The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘If we have trouble finding the crypt, Sir, we’ll be late getting to the hospital to see Ruben Andrews.’

  ‘We’ll blame the weather. But what do you mean if "we" have trouble finding the crypt? You’re going to find it, Walsh. You know I can’t stand dead bodies, and you’ll feel right at home with those gay men in the undergrowth.’

  ‘I’m not going on my own, Sir. If you don’t come with me, I guess we’ll never find out whether Rose Andrews is there or not.’

  ‘You’re afraid of the graveyard ghosts, aren’t you?’

  ‘Like you’re afraid of dead bodies, you mean?’

  ‘All right, Walsh - I’ll come and hold your hand, if I must. Duffy would have gone on her own for me.’

  ‘Duffy loves you.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t know how much that hurts me, Walsh.’

  The banter stopped when the waitress – a different one from the last time they were here – brought their food. She had green streaked hair that looked like vomit, baby-making hips, and a piercing infestation around her mouth and ears.

  Quigg had ordered the full English breakfast with toast and coffee, and he’d already decided to have spotted dick and custard for pudding, but he hadn’t ordered it yet. Walsh had a vegetarian omelette and brown bread with a pot of tea to swill it down.

  They were quiet during the meal. Quigg stared out of the window and mentally prepared himself for the dead bodies he knew were waiting for him in the crypt at Barnes Old Cemetery. He then assessed where he was with the case, flipping through the things that he had set in motion. He was hopeful Perkins would have something for him tomorrow afternoon. Madame Aryana would be waiting for him at nine in the morning, but he was extremely sceptical that a psychic would solve the case for him. Then there was Father Paidraig - maybe the Priest was right, and he should get a cryptologist in to decipher the biblical references. He’d give it until the end of tomorrow and see what Father Paidraig came up with. He and Walsh had to sift through the photographs and evidence tomorrow, put it up on the board, and make some sense of it. Also, he ought to hear from Jim soon about the remaining post-mortems. Would Jim give him the clue he needed to identify a suspect. This afternoon he was seeing Ruben Andrews, who might be the only person, apart from the killer, who knew what this was all about.

  ‘We’ll probably need a crowbar, or something similar, to get into the crypt,’ Walsh said, bringing him back to the reality of dead bodies as he finished his toast.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if grave robbers had been in there. If the killer has been in and taken Rose Andrews, let’s hope he’s left the door ajar.’

  ‘And if he hasn’t?’

  ‘I’ve got some tools in my boot; we’ll find a way in.’ He went up to the counter and ordered his spotted dick and custard.

  ‘You’re not really having a pudding, are you, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Walsh, a deal is a deal.’

  Chapter Six

  The road outside the tennis courts had not been cleared or gritted and when he put his foot gently on the brake he slid twenty feet towards the back of a rusty old transit van. His heart was in his mouth as his silver Mercedes came to a stop only a matter of inches away from the van.

  ‘I could hear the sound of ambulance sirens in the distance, Sir.’

  ‘Are you saying you have no confidence in my driving abilities, Walsh? That was a superb bit of parking, even if I do say so myself.’

  ‘You want to be careful at the asylum this afternoon, Sir; they might keep you in.’

  He was leaning against the boot putting on his wellies. ‘Thanks to you, Walsh, I’ve got to live through the harrowing experience of a crypt full of dead bodies first.’

  ‘Don’t forget the tools, Sir.’

  The Mercedes’ tools were wrapped in a black plastic roll. He put the roll under his arm, closed the boot, and followed Walsh back up the road to the overgrown path.

  Walsh led the expedition. Quigg was happy to let her. Without a machete, it was difficult moving along the path, but even though the snow lay in sticky clumps, it was clear they were not the only ones that had used the path recently. Quigg expected homosexual men to jump out from behind the bushes and proposition him. Snow stuck to his hair, his coat and had found its way inside his wellies.

  ‘Are we there yet, Walsh?’

  ‘We’re not even at the cemetery yet, Sir. It’s a bit further down this path, and then we have to go left into a forest.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about a forest, Walsh. If I’d known there was going to be a forest, I’d have arranged tracker dogs, guides, and search and rescue to be on the alert.’

  ‘It’s only a small forest.’

  ‘Forests are notorious for swallowing people, Walsh - especially forests that have dead people in. If we get lost and night-time comes before we get out, you’ll have to kill me. I couldn’t spend a night in a forest graveyard.’

  Walsh laughed. ‘We’re here.’ She veered off left into the forest. He followed close behind her, anxious not to be left alone. The panic rising inside him was like an uncontrollable beast in the half-light beneath the canopy of trees. Maybe he should change jobs, find one that had nothing to do with dead bodies. He could be a bronzed representative for a travel agency in a hot country. That might be good, lying by the pool all day drinking martinis – shaken not stirred, catch up on his reading, have a stream of holiday romances. There’d be no dead bodies with that job, just naked bodies.

  ‘I think this might be it, Sir,’ Walsh said, indicating a stone building the size of a rather large shed, which was barely noticeable through the thicket with clinging ivy and layers of snow.

  She forced her way through the undergrowth to reach the building. Once there, she started pulling at the ivy and hawthorn to reveal a door.

  ‘Thanks for helping, Sir.’

  Quigg was standing behind Walsh, overcome by fear and dread. His heart had taken on a life of its own, which would soon wear out unless it slowed down. ‘You’re welcome, Walsh. I’m keeping guard. Is the door open?’

  ‘No, Sir. Bring your tools up here.’

  ‘Do I have to, Walsh?’

  ‘Stop being a baby, Sir. I can’t do this without you.’

  He sidled towards her with the plastic roll of tools extended towards her in his outstretched hand.

  ‘I don’t want them, Sir. You get the door open; it’s a man’s job.’

  ‘I didn’t think we were differentiating between male and female work anymore, Walsh. If I’m not mistaken, that’s sexist. I could haul you up on charges for sexually harassing me.’

  ‘Just get the door open, Sir.’

  He opened the roll of tools, pulled out the tyre lever, and started wiggling it into the gap between the door and the building. Angels had been engraved on the door and overlapped onto the stonework surrounding it. His head began to pound, and he knew he’d never leave this crypt alive. It would become the Andrews and Quigg crypt.

  ‘Is it shifting, Sir?’

  ‘It wasn’t, but I think I felt it move then. Come and give me hand. Together we can probably get it open.’

  Walsh moved up next to him and pulled on the tyre lever as Quigg pushed. The heavy stone door moved an inch, then another, until a gap appeared large enough to get his fingers into. ‘Are we sure we want to do this, Walsh? We could be opening the gate to hell. After we let out the demons, pandemonium could rule on Earth. We could become Lucifer’s playthings, and…’

  ‘You should see a therapist, Sir.’ She moved round so that they both had their fingers in the crack. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Last chance to…’

  ‘Pull.’

  They both pulled and the door scraped open enough for each of them to squeeze through.

  ‘Shit!’ Walsh said.

  Quigg had his eyes closed. ‘What, Walsh? No don’t tell me, I can smell… sulphur and brimstone.’

  Walsh started lau
ghing again.

  Quigg opened his eyes. ‘What’s so funny, Walsh?’

  ‘You, Sir. You have serious issues. I swore because we should have brought a torch. Have you got one in your boot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me your keys; I’ll go back and get it.’

  ‘Ha, you think? As if I’m staying in a cemetery on my own when we’ve just opened the door of a crypt. We’ll both go for the torch.’

  ‘I’ll stay here and you go for it?’

  ‘I’d much rather we both go for the torch, Walsh.’

  She started off through the forest back the way they’d come. Quigg kept up with her.

  ‘How did you ever get into homicide, Sir, when you’re afraid of dead bodies?’

  ‘Liking dead bodies wasn’t a requirement for the post, Walsh. The interview was with live people, and I’m all right with them.’

  ‘That’s debatable, Sir.’

  ‘There’s no need to get personal, Walsh.’

  Quigg found the torch and checked that it worked. They then made their way back to the crypt.

  ‘I suppose you want me to go in first, Sir?’

  ‘You’re getting the hang of being my partner, Walsh.’

  With the torch on high beam, Walsh squeezed through the opening into the crypt. Against his better judgement, Quigg followed her in.

  ‘You’re hurting my arm, Sir.’

  He hadn’t realised he was holding onto her. ‘Sorry, Walsh. Oh God,’ he said as gossamer threads stuck to his hair, wrapped themselves around his face, and found their way up his nose and into his mouth. ‘I hate spiders as much as I hate dead bodies.’ He flapped his hands against his hair and face, and spat things out of his mouth.

  ‘’I’m not too keen on spiders myself,’ Walsh said.

  Walsh shone the light around the crypt. On the back wall and to the left and right there were two stone shelves – one beneath the other – that held stone coffins. On the back wall shelves, the coffins were for adults. The coffins on the shelves to either side were for the children. The space on the bottom shelf to their right was, presumably, for Ruben Andrews, and would now never be filled. Sadness engulfed Quigg as he realised that Ruben would never be with his family again.

  ‘You’re going to have to open the children’s coffins, Sir; I won’t be able to do it.’

  ‘Are you sure, Walsh? You could at least try. I’ll hold the light for you.’

  ‘You’re being a shit, Sir. I’m going to tell Duffy, you know.’

  ‘All right, Walsh, you don’t have to be so mean. You know I don’t like dead bodies and spiders.’ He moved forward and slid the top of the upper coffin downward to reveal the corpse’s head. ‘I’ll slide the tops off - you look inside.’

  ‘I’m too short to look into the top ones; you’ll have to look in those.’

  ‘Do I have to do everything, Walsh? We’ll have to get you down to the gym to pump some iron and do stretching exercises. Give me the torch.’ She passed him the torch and he forced himself to look inside the coffin. Even though his breath hung in the cold air, sweat broke out on his forehead and trickled down his face as he looked at the child’s burnt and withered skull. ‘Shit, Walsh - as my partner you should be doing this.’

  ‘Is it occupied?’

  ‘A child of about ten years old.’

  ‘Next one, Sir.’

  ‘You’re enjoying watching me suffer, aren’t you, Walsh?’

  ‘One of the few compensations of being your partner, Sir.’

  Quigg moved the top off the coffin on the lower shelf. ‘You can look in that one, Walsh.’ He shone the light into the cavernous space.

  Walsh bent over and looked. ‘I would say this was the youngest child of seven years old.’

  ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘What, like a ball and chain scraping along the floor?’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously are you, Walsh?’

  ‘Come on, Sir - the sooner you look in that last coffin, the sooner we can get out of here.’

  He turned to the upper shelf on his right and moved the top of the last small coffin downwards. It should have been empty, but it wasn’t; so much for his theory about the first body.

  ‘Well, Sir? Is it empty?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure, Sir?’

  ‘Don’t add being stupid to your list of crimes for today, Walsh.’ He pushed the lid back in place, and as he did so he heard laughter and the door of the crypt scraping closed. In a panic he dropped the torch. It plunged them into complete darkness. With inhuman strength, he threw his shoulder against the door. It began to move. He felt the dread fall from him, and a cold breeze on his cheek as the door slowly opened. His pounding heart slowed down noticeably as he rushed outside. He saw a mixture of adult and teenage footprints in the snow, and heard laughter in the distance. Bloody kids, he thought.

  ‘Come on, Walsh; let’s get out of here before I join the occupants of this cemetery.’

  Walsh came out of the crypt, and together they pushed the door closed.

  ‘You should come here more often, Sir – as therapy. Maybe sleep here, bring a picnic, or spend the weekend doing grave rubbings.’

  Quigg bent down and grabbed a handful of snow.

  Laughing, Walsh started to run, but didn’t get very far before a snowball hit her on the back of the head. She moulded her own snowball and threw it at Quigg, but it flew past his left ear.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Walsh.’ He threw a second snowball that hit her in the chest.

  She put up her hands in submission. ‘All right, Sir - you win.’

  ‘Win! It’s not about winning, Walsh. It’s about revenge.’

  Another snowball bounced off the top of her head. She ran back towards the car, laughing and squealing.

  ***

  From the cemetery he drove south, linking up with the A205. He joined the A3 up to the A202 and then headed west on the A2 the rest of the way to Dartford. Because of the snow and ice, and because it was New Year’s Eve, the roads were unusually quiet. One of the local councils had obviously found the time to clear the A2 of snow and lay down some grit, but he still took his time. He didn’t want to end his days mangled into the dashboard of a Mercedes.

  During the trip, Walsh said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Sir.’

  ‘Steady on Walsh - you’ll do yourself a mischief.’

  She ignored him. ‘The body in the coffin might not be Rose Andrews.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘What if the killer swapped bodies, so that if someone did check in the crypt, they’d still find a burnt body in Rose’s coffin.’

  ‘You’re saying that the killer went out, abducted and killed a child, burnt it, and then swapped it over with Rose Andrews.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a bit far-fetched, Walsh.’

  ‘It was only a thought, Sir.’

  ‘The idea is not without merit, but intricate in its execution.’

  ‘We could get Dr Dewsbury to carry out a post-mortem and compare the DNA against the other family members.’

  ‘That snowball fight must have dislodged some brain cells, Walsh. Give Jim a ring, tell him the directions, and ask him if he’d be so kind.’

  Walsh spent fifteen minutes on her mobile setting it up. ‘He said he’ll get to it when he can.’

  ‘Good work, Walsh.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  Once they reached Dartford, Quigg switched on his satnav and input the postcode for the hospital - DA2 6AU - but it seemed hardly necessary because he could see the landmark Victorian brick and white water tower in the distance. They reached the main hospital entrance on Cotton Lane, but palisade fencing and a gate surrounded it. He stepped out of his car and found a security intercom that invited him to ‘press’ – he pressed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg to see Ruben Andrews.’

  ‘OK.’

  After
a while, a tall gangly man in a security uniform and hat appeared on the other side of the fence. He unlocked and opened the gate for Quigg to drive through.

  Pointing as he spoke, the man said, ‘Drive to the right and follow the signs for the male block. It’s a one-storey building. You can’t miss it; it’s the only one that hasn’t been boarded up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Quigg said. ‘We’re not staying, so don’t lock the gates.’

  The man smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector - they don’t keep people here against their will anymore.’

  Quigg got back in his car and followed the security guard’s instructions. He drove round the grassy roundabout and veered off right. The superintendent’s residence was located next to the main administrative block with the impressive water tower in the background. Next they saw the chapel and the laundry complex. He was surprised to see a mortuary, but then, he supposed, people had died in the asylum much the same as in any other hospital, especially if the doctors were carrying out electric shock therapy and performing frontal lobotomies. He shivered at the idea of someone poking around in his brain. The romantic Victorian buildings veiled the inhuman treatment that was carried out inside. They passed the laundry workers’ block, the female blocks, the recreation block and dining room, and the male blocks, until they reached a single-storey building. A heavily wrinkled, grey-haired man in a white coat was standing outside, stamping his feet in the snow and rubbing his hands together. Quigg parked the car in front of the building and they both got out.

  ‘Inspector Quigg - welcome.’

  ‘Thank you. This is DC Walsh.’ He waved at Walsh.

  ‘I am happy to meet you both,’ he shook hands with Walsh and then with Quigg. ‘I am Dr Harry Harrelson.’