The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘What about the position of the hands, Sir?’

  ‘The hands?’ Father Paidraig’s forehead creased.

  ‘The arms were crossed at the wrists like someone that had been laid out in a coffin.’

  ‘Strangely enough, crossed arms have no Christian significance. It dates from the Ptolemaic period when Egyptian mummies’ arms were crossed in emulation of the pose of Osiris, the lord of eternity.’

  Quigg let out a guttural laugh. ‘How in God’s name… Oops, sorry, Father, but how did you know that?’

  ‘We all have hobbies, Inspector. My hobby happens to be Egyptian history.’

  Quigg’s hobby was work, or at least work-related. He read the exploits of fictional detectives Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes as if they were training manuals. ‘That slice of history is a bit arcane, Father.’

  ‘I suppose so. Put it down to the lack of a social life. Priests don't get out much. Celibacy, you see - no reason.’

  Quigg stood up.

  Father Paidraig followed suit, picked up his jacket and shook Quigg’s extended hand.

  ‘Neither do Detective Inspectors, Father, and we don’t have to be celibate.’ In fact, Quigg was as far from celibacy as it was possible to be. ‘Would you like a lift back to your church in a police car?’ he asked Father Paidraig.

  ‘No thank you, Inspector. It is a joy to walk on God’s green… white Earth.’

  ‘There’s a lot of white about at the moment, Father,’ Walsh said.

  ‘God’s generosity, beautiful lady.’ Father Paidraig took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘I’ll walk you down,’ Walsh said.

  Father Paidraig smiled. ‘I am indeed fortunate.’

  ‘Thanks again, Father - you’ve helped, I think. Don’t bother coming back, Walsh. I’ll see you in the car park tomorrow morning at nine.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sir.’

  ‘Feel free to call on me when you know more, Inspector,’ Father Paidraig offered.

  ‘I will, Father, thanks. Look after yourself.’

  ‘God looks after me, Inspector; I look after my flock.’

  He followed them down one flight of stairs, and then peeled off through the swing doors onto the first floor to speak to DI Pricilla Threadneedle - or Pernicious Bedweasel, as everyone called her behind her back. He knocked and went in. A fat, grey-haired woman looked up at him as if a man-sized turd had opened her door.

  ‘Pricilla, hi - Quigg from homicide.’ He didn’t know much about Pernicious, hadn’t really spoken to her except in passing. She was closer to the Chief’s age than his. He didn’t offer his hand or sit down, but he did notice that she had an office comparable in size to the Chief’s. He’d have to have it out with Belmarsh after the New Year.

  ‘I know who you are, Quigg. What do you want?’ She didn’t offer him a chair, a coffee or a smile.

  ‘You know I got lumbered with this murder case at Barn Elms Park?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve got some of my officers tied up guarding the place.’

  ‘And there’s only one other detective and myself up in homicide. Well, I need people to answer and deal with calls and visits from the public for a couple of days following a request for information.’

  ‘I saw Walsh on the news. You should have thought about that before you made the request, Quigg. Why do you expect me to bail you out?’

  ‘We’re inspectors in the same station, aren’t we, Priscilla? I’ll speak to the Chief when he comes back; tell him how helpful and co-operative you were.’

  ‘What you tell the Chief means nothing to me, Quigg. He can’t do anything that hasn’t already been done to me by other people. Ted Salway’s on the front desk tomorrow; if he agrees to help you out as well as carry out his other duties then I’ll allow it, but you’ll owe me one…’

  Sweat had begun to make his armpits uncomfortable. God, he hoped she didn’t want to have sex with him.

  ‘…and I don’t mean I want sex either. I heard about Gwen Taylor forcing herself on you. I felt ashamed to be a woman.’

  He was that relieved, he said, ‘Anything, just ask.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Quigg, I will.’

  As he was walking down the stairs, his secret mobile rang. It could only be Ruth; she had bought the phone for him and was the only one who knew the number.

  ‘Hello, Ruth. Did you have a good holiday?’

  Quigg, I have missed you.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  I have a surprise for you.

  ‘Not another Mercedes?’

  We are pregnant, as I said we were; it has been confirmed by the top doctors. I have a picture for you to see.

  ‘Already?’

  He looks like you.

  Quigg laughed. ‘You’re joking. How could you possibly know it is a he?’

  You will see I am right, Quigg.

  ‘I’ll see you tonight, Ruth.’

  You have not told Duffy what we spoke about, have you, Quigg?

  ‘I’ve been busy, but I’m just going home now to do exactly that.’

  I thought we were not telling each other the lies?

  He didn’t say anything.

  Come at eight o’clock, Quigg.

  ‘I will.’

  He disconnected the call. He felt terrible. The phone call had taken him by surprise. He had promised Ruth that he would tell Duffy she had to share him, that Ruth was carrying his child. But he had been so happy over Christmas that he hadn’t wanted to break the spell. Now, Ruth had returned from her Cuban holiday, had confirmed she was carrying his child, and had put him on the spot with Duffy. As he made his way out of the station, he knew he was up to his eyes in shit. His normal phone made a noise: a missed call – Mrs Lovecock. He returned the call.

  Mr Quigg, I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you, but…

  ‘There are always ‘buts’, Mrs Lovecock. Please tell me you’ve got some good news; my mother deserves some good news.’

  I’ve spoken to my supervisor. After the New Year we’re going to get the big guns out.

  The big guns! It sounded like a war. Maybe it was - maybe he should get himself a gun. He wished he hadn’t left the other one in the house in Surrey or, more accurately, he wished he hadn’t let Duffy leave it there. ‘What exactly does that mean, Mrs Lovecock? Are we going to bomb the bastards?’ He’d like to line those insurance bastards up and shoot them, and the bankers. There were probably others, if he were given time to think of them, that deserved the same fate.

  I was speaking metaphorically, Mr Quigg. Our legal department has examined the insurance policy and we think we might have found a chink in their armour.

  God, insurance people didn’t half talk a load of crap. If the other side had armour, maybe he should start wearing his bullet-proof vest again. ‘Can they really refuse to pay out on the claim, Mrs Lovecock?’

  Let’s think positive, Mr Quigg. It’s our job to make sure they do pay out. If necessary, you can complain to the Financial Ombudsman Service for an impartial adjudication.

  ‘Will the ombudsman make the insurance company pay?’

  Well eh… no, they don’t do that, but…

  ‘…but what?’

  We can go to the Financial Services Authority.

  ‘Will they make the bastards pay?’

  They have the authority to seek redress for consumers.

  ‘You should have been a politician, Mrs Lovecock.’

  I’m sorry, Mr Quigg, but my hands are tied until Monday 5th January. I’m actually on holiday in Spain lying by a pool and drinking tequila.

  Bloody holidays. It was like a Third World country how everything ground to a halt. ‘I expect to hear that the big guns have bombarded the insurers into submission during that first week, Mrs Lovecock.’

  I will do my best, Mr Quigg.

  The phone went dead. He disconnected his end of the call. He’d spent ten minutes on the phone and was none the wiser. In his gut, he knew the bastards were going to wriggle out of paying to re-
build his mother’s house. It was his fault that his mother had no home, that she had lost all her valuables, and that she was living with Maggie Crenshaw. He’d have to think what he was going to do if they refused to pay. Was there anything he could do?

  ***

  It was ten past six when he heard Duffy opening the door. He felt like a naughty schoolboy waiting to tell his parents what he’d done wrong at school.

  ‘How was your first day?’ He’d start off with some mundane chit-chat before he broached the more difficult, life-threatening stuff.

  ‘I was out on the beat with a moron called Ray Slocum who had halitosis. I was helping old ladies across the road, giving directions and arresting shoplifters.’

  ‘We’ve all had to do that, Duffy.’

  She began to peel her layers of clothes off and leave them where they fell on the kitchen floor until all she had on were a matching silk bra and shorts. ‘I hated it, Sir,’ she pouted. ‘I want to be your detective.’

  He had an erection like Cleopatra’s Needle on Victoria Embankment in Westminster. ‘You are my detective, Duffy,’ he said ripping his clothes off, and following her down the hall and into the bathroom.

  It was quarter past seven by the time he came out of the shower. He knew that if he didn’t get his arse into gear he was going to be late getting to Ruth’s. Christ, he still hadn’t told Duffy. It was hardly something he could whisper in her ear while he had a rhythm going in the shower. What could he do? Events had conspired against him again. There was never a right moment; something always came between him and the truth. Maybe he should become a Tibetan monk. As much as he complained about the lack of women and the lack of sex after Caitlin had thrown him out, at least his life had been simple. Now it felt like a conundrum inside a cryptogram wrapped in riddles.

  ‘I have to go out,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I come back.’

  ‘OK.’

  She took that rather well, he thought. He strolled purposefully down the hall, opened the door, and walked into the night.

  He just made it to Ruth’s flat in Knightsbridge by eight o’clock and was surprised there were no lights on in the second storey windows. He ran up the stairs and knocked on her door. His heart was skipping the light fandango, but Ruth didn’t answer. He knocked again - louder, more insistent. It was the type of knock which said, ‘I’m here; I’m impatient - don’t keep me waiting.’ Nobody came. He put his ear against the door and shouted, ‘Ruth, it’s Quigg.’

  Still nothing! Where the hell was she? Maybe she’d nipped to the corner shop for a bottle of milk, a bag of sugar, or a telescope to watch the stars from her observatory.

  He slid down the wall and sat on the Italian floor tiles. Waiting made him sleepy and his eyes closed, his chin fell on his chest, and dribble dripped from his mouth. He had a nightmare. He was trapped in the shower and everywhere he looked there were dead bodies; he struggled to breathe. The fire detector on the ceiling activated and he thought he might be able to escape while the zombie’s were momentarily distracted. Then he woke up, and his phone was ringing.

  ‘Hello?’ His head felt as though one of the residents had come out of their flat and stuffed cotton wool into his brain through his ears and nose with a stick.

  You can come home now, Quigg.

  It was Ruth. Why was she ringing him? What time was it? He looked at his watch – it was twenty to nine. He’d been asleep for thirty minutes. Go home! Where the hell was he? Why was she saying he could come home? Where was she?

  ‘Where are you?’

  I am with Duffy, Quigg. I have done what you should have done.

  He had a moment of clarity as if a meteor had blazed through his skull and burnt all the cotton wool away. She had tricked him, got him out of the way while she went to tell Duffy everything. Now he really was in the shit. ‘I think I’ll stay here. In fact, I’ll probably move to Alaska.’

  It is all right, Quigg. You can come home. Duffy and I are friends. We have agreed on what we will do.

  Yes, they’d probably agreed to castrate him, to tie him up in the cellar and feed him scraps, to… ‘Don’t I have a say?’

  Maybe you will not want a say when you hear what Duffy and I have agreed.

  ‘I’m on my way; don’t agree anything else until I get there.’ He disconnected the call. What had they agreed? Whatever it was, if he was at the centre of it he should be a party to the conversation. It was his life after all. He deserved a say in it – didn’t he?

  Chapter Three

  At twenty past nine, Quigg put his key in the keyhole. He turned it and the door opened. Creeping through the gap, he quietly shut the door behind him. As he slithered along the hall like a snake, he could hear laughter coming from the living room.

  ‘Quigg, come in,’ Ruth slurred as he appeared in the doorway. ‘We have been waiting for you.’ They were sitting on the sofa, giggling at each other. Three empty bottles of wine lay on the carpet, and the contents of a fourth bottle were being transferred via wine glasses into their mouths.

  He wondered if he was going to get any sense out of them tonight.

  ‘Hello, Sir. Where’ve you been?’ They both burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, very funny,’ he said. ‘Did you already know about this, Duffy?’

  ‘Ruth contacted me before she went away. I’ve known as long as you’ve known, Sir.’ She half stood, grabbed his hand and dragged him to the sofa to sit between them.

  ‘You’re both drunk.’

  ‘He’s a detective,’ Duffy said to Ruth. ‘That’s how he knows.’ They burst out laughing.

  ‘What have you two drunks agreed then?’

  ‘That you should live with both of us,’ Ruth hiccuped.

  ‘Oh!’ He had no objections to that. It would save him creeping around, driving from A to B, trying to please both of them - but probably pleasing neither of them - and wearing himself to a frazzle. He wondered how the arrangement was going to be achieved. Would Ruth move in here, or Duffy and Quigg move into Ruth’s flat?

  ‘Ruth is going to buy a new house where we can all live. I will live on one side, Ruth will live on the other side, and we’ll meet in the middle for meals and so on. One night you will stay with me and one night you will stay with Ruth.’

  The more he heard of the arrangement, the more he liked it, although there seemed to be no contingency plan for when the two of them got drunk and fell into a stupor. Where would he sleep then?

  He left them snoring loudly on the sofa, switched the lights off, and went to bed. At least tonight, before he became a shared possession, he’d get a good night’s sleep.

  ***

  Tuesday 30th December

  Quigg woke to the sound of vomiting coming from the bathroom. It was five thirty; he thought he’d get up. He needed a pee anyway, and he was wide-awake.

  Ruth and Duffy were both on their knees in the toilet still fully clothed, hugging the white porcelain bowl, and each other, for all they were worth as they puked in unison.

  ‘I have no sympathy with you two scheming shrews,’ Quigg said. ‘This is your punishment for deceiving a charming, good-looking bloke like me.’ He nudged them with his bare legs. ‘You’d better shift out of the way while I have a pee.’

  They sat back on their heels while he stood between them, relieved himself and pulled the chain. Then they began groaning and puking again.

  He laughed as he put the shower on, acquired a comfortable temperature, and stepped in. ‘Nobody joining me this morning?’ he teased.

  After his shower alone, he went into the bedroom to get ready for work. They had finished puking, staggered through to the bedroom, stripped off and crawled into bed together. He was nearly tempted to climb in with them, but the smell of vomit put him off. ‘Nobody got any work today?’ he asked as he made his way along the corridor to the kitchen. ‘Leave us alone,’ was all the response he got from Duffy.

  While he drank a coffee and ate three p
ieces of toast, he put the small television in the kitchen on and watched the seven thirty news. The twenty-three bodies were the top story around the world. He watched himself speaking to the press. Walsh was standing behind him looking sheepish.

  Murders on this scale didn’t happen in Britain. America was the place to go if you wanted murders in double or triple figures. Jeffrey Dahmer only killed seventeen, while Ted Bundy killed thirty-five, but he might have killed a hundred. Then there was Wayne Williams, suspected of being the Atlanta Child Killer, who murdered 29 boys between 1979 and 1981. Was this killer going to feature in the hall of fame?

  He left Ruth and Duffy sleeping and went to work. The sun was shining and ricocheted off the icicles hanging from the wing mirrors of his car. He wondered whether to drive or catch the tube. The roads were like skating rinks. If he hadn’t needed his car to get to Twickenham and to the hospital, he would have travelled by train. But the Chief had already compressed the time he had to solve the case, and losing more time due to the lack of a car was not really an option. He turned the ignition of the Mercedes. It started first time. If he’d still been driving his Ford Fiesta, he would have needed to catch the tube, because it sure as hell wouldn’t have started in this weather.

  ***

  He arrived at the station at ten to nine. People had obviously heeded the advice of the police and stayed at home. Apart from abandoned vehicles, the roads were nearly empty.

  Walsh had been waiting for him in the back entrance. As he pulled into his parking space, she stepped out and walked to the car.

  He leaned across and opened the passenger door for her.

  ‘Thanks, Sir,’ she said as she climbed in and threw her handbag behind the seat with a thud.

  ‘Have you got all your worldly goods in that bag, Walsh?’

  ‘You have to come prepared, Sir.’

  ‘What, like a Scout… or a Girl Guide?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘We’re only going to Richmond Town Hall.’

  ‘But what if you run out of petrol, miles from anywhere?’

  ‘With the weight you’ve got in that bag, Walsh, I’ll be lucky if I have enough petrol to get out of the car park.’