’ve reached the stage when you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Quigg.’
He shook his head and sat down in one of the hard-backed chairs uninvited. ‘No, we’re not there yet, Sir. The Commissioner will vouch for me. And I’m sure Mrs Bellmarsh would be heartbroken if you got rid of me.’
‘You’re on a tightrope, Quigg. You’ve lost your pole. Your shoes have gone, and you’re naked apart from a clown’s hat. Your daredevil act is all but over, but your audience are willing you to succeed. You have one last chance to reach the other side. Will you take it, or will you fall?’
‘I’m going to take it, Sir.’
‘I hope so, Quigg. I certainly hope so. I saw you briefing the press, anything to add?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well?’
‘We have a DVD of an orgy that took place at the LC Club. Doc Solberg found twelve samples of semen in our victim.’
‘Never fancied one, myself. What about you?’
‘The other men put me off. I can’t say I’ve ever been that way inclined – even out of curiosity.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘There were a few people we know taking part in the orgy and having sex with our victim.’
‘Oh?’
‘Judge Veronica Phillips . . .’
‘No?’
‘Yes.’
‘I used to have a thing for her, you know. Before I met and married Mrs Bellmarsh, of course. And she likes orgies?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘I had a lucky escape.’
‘You certainly did, Chief.’
‘Who else?’
‘Andrew Cuthbert . . .’
‘The Liberal MP for Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘The very same.’
‘I voted for him.’
‘Me too.’
‘And you’ve not leaked their names to the press?’
‘Not yet. I was waiting to discuss what to do next with you.’
‘It’s hardly our fault they’ve brought their respective professions into disrepute. Go ahead and leak their names.’
‘Before you go firm on that decision, there was one more person we recognised who had sex with our victim.’
‘Yes?’
‘Assistant Commissioner Michael Scott-Simpson.’
‘Jesus fucking wept! Are you sure?’
‘Dwyer recognised him.’
‘Recognised him – how?’
‘His face I think.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Should we leak his name also?’
‘Only if you want to finish the rest of your career in the barren wastelands of Outer Mongolia.’
‘I didn’t know we had people out there.’
‘We don’t – you’d be the first.’
‘Oh! There’s another problem.’
‘Fucking hell, Quigg. As usual, everything you touch turns to a bag of shit. What now?’
‘The AC left the LC Club three minutes after the woman. We have no choice but to interview him.’
The Chief swivelled round in his chair and stared out of the window. ‘Get out, Quigg.’
‘But what about . . .’
‘I’ll speak to the Commissioner.’
‘What if the Commissioner says . . .’
‘Are you still here, Quigg?’
‘Dwyer said there’d be a cover-up.’
The Chief spun round to face him. ‘Well, you can tell Dwyer there’ll be no cover-up on my watch, Quigg.’
‘I believe you, Chief.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Quigg. Shut the door on your way out.’
He stood up and made his way to the door.
‘And . . .’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘No more assignations with Miss Tinkley.’
‘Absolutely not, Chief. I’ve learnt my lesson.’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
He made his way past Miss Tinkley and nearly wrenched his neck trying not to look at her naked chest. What was he meant to do? He was a red-blooded male with desires, needs and dirty thoughts. It was hardly his fault that his body was awash with hormones that had escaped from their cages.
‘Well, what did the Chief say?’ Dwyer wanted to know.
‘There’ll be a cover-up.’
‘He didn’t say that outright, did he?’
‘No, but the writing was on the wall.’
‘Which wall?’
‘The one behind the Chief’s eyes. He’s going to phone the Commissioner.’
‘What’s it got to do with him?’
‘Maybe he’s involved with the orgies as well.’
Dwyer shook her head. ‘Nothing surprises me these days.’
‘What did Doc Solberg say?’
‘It’s feasible that the woman was murdered later. She told me to remind you that estimating time of death is an inexact science – it’s a best guess based on available information.’
‘Hogwash. We can estimate the time of death better than the pathologist. If she was picked up from the LC Club at three-thirty, then she was probably dead by four. A half-hour window is much better than three hours. The taxi driver said he dropped the woman off at 74 Junction Road in Highgate and watched
her go inside, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long did it take to drive from the LC Club to that address?’
Dwyer sat in front of her computer and keyed in both addresses into the route planner. ‘Twelve minutes.’
‘Let’s say fifteen. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve found our primary crime scene. Okay, two things: Get Perkins and his team over to 74 Junction Road, and ring traffic. I want any CCTV coverage from the LC Club to that address between three and five on Monday morning. If Scott-Simpson did kill the woman, then we need evidence to prove it and prevent a cover-up.’
‘At last we’re getting somewhere.’
‘Let’s not count our chickens before they come home to roost, Dwyer. What about Baglio?’
‘Downstairs in Interview Room 2.’
‘I’ll go and interrogate him.’
‘You can’t do that anymore.’
‘I must have missed that directive.’
He walked downstairs to the interview room. James Baglio was sitting behind the dark-brown wood-patterned Formica desk on his own.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘A few questions, Mr Baglio,’ Quigg said as he sat down and pressed the start button for the digital recording to commence.
‘Haven’t I answered all your questions?’
‘No. There seems to be a problem with your fiancée’s identity.’
‘I thought we’d established that she was Emilia Whitworth . . .’
‘. . . Who lived in a small one-bedroom flat above a 24-hour launderette – number 257 Brecknock Road in Tufnell Park.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you ever go there yourself?’
‘I picked her up in a taxi a couple of times.’
‘And went inside?’
‘Well, no. She was waiting outside when I arrived.’
‘Did you ever go inside her flat?’
‘No. She said she was too embarrassed after seeing my penthouse apartment.’
‘I can imagine.’ And he could imagine. He’d had a wife who’d been living under an assumed identity for years. He’d had a child by her, and yet he had no idea who she was. What type of fool was he?
Dwyer entered the interview room and whispered in his ear, ‘Perkins is on his way, and traffic are obtaining the CCTV coverage.’
He nodded.
Baglio pulled a face. ‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’
‘The woman you knew as Emilia Whitworth wasn’t.’
‘Wasn’t what?’
‘Wasn’t the woman she said she was. There is an Emilia Whitworth living above the launderette, but she’s not the woman you became engaged to.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do we, Mr Baglio. Your fiancée had a brief affair with Emilia Whitworth and then stole her identity.’
‘Why?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. If she wasn’t who she said she was, then I have no idea who I asked to marry me. And if she didn’t live in that flat – where did she live?’
He stood up. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Mr Baglio. You’re free to go.’
‘Free to go?’
‘Yes. Of course, a squad car will take you back to your place of work.’
‘I’ll catch the tube – it’ll be quicker.’
‘As you wish.’
‘What about the ring? Will it be returned to me when your investigation is finished?’
‘Is that all you’re interested in?’
‘Well, no. I’d like to know who Emilia really was and what her subterfuge was all about, but I only knew her for four months. Of course, when I say “I knew her”, I use the term in its loosest sense.’
‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Baglio.’ Outside the interview room, he said to Dwyer, ‘Do you believe that?’
‘Oddly, yes.’
‘I was in the same position, more or less.’
Dwyer’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh?’
‘My wife wasn’t who she said she was.’
‘Really? Do you know the truth about her now?’
‘Not a clue. I thought she was Caitlin Hughes, but she was really Sally Tomkins. I thought she worked for Lancer Communications doing public relations before I met her and she fell pregnant, but no such company has ever existed. I also didn’t know that her parents were murdered, or that she’d spent her childhood in foster care.’
‘And what are you doing about it?’
‘Well, as I said, a DI from Shepherd’s Bush is looking into it as part of a triple murder investigation, and there’s also a private investigator from the agency where the triple murder took place who’s still trying to piece it all together, but I haven’t heard from either of them for a few weeks. I’ll have to give them a call when I’ve got a few minutes.’
Chapter Seventeen
There were twenty-seven people called Nicholas Myers, but only one of those worked for the Metropolitan Police Service as a Commander. He was thirty-nine years old, reasonably good-looking with brown hair that receded a bit too far for her liking and a jawline that looked as though it had been made-to-measure. He wasn’t really her type, but these were desperate times. He was in charge of Operation Warrior with the Major Investigation Team for sexual crimes, which involved the investigation of rapes and other sexual violence – a job worth doing she was sure.
Besides those snippets, all she could find out about him was that he had been a Commander with the Metropolitan Police Service (MPS) since 2012. Prior to this he had worked for Wiltshire Police as a Chief Superintendent; Suffolk Police as a Superintendent, Sussex Police as a Chief Inspector; and had started his career as an Inspector at Mole Valley with Surrey Police. As far as she could see, he was being groomed for the top job. His next promotion, if she wasn’t too much mistaken, would be to Assistant Commissioner.
Pretty soon, the Druid Council would have a sleeper at the very top of the Metropolitan Police Service. She had to prevent that from ever happening. No wonder the people at Lancer Communications wanted to kill everyone who found out about them.
Who were these people? Well, at least she had a name, a foothold in the game. She hacked into the MPS server and tiptoed through Myers’ account. There was nothing in his folders or files, nothing in his emails, nothing at all suspicious in his online activities. What she did find was more information: He lived in a five-bedroom house in Newington, had a wife Priscilla, and two children – Andrew and Margaret – the perfect cereal-packet family. She found out where he lived, discovered his mobile number and downloaded his call records for the previous three months – nothing. As far as she could tell, Nicholas Myers was squeaky clean. But, of course, he would be. He’d be a fool not to be.
As she was going through his electronic calendar she discovered something odd – he always left work at three-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. To go where? As a Commander he had his own chauffeur-driven car. She checked the transport records, and found that he was taken to St James’s Park tube station at that time each week. She examined the stations’ CCTV footage for three-thirty on Tuesday and watched Myers arrive in a suit. He used an Oyster Card to go through the barrier and then walked towards the eastbound Circle Line to Edgware Road. She watched him catch the train, but then she lost him. It was an old train without any CCTV cameras installed.
Where did he go?
Which station did he get off at?
She couldn’t hack into the CCTV system at every station on the Circle Line – it would take her hours.
Myers had an Oyster Card. Transport for London kept a record of every time a person used their Oyster Card. It was like a gigantic computer network. Each Oyster Card holder was charged according to usage, and then bills were despatched accordingly, which were similar in nature to phone records. Every train journey was itemised and an amount charged for that journey. She went to the Transport for London website, navigated to the “manage your ca
rd online page”, and then signed in as Nicholas Myers. It took her all of four-and-a-half minutes to discover his username and password. People’s pathetic memory made password-cracking easy.
His train journey records were sitting there like the story of his life. He left the train at Liverpool Street, switched to the Central Line and travelled two stations to St Pauls.
What was at St Paul’s?
Now she had a problem. She managed to pick him out on the CCTV system leaving St Paul’s station and turning left, but where he went from there was anybody’s guess. She ate a packet of cheese and onion crisps, a Mars bar and drank a small bottle of orange juice with the bits.
She needed more information about Myers such as his bank and credit card details. All the information relating to his work wasn’t going to give her anything more than she already had. She packed everything up. Newington wasn’t far on the tube. Myers lived on Rennie Street overlooking the Thames and not far from Blackfriars Bridge and the SIS Building in Vauxhall that housed MI5 and MI6.
When she reached Swiss Cottage station she discovered it was a straight run on the Jubilee Line to Southwark – the nearest station to Myers’ home address. She made sure no one was following her, and stood well back from the edge of the platform with her back against the wall until the train had come to a stop. One shove in the back was still one too many.
Once she reached Southwark she walked up Hatfields, onto Paris Garden, crossed over Stamford Street and turned left down Rennie Street. Number twenty-nine was a Georgian four-storey brick house with steps up to the arched front door. It had a small parcel of lawn and a brown-leaf hedge.
She walked to the end of the road and went into the Doggett’s Coat & Badge pub where she ordered half a London Pride shandy and sat down at a table outside in the Riverside Bar overlooking Blackfriars Bridge.
She opened up her laptop. There were over fifty wifi connections available, but thankfully Nicholas Myers had made things easy for her by re-naming their wifi connection: “The-Myers-Family”.
A skinny young man with a fringe that covered his face and tight black trousers half-way down his arse came over. ‘Are you eating, Madam?’