Body 13 (Quigg Book 2) Page 4

  ‘I suppose requests for murders come in from outside?’

  ‘Of course. There’s a thriving black market in all of Her Majesty’s prisons. We close one avenue down and another three open up. Whatever you want, a prison is the place to get it.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything, Inspector.’

  They walked back to the governor’s office. The governor stopped at his secretary’s desk and asked her to print off details of the thirteen prisoners who were in the shower besides Griffiths.

  Duffy had obviously finished her phone calls and was sitting reading what looked to Quigg like a crime novel, which she closed when he and Governor Richards entered.

  ‘Phone calls made, Duffy?’

  ‘Yes, Sir…’ She was about to continue, but Quigg put a hand up to stop her. They could discuss what Cheryl had found out about George Sandland when they got back.

  The governor’s secretary knocked, entered and passed the governor a sheaf of papers. He passed them to Quigg.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Governor,’ Quigg said, extending his hand.

  The governor shook the proffered hand. ‘Not much in the way of help, Inspector, but we did what we could. Good luck with your investigation.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ***

  It was five thirty by the time they arrived back at the station. Duffy followed him up to his office. No sooner had she closed the door than there was a knock on the frosted glass. Duffy obliged. A good-looking woman, probably in her early-thirties, with blonde hair speared at the back with a wooden comb, and blue eyes, was standing there holding a thin file. She looked around nervously like a reluctant informer.

  ‘Sir, this is Cheryl from administration.’

  ‘Ah, the third member of my team.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks for helping us out, Cheryl. What have you got?’

  She took a step into the room and handed him the file. ‘The warrant from Judge Wannaker is in there, together with some information on George Sandland.’

  ‘Well done, Cheryl. I’ll try not to involve you again; it can be a bit nerve-wracking skulking around.’

  ‘I enjoyed doing something different, Sir. Call me.’ She turned and left.

  Quigg stared after her. ‘What did she mean by that, Duffy?’

  ‘She likes you, Sir.’

  ‘What, is this a conspiracy?’ He opened the file and passed the warrant to Duffy. ‘Tomorrow morning I want you to get hold of Mr Ahmed’s bank records, find out who he was paying for the off-site back-ups, and contact them to see if they’ll let us have a copy of his hard drive or whether we need to get another warrant. Also, access the electoral register and print off a list of the people recorded as living at Mugabe Terrace.’

  He looked at the few lines of information on George Sandland. ‘What I need is a sword; this case is turning into a Gordian knot.’

  ‘A what, Sir?’ Duffy asked.

  ‘Never mind.’ He passed her the paper. ‘It says that George Sandland was in the army and the information is classified. Ring someone at the Ministry of Defence and see if we can get it unclassified.’

  The Chief barged into his office. ‘I expected to see you here, Quigg, but what’s Duffy still doing working?’ He moved to one side so she could squeeze past him. ‘Go home, Duffy. Don’t let Inspector Quigg turn you into a sad workaholic without a life, like him.’ He ushered her out of the door and shut it behind her. ‘Tell me what’s happening, Quigg.’

  He told the Chief what he and Duffy had found out.

  ‘Are you making this up to get more people, Quigg?’

  ‘I wish I’d thought of that, Chief.’

  ‘Why didn’t they simply take the corpse and have done with it? Why implicate two dead people?’

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question.’

  ‘Any answers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Up to now you’ve got five people who have been murdered. Was the original explosion at Mugabe Terrace an accident?’

  Quigg was quick to register the "you’ve got" not "we’ve got". If he didn’t make some progress soon, he knew the Chief would hang him out for target practice. ‘I’m still waiting for the fire investigation report, but based on what’s been happening, it’s looking unlikely.’

  ‘It could potentially be twenty people murdered then?’

  ‘I hope not, Chief, but if I keep investigating this case, there’re going to be more deaths.’

  ‘What, is it getting too much for you? Are you suggesting we drop it?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, Chief. All I’m saying is that you should be prepared for more bodies.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve given up, Quigg. Maybe I should get one of the other DIs to replace you. Gwen Peters from Vice, for instance.’

  Quigg knew the Chief was trying to wind him up. Gwen Peters had been after his job for over a year, ever since he had declined her offer of a sleepover, and she made no bones about it. ‘I haven’t given up, Chief, so don’t write me off just yet.’

  He changed the subject. ‘How’s Duffy doing?’

  ‘She’s doing fine - no problems so far.’

  ‘I hear DS Jones has made you the five-to-four favourite.’

  Quigg sat forward and put his arms on the desk. ‘You mean you know about the book DS Jones is running?’

  ‘I may be a fat old fart, Quigg, but not a lot goes on in this station that I don’t know about.’

  ‘Do you want me to institute disciplinary procedures? It’s sexual harassment - fairly straightforward.’

  ‘Harmless fun, Quigg... harmless fun. Something you wouldn’t know anything about. You want to lighten up a bit. Stop being a jobsworth. Anyway, I’m not putting my money on you; I don’t think you’ve got the bottle. Too damned serious - too afraid of bending the rules, of losing your job. You want to get a life.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve sanctioned it, Chief.’

  ‘Sanctioned what, Quigg? You want to be careful what you say and who you’re saying it to.’ He winked. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he rummaged in his jacket pocket, ‘I promised Sir Peter Langham, the head of the Police Complaints Committee, that you’d ring a reporter called Ruth Lynch and help her with a story she’s doing.’ He passed Quigg a piece of paper with a number on it.

  ‘A reporter?’

  ‘I know, but apparently this reporter is a bit of a celebrity with powerful friends. Although she sounds Irish, her full name is Lynch-Guevara. She’s the granddaughter of Ché Guevara. You do know who he is, don’t you, Quigg?’

  ‘Comandante El Ché? Yes, I know who he was. I’ve read the authorised version of his Guerrilla Warfare and seen the film: The Motorcycle Diaries.’ He wondered what the story was behind Ché Guevara’s granddaughter being in England. Maybe he’d ask her when he rang.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Just call her and be on your best behaviour.’ He peered at Quigg as if he were examining bacteria under a microscope. ‘Is that the only suit you’ve got? Get yourself a haircut as well. You look like you’ve been sleeping rough.’

  ‘Thanks for the fashion tips, Chief. I’ll call her.’

  ‘Yes, well, see that you do.’ He opened the door, but turned before he left. ‘Don’t let me down, Quigg.’

  He had never let the Chief down in the ten years he’d been working for him. Maybe he had the type of face that oozed betrayal. Some people had familiar faces, lying faces, honest faces; maybe his face was the face of a betrayer. He had betrayed Caitlin because of work many times. That’s why she had left and taken Phoebe with her.

  Chapter Four

  Quigg rang the number on the scrap of paper the Chief had given him, but he was re-directed to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. He looked at his watch – ten past six. Shit! He stood up, grabbed his coat and hurried out of his office. He was meant to be picking Debbie up at seven. If he went straight there he’d be in time, but he’d seen her this morning and she knew what he was wearing. She’d think he was a slob. If he wen
t home to shower and change he’d be at least half-an-hour late, maybe an hour. The squad room was like the deck of the Marie Celeste. He bounded down two flights of stairs. Maybe he could ring her, say he was running late; that would certainly be better than the other two options. She’d understand, be sympathetic, and allow him some leeway. He punched his code into the security keypad on the rear door, exited and stepped into the car park.

  Pulling out his phone, he found her card in his coat pocket and rang the number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Debbie, its Quigg.’

  ‘I thought you might ring to cancel, Quigg.’

  Now was not the time to ask her why she thought he might cancel. ‘No, I’m not cancelling; I’m running an hour late. I’m just on my way home to shower and change.’

  ‘An hour, Quigg, and then you’ll be my next post-mortem.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  He’d made the right choice. He’d had enough of the lies and excuses with Caitlin. As much as he moaned and complained about the all-consuming job, he knew he could never do anything else. If he and Debbie were going to make a go of it, she had to understand about his job right from the start. Some people were paid for doing what they had a talent for – like golfers, footballers, celebrity chefs. He had a talent for solving murders. Admittedly, he had to face his worst fears on a daily basis, there was no similarity in pay, Chief Bellmarsh was his boss and slimy DS Jones was a colleague, but still, he spent most days doing what he loved. Caitlin had thought she was in competition with murderers; she didn’t understand that where the job ended, she and Phoebe began, and vice versa. Neither was a fixed quantity - they were flexible, malleable. But Caitlin wanted fixed quantities: the job or her. She had seen the resistance in his eyes and thrown him out. Even though it had caused him untold misery and heartache, it had been the right decision. Accusations, tears and recriminations were no way to spend the gold in your pot of life.

  The roads were unusually trouble-free and he was home by six thirty-five. Home was a Victorian terraced house in Upton Park, Newham. He was a keen follower of West Ham United, because if they were playing at home, he made sure he was somewhere else. The noise from the ground reduced the value of his mother’s house to a peanut. Number 5, Boleyn Gardens had been his home for all but the five years of a doomed marriage. He thought he’d escaped to a three-bedroom semi in Bermondsey, but Caitlin lived there with ‘Richie the builder’ now and Phoebe drifted farther and farther away from him.

  ‘Is that you, Quigg? You’re early. Did you get the shopping I asked you to get?’

  He loved his mother, but it was like living with Genghis Khan. He would love her a lot better from the comfortable distance of a flat of his own, but he couldn’t see that ever happening when half his wages went to Caitlin. Shopping? He didn’t recall being asked to get any shopping. ‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t have time.’

  ‘You never have time for anything but your job, Quigg. That’s why you lost your wife and daughter, and why I never get to see my granddaughter.’ At eighty, Beryl came from a generation that called a tomato a vegetable, not a fruit.

  Nine months after being raped by her drunken husband, Beryl gave birth to an unwanted screaming Quigg at forty-three, long after her marriage had become loveless and, she thought, childless. Quigg’s childhood had been sad, lonely and, mostly, fatherless. His mother worked at two cleaning jobs to make ends meet and had little time for him.

  ‘I’d love to stand here listening to your thoughts on life, the universe and everything, Mother, but I’m going out, and I’m late.’ He took the stairs two at a time.

  She shouted something up at him, but it was muffled as he stripped off his clothes. ‘I’m in the shower,’ he shouted back. ‘I can’t hear a damned word you’re saying.’

  It took him longer to make a decision on what to wear than to have a shower. In the end, he had little choice but to put on his best light grey double-breasted suit, a brown checked shirt and a red tie.

  His room desperately needed cleaning. Everything had a layer of dust; mixed piles of dirty and clean clothes erupted from the carpet as if he had moles. Beryl refused to enter, and he couldn’t blame her. He knew he should look after himself better, but he was so used to his mother, or Caitlin, doing everything for him. It was as if, by doing the chores himself, he would be finally admitting he was alone.

  ‘I hope it’s not one of those night nurses, Quigg? Tell me it’s a decent girl so I can sleep easy in my bed tonight.’

  ‘She’s a doctor at the hospital, Mum. Looks real pretty.’

  ‘I know you, Quigg; she’ll be one of those doctors that cut up your murder victims to find out things. Tell me it isn’t so?’

  ‘I’ve got to go now, Mum - don’t wait up.’

  ‘I knew it. Even your love life revolves around your work. You’re sending me to an early grave, Quigg. It’s no way to treat your mother.’

  ***

  Amber... red – He pulled his ten year old Ford Fiesta in behind a rusty white van coughing out black exhaust fumes. Mick Jagger was singing Wild Horses on the Sticky Fingers tape in his cassette player. Quigg had his eyes closed listening to the lyrics and didn’t see the dashboard lights dim or hear the engine die. What he did hear was a frustrated teenager in the car behind him pressing a horn. He put the car into first gear, pressed the accelerator down while releasing the clutch, and – nothing. Mick Jagger’s guttural voice and the teenager’s horn blended together to create a new unpleasant sound. He turned the ignition key four or five times, pressed the accelerator to the floor until the carburettor was flooded and, just before the battery died, there was an awful crunching sound. He popped Mick Jagger out of the cassette and put the four-way flashers on. He checked the dashboard clock, which he knew was ten minutes slow. Shit! Quarter to eight. As he wondered whether he should leave the car here and catch the bus home, he felt a throbbing begin beneath his wound. Events and machinery were conspiring against him.

  He slid out his phone and dialled Debbie’s number. With screeching tyres, the teenager manoeuvred around him, gave him the v-sign and shouted ‘tosser’ out of his window.

  ‘What now, Quigg?’

  ‘I’ve broken down.’ It was hardly surprising the car refused to move. He had used the money he should have spent getting it serviced on other essentials, such as food.

  ‘You’re not making this easy. Where are you?’

  He looked around. ‘At the traffic lights by the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Holland Road, not far from White City tube station.’

  ‘I know it. Wait there - I’ll come and get you.’

  The line went dead before he could say thanks.

  He pushed Mick Jagger back in, pulled the lever beneath the seat, fell back into the reclined position and closed his eyes. There was enough battery left for the Stones.

  Drifting off, he was listening to I Got the Blues when there was a knock on the passenger window. He pushed the eject button on the cassette and the tape popped out.

  The passenger window slid down at the press of a button on the driver’s door. He leaned over the seat and Debbie was standing there. The smell of an exotic perfume travelled up his nose and assaulted his brain. He noticed she had done her hair. She looked stunning.

  Before he could compliment her on how beautiful she looked, she said, ‘Is this how your dates normally go, Quigg?’

  He smiled. ‘Pretty much, yes.’

  ‘You look like you came second best in a street fight.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard about the explosion at Fire HQ in Docklands?’

  She leaned down to inspect his face. ‘Were you involved in that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, are you going to let me stand here all night, or should we go for this meal you’ve promised me?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ He pressed for the window to go up, climbed out and locked the car.

  ‘You’re not going to just leave it there, are you? You’re parked on double yellow line
s and blocking access to the traffic lights. Some eager parking attendant will get it clamped or towed away.’

  He rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ Repairs would probably cost him a month’s wages; he didn’t want to add clamping or towing charges on top of that. There was a side road just past the traffic lights. Parking was still prohibited by yellow lines, but it wasn’t as obvious as where he was parked now. ‘We’ll push it round the corner.’

  ‘We?’ Debbie said opening her coat to reveal a sultry calf-length black dress, black high heels and what looked suspiciously like stockings to Quigg’s untrained eye.

  ‘Sorry,’ he offered. ‘I’ll try and do it on my own.’ He unlocked the driver’s door again, took the handbrake off, checked the gear stick was in neutral, and began pushing the car with his shoulder at the same time as steering it away from the curb. By the time he’d managed to push it out of the left-hand camber and onto the flat of the road, he was sweating and the thudding beneath his wound had reached epic proportions. Feeling peculiar, he sat down on the driver’s seat and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Are you all right, Quigg?’

  ‘Give me a minute, Debbie.’ Cars pulled up alongside. The occupants rolled down their windows, made stupid comments or laughed. ‘It’s surprising how being blown up can squeeze the juice out of you,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Debbie said. ‘Let’s get it round the corner and go to dinner; I’m famished.’

  ‘Are you sure? You’re not really dressed for pushing clapped out Ford Fiestas around Kensington.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it until I change my mind, or should we just do it?’

  Quigg pushed and steered. Debbie threw her meagre body weight against the back of the car. Together, they managed to manoeuvre the mechanical carcass round the corner. He locked the door and said, ‘Where are you parked?’