The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

‘We will wait. What we don’t want is for Quigg to connect the dots and initiate another investigation into our little group. Once this hacker is on her own again, we will deal with her.’

  ***

  Wednesday 31st December

  It wasn’t until five in the morning that Ruth started the sexual ball rolling. Duffy joined in shortly after.

  Exhausted, he stumbled into the shower at six thirty. After he’d finished soaping himself, he put his hands on the tiles, and luxuriated in the hot spray massaging his neck. Then he felt soapy hands lathering him to erection. He turned, and Lucy had crept in behind him.

  ‘Shit, Lucy - what are you playing at?’

  He jumped out of the shower as if he’d seen a spider climb up through the plug-hole. God, he hated spiders. Not as much as dead bodies, but it was pretty damned close. He looked around the bathroom guiltily, glad Ruth or Duffy hadn’t come in and caught him in a compromising position.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said and grinned. She was standing unashamedly soaping her small breasts with the water cascading over her shoulder-length black hair and skinny body. ‘I didn’t realise you were in here. If you hadn’t wanted company, you should have locked the door.’

  He wrapped a towel around himself, noting the inconsistencies in her statement, and went through into the bedroom.

  ‘That bloody Lucy accosted me in the shower,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘She’s like a devil dog hunting its prey.’ Both Ruth and Duffy appeared to be sleeping, but he needed to absolve himself of all blame should it come out later.

  ‘It’s obvious she wants you to "fuck her", Quigg.’ Duffy said from somewhere underneath the quilt.

  ‘Can’t you have a word with her?’ he said pathetically.

  ‘You are not very good with women, are you, Quigg?’ Ruth observed, getting to the heart of the matter. ‘We will have to watch you very carefully.’

  He was absolutely useless with women, but weren’t most men? ‘So you’ll speak to her, tell her I’m spoken for, and to stop pursuing me?’

  ‘We will speak to her,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Good.’ He brushed his hair in the wardrobe mirror. It was payday tomorrow; he desperately needed a haircut again. ‘Are you at work today, Duffy?’

  ‘Yes. I had to call in sick yesterday with d and v.’

  ‘Do I really need so much detail?’

  He went through into the kitchen, turned the television on, and made himself toast and coffee. While he ate the toast, he leant against the kitchen top watching Walsh on the local news.

  Lucy came in dressed in one of Duffy’s dressing gowns, and rubbed up against him. ‘Shame you got out of the shower; we could have had a good time.’

  ‘You do know I’m spoken for?’

  ‘Yeah, I know you’re screwing those other two, but I thought maybe you could do with a younger one in case they wore out.’

  ‘I’m grateful, but I don’t need a spare.’

  She stole a piece of his toast, and said, ‘Well, if you do, you know where to look.’

  Chapter Five

  The station was eerily quiet when he arrived at eight thirty, so he went via the front desk. Ted Salway had just arrived for his shift and looked like a mountaineer on K2 with his Berghaus Goretex jacket on.

  ‘Ted,’ Quigg said, ‘thanks for fielding the telephone calls about these Angel Brook murders.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sir, but there hasn’t been one phone call about the murders. I told Heather Walsh yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, Ted. If anyone had known anything, they’d have notified us before now.’

  ‘It’s certainly a strange t’do, Sir, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Thanks, anyway, Ted - I owe you one.’

  ‘No problems, Sir.’

  Quigg made his way up to the squad room and put the kettle on.

  Walsh stamped in at quarter to nine, as if she knew he’d already filled the kettle and made a coffee.

  ‘It’s like the Antarctic out there,’ she said as she shook the snow from her hat and coat.

  ‘Has it started snowing again?’

  ‘Bucketfuls. If it carries on like this, we’ll be snowed in.’

  ‘Get a coffee then fill me in. Are those snow boots?

  ‘Got them from Canada on the Internet.’

  Immediately, he thought of Phoebe flying out to Canada, and out of his life next Monday. Everything was up in the air. Should he keep paying maintenance? Did he have to pay maintenance now that Richie the Builder was looking after Caitlin and Phoebe? What rights did he have where Phoebe was concerned? Did Caitlin have the right to take Phoebe away from him? How much would a solicitor cost? Could he just ring one up and get an appointment like he could with the dentist or the doctor? If he didn’t do something today, it would probably be too late to do anything. Tomorrow was New Year’s Day and no solicitor worth their salt would be working on New Year’s Day. So Friday would be the next opportunity, but surely Friday was too late when they were flying out on Monday? It had to be today. He had to fit it in today. Mentally, he riffled through his ‘to do’ list. After Walsh had briefed him, Father Paidraig was coming in to see what he could do with the biblical references. He hadn’t made time to look at the copy in his pocket last night with that bloody Lucy stalking him like a sex-starved wraith. After Father Paidraig, he had the press briefing, then…

  ‘Are you still here, Sir?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Walsh. It’s those snow boots. Ever since I was a kid I always wanted a pair of snow boots.’

  ‘When’s your birthday, Sir?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t Walsh… Tomorrow.’

  She laughed. ‘Father Paidraig’s happy to help. He’ll be here in about ten minutes.’

  ‘We’d best get a move on then. Did you ring Stone House Hospital?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. The hospital is in the process of closing, but Ruben Andrews remains there in the male single storey block in the East Wing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s their longest and oldest resident. They’re going to let him die there.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound promising.’

  ‘Since his incarceration in 1951, he hasn’t left the hospital.’

  ‘You’re spoiling my morning, Walsh, and it’s only five to nine.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. We’re booked in at three o’clock this afternoon to speak to him. They say he’s seventy-two, in a wheelchair, and not always lucid, so it could be a wasted journey.’

  ‘But he might feel the need to tell us what happened in the early hours of 14th January 1951.’

  ‘Will his confession to arson help us with this case?’

  ‘No, but he might be able to point us towards another suspect. Let’s work on the assumption that Rose Andrews was buried in the first grave. Why? Either she was never buried with the other members of the family, or someone dug her up and moved her. Why? If it wasn’t the twin brother, who the hell was it?’

  ‘Maybe another relative, or a boyfriend?’

  ‘We can speculate until Perkins finds a UFO, but it won’t help us. Finding relatives and boyfriends after sixty years would be a nightmare. Maybe we should pass the case to the Cold Case Unit and have New Year off.’

  ‘Except that eight of the murders have been carried out this year, hardly cold cases.’

  ‘What about the missing person’s report on Kaikara Mangani and the investigation files?’

  She pointed to two large cardboard boxes on the floor at the side of her desk. ‘For today, if we get a chance.’

  ‘Perkins?’

  ‘God, he’s paranoid about aliens and UFOs, isn’t he? Have you seen that locator beacon he wears on his belt?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  Father Paidraig came walking down the corridor in his donkey jacket and woollen hat. Quigg noticed he carried a Bible in his left hand.

  Quigg stood up. ‘Father Paidraig, thanks for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure. I said ring, and ri
ng the lovely Heather did. So, here I am.’

  ‘Coffee, Father?’ Walsh asked him.

  ‘You’re an angel.’ He took his hat and jacket off and Quigg saw that he had on another T-shirt with a saying printed on the front: Don’t make me come down there! God.

  Quigg smiled. ‘I’ve got a press briefing at ten, so I’ll get right to the point… I’m not going to unsettle your breakfast by telling you the gory details, am I?’

  ‘Dead people are part of my life, Inspector. I suppose you could both say the same.’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Quigg said. ‘Anyway, the last seventeen bodies all had biblical references carved into their chests.’ Father Paidraig performed the sign of the cross as Quigg pulled out his folded copy of the sheet Jim had given him, and passed it to the priest. ‘Any light you can throw on them would be of great assistance.’

  ‘I’ll need a desk with paper and pencil. And can I use the whiteboard?’

  ‘Use anything you like as long as it’s legal, Father.’

  Walsh came back with Father Paidraig’s coffee.

  ‘Show Father Paidraig to a desk he can use, Walsh,’ Quigg said. ‘Then come back and we’ll carry on.’

  Walsh did as she was told, and Father Paidraig sat at a desk further down the squad room near the windows and the white board.

  ‘You were saying about Perkins,’ Quigg reminded her when she came back.

  ‘He found a size ten footprint, which could belong to anybody who wears size ten shoes. He took a plaster cast of the imprint, and if we find a suspect with size ten feet we have something to compare their shoes against.’ She pointed to a four-inch stack on her desk. ‘He gave me photographs and a DVD of the victims and the surrounding crime scene, but, obviously, I haven’t had time to put the photographs up yet or look at the DVD.’

  ‘The bodies and the crime scene are seared into my brain. Putting up photographs and watching a horror movie can wait until tomorrow. We won’t be able to go and see anyone on New Year’s Day. They’ll be shoehorned into their warm homes enjoying the holiday. We, on the other hand, will come in here, consolidate our evidence and try and make some sense of what we’ve got. We could even go to the pub and have lunch on me.’

  ‘I feel faint, Sir.’

  ‘Or we could stay here, and you could work your pretty little hands to bleeding stumps.’

  ‘Lunch would be great, Sir.’

  ‘You’ve not forgotten it’s your turn for lunch with a pudding today, have you?’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘Well, come on, Walsh - keep on track. I’ve got the press briefing in thirty-five minutes, and I still haven’t written a scintillating statement to read out to them. Oh, I forgot, I saw you on the local news this morning; you looked stunning.’

  She blushed. ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘But don’t let it go to your head.’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘Are you going to wallow in your new found celebrity status, or tell me what else Perkins communicated to you?’

  She flicked her fringe back with the tips of her fingers. ‘He said he hasn’t really found anything out of the ordinary. He’s inundated with evidence, and he says it will take them over a month to analyse it all.’

  ‘Did you tell him we don’t have a month?’

  ‘Who am I to tell him that, Sir? If he says it will take a month to analyse the evidence, then I have to believe him, don’t I? It’s not as if I have any forensic analytical experience to contradict him.’

  ‘Walsh, Walsh, Walsh. When you go to the flea market, do you haggle to get the prices down?’

  ‘Damned right. I love to get a bargain.’

  ‘Like most women, I’m sure. Well, think of Perkins as a stall-holder at the market. He’s standing between you and a bargain. You have to haggle with him. He offers a month, you tell him he’s got until tomorrow. He comes back with a week, you settle on three days.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t realise we could do that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Walsh - it’s my fault. I should have made sure you knew. I’ll pop up later and tell him that I’ve arranged for him to be abducted by aliens unless he produces something worthwhile by tomorrow afternoon. Did he come up with anything at all, besides the size ten footprint?’

  ‘He said his team was still collecting evidence from the crime scene and from each of the graves. And he’s waiting for delivery of the evidence following the post-mortems.’

  ‘If the crime scene had been a UFO crash site with twenty-three dead aliens, he’d have had everything analysed already and the report posted on the Internet with video footage of a real alien post-mortem. The worse thing about it, Walsh, is that I have a feeling the killer’s going to strike again before Monday.’

  Walsh leaned forward. ‘What makes you say that, Sir?’

  ‘The last nine victims were killed this year, but, from what I could see when I glanced at the more recent bodies, the gap between each murder had got shorter. There was probably only a week between the last two. Jim estimated that Kaikara Mangani was abducted last Friday, killed on Saturday and buried at Angel Brook that night. It’s now Tuesday; we’ve lost three days already, so Perkins needs to pull his finger out.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes until the briefing and he needed a pee. ‘Anything else, Walsh?’

  ‘I rang Somerset House to find out where the Andrews family was buried, and they’re in a family crypt in Old Barnes Cemetery. The trouble is, the cemetery was closed in 1952 and the chapel was demolished along with the boundary railings. The family must have been some of the last people to be buried there. I had a look on the Internet, and the cemetery is seriously overgrown and full of ghosts. We’ll have to go and visit Mrs Trollenberg again to find out the location of the crypt.’

  ‘If the first grave at Angel Brook contains Rose Andrews, the crypt and the closure of the cemetery might explain why she has not been missed.’

  ‘Also, you asked me to get the report on the fire at Barn Elms House.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Two fire stations responded to the fire: Hammersmith and Fulham. Hammersmith took the lead because it was within their boundary. I spoke to the watch commander, and he said he’d have to rummage through the boxes in his cellar; 1951 was a bit before computers.’

  ‘Come on, Walsh - get to the point.’ Quigg stood up, clutching his groin. ‘I’m dying for a pee.’

  ‘They faxed the report through at six fifteen last night, and I glanced at the last page. The conclusion was inconclusive. I suppose they didn’t have the techniques that they’ve got today.’

  ‘You could have said that at the start, Walsh,’ Quigg reprimanded her as he strode along the corridor towards the toilet.

  ***

  The press briefing room on the ground floor was full to bursting with journalists, cameramen and television presenters. Ted Salway on the front desk must have used Vaseline to shoehorn them all in. The TV cameras were on. Cameras flashed incessantly.

  Quigg was sitting at the raised table on his own with the blue, red and silver Hammersmith and Fulham coat of arms as a backdrop. The motto: JUDGE BY OUR LABOUR was apt. The press would certainly judge him if he failed to find the murderer, regardless of his success on the Body 13 case.

  Behind a white curtain of camera flashes and television lighting he could hear questions being shouted, but he couldn’t see who the hell was asking them. He closed his eyes and put his hand up for quiet. Eventually, silence descended on the gathering. ‘Can I ask that flash photography be suspended until I’ve finished my briefing? Unless, of course, you want me to sue you all for irreparable damage to my retinas.’

  There was a ripple of laughter. He had them. He hadn’t lost his touch.

  ‘What have you got for us, Inspector?’

  ‘If you allow me to get a word in, I’ll tell you.’ He’d had no time to prepare an official statement, so he would just have to tell them what he knew. The biblical references, and other specific information,
he would keep from them for the time being. What he didn’t want was the media second-guessing him, or copycat killers causing mayhem in Hammersmith. ‘On Sunday 14th January, 1951,’ he began, and he didn’t hear any pins drop, ‘a tragedy occurred in a house called Barn Elms. Sir Richard Andrews, his wife Julia, and three of their four children died in a fire. The fourth child, Ruben, was committed to a mental hospital shortly afterwards, where he has resided ever since.’

  ‘Cathy Cox, London Tribune. Did he start the fire? Is that why he was locked up in an asylum?’

  ‘We don’t know why he was committed to a mental hospital, and the report on the fire was inconclusive. We think that the first of the twenty-three bodies is thirteen year old Ruben’s twin sister, Rose. She obviously died in the fire, but I can confirm that the other children were murdered. Initially, Ruben was a suspect, but he is now 72 years old and, according to the staff, has not left the hospital since his incarceration.’

  ‘Emma Potter, London Standard. Why wasn’t the daughter buried with the rest of the family?’

  ‘We have no reason to suspect she wasn’t, but the cemetery the Andrews’ family was buried in closed in 1952. Since that time, the boundary has been dismantled and it is now overgrown.’

  ‘Peter Strange, Richmond Chronicle. Where is the cemetery, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that until we’ve been able to examine the crypt.’

  Quigg looked around, but there were no more questions. He continued, ‘Post-mortems are being carried out to identify all of the victims, but until the parents have been notified, no names will be released. That’s all I have for you today, and as it’s New Year’s Day tomorrow, I don’t plan on holding a briefing until Friday at ten o’clock.’ He stood up and left the room.

  ***

  He would have liked a coffee, but he had more important things to do first. Deciding to pay Perkins a visit, he went up to the second floor and along the corridor to the new annex housing forensics. Perkins was in his office with his feet perched on a laboratory bench.