Body 13 (Quigg Book 2), Page 2

  ‘Good,’ Thaddeus said. ‘I see Phillip’s obituary is in the Times today.’

  ‘Unfortunate that he should die in a fire at his home,’ Bartholomew said.

  Thaddeus and Andrew nodded solemnly.

  ‘Do you think…?’

  ‘No Thaddeus,’ Bartholomew reassured him. ‘Quigg will never connect the two events.’

  ‘And the other matters?’ Andrew asked.

  Bartholomew withdrew a Cohiba Coronas Especialas Cuban cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket, rolled it between the fingers and thumb of his left hand and inhaled its fresh aroma. A gold cigar cutter appeared in his right hand. He cut the end of the cigar with a precision borne of familiarity, put the cigar in his mouth and lit it with relish. ‘Taken care of,’ he said, letting the smoke out slowly.

  ***

  Lying on a gurney in a corridor at Newham A & E, it crossed his mind that, with one thing and another, he seemed to be spending most of his time in hospitals lately. The waiting time to see a doctor was three hours.

  He must have dropped off, because the next thing he knew a young nurse with freckles was shaking him awake.

  ‘Have you been seen yet, Mr…?’

  He looked at his watch – three thirty in the afternoon – where had the day gone? He still had ringing in his ears and he didn’t know whether it was from the blast at the Fire HQ or from lying in an ambulance with the siren on.

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg. And no, nurse, I’ve been here at least three hours and I have yet to be seen.’

  ‘We’ve been a bit busy I’m afraid, Sir. There was an explosion at the fire brigade headquarters. Please wait here. I’ll go and see if there’s a doctor available.’

  He must have dozed off again, because when he woke and checked his watch, it was five fifteen. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to a nurse walking by.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’ve been lying here waiting for…’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t work in this department, but I’ll see what I can do.’

  It was eight twenty when he woke up again. After five minutes of watching the comings and goings along the corridor, he decided to climb off the stretcher and seek medical help himself. Unfortunately, the side rails had been fixed in place and he couldn’t work out how to unlock them. It also came as a shock to discover that someone had removed all his clothes and put a backless hospital gown on him. He realised he must be in a worse condition than he thought if he couldn’t remember them having done that.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nobody came, and people walking past moved to the other side of the corridor to avoid him.

  ‘Hello?’ he called slightly louder. ‘Anybody there?’

  An old woman with straggly grey hair and a red uniform, pushing a mop and bucket, said, ‘Can I help you, dearie?’

  ‘Are you a nurse?’

  Showing blackened teeth, her face contorted into what might be considered a sympathetic smile. ‘No, dearie. I clean the gubbins off the floor. Have you been left ‘ere in the corridor?’

  ‘Yes. You couldn’t find one of the nurses for me, could you?’

  ‘I’ll go and see if there’s anyone about, dearie.’

  ‘You will come back won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will, dearie. I’ve left me mop and bucket here so you know I’ll be comin’ back.’

  He opened his eyes as the side rail clattered down. ‘Where am I?’ He felt disoriented and must have fallen asleep again. ‘What time is it?’

  A nurse with an east European accent said, in passable English, ‘You sleep enough. Taking up space needed by ill patients. Night now. Time to go home.’

  He looked at his watch, but found it hard to focus. After closing one eye and squinting, he saw that it was eleven thirty – in the evening! He’d been here most of the day and still hadn’t been seen by a doctor. He felt reassured he was still alive, but still, he paid his taxes and National Insurance like everyone else. He didn’t expect special treatment, just some treatment. ‘Am I not being seen by a doctor, nurse?’

  The nurse picked up a bright green folder from the foot of the gurney. ‘You seen by Doctor Savi at twelve fifteen today: x-rays find no broken bones; head stitched up; you go to GP get stitches out in ten days. You go home now.’

  He had no recollection of being seen by a doctor, sutures, x-rays or anything else. He must have had concussion. The nurse helped him to stand on the floor. He felt dizzy and held on tight to her hand as she guided him to an orange plastic chair like a geriatric. His shoes and clothes were unceremoniously dumped on the floor next to him and she wheeled the gurney away.

  He got dressed slowly in the corridor, too dazed to care who might be watching. When he stood, he knew he desperately needed the toilet and spotted signs pointing along the corridor. His bladder was so extended he was surprised he hadn’t wet himself while he’d been asleep on the gurney.

  Using the wall to hold himself up, he eventually found the male toilets. After peeing, he washed his hands and swilled cold water on a swollen and mangled face he didn’t recognise as his own in the mirror above the washbasin. He shook his head painfully and, not for the first time, thought that he needed to get some balance in his life.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You look like crap, Quigg,’ was the general greeting he received as he walked through the station towards the Chief’s office on Wednesday morning. He thought his nose might be broken, but it had already been red and sore, so it was difficult to tell. There was a jagged horizontal wound on his forehead that followed the middle worry line and was held together with seven stitches. The left side of his face was black and swollen, and his left eye was nearly closed. To top it all off, his lips had ballooned to twice their normal size. He’d anticipated the welcome and had devised a reply: ‘You should see the other guy!’ It wasn’t original, but it sounded more masculine than: ‘I was hit by a door.’

  He looked at the clock on the wall as he passed through the squad room – nine thirty – late again. Knocking, he opened the door and squeezed his head through the gap. ‘You free, Chief?’

  ‘If that’s you, Quigg, you’d better take that mask off before you come in.’

  ‘Ha, very good, Chief.’ He parked himself on one of the two chairs in front of the mahogany desk.

  Debbie was right, Chief Superintendent Walter Bellmarsh did hate him, and he had no idea why. The Chief hadn’t recommended him 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". In his late fifties and close to retirement, Bellmarsh had been Quigg’s superior officer and nemesis for the last ten years.

  ‘If you’ve come for plastic surgery, my list is full today, but I might have a cancellation tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re a natural, Chief.’

  ‘So, Quigg, what do you want? Everything you touch turns to shit.’ He leaned forward in his chair, fat face turning red. ‘I give you a simple missing corpse and, as usual, it turns into a national disaster.’

  ‘I’d like some help, Chief.’

  ‘We’re four months from the end of the financial year. You know I’m trying to stay within a very tight budget.’

  ‘What about giving me Duffy?’

  ‘Six months in the job and she can’t even make a decent cup of tea.’

  ‘I drink coffee.’

  ‘It’ll save me trying to keep her occupied, I suppose.’ He smiled and rubbed his flabby double chin. ‘You’ve not got the hots for her, have you, Quigg?’

  ‘Do I look like I’ve got the energy?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it...’

  Quigg stood. ‘Thanks, Chief.’

  ‘Just make sure you bring her back in one piece.’

  He forced a painful smile.

  Walking into the main office, he shouted, ‘Duffy.’

  Her head popped up from b
ehind the photocopier, which lay in pieces on the floor. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You’re with me.’ He walked towards his office.

  Her forehead creased as she followed. ‘I am?’

  Mavourneen Duffy came from Irish stock. With long black hair, green eyes, voluptuous curves - that her uniform did little to hide - and porcelain skin, she’d become the fantasy of every heterosexual male in the station. Some of the other females also gave the twenty-one year old sideways glances. There were rumours that DS Mervyn Jones had started a book on the first to bed her, which, if he were caught, could lead to charges of sexual harassment and cost him his job. Quigg had heard that he was a two-hundred-to-one rank outsider. The odds were about the same as when he’d applied for DI.

  He was perched on the edge of his desk as she came into his pokey little office. ‘Are you familiar with the case I’m working on, Duffy?’

  The scent of her distracted him momentarily. His eyes were drawn to her breasts, which were struggling to free themselves from a white police-issue blouse that was probably two sizes too small and showed the intricate pattern of her bra. He began to wonder what she would be like naked in bed lying next to him. Even before the vision forced itself into his mind, he regretted asking the Chief for her help. He just knew she was going to be trouble.

  ‘The missing body? Yes, Sir.’ She leaned forward; fingers gently brushed the swollen side of his face. ‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital, Sir?’

  He could detect a slight Irish lilt, but the information in her personnel file stated that she’d been born and brought up in Wandsworth, with four older brothers, and still lived there. ‘You’re not a nurse in disguise are you, Duffy?’

  ‘No, Sir?’

  ‘Good, because I don’t need a nurse. I’m expecting two things this morning, Duffy: a report from Perkins in forensics and the results of the DNA analysis from Doctor Poulson at Hammersmith hospital. Your first job is to obtain both – no excuses. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good. After you’ve obtained that information for me, change out of your uniform into civilian clothes. We’ll be going to Docklands.’

  She grinned. Her sparkling green eyes and perfect teeth lit up the room. ‘Right, Sir.’

  ‘Shut the door on your way out.’ He vaguely remembered being that young and eager. He hoped her civilian clothes were less distracting.

  Duffy gainfully employed, he began typing up his report from yesterday, before the Chief – a pedant for paperwork – began yelling along the corridor. After a productive half hour, he emailed the finished report.

  On cue, Duffy knocked and entered.

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ She handed him Perkins’ report. ‘In summary, it says that he found nothing on the CCTV tapes, but the strand of hair and one of the fingerprints belong to a man called Patrick Griffiths who’s serving life for murder in Wormwood Scrubs.’

  ‘Are they letting lifers out on day trips now?’ he quipped.

  ‘Anticipating what you’d say, I rang the Governor, Sir. He said that Griffiths was murdered in the shower on Sunday morning. They have no suspects.’

  ‘Shit,’ Quigg said. ‘This case is starting to give me a headache. What about the DNA analysis of the skin?’

  ‘You’re not going to like this either, Sir.’

  He leaned back and made himself comfortable by stretching his legs out under the table. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Apparently, it belongs to a man called George Sandland.’

  ‘That’s good isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really, Sir. He’s been dead for seven years.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ He closed his eyes and thought of Debbie Poulson. ‘Do I have to wait long for you to get changed, Constable?’

  ‘Er... no, Sir, I’ll go now.’

  ‘Hurry up then.’

  What the hell was going on? Clearly someone did not want Body 13 to be identified. How did Griffith’s hair and fingerprint get onto the mortuary shelf if he was in prison? Who was George Sandland? He made three phone calls while he waited for Duffy. The first to the governor at Wormwood Scrubs to arrange a meeting for three o’clock; the second to ACFO Towers at Fire HQ to find out the name, address and telephone number of the landlord of Mugabe Terrace, and the third to the said landlord – a Mr Jandira Ahmed – to arrange a meeting for twelve o’clock.

  Duffy came in twenty minutes later in a skin-tight light grey trouser suit and a champagne-coloured silk blouse that left nothing to his imagination. She had also liberally reapplied her make-up, lip-gloss and bathed in a perfume he didn’t know the name of.

  ‘Haven’t you been told that make-up and perfume are inappropriate for the work we do?’

  ‘I thought you’d want me to look my best, Sir.’

  ‘We’re not going on a date, Duffy.’

  She looked down at the pink varnish on her fingernails, ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now.’ Quigg squirmed into his duffel coat. ‘Come on, let’s go. You can drive. You have passed your test, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  A wall of silence hit them as they came out into the squad room. Heads turned to stare and someone let out a low whistle. DS Jones winked at him and held up a piece of paper in front of his face as if reading it. On the back he’d scribbled: ten-to-one.

  Quigg stopped. ‘While I’m out, Sergeant Jones, find a copy of the policy on sexual harassment and put it on my desk, will you. The rest of you, get back to work before I find time to scrutinise your caseloads.’

  That should sort the stupid bastards out, he thought.

  ***

  The flag outside Fire HQ flew at half-mast.

  ACFO Towers greeted them in the main entrance and escorted them up to his office.

  ‘You were lucky, Inspector.’

  ‘I suppose so. This is PC Duffy.’ He saw the ACFO’s eyes crease up as he shook her slim manicured hand. Maybe it had been a bad idea to bring her. She looked more like his mistress than a police constable. ‘Take notes, Duffy.’

  They sat down in easy chairs. A small woman came in and put a pot of tea down on the round coffee table between them. Quigg’s stomach began to rumble. The clock on the wall behind Towers’ desk showed eleven twenty. The day was running away from him again.

  ‘Thank you Muriel,’ Towers said. ‘Tea?’ he directed at Quigg and Duffy.

  Quigg shook his head.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Duffy said.

  ‘Both Bunder and Stevens are dead, Inspector. The photographs and negatives you were after – destroyed, unfortunately. And our investigation of the explosion has confirmed your suspicions: it was a bomb. A very sophisticated device, the fragments of which our experts are still examining with a view to identifying it.’

  ‘Any evidence that might lead to who was responsible?’

  ‘If there is, we haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘How did the bomber get in?’

  ‘We’re still investigating, but I can tell you that all civilian visitors are signed in and escorted to and from their destinations. There is one fireman on the CCTV footage who cannot be accounted for.’

  Quigg raised his eyebrows. ‘A fireman?’

  ‘Yes and no. We think the culprit was a civilian. Walked in bold as brass dressed in a fireman’s uniform.’

  ‘I suppose that would offer him anonymity here.’

  ‘Exactly. No one would pay any attention to another fireman. As a result, we’re carrying out a comprehensive review of our security procedures.’

  ‘Is there a clear view of his face?’

  ‘This man knew what he was doing. As soon as he comes into the camera arc, his face is obscured. We’ve got another two tapes to check, but I’m not hopeful.’

  ‘What do you mean, obscured?’

  ‘Take a look - never seen anything like it.’ He picked up a remote, pressed play and a large TV screen in a cabinet came to life.

  Quigg
watched as a tall man in a fireman’s uniform entered the reception. As the man turned towards the camera, it appeared as if he had no face beneath the peaked hat.

  ‘Damned strange. Can I have a copy? Forensics might be able to do something with it.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get one made and send it over.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Quigg stood, pulled a card out of his pocket and passed it to Towers. ‘If there’s anything else, please give me a call.’

  Duffy bent, picked something off the floor and passed it to Quigg. ‘It fell out of your pocket, Sir.’

  Confused, he looked at the small piece of card. Of course, he thought... Debbie Poulson ... dinner tonight. He’d nearly forgotten.

  Muriel came in and whispered something to Towers.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Ahmed yet, Inspector?’

  ‘Next stop.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rush. My men have been called to an explosion at the offices of Ahmed Property Management.’

  ***

  As there was no rush to get to the twelve o’clock appointment Quigg had arranged with Mr Ahmed, he told Duffy to pull into the car park of the Slug and Lettuce. In the bar, he ordered a high-cholesterol lunch of cheeseburger, chips and a pint of extra cold Guinness.

  Duffy ordered a chef’s salad and bottled water. Once the food arrived and he had begun eating, she said, ‘I don’t think the odds of you sleeping with me are as high as ten-to-one, Sir.’

  As well as all his other ailments, Quigg nearly choked to death when a mouthful of cheeseburger got wedged at the top of his epiglottis. Duffy had to go behind him and hit him on the back to dislodge it.

  ‘Has the Chief paid you to kill me, Duffy?’

  ‘I’m not as stupid as DS Jones thinks I am, Sir.’

  ‘So it would appear. I’m your superior officer, Duffy; the odds of us sleeping together are more like five thousand to one.’ Would he really refuse if she backed him into the corner of her bedroom? It was an abuse of power; he had a duty to refuse. He just didn’t know whether the mantle of duty would help him if it came down to it.