The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf (Quigg Book 4) Read online

  The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf

  Tim Ellis

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  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.

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  To Pam, with love as always

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  A big thank you to proofreader James Godber

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  Chapter One

  Thursday 24th May

  ‘You’ve got a postcard from Canada, ‘spector Quigg,’ Mandy, the post girl said turning the card this-a-way and that-a-way. ‘It must be one of those abstract arty picture things.’

  Quigg didn’t need to look at his watch to know that the time was five past ten. Mandy delivered the internal post at the same time every morning. ‘What does it say, Mandy?’

  She leaned her elbows on her post trolley and put her chin in her hands. ‘You know I don’t read other people’s mail, ‘spector.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I bet everyone in the office has seen it, read it, photocopied it, and generally had a good laugh over it.’

  Mandy was the sixteen year-old trainee administrative assistant with seven GCSEs, numerous piercings in her left ear, her nose, her bottom lip and her belly button. She also had green hair and chewed gum continuously.

  ‘Cheryl, the office manager, reckons it’s a scan of triplets, but I’m not so sure. Course she’d know ‘cause she’s had a scan. Oh, of course you know that, ‘spector, because it was you who made her preggers.’

  He took his mail off her. ‘Thank you, Mandy. Haven’t you got some other old-age pensioners to annoy?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh yeah, there are lots of OAPs in here, ‘spector, but I ‘specially like windin’ you up.’

  He had accompanied both Ruth and Duffy to the hospital for their twelve-week scans, and had become an emotional wreck as the technician pointed out each of the babies’ head, arms, and legs. He could hear the hearts beating, see the tiny fingers moving. It was then that he realised he was going to be a father again. Yes, he was already a father of four-year-old Phoebe by Caitlin, his first wife, but having babies with Ruth and Duffy was different. It would give him a chance to correct his mistakes, to be there for them.

  Now, here was a picture of a scan from Aryana in Canada, the psychic who had flown over to help him with the Angel Brook murders, and to get herself pregnant by him because she had seen it in a vision and her husband was unable to give her children. He smiled at how gullible he’d been when she told him they needed to do it three times a day for two days to make sure it worked. Well, it looked like it had been a success. Three babies! Bloody hell, he didn’t realise he had it in him.

  He turned the card over and read the message, Three bugs in a rug. Brad and I are overjoyed. Love A.

  A wave of sadness swept over him as he realised that these three babies would never know their biological father. He had promised Aryana that he would never contact her or the children, and in return she would send him pictures of them at regular intervals.

  His partner, Heather Walsh, put a mug of hot coffee he’d sent her to make, down on his desk. ‘Postcard, Sir?’

  ‘No, Walsh, it’s an alien spaceship. Perkins from forensics sent it to me. He says that if I press the stamp, the ship will expand to real size. Should I press the stamp, Walsh? We could go inside and take a walk around whilst we’re sat here twiddling our thumbs. What do you say, Walsh?’

  She ignored him and went to sit at her desk.

  ‘Quigg?’ It was the Chief shouting from his office. Chief Superintendent Walter Belmarsh was in his late fifties and close to retirement. Bellmarsh had been his superior officer and nemesis for the last ten years. He hadn’t even recommended Quigg for Detective Inspector, but the Chairman of the Panel, Commander April Williams from the Met, told him that due to the lack of quality candidates, he had been promoted anyway. He was, in the Chief’s flattering words, "The best turd in the cesspit".

  Quigg ambled through to the Chief’s office. ‘Yes, Chief?’

  ‘You’re getting a reputation, Quigg.’

  ‘I am, Sir?’

  ‘As a DI who can solve complex cases.’

  ‘Without the people in the team I’m nothing, Chief.’

  ‘I said as much to the Commissioner, but after meeting you and Duffy at the commendation ceremony he thinks the sun shines out of your arse.’

  ‘I’m flattered, Chief.’

  ‘Considering how everything you touch usually turns to shit, I’m not surprised that you’re flattered.’

  ‘Is that what you called me in to tell me, Sir?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Quigg. I’ve got another case for you.’

  ‘You know I’ve already got two unsolved murders, Sir?’

  ‘Against my advice, the Chief Constable wants you on this case. If necessary, I can take those two other cases off you, but if I was forced to do that, Quigg, you’d earn my displeasure and I might have to consider your position within the team. I know DI Singh is still looking for a transfer from robbery, and…’

  ‘I understand, Chief. What’s the case?’

  ‘Two lovers found their way into the derelict warehouse at Eternity Wharf. They were about to show their affection for one another when the floorboards gave way, and they tumbled into an underground abattoir.’

  ‘An abattoir?’

  ‘Because of the human skulls, I use the term loosely, Quigg. You’ll see when you get there.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard of Eternity Wharf, Chief.’

  ‘Strangely enough, it’s on the other side of the Thames opposite the London Wetland Centre and Barn Elms playing fields. It’s between the Blakes and Stevenage Wharves, within kicking distance of Craven Cottage where Fulham FC pretend to play football.’

  ‘Not a Fulham supporter then, Sir?’

  ‘Chelsea through and through. What about you, Quigg?’

  ‘I don’t, Sir.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. One of the many reasons I don’t like you. Someone who doesn’t like football is a bit iffy in my book.’

  ‘So you want me to get over there?’

  ‘No, Quigg, I’d like you to sit around here on your arse all day contemplating your fucking navel. Of course I want you to get over there, you moron.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Perkins, and that new pathologist – Inglehart, are already on their way.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’ He had been shocked at Jim Dewsbury leaving. Jim had agreed to join a team of climbers – as the doctor – making an ascent on Everest. Quigg hadn’t even known Jim was interested in mountaineering. He’d handed in his notice a month ago, popped in to say goodbye to Quigg and the rest of the team, and off he went to live in an igloo, or some such. Now they had Katje Inglehart whom he had yet to meet.

  ‘Before you go Quigg, is Walsh still a lesbian? I get the feeling there’s something different about her.’

  ‘I’ve been working on her, Sir. I think she’s a bit confused at the
moment.’

  ‘There’s no end to your talents is there, Quigg?’

  ‘I try, Sir.’

  ‘Are you still here?’

  He opened the door and left. Monica fluttered her eyes at him and smiled. He smiled back with his mouth. His eyes were somewhere else as he thought about the case that the Chief had just given him. What the hell was an abattoir doing under the floorboards of a derelict warehouse? What were human skulls doing in an abattoir? It must be a cold case this time. It took a long time for heads to become skulls.

  ‘Wake up, Walsh, we’ve got another case.’

  Walsh looked up from the report she was writing. ‘Another one, Sir? Is there no one else in the whole of the Hammersmith Murder Team that can take it?’

  ‘It has our name written all over it.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘That unless we solve it, we may as well go and look for jobs in the local supermarket.’

  ‘I don’t know if I like being your partner anymore.’

  ‘Just say the word. I hear DS Jones is looking for someone he can torture.’

  ‘As if I’m going to work with that slimy bigot.’

  ‘You’re stuck with me then, Walsh.’

  ‘Am I driving?’

  ‘Yes you are. We’ll use a pool car from now on. I’m clocking up too much mileage in my Mercedes. You can go and get the car while I finish things off here.’

  ‘Finish what things off, I thought you’d finished?’

  ‘You don’t think I’d make something like that up, do you?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

  ‘Haven’t you gone yet, Walsh?’

  It had been three months since the Angel Brook murders. Detective Constable Heather Walsh had become his permanent partner, and they seemed to be getting along reasonably well. For some strange reason she didn’t seem to be a lesbian anymore, or if she were, she was hiding it very well. He had no idea how that worked. Either someone was a lesbian, or they weren’t. Maybe there was an on/off switch. Anyway, the Chief seemed to be happy about the situation. He was old school, and didn’t trust people who weren’t straight down the middle.

  The situation with his ex-wife Caitlin, Richie the Builder, and his daughter, Phoebe, had got very messy after he and the solicitor – Celia Tabbard – had obtained a temporary Prohibitive Steps Order in January, and served them with the Court Order at the airport to stop them taking Phoebe to Canada. A month later, a family court judge had made the Court Order permanent, which meant that Caitlin and Richie the Builder were stuck here. Shortly afterwards, having had enough of Caitlin’s marital squabbles, Richie the Builder had decided to end the relationship and go to Canada without her. Of course, Caitlin blamed Quigg, and she had promptly disappeared with Phoebe as punishment. As a consequence, he hadn’t seen his daughter for four months, and had no idea where Caitlin had taken Phoebe.

  To repay Celia Tabbard for all her legal work relating to Phoebe on his behalf, he was still visiting her house four times a month at mutually convenient times to role-play – something he thought he’d never do, but had found it strangely enjoyable. The last time was three nights ago. He had been the very angry ticket inspector who had caught the young lady without a ticket. Unfortunately, he had needed to punish her most severely.

  As for his home situation – it was a mess. In fact, his whole life resembled the Gordian Knot. How had he got himself into so many impossible situations? Each facet of his life resembled a strand of that endless knot, and each was interwoven with all the other strands until he didn’t know where one ended and another began. He was still living in the fortified St Thomas’ Church on Godolphin Road in Shepherd’s Bush. Ruth and Duffy were five months pregnant, and Lucy was still stalking him like a she-wolf.

  The exclusive paedophile ring called the Apostles had been keeping a low profile, but they were still out there preying on children. Lucy and Duffy had slowly been identifying all their assets, and it wouldn’t be long now before the Apostles’ whole sordid world came crashing down around them.

  ***

  ‘I had to swear on my mother’s life that I wasn’t your partner to get this,’ Walsh said, indicating the nearly new white Volvo S80, when she came back from the car pool.

  He climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Yeah, they don’t like me much in there.’

  ‘Much? I’d say you were their least favourite person. They have dolls with pins in, pictures they throw darts at, and I think I saw a punch bag with your image on it.’

  ‘All right, Walsh, no need to overegg the pudding.’

  After a straightforward journey down Fulham Palace Road, a right just before Fulham Cemetery down Queensmill Road, it was quarter past eleven when they arrived at Eternity Wharf. The Chief had been right, the Wharf was opposite the London Wetland Centre and Barn Elms playing fields, and wedged between the Blakes and Stevenage Wharves. He didn’t know about Fulham FC, and he didn’t really care. Life was too short to worry about football.

  White-suited forensic officers were already swarming over the place like ants in an anthill.

  Eternity Wharf was actually the quay where ships and barges docked to load and unload cargo and passengers. This had been converted many years ago into a concrete path with a three-foot wall to stop the London masses from getting wet when the Thames level rose to dangerous levels. The Wharf also included a warehouse for temporary storage of the ships’ cargo, and it was here that Quigg and Walsh aimed for.

  The warehouse was brick on the outside with four Georgian arched windows left and right of the central loading bay doors – making twenty-four windows in all. There were three floors, with a wooden loading door for each floor. On the outside, next to the top door, was a winch that swivelled and was attached to the right-hand wall. On the end of the metal arm of the winch was a chain with a pear-shaped block of concrete on the end.

  Quigg tried to avoid walking under the concrete weight. It would just be his luck for the rust to finally eat through the chain, which would send the block plummeting onto the top of his head, killing him instantly.

  Walsh craned her neck to see where he was looking. ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘It’s not after you, it’s after me.’

  Walsh laughed. ‘You’re a nut, Sir.’

  Although the warehouse door had been secured with a sturdy brass lock, and was probably awaiting conversion into flats, undesirable elements of society had gained access through the wooden slats of the main door. There was evidence that drug users had been inside. Used syringes, needles, and small balls of silver paper littered the floor. A filthy mattress lay to the right of the door, piles of rubbish had drifted against the walls, and the charred remains of a small fire sat on a corrugated piece of metal.

  Some way into the warehouse, the wooden floor had collapsed, and there was a gaping hole about six feet long and three feet wide. A safety barrier had been erected around the hole, and a steel walkway led to a ladder into the hole.

  A uniformed officer was standing next to the barrier.

  ‘Perkins down below?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. You need to put on...’

  ‘...a suit. This is not my first time, Constable.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just doing what I was told, Sir.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s only doing his job,’ Walsh said.

  ‘Since when did you become a union spokesperson?’ he said as he hopped around trying to manoeuvre his right foot into the leg of the white paper suit.

  ‘I’ve always been interested in the welfare of my fellow man.’

  ‘Or woman. Tell me how that works, Walsh?’

  ‘Have you got nothing else better to think about?’

  ‘Your dilemmas stop me thinking about my own.’

  To the Constable he said, ‘Where are the couple who fell through the hole?’

  ‘The fire brigade and paramedics were here, but they’ve gone now.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Yeah well, the man is
dead, and the woman is in a pretty bad way apparently. He fell onto the rocks, and she fell on him. It was a bit of a mess from what one of the paramedics said.’

  ‘Thanks.’ To Walsh he said, ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean? Either you’re ready, or you’re not.’

  ‘I don’t like dark underground places.’

  ‘You can stay up here if you’d like to?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘If you don’t want to be a detective anymore.’

  Walsh gripped the ladder. ‘Do you want to go first, or should I?’

  ‘You go first, Walsh, you seem to be eager to get your hands dirty.’

  ‘No wonder people don’t like you, Sir.’

  He clutched his chest. ‘I’m shocked. Name one person who doesn’t like me?’

  ‘There’s the Chief, Sergeant Jones, all the people in the car pool...’

  ‘I said one person, Walsh. Get your smartarse down that ladder.’

  ***

  James and Bartholomew had disembarked at Embankment tube station, meandered along the Thames walkway, and in the shadow of Cleopatra’s Needle turned left to cross Savoy Place. They were now loitering on Carting Lane close to the Strand and the Savoy Hotel.

  ‘So, why have you brought me here, Bartholomew?’ James asked. At five foot ten inches Lord Aaron of Shawcross wasn’t particularly tall. He had steel grey hair above his ears and at the back of his head, but was completely bald on top. His complexion was sallow, and he could easily have been mistaken for someone undergoing chemotherapy. A handful of years previously he had been the Prime Minister’s Business Advisor, but now he devoted his time between a number of high-paying non-executive directorships of blue chip companies, and the business affairs of the Apostles.