The Exhibits in Mrs Salmon's Waxworks Read online

  Closing the folder, she decided that it was highly unlikely that lightning would strike twice in the same place, so it was best to keep the idea of a hidden walled-up room somewhere in the house up her sleeve with Edward – Rita's amorous ghost – as a last resort.

  Her mind then drifted to Harry's idea of setting up a business together and what that would entail. She didn't know much about Harry Hudson, but he seemed genuine enough. Maybe she ought to ask Lucy to check him out just to be on the safe side.

  What should they call themselves? She imagined that people searching the internet for a 'paranormal investigator' would use exactly those words, or would they? There were other words and phrases they might use such as 'ghost', 'ghost hunter', 'supernatural', 'psychic', or 'occult'. She'd obviously have to discuss the name with Harry, but maybe she could also ask Lucy what she thought.

  And then there were the business cards. She couldn't organise the cards until they'd decided on a name. Maybe what they called themselves was a priority. She'd message Harry later to see if they couldn't work out a name before they went any further. That way, they could get everything else organised. Then, of course, if they were going to issue quotes, invoices and so forth, then they'd need business stationery . . . There was also all the equipment she needed for herself. She pulled a face. Setting up a business was a lot more complicated than it seemed. Maybe she'd need to do some research on setting up a business before she set up the business.

  She took out her phone and performed an internet search for paranormal investigators in London. It didn't seem to be a crowded market. Very few were operating as a business and offering paid services, which was hardly surprising because paranormal events seemed to be few and far between. Most of the paranormal investigators appeared to be amateur ghost hunters filling up their weekends – much like metal detectorists or birdwatchers – visiting spooky places boasting paranormal activity such as: St Briavals and Chillingham Castles; Whitby Abbey; the Tower of London; the South Bridge Vaults in Edinburgh; the Black Swan Hotel in York and Felbrigg Hall in Norfolk. These places may very well have ghosts, poltergeists and demons, but there were real people out there who needed help. And it seemed to her, that there were very few paranormal investigators who actually provided that help.

  Maybe they should keep the name simple. It was no good making it all fancy and confusing people. They needed to make it clear what services they were offering. A name like D & H Paranormal Investigations Ltd would be okay, but if she decided that Harry wasn't the work partner she wanted after all, then she'd have to change the name. What she wanted was a word that began with 'A'. That way, they would appear at the top of any list. She searched for words relating to paranormal and found one that worked: Arcane Paranormal Investigations (API). Arcane meant mysterious, secret and obscure.

  She arrived at Goldhawk Road, made her way outside and called into the kebab shop to get Lucy's order. She never ate kebabs herself and couldn't for the life of her see what the attraction was. She didn't like lamb or chilli, and watching Lucy eat one was like watching a laughing hyena tear at a carcass.

  Chapter Seven

  They reached the Place de la Révolution where Marie Antoinette was executed on October 16, 1793. There were people gathered around the guillotine, the queen's body was tied to a board with rope and a revolutionary guard held up her severed head to the cheers of a bloodthirsty crowd.

  'Seven more bodies, Perkins?'

  'Yes, Sir. There are bodies in the exhibits of the Alien; Albert Einstein; C-3PO . . .'

  'Who?'

  'One of the robots in the Star Wars trilogy, which has six films in it. Also, Fidel Castro; Shrek; Guy Fawkes; and this one of course.'

  He looked around for any obvious signs of a body, but couldn't see any. 'Where?'

  'The body of Marie Antoinette lying on the board is the real body of a young woman.'

  'What about the head?'

  'Not here.'

  'Where is it?'

  'No idea.'

  'This is not good, Perkins.'

  'No, Sir.'

  'Where's Doctor Solberg?'

  'Gone. Like the rest of us, she assumed there was only the one body.'

  'And?'

  'She's rounding up some locums.'

  'Locums?'

  'Yes. She can't deal with eight bodies on her own.'

  'But locums!'

  'She said she'll supervise them.'

  'If that's the best she can do?'

  'It is.'

  'MITCH!'

  The apprentice appeared out of a dark recess and came slouching up to them. 'You summoned me, Inspector Rebus?'

  'Go and ask Mrs Grimaldi to join us here?'

  'Me?'

  'Have you got anything better to do?'

  'Well, now you're asking, I have . . .'

  'Don't forget about the cell with the blocked toilet I have at the station with your name on it.'

  'Mrs Grimaldi, you say?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'm your man.'

  He turned and sauntered off.

  'TODAY!'

  'Speeding up, Inspector Frost.'

  'Any thoughts, Rummage?'

  'As I said before, we should search the place.'

  'In the absence of any other ideas, I'm willing to go along with your crazy suggestion. This is a big place, so we probably need some back-up. Give Inspector Wright a call and ask her to send us some people.'

  'How many?'

  'Eight, if she can spare them. A team of two for each of the four floors. If there's something odd going on here, they'll find it. Also, I'd like a mobile command centre to be positioned outside the front entrance by four o'clock.'

  'Okay.' She moved away and made the call.

  The principal sculptor – Yvette Grimaldi – arrived. 'You wanted to see me, Inspector.'

  'What I'd really like is an explanation, Mrs Grimaldi. Forensic officers have found a further seven bodies.' He turned to Perkins. 'Tell Mrs Grimaldi where the dead bodies are buried, Perkins.'

  Perkins reeled off the locations of the dead bodies for the benefit of Mrs Grimaldi.

  'I have no idea what to say.'

  'That's not good enough. You're the principal sculptor here, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'And you're in charge of every exhibit in this building?'

  'Yes.'

  'And now you're trying to tell me you know nothing about any dead bodies?'

  'Not a thing.'

  'I find that difficult to believe.'

  'You're not the only one.'

  'Surely one of your team must know something?'

  'They say not and I believe them.'

  'Have you any ideas about how these dead bodies could have replaced your wax figures?'

  'If I had, I would say.'

  'I think we'll have to formally interview everyone who works here to get to the truth of the matter. Somebody must know something. All right. Don't leave the country, Mrs Grimaldi.'

  'I had no plans to.'

  'Good.' He turned to stare at Perkins. 'Keep searching, Perkins. I want to know the full extent of what's afoot here.'

  'Will do, Inspector.'

  Rummage said, 'Inspector Wright said that if you destroy the mobile command centre like you did with her last one, you'll be a permanent odd job man.'

  'That last one was hardly my fault.'

  'She said you'd say that. What did she mean about the odd job man?'

  'A private joke. Do you remember the way back to Mrs Berkeley's office?'

  'No.'

  'MITCH!'

  Mitch appeared from nowhere. 'Here, Inspector Japp.'

  'Take us back to Mrs Berkeley's office.'

  'I'm beginning to feel like one of those people who lead climbers up Everest from the base camp.'

  'A Sherpa, you mean?'

  'Yeah.'

  They reached Mrs Berkeley's office and found her there pouring over paperwork.

  'We need to speak to you, Mrs Berkeley,'
he said, making himself comfortable in an easy chair.

  'Have you finished now? Can we re-open?'

  'It'll be a while before you re-open. A further seven bodies have been discovered, and the search has only reached half way.'

  'That's preposterous. Where are all these bodies coming from? Who are they? Who's putting them in my exhibits?'

  'All very good questions, which we've been asking ourselves for some time . . .' He turned his head. 'Haven't we, Rummage?'

  'All day.'

  'Mrs Grimaldi and her team say they know nothing, but I'm finding that hard to believe. You also say you know nothing? MITCH!'

  Mitch appeared at the door. 'You called, Inspector Columbus?'

  'Do you know anything about these dead bodies?'

  'Me?'

  'Yes, you.'

  'Would now be a good time to call my lawyer?'

  'It depends on whether you know anything about the dead bodies, or not?'

  'I know nothing, Inspector Snow.'

  He turned back to the manager. 'Nobody appears to know anything, but somebody must know something, and I'd like to know who that somebody is.'

  'I would like to know also.'

  'Why don't you have CCTV?'

  'We've never needed it. Also, it would incur a major cost at a time of limited resources, and be a considerable undertaking for very little return.'

  'I'm afraid that you'd better inform your board that the waxworks will be closed until further notice.'

  'It will ruin us.'

  'That can't be helped, Mrs Berkeley. This is a major crime scene now.'

  'We also have eight bodies,' Rummage said. 'It might be that they were already dead when they were brought here, but the other possibility is that they were murdered. In which case, we're looking for a serial killer.'

  'Good point, Rummage.' He stared at the manager. 'I need a complete staff list; I need access to all your files; I need a place to conduct interviews; I need the blueprints of this building; I need a copy of the map that you provide to visitors; and I need a pot of coffee with some chocolate bourbons.'

  ***

  Jack bundled Dixon into the cleaning trolley that he'd wheeled into the toilet. It wasn't easy, mainly because the man was exceptionally large. His legs were protruding from the front, so he'd draped a dirty wet cloth over them.

  He remembered the microchips these people had adopted and found the small scar on Dixon's left ankle. He stuck the point of his combat knife through the skin, dug out the chip and flushed it down a toilet. If they wanted to locate the DCI, they'd find him at Southwark Sewage Works.

  One thing he'd learnt in his fifty-five years, was that certain people in society were invisible. A cleaner was one such person. A cleaner could walk about in New Scotland Yard without being seen or challenged, which was why he'd used the disguise to his advantage.

  He pushed the trolley out of the toilet, along the corridor, down to the underground car park in the service lift and into the back of the van with Executive Cleaning Services printed on the side. He climbed in after the trolley, shut the doors, removed his disguise, put on a pair of company coveralls and a baseball cap and climbed into the driver's seat.

  Using an official access card he'd stolen earlier, driving out of the car park was easy enough. He turned left onto the A3211 – Victoria Embankment, crossed over the Thames at Waterloo Bridge, took the third exit from the roundabout into Waterloo Road and then a left into Locke Street close to the Graffiti Tunnel and the London Aquarium. Just there, in the corner of Catherine Wheel Yard, was a disused tank and aircraft factory to which he had the keys. From the roof of the factory, peering through a MT3-9x40AOL scope fitted to the top of a Barrett M82 long-range sniper rifle, he could see directly across the Thames into Ruth's office.

  He opened the old rusted metal gates, drove onto the overgrown concrete forecourt and closed the gates behind him. After letting himself into the factory, he pulled up the roller shutters, backed the van into the building and closed the shutters. Since Ruth's phone call, he'd already made plans and preparations for the work ahead. He'd re-connected the factory to the power grid; erected a large tent to one side of the factory floor to act as a military-style field operations room and filled it with lights, tables, chairs, laptops, coffee-making equipment; gallon bottles of water; mobile phones, a high-speed internet router, whiteboards; maps, stationery; heaters; camp beds . . . All it needed was for people to set it all up and man it, and he planned to recruit them soon.

  Using the cleaner's trolley, he moved Dixon into the building, stripped him naked and strung him up by the wrists using a chain and pulley.

  Dixon was awake now and grunted to get Jack's attention.

  He ripped the duct tape off Dixon's mouth.

  'Are you fucking crazy?' Dixon said. 'I'm a DCI in the Metropolitan Police Service. You'd better let me go before you're in deep shit, Mister.'

  'That's your defence, is it? You threaten to disfigure a friend of mine with a knife, sexually assault her, tell her that if she doesn't stop her investigation you'll murder her and everyone she loves, and now you want me to let you go because you're a DCI in the MPS?'

  Dixon glared at him.

  'You're going to tell me everything you know about the criminal enterprise you're a part of and then I'm going to kill you, Dixon. In-between, there'll be a lot of pain and agony, and I wouldn't be surprised if you pissed and shit yourself in the process.'

  'I won't tell you shit.'

  Jack's lip curled up as he stuck the duct tape back over the DCI's mouth. 'We'll see. For now though, I'm going to leave you here. I have some other work to do.' He saw the whites of Dixon's eyes increase and half-smiled. 'Yeah! You're thinking that as soon as I leave, you'll work yourself free and make your escape.' He went outside to the van, slipped on a pair of chainmail gloves and took out a roll of razor wire and a pair of pliers. Inside, he cut off a length of the wire, wrapped it around Dixon's penis and testicles, and attached the other end to a metal ring in the floor. 'If you do manage to escape, it'll be without your jewels.'

  After locking the factory up again, he drove the short journey to Goodge Street Station, parked in a side road and began walking down Tottenham Court Road, where some of the six-thousand homeless in London were sheltering from the freezing December cold in the covered colonnade outside Heals and Habitat's recessed window niches.

  'Any ex-military?' he called as he went. He estimated that he needed at least ten people.

  'Here!' they called.

  'I'm looking for men to do some work.'

  'And you are?'

  'Retired SAS Major Jack Neilson.'

  Some of them tried to stand out of respect, but he put his hand on their shoulder and said, 'There's no need for that, we're both civilians now.'

  Others gave him a salute and he saluted them back.

  He listened to their stories.

  'What's your name?'

  'Alan Moore, Sir.'

  'How did you get here, Alan?'

  'I completed eleven years in the Royal Artillery; served in Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan. I've been homeless for ten years now. I was illegally evicted from my council house in Salisbury after I lost my wife due to a brain haemorrhage. I had two lovely children to bring up on my own, but without somewhere to live I had no choice but to let Social Services take them into care.' Tears welled in his eyes. 'I haven't seen them for eight years now.'

  'Do you want to spend Christmas somewhere warm with money in your pocket?'

  'What do I have to do?'

  'Fight on the side of right. Your country needs you one more time, Alan. Only this time, the war is on home soil. You'll be going up against criminals and you might have to get your hands dirty. There's also a chance you could be injured or killed, but I'll make sure you have the right equipment and support. Also, after it's all over, every person will walk away with two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for their service.'

  'Where do I sign?'

  Jac
k held out his hand. 'A handshake is all it takes. Bring what's important to you and follow me. You won't need anything else.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes.'

  'It's not a scam, is it?'

  'I don't do scams.'

  He continued on.

  'What's your name?'

  'Pete Pussett.'

  'Nice dog,' Jack said, stroking the head of the mongrel lying down next to him. 'What's his name?'

  'Grunt.'

  Jack grinned. 'Inventive. What's your story, soldier?'

  'I was in the Yorkshire Regiment for seven years, which included three tours of Northern Ireland, two tours of Bosnia and one in Iraq. I was shot in the leg and forced to leave. I just couldn't do the job anymore. Then my marriage broke down, so I stayed with a friend for a year, sometimes sleeping in my car. According to the Local Authority, I hadn't earned enough housing points, so they put me at the bottom of the list. That was eighteen months ago.'

  'Welcome aboard, Pete.'

  'Can Grunt come too?'

  'Of course.'

  'What's your name?'

  'Ramona Relish.'

  'What are you doing here, Ramona?'

  'I served in the Royal Navy for six years as a Medical Technician reaching the rank of Petty Officer and was stationed in the UK, Naples and the Falkland Islands. I married a sailor, but that didn't work out too well, because we were never in the same place at the same time. In the end, our marriage broke down. I met a new partner after a few years, got pregnant and had a daughter, but he was abusive. One night, with the help of a refuge, I had to escape and go into hiding with my two year-old daughter. I tried for years to get a house from the Local Authority, but I was never given one. In the end, Social Services took my daughter away. That was four years ago and I haven't seen her since.'

  'How would you like to get your daughter back, Ramona?'

  The woman burst into tears.

  He took her hand. 'Follow me.'

  'What's your name, soldier?'

  'Bob Birdwhistle.'

  'How did you end up on the street?'

  'I was in the Parachute Regiment for twelve years and did five tours of Northern Ireland, and single tours in Macedonia, Kosovo and was part of the Iraq invasion. I was a Sergeant when I was made redundant, and returned home. The Local Authority said I wasn't entitled to a house, so I ended up living on the street. I've been here four years now and I can't see a way out.'