The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  There were cries of shock at the number of dead children involved.

  ‘At the moment, we do not know whether the children have been murdered, but it appears likely that they have. Some of the children were buried a long time ago, while others are more recent. I would be particularly interested in anyone who might have information pertaining to the burials or the children.’

  ‘Was the motive sexual, Inspector?’ a cross-eyed woman in a multicoloured hat with string ties called out.

  ‘Please, don’t ask me any more questions. I have given you all the information I have. What I need is your help in asking the local community if they know anything. One, two or more people have been burying children here for sixty years. I would like anyone who might know something to come forward. My partner, DC Walsh, will give you the contact details for Hammersmith Police Station. Future press briefings will take place there, with the first one at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. I should have more detailed information by then.’

  He pushed his way through the crowd and climbed into his car to wait. He hadn’t said anything about the symbol, which was something he’d keep to himself for now until he knew what relevance it had. It was certainly something the press would sensationalise once they found out.

  Walsh opened the passenger door and scrambled in. ‘Thanks for that, Sir.’

  He turned the ignition on, reversed in an arc, and pulled away. ‘No problem, Walsh. Did you arrange for local TV and radio interviews?’

  ‘Twelve o’clock tomorrow. They remembered me from the Body 13 case.’

  ‘You’re famous, Walsh.’

  ‘There’s a problem, though, Sir.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Who’s going to answer all the telephone calls and respond to people coming into the station?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Last time, you and Martin did the honours.’ Quigg was quiet for some time while he navigated out of the park, and then said, ‘I’ll have to speak to DI Threadneedle, see if we can utilise her uniforms. She won’t be happy, but it’ll only be for a couple of days.’

  ‘Good luck with that, Sir.’

  ***

  After following Rocks Lane, turning into Mill Hill Road and Station Road, the signs to Hammersmith Bridge directed him up the A3003 into Barnes where he spotted a café with steamed-up windows called the Pepper Pot and pulled in.

  A family of five was being noisy by the window, so he pushed Walsh towards the back of the room. There was a teenage couple holding hands at the table closest to the counter, so they sat at the table next to them.

  ‘I’ll have the full English,’ he said to Walsh after he’d glanced at the menu, ‘with a mug of coffee and two pieces of toast.’

  ‘That’s what heart attack victims eat, Sir.’

  ‘Are you a dietician, Walsh?’

  ‘No, Sir, but it was one of the degrees I looked at when…’

  ‘Stop talking, Walsh. Don’t comment on my diet and go and order. Do you eat those appetising leaves like Duffy?’

  ‘How is Mave, Sir?’

  ‘She’s good, Walsh.’

  ‘Is she pregnant yet?’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Girls tell each other everything.’

  ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘You’re a grown man, Sir.’

  ‘Haven’t you ordered the damn food yet, Walsh? Can’t you see I’m wasting away?’

  Walsh got up, went to the counter and ordered. She returned a couple of minutes later with his coffee and a tea for herself.

  He ripped three sugar sachets open, tipped them in his coffee and stirred.

  ‘Sugar’s bad for you as well, Sir.’

  ‘As you can see, Walsh, I’m the picture of health. You haven’t had instructions from Duffy to nag me have you?’

  ‘What do you think about the bodies, Sir?’

  ‘I try not to think about dead bodies before I’m about to eat, Walsh.’

  ‘You can call me Heather, if you want, Sir.’

  ‘I don’t want, Walsh. And, anyway, I thought you were a lesbian.’

  ‘If it’s the same killer, he must be at least over seventy years old by now. I don’t think it’s the same killer, Sir.’

  ‘You could be right, Walsh, but let’s delay the speculation until we get back to the station and my meal has digested.’

  An emaciated waitress with purple plaited hair and tattoos on her forearms brought their food. Walsh had ordered boiled salmon with a sprig of parsley.

  Quigg shook the salt and pepper pots over his food, and squirted brown sauce next to the sausages. He had lost five pounds since he’d been staying at Duffy’s flat. Sex three times a day and more was as good as going to the gym any day of the week.

  ‘Salt is…’

  ‘Have you got nothing better to do, Walsh?’

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. The display showed it was his mum, Beryl. He’d better take it. He hadn’t spoken to her for four days since taking her back to Maggie Crenshaw’s house on Boxing Day.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  Is that you, Quigg?

  ‘Who were you ringing?’

  That no good son of mine - the one who never rings his mother, and never comes to visit.

  ‘We just spent five days together over Christmas, Mum.’

  Five days! Is that all a mother should expect to see of her son in a year, five days? I suppose I should be grateful for small gifts now that I’m dying.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Mum?’

  The same as always, Quigg, a broken heart. How long do I have to stay here with Maggie? Have you heard from those people about our house?

  He’d forgotten all about Mrs Randi Lovecock from Piper Assessors who was acting on their behalf. No, he hadn’t heard from them. His phone had been unusually quiet in respect of assessors. The last he’d heard was that his mum’s house insurers were contesting the claim. His heart quickened at the thought of it. Those damned paedophile Apostles had tried to kill him by putting a bomb in his mum’s house. The trouble was the bomb had exploded prematurely, killing the bomber instead of Quigg and destroying his mum’s house. Now, the insurers were claiming that they should have been informed a policeman lived in the house, that it was a ‘special risk’, and attracted an additional premium. God, he hated insurers. They were like jellied eels when it came to paying out on a claim.

  ‘No, Mum, I’ve not heard anything more. It’s still the holidays you know, but I’ll give Mrs Lovecock a ring and see if there’ve been any developments.’

  It’s a good job your poor old mother has got Maggie, because if it were left up to you, I’d die a lonely old woman.

  ‘I’ve got a difficult case at the moment, Mum, but Duffy and I will try and get over on New Year’s Day.’

  I watch the news, Quigg. What’s that slug Walter Belmarsh doing so that you can’t spare any time to come and see your poor old mother, that’s what I want to know?

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Mum.’

  He had Mrs Lovecock in his address book and selected it for calling.

  The call was directed on to voicemail.

  ‘It’s DI Quigg, Mrs Lovecock. I’d like you to call me back, before my cardboard box rots and I die of exposure, and tell me how things are going with the insurers.’ She deserved facetiousness; she should have rung him back before now, kept him up to date and not left him in limbo. It had been a month now since his mother’s house had burnt down, and Mrs Lovecock seemed to be no nearer achieving a payout on the claim.

  ***

  They were walking down the corridor towards the squad room. It was two thirty and Quigg planned to fill the afternoon by doing some research.

  ‘Are we not using the storeroom for this case, Sir?’

  Unable to gain access to the squad room during the Body 13 case, Quigg had fashioned an incident room from a storeroom. ‘Seeing as we’re the only idiots here, Walsh, we may as well use the board in the squad room - although w
ith twenty-three victims we’ll probably need a couple of boards. What about a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, Sir - decaf, no sugar, just a spot of milk.’

  Quigg smiled and took his duffel coat off. ‘When we get promoted to DI, Walsh, we lose the ability to make coffee. You know how I like it.’

  Walsh made her way to the drinks area and put the kettle on. ‘I thought we were going to be equal partners, Sir?’

  ‘We are, Walsh. You make the coffee; I drink it. What could be more equal than that?’ He was sitting at DS Jones’ desk and tried to open the drawers, but was disappointed that they were all locked.

  ‘He always keeps his drawers locked, Sir.’

  ‘Shame, I might have found something useful.’ It would have been good to have something to hold over DS Mervyn Jones to keep him in line and to stop him from ratting him out to the Chief. Maybe he could break into the drawers, make it look like a burglary, blame festive looters.

  Walsh put a mug of coffee in front of him. ‘Even if you break into the drawers, Sir, you won’t be able to get anything useful. He keeps a locked safe in the big drawer with all his incriminating stuff inside.’

  ‘Don’t start reading my mind, Walsh. Duffy used to do that, and look what happened to her.’

  ‘She’s happy, Sir.’

  ‘She’s sucking the life out of me, Walsh; she’s a sexual vampire. I’ve lost ten stone since I’ve been living with Duffy.’

  Walsh let out a laugh. ‘You’d be a pool of water on the floor if you’d lost that much weight, Sir.’

  ‘Don’t split hairs, Walsh. Anyway, what’s all this about you batting for the other side?’

  ‘I don’t play cricket, Sir.’

  ‘All right, when did you decide you liked women instead of us hairy blokes?’

  ‘When I started working for you.’

  ‘Ha, good one, Walsh.’

  ‘What are we doing this afternoon, Sir?’

  ‘Sharing the workload equally: I’m going to do some historical research into Barn Elms Park, and you’re going to find someone who can tell us what that alphanumeric symbol means.’

  ‘What, you mean like a priest, Sir?’

  ‘Yeah, if the symbol we saw is a reference to the bible, a priest would do. What we don’t want is someone high-powered like that symbologist Robert Langdon.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, the guy that runs around solving all those religious clues in the Da Vinci Code.’

  ‘Oh, the film with Tom Hanks in, Sir. I thought you meant a real person.’

  ‘I do, Walsh, but not someone who’ll tie us in knots.’

  ‘Any preferences?’

  ‘We’re not ordering a takeaway. Just grab the nearest person who you think knows what it means.’

  Walsh stood up, walked over to a metal cupboard, and came back to her desk with the Yellow Pages.

  ‘That’s the idea, Walsh - keep it simple.’

  Quigg switched Jones’ computer on. While it was loading up, he searched round the desk, under the keyboard and on the monitor to see if Jones had left a clue to his password.

  Walsh could see what he was doing and said, ‘He keeps it in his little safe, Sir.’

  ‘Are you doing my job as well as your own, Walsh? If you are, I’ll go home and catch up with my sleep.’

  Walsh didn’t respond, but carried on with her task.

  At the login screen, Quigg input his user name and password into the dialogue box seeing as he couldn’t find Jones’ access details. He clicked on the Internet button and put Barn Elms Park into the search engine. Wikipedia had a small piece on the history of the park, but otherwise there was little of use: local sports clubs, campaigns to save the public space, trout fishing, and the London Wetland Centre. The only information, which might have a bearing on the graves, was a Georgian house, named Barn Elms, which was standing on the site until it burnt down in the 1950s. That was around the time the first child was buried. The fact that the house might have belonged to Sir Francis Wakingham, Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, and that she and Samuel Pepys might have rowed up the Thames and visited the house was irrelevant to the case, as was the fact that the 18th Century literary and political Kit Kat Club used to meet in a specially built room at Barn Elms.

  ‘There’s nothing useful on the Internet,’ he called across to Walsh. ‘We’ll have to go and ask questions at Richmond Council Offices in Twickenham tomorrow morning.’

  ‘It’s not really the weather for visits, Sir.’

  ‘Did you look at being a weatherman when you were choosing your degree as well?’

  ‘How did you know, Sir?’

  ‘Any luck finding a priest? Usually, when you want one, he’s out saving souls, or flogging the lead on the roof to pay for the food in the soup kitchen.’

  ‘There’s a Father Paidraig from Saint Peter-in-Chains Church in Shepherd’s Bush coming over.’

  ‘What, now?’ Quigg looked at his watch. It was quarter to four. ‘I was hoping to get away early.’

  ‘You didn’t say that, Sir. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes; the church isn’t far from the station.’

  ‘Yes, but then we’ll have to listen to him prattle on about religion and trying to convert us. Before long, we’ll be confessing our sins and believing in life after death. You’re not Catholic are you, Walsh?’

  ‘No, I’m not Catholic, Sir, but…’

  The phone on Walsh’s desk rang. She picked it up, said, ‘Thanks,’ and stood up. ‘Father Paidraig is downstairs. I’ll go and bring him up. Don’t disappear, will you, Sir?’

  ‘As if I would, Walsh.’ He had to raise his voice because she was walking away from him towards the door to the stairs. ‘I’m eager to meet him and discuss the finer points of religious doctrine until the early hours,’ he shouted after her through the closing door.

  While he waited, he put his duffel coat and scarf on, emailed a quick report to the Chief, and logged out of Jones’ computer. He wanted to dart off quickly, to think about what he was going to say to Duffy, and prepare himself for tears and accusations.

  Walsh came back talking to a small thin man with long, silver hair and a beak-like nose. He wore jeans, a donkey jacket, and twirled a black woollen hat in his left hand like a baton twirler.

  Quigg expected Father Paidraig to be Irish, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘Ah, you must be the Inspector the beautiful colleen has been speaking about,’ the priest said with a heavy Irish accent. He extended his hand and Quigg took it. The grip was firm, and said more about him than his wiry frame.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Father Paidraig.’

  ‘You must be Irish yourself with a name like Quigg?’

  ‘In the dark and distant past, but now we’re Londoners.’

  Father Paidraig took his jacket off. He wore a yellow T-shirt with, Give God what’s right – not what’s left, printed on the front in black. ‘You’re just masquerading as a Londoner, Inspector; in your heart you’re still Irish.’

  Quigg thought Father Paidraig must be on a day off because of the way he was dressed. There were obviously no souls to save, or sinners to convert during the festive season. They were probably all out selling their souls or sinning. If Duffy was Catholic, she must be on the verge of excommunication for living with him, and possibly being pregnant out of wedlock. Shit! The next thing would be marriage. He’d have to keep his wits about him for that one. As for himself, he was so far along the road to hell he could smell the fire and brimstone.

  ‘How can God’s servant be of assistance, Inspector?’

  ‘Would you like a coffee first, Father?’ Walsh asked him.

  ‘Very kind, beautiful flower of the highlands. Milk with one sugar, please.’

  Walsh blushed and went to put the kettle on.

  Quigg hadn’t seen Walsh blush before, and thought she looked very attractive with some colour in her cheeks. He showed Father Paidraig the alphanumeric symbol from the girl’s chest.

  ‘A
biblical reference?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me, Father.’

  ‘It could be Exodus 3:1: Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb. It could also be Ezra 3:1: And when the seventh month was come, and the children of Israel were in the cities, the people gathered themselves together as one man to Jerusalem. Or, Ecclesiastes 3:1: To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. We also have Esther and Ezekiel from the Old Testament, and Ephesians from the New Testament.’

  Quigg thought that Father Paidraig had excellent recall, and wondered if he could recite the whole bible from memory.

  ‘That’s not good is it, Father?’ Walsh said as she returned and gave the priest a mug of coffee.

  ‘When you say "it’s not good", in what context? Without more to go on, I can only tell you what it might be.’

  Quigg hesitated. ‘If I tell you, Father, you must promise not to say anything to the press.’

  ‘As God is my witness.’

  ‘Twenty-three graves were found this morning at Barn Elms Park in Barnes. They all contained children of about thirteen years of age.’

  Father Paidraig made the sign of the cross over his heart and said, ‘May the Lord have mercy on their souls.’

  ‘I certainly hope so, Father.’

  ‘I take it the children were murdered?’

  ‘It has yet to be established for certain, but that is the assumption we’re working on.’

  ‘How does the biblical reference fit into your investigation?’

  ‘The last child was buried recently and had the reference carved into her chest above the heart.’

  Father Paidraig performed the sign of the cross again. ‘Have all the children been disfigured in the same way?’

  ‘We don’t know, Father. I’ll know more tomorrow after the forensic pathologist has examined all of the bodies.’

  ‘Then call me when he has, Inspector. Until I have a more detailed picture, I can’t tell you anything other than what I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Thanks very much for your assistance anyway, Father…’