by Tim Ellis
‘Good morning, Sir.’
Quigg reversed, pulled out of the car park onto King Street and headed towards the A316. ‘Good morning, Walsh. Father Paidraig get off OK last night?’
‘Yes, Sir. A really nice man.’
‘You’re not starting to like men again are you, Walsh?’
‘You make two assumptions: first that I liked men before, and second that I disliked them at some point. I’ve never disliked men; they just don’t turn me on.’
‘I’ll shut up, should I, Walsh?’
‘That would be a good idea, Sir.’
‘What do you make of this biblical reference thing on the child’s chest?’
‘I had a look on the Internet last night, Sir.’
‘Have you got nothing else better to do than take your work home with you?’
‘Not at the moment, Sir.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘I have no partner at the moment, Sir.’
‘What did you do at Christmas, Walsh?’
‘Not much, Sir.’
He realised that he knew next to nothing about Walsh. Oh yes, he knew what was in her personnel file, but that didn’t tell him about Heather Walsh, the young woman. ‘What about relatives?’
‘I was telling you about the Internet.’
‘So you were.’ All of a sudden he felt terribly sad. If he’d known she was going to be on her own over Christmas, Duffy and he could have invited her round. He was so wrapped up in his own trials and tribulations that he rarely gave others a thought. Maybe that could be his New Year’s resolution – to consider others.
‘It just reinforced what Father Paidraig had said about how the reference could be any of the bible chapters beginning with ‘E’.
‘A waste of time, then?’
‘I suppose so, Sir, but it kept me occupied. Do you think the killer’s a man, Sir?’
‘I’d be surprised if it was a female, Walsh. All those hormones creating maternal instincts and mother-child bonding must play havoc with female killers of children. I’ve noticed you’re a female, Walsh. What’s this maternal instinct really like?’
‘I haven’t got one, Sir.’
‘...Yet, but you will have one in the future. It’ll probably sneak up on you and take you by surprise. When you’re out shopping one day, you’ll grab your stomach and say, "I’ve just got my maternal instinct". Is that how it works, do you think, Walsh?’
‘Do you lie in bed thinking this crap up, Sir?’
‘Ha, you don’t imagine I have time to lie in bed thinking anymore with Duffy there next to me, do you?’
‘No, probably not with Mave.’
‘Now, she’s a woman with enough maternal instinct for the both of you.’
‘Yes, Mave’s definitely got a maternal instinct.’
‘Is it because you’re a lesbian?’
‘I’d like babies, Sir, but…’
He smiled. ‘Are you propositioning me, Walsh?’
‘If it was a female killer, she could be an angel of death like that Beverley Allitt from 1993 in Lincolnshire. There could also be a link to the location – Angel Brook.’
‘I’m listening.’
Walsh reached around the back of the seat and rifled in her bag, eventually pulling out some folded A4 sheets of paper that she started to scan. ‘She was a nurse working in a Lincolnshire hospital who killed four children and injured five others. Although her motives have never been explained, it’s been suggested that she suffered from Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy.’
‘So where does the Angel of Death come into it?’
‘Beverley Allitt was called the Angel of Death, but that’s not what I’m saying. Women, and men for that matter, can murder the more vulnerable in society, such as children, old people and hospital patients, to release them from their suffering. Harold Shipman and John Adams were also considered to be Angels of Death.’
‘I see what you’re saying, Walsh, but where does this Angel of Death come from?’
‘The Angel Gabriel guiding the dead to heaven.’
‘Ah yes, I see. So the killer sees himself as an angel by relieving his victims of their suffering and helping them on to the next world?’
‘That’s right, Sir. In England we call him the Grim Reaper.’
‘The skeleton in the black cloak carrying a scythe.’
‘That’s him.’
‘Yeah, I think I saw him in that pool in Surrey.’
‘It’s a good job Mave was there and didn’t listen to you.’
‘She does a lot of that, Walsh. I hope you’re not going to start disobeying orders.’
‘Are we here, Sir?’
They were travelling along York Street in Twickenham. A large concrete monstrosity on the opposite side of the road had a huge sign that read: Richmond upon Thames County Council.
‘You’ll have to go to the next roundabout and…’
‘Thank you, Walsh. I think I can manage to work that out for myself.’
‘Just helping, Sir.’
Quigg circumnavigated the roundabout and found the entrance to 44, York Street. He took a ticket at the barrier and drove into the multi-storey car park. There obviously wasn’t much need for council services during the holidays because the car park was empty. He parked in a bay on the first floor.
***
‘Hello,’ a ginger-haired receptionist at the town hall said with a smile. Freckles covered her face, neck and arms like the plague. ‘I’m Astrid - how can I be of assistance?’
She was one of two receptionists who were standing behind a black and brown Formica counter with the red and white Richmond upon Thames coat of arms hanging on the slatted wooden wall behind her. The winter sunshine speared through the glass-fronted reception and made the two women squint. A mother with a toddler in a pushchair came in immediately after them and approached the second receptionist.
Quigg showed his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Quigg, Astrid.’ He pointed at Walsh, who was standing behind him and to the right. ‘And this is Detective Constable Walsh.’ Walsh smiled. ‘I’d like to find out the history of Barn Elms Park, if that’s at all possible?’
‘You want archives, Inspector.’
‘Just point us in the right direction.’
‘I’m afraid you need the library, which is the building next door.’ Astrid pointed to her right. ‘Archives are in the basement of the library run by the troll.’
Quigg’s brow creased and he glanced at Walsh, who merely shrugged. ‘Excuse me… Troll?’ he directed at Astrid.
‘Oh sorry, that’s her nickname. Her name’s really Mrs Trollenberg, but we call her the troll because she works in the basement and looks like a troll.’
‘Does she know?’ Quigg asked.
Astrid giggled. ‘Oh, no! Don’t call her that. She hates the name, and she’ll know where you got it from.’
‘OK, thanks, Astrid.’
They made their way out through the revolving glass door, turned right and walked the short distance to the library.
‘Have you brought books back?’ a spotty teenager at the reception desk asked, looking at their hands for evidence of overdue books.
‘Archives please,’ Quigg said.
The teenager looked sceptical. ‘Have you got an appointment?’
‘Do I need one?’
‘Troll… er Mrs Trollenberg won’t see anyone without an appointment.’
Quigg pulled his magic pass out. ‘Police business, I don’t need an appointment.’
‘She’s not easily impressed, but you can try.’ He pointed to their right. ‘Take the lift to the lower basement.’
‘Thank you,’ Quigg said.
The eight-person lift felt claustrophobic as they chugged down to the lower basement. They exited from the lift into a short corridor with large-bore lagged pipes suspended from the ceiling. As he opened the heavy metal door, Quigg felt as though he was moving along a corridor in a submarine. The door had ‘Archiv
es’ stencilled in red on the grey paint. The heat was stifling. After the bright sunshine outside, the dim fluorescent lighting in the archives made it necessary to pause in the doorway so that they could make visual adjustments in order for them to see.
‘Didn’t they tell you upstairs that you need an appointment?’
Quigg looked around, but he couldn’t see who had spoken. The voice was definitely female, but husky like he imagined a troll’s voice. There were rows to the left and rows to the right of metal shelving in the large underground cavern. The shelving reached up to just below the low ceiling and seemed to disappear into the darkness, like railroad tracks. ‘Police business. My name is…’
‘You think I’m impressed that you’re a policeman? I eat police constables for breakfast.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Quigg, and…’
‘Mmmm, a juicy Detective Inspector. I’ll chop you up and put you in the fridge for lunch.’
Quigg and Walsh looked at each other and laughed. ‘This is a joke, right?’
A short plump woman stepped out from the shadows. ‘I know they call me the troll upstairs, so I don’t like to disappoint visitors when they come down here.’ She came closer and Quigg saw that she could easily have been mistaken for a troll. Her bulbous nose and hairy chin were what Quigg associated with trolls.
‘Mrs Trollenberg?’
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘This is DC Walsh,’ he said, indicating Walsh. ‘We’d like to find out the history of Barn Elms Park.’
‘Ah, yes, the bodies you’ve found. Take a seat at the microfiche.’ She pointed to a machine on a table that was as big as the early computers.
‘Date?’
‘Around 1950, I believe,’ Quigg replied. ‘The house that used to be on there burnt down. I’d like to know who the last residents were, and why it burnt down.’
Mrs Trollenberg was gone for five minutes then came back with a cardboard box. She riffled through the box of what Quigg assumed was hundreds of microfiche films, and pulled out a brown envelope, extracted the film and came over to the table. ‘This should contain what you’re looking for,’ she said, putting the microfiche in the tray at the bottom and switching the reader on. ‘It’s the Richmond and Twickenham Times for 1950 to 1960.’
‘Thank you,’ Walsh said. Quigg had already started skimming through the weekly paper.
‘Let’s hope we get lucky in the early fifties,’ Walsh mumbled, ‘or we could be down here until the New Year. When we get out people will think we’re trolls. We’ll have bulbous noses and hairy chins, and…’
Quigg leaned towards her. He could smell the coconut in her hair shampoo. ‘Stop rambling, Walsh,’ he said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Go and ask the troll if there’s any chance of two coffees. Unless you want to pedal the machine?’
Walsh got up and wandered off towards where Mrs Trollenberg was sitting at her computer. When she came back, she said, ‘She’s not happy about it, but two cups are on the way.’
Quigg didn’t reply; he was busy reading about a fire at Barn Elms House on Sunday 14th January 1951.
‘Any chance I can read it as well, Sir?’ Walsh said, shoving him sideways.
‘Go and ask the troll if we can get a print-out.’
‘You go and ask her, Sir. I went to beg for the coffees, and she doesn’t like me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Walsh - she doesn’t even know you. I’m sure that once she realises what a wonderfully warm and caring person you are she won’t be able to do enough for you.’
Clearly unimpressed by Quigg’s attempt at flattery, she said, ‘It’s your turn, Sir.’
‘Can we print from this antique, Mrs Trollenberg?’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘Do you want coffee or printing?’ she shouted back.
‘Coffee first, printing second,’ he replied.
There was silence. Shortly after, Mrs Trollenberg appeared carrying two cups of coffee on saucers. ‘You’ve got milk and one sugar. If you don’t like it that way, go and make your own.’ She put the cups and saucers down on the table.
‘Thank you very much - you’re an angel.’
‘What I am, Inspector Quigg, is an angry troll whose archival work is being interrupted by inconsiderate humans.’ She leaned across and pointed to a button with a ‘P’ engraved on it. ‘Press that for printing; it’s connected to an A3 printer. Five pages only,’ then she stared at him as if trying to communicate telepathically the consequences should he print more than five pages.
‘Five pages,’ he repeated as she shuffled back to her desk.
‘Fifty pence a page, Inspector,’ the troll called as she sat down behind her desk.
‘Walsh, get your money out.’
‘Mave said that you had her paying for everything.’
‘A gross exaggeration, Walsh. I’ll be disciplining Duffy when I get home.’
‘Yeah, she also said you were good at disciplining her.’
‘Have I got no private life, Walsh?’
‘Duffy rings me up and tells me everything, Sir.’
‘Great.’ Quigg pressed the ‘P’ twice. He looked around, wondering where the paper would appear, and saw the troll with her head down, but pointing to a printer along the room behind the door. He nudged Walsh to go and get the two copies of the Richmond and Twickenham front page for the week ending Friday 19th January 1951.
Walsh was standing reading the report at the printer while Quigg was sitting waiting for her to return. Exasperated, he turned back to the reader and read the details of the fire on the screen:
‘Detectives said two adults and three children lost their lives in a fire at Barn Elms house in the early hours of Sunday night. Another child is helping the police with their enquiries. A spokesman for the Richmond Fire Service said that they found five members of the family upstairs in the Georgian house. The downstairs was well alight on their arrival, but fire-fighters wearing breathing apparatus managed to locate and rescue the occupants. Sadly, Sir Richard Andrews, his wife Julia, and three of their four children were pronounced dead in hospital a short time later. Police have issued an appeal for information as part of their investigation.’
Walsh sat down and passed Quigg one of the A3 sheets.
‘Thanks for that, Walsh. You were meant to collect them and bring them back so I could read one of them.’
‘You had it on the screen.’
‘It would have been easier to read the report on an A3 sheet of paper. You have to remember that I’m older than you are, my eyes are deteriorating, and the assimilation of information slows as you get older.’
‘Did anybody buy you a Zimmer frame for Christmas?’
‘Thanks for that, Walsh.’
‘It sounds like the child who was helping the police with their enquiries might have started the fire.’
‘Could be,’ Quigg said, ‘but we need more information. ‘After you’ve pranced about doing radio and TV interviews, get onto our archives and see what you can dig up on this investigation.’
‘I don’t prance about, Sir, and you’re the one that wanted me to do the interviews. You can do them if you want to?’
‘I’m already a celebrity, Walsh - now it’s your turn. Soon, agents will come knocking on your door wanting you to be a Page 3 girl or a Daily Star. You’ll have to show your boobs, but that’ll be a small price to pay for stardom.’ He looked at her chest. ‘I can just picture it now…’
Walsh crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘Have you quite finished, Sir? I’m not showing my boobs to anyone. And I’m certainly not going to let those lecherous photographers take pictures of me in the nude.’
‘Pity, you could have had a glowing future.’
‘What do you mean "pity"? You’re doing it again, aren’t you, Sir?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Walsh.’ Smiling, he turned back to the microfiche. ‘Let’s look on subsequent days to see if we can get any more information, shal
l we? An obituary for Judge Andrews would be good; that would tell us everything we need to know about the family.’ He shoved up so that they could both look at the screen.
‘You might have to look in the Times or the Observer for that, Sir,’ Walsh said.
‘What do you mean: I might have to look? After your television appearance, you can look for it. And, for future reference, Walsh, the direction of delegation is downwards, not upwards.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Sir.’
There was a short In memoriam the following week, which provided pictures of family members together with their ages. Besides Sir Richard (47) and his wife Julia (42), there were three girls, Emma (7), Porsche (10) and Rose (13), and a boy, Ruben (13). The parents and the three girls died in the fire, but Ruben, apparently, wasn’t in the house at the time.
‘Have you read it?’ Quigg asked.
‘Yes. I wonder if Rose and Ruben were twins.’
He pressed ‘P’. ‘Seems likely, but, more to the point, what was the boy doing outside the house in the early hours of Sunday morning?’
‘I wonder where Ruben is now. He seems to be a prime suspect. It’s also interesting that they were 13 years old - the same as the bodies in the graves.’
‘I’m the teacher, Walsh, you’re the student. You’re meant to wait for me to deliver the flashes of inspiration, not pre-empt my undoubted genius. You’re not likely to get promoted by doing that.’
‘Sorry, Sir. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘I’ll forget it this time, but you can buy lunch to compensate me for injured feelings.’
‘Again, Sir? Can’t you ask Duffy for some money until pay day?’
‘That would never do, Walsh. Scrounging money off the woman I’m sleeping with, I’d feel like a whore. I’m surprised you would even suggest it. I’ll need a pudding after my lunch now. Is there anything else you want to say?’
Walsh shook her head, and at the same time made a show of sealing her lips with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.
‘Good. Let’s see what else we can find on this machine and then go for lunch, shall we? All this talk of meals and puddings has made me hungry.’ Quigg screwed his face up. ‘Oh, shit! I’ve just remembered. I’m meeting Dr Dewsbury for lunch at twelve. Sorry to disappoint you, Walsh, you’ll have to pay tomorrow instead.’