The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  He took her advice and kept his mouth shut. He was probably getting off lightly. If all this had happened with Caitlin before she threw him out, she would have screamed and cried and thrown him out before she actually did. He was lucky that Duffy and Ruth were so easy-going.

  ***

  When he arrived at the station he went straight up to Sally Vickers’ office in forensics. She hadn’t arrived yet, so he sat down on a bench in the corridor outside and thought about what he had to do today. Walsh would be waiting for the sketch of the killer’s face in the squad room, and then she was going to visit the Putney and McLeish families she had identified. Maybe he ought to go with her. If it wasn’t for Madame Aryana he would, but the psychic had been weirdly reliable up to now. Maybe, after seeing the graves and touching the victim’s clothes, she would have a clearer vision which would identify the killer’s name and address.

  Perkins appeared. ‘Sorry, Quigg. Sally’s not coming. I’ve just received a phone call from her. She’s at the hospital; her husband was involved in a road traffic accident earlier and is in the operating theatre at the moment. Apparently, it’s touch and go.’

  ‘Christ, Perkins - I’m sorry to hear that. We’re surrounded by death all the time, yet when it happens to one of our own, we’re still shocked.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t die, Quigg.’

  ‘Most definitely. If you speak to her again, Perkins, tell her Walsh and I are thinking of her.’

  ‘Will do, Quigg.’

  ‘Sorry to appear mercenary, but she didn’t say anything about…?’

  ‘You’re waiting for a full-face conversion from the psychic’s description of the supposed killer’s profile?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She couldn’t be specific, but possibly later today or tomorrow.’

  ‘No pressure, Perkins. I understand she won’t know whether she’s coming or going at the moment. Will you give me a ring if you hear anything?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Quigg shook Perkins’ hand. He didn’t know why, but it seemed to be an appropriate response under the circumstances. ‘Oh, by the way, I’ll be bringing Madame Aryana up here at about eleven thirty. She wants to feel the victim’s clothes and things. Can you accommodate her?’

  ‘She’ll have to wear the suit, mask and gloves so that there’s no contamination.’

  ‘I should imagine that wouldn’t cause a problem. If she can’t get what she needs through a layer of latex, well, all I can say is she can’t be much good.’ He went down to the squad room.

  Walsh was sitting at her desk, drinking a coffee.

  ‘I hope you’ve made…’

  Walsh pointed to Jones’ desk and the steaming mug of coffee in the centre.

  ‘Good job, too. After the shock I’ve had…’ He told her about Sally Vickers’ husband.

  ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’

  ‘You’re not getting religious, are you, Walsh? You haven’t joined Father Paidraig’s church, have you? You’re not spending all of your free time in the confessional, or whipping yourself with palm leaves?’

  ‘No to all of those, Sir.’

  ‘Well, just you be careful, Walsh. You’ll wake up one morning and find you’ve given all your worldly possessions away and joined a cult.’

  Walsh smiled. ‘You’re in the wrong profession, Sir; you should have been a stand-up comic.’

  ‘Just one of my many talents, Walsh. So, you’re off to see some Putneys and McLeishs, and I’m going to get ready for the press briefing at ten, after which I’ll go and show Madame Aryana round the graves, and then bring her back here and deposit her in forensics. Remember to ring me after each visit, and I want you back here by twelve o’clock so that we can have some lunch before we visit Pequod, Bone and Turnkey.’

  ‘OK, Sir. I rang Stone House Hospital twice before I left yesterday, but no one answered.’

  ‘Ring them again now. You might have got no answer because it was New Year’s Day. They might have taken Ruben to the sales.’

  Walsh rang the number and put the phone on speaker. It rang and rang.

  ‘I wonder what that’s about,’ Quigg said. ‘Even if the doctor and the nurse are busy, there should be some security about to answer the phone. Oh well, we’ll try again later. If all else fails, we’ll have to take another trip up there tomorrow. Right, off you go, Walsh. Stop dilly-dallying, and remember, ring me.’

  ‘I will, Sir,’ she said, trudging along the corridor towards the stairs in her padded coat, snow boots, double-knitted Alpaca hat with fold down ear flaps and braided ties, and matching mittens. She looked like an Eskimo on her way to fish through a hole in the ice.

  It was twenty past nine. He settled himself into Jones’ seat and made some notes ready for the press briefing.

  ***

  The list of what he wasn’t going to tell the press was longer than what he was going to tell them. He couldn’t say anything about the biblical references, the message, or Father Paidraig, because of the sensationalism it would cause. Neither could he tell them about Madame Aryana and what she had told him; it would cause him no end of problems. It also meant that the VW van with the red curtains was out. Although, if the killer knew he knew about the van, he’d stop using it, and it was probably the only decent clue they had. The picture, a product of Aryana’s psychic brain, was also out. He couldn’t tell them about the children being abducted along the Inner South London train line, and that the next child would be taken from the area around Brockley railway station. If the killer found out they were waiting for him, he wouldn’t come and would probably take a child from somewhere else. He didn’t really want to get into the reasons why Ruben had burnt down the house with his family inside. He had Ruben’s testimony and Jim’s post-mortem evidence, but impugning a judge was a serious matter, even if he was dead. He’d rather talk to legal before sticking his spoon into that can of worms.

  ‘We have confirmed that the killer knew Rose Andrews,’ he began, ‘and is therefore at least 70 years old.’ He had never felt as alone as he did this morning, sitting at the raised table in the press briefing room. He felt dwarfed by the large coats of arms on the wall behind him, and insignificant in the glare of television and camera lights.

  ‘Cathy Cox, London Tribune. Have you definitely ruled out Rose’s twin brother, Ruben, as a suspect?’

  ‘Yes. He is seriously ill, and has, at the most, three months to live. He would have been incapable of carrying out the more recent murders.’

  ‘John Montrose, Scottish Herald. Did Ruben burn down the house at Barn Elms? And if he did, why?’

  ‘I can confirm that Ruben did burn down the house, but the reason why he did it is still a mystery.’ Plead ignorance. That was usually the best course of action. ‘Following on from the press release by Peckham Police Station last night, there have been no further developments concerning the abduction of thirteen year old Kylie Pavlenski from Nunhead.’

  ‘Andrew Morton, Isle of Man Star. Are you sure it’s the same killer that’s taken her?’

  ‘We’re not sure of anything yet, but it is a reasonable assumption.’

  ‘Gillian Monteray, Dulwich Times. Now that his gravesite has been discovered, where do you think he will bury her?’

  That was a damned good question, Quigg thought. There were police and forensics officers still guarding and working at the crime scene. Where would he bury her? ‘Let’s be optimistic, shall we, Ms Monteray? The police are working on the assumption that Kylie is still alive.’

  ‘Emma Potter, London Standard. ‘Is it true you’re consulting a psychic?’

  The noise level escalated. That damned Emma Potter, he thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d bowled him a googly at a press briefing. Where had she got her information? One of the people who knew must have let it leak. Well, it wasn’t him, and he doubted it was Walsh. He couldn’t believe it was Sally Vickers or Perkins, which only left Aryana herself. It must have been her. She would
want publicity, recognition, and notoriety. In the end, it didn’t matter who had told the vultures, what was more important was what he going to do now. He could deny it, but then she might have evidence and embarrass him while he was being filmed. He could ignore her question, bring the briefing to an end, walk out and let them draw their own conclusions. That would be worse than confirming it. No, he had to control the flow of information, get the initiative back from that bloody woman.

  ‘It is more appropriate to state that a psychic is consulting us, not the other way round. A Madame Aryana, who I understand has helped police in Canada with such crimes, flew over here when she saw the reports on television thinking that she could help us in our investigation.’

  There was a sparkle in Emma Potter’s eyes. ‘And has she, Inspector? Helped, I mean.’

  He’d like to take that Emma Potter down to the cells and torture her. Embarrassing police inspectors at press briefings should be a crime, one that led to indescribable pain and suffering with no hope of reprieve. Some of the cells should be converted to dungeons with chains, handcuffs, and instruments of torture for just such occasions. He was trying to think of the instruments of torture that he would fill his dungeons with, when he became aware of somebody speaking to him.

  ‘Inspector…?’ Emma Potter smiled as if her heart was made of strawberries and double whipped cream.

  ‘Due to the sensitive nature of the crimes, I am unable to either confirm or deny whether she has been of any assistance in our investigation.’ He smiled back at her, but knew she had achieved her objective. He was in the shit up to his nose, and sinking fast.

  If he’d had Walsh with him, he would have sent her to arrest that Emma Potter just for the hell of it. Have her thrown into the cells overnight, strip-searched, questioned about her sources, and done for drug dealing, car theft, the murder of JFK - everything and anything. By the time he released her, she’d know not to ask embarrassing questions at press briefings.

  He stood up. ‘Thank you for coming. The next briefing will be on Monday morning at the same time.’ He felt like saying, ‘Except for that horrible Emma Potter; she’s not invited to my press briefings anymore,’ but he controlled himself.

  Every extension was ringing when he walked up to the squad room. He knew it was a mistake as he picked up the phone on Walsh’s desk. He held the phone to his ear, but didn’t say anything.

  A bloody psychic, Quigg?

  How did he know it was him who had picked up the phone? Maybe the Chief was a psychic as well. ‘Morning, Chief. Happy New Year to you and yours.’

  Never mind about that crap, Quigg. What’s this damned nonsense about a psychic?

  ‘She flew over here from Canada after having had a vision of the killer burying his last victim, and it was surprisingly accurate. She sought me out, Chief. I didn’t go looking for a psychic in the yellow pages or anything. Walsh and I are doing a good job.’

  How did the press get hold of it?

  ‘I was thinking the psychic told the press herself for the publicity. I’m seeing her this morning, so I’ll find out. But the damage has been done now.’

  You’re only as good as your last case, Quigg. If you find the killer before the Chief Constable has drunk his cup of tea on Monday morning, you might have a chance of saving your career. If not, well… I’ll leave that to your imagination.

  ‘Thanks, Chief. Walsh and I are nearly there, regardless of what the psychic has told us. We’re using good old-fashioned police work, not ESP. I’ll have the killer by Monday, Sir.’

  You’d better, Quigg. I’d hate to start the New Year off reading DI application forms, conducting interviews, and bedding in someone new.

  ‘Don’t worry, Chief - I’ll still be here.’

  He put the phone down. Could he catch the killer in two and half days? Before the Chief Constable drank his Monday morning cup of tea? He certainly hoped so. He wondered if the Chief Constable drank from a dainty cup or a real man’s mug.

  It was twenty-five to eleven. He’d better "move his arse", to coin Duffy’s ladylike phrase. Did he give Aryana a time he would pick her up? He couldn’t remember. He rummaged in his duffel coat pocket and found the business card she’d given him. It had a mobile number on it, but it was a Canadian mobile number. Could he ring direct? He tried, but all he got was static. Stupid woman should have foreseen this and put the country code on her card. He didn’t have time to search for the Canadian code. If she were any good, she’d know he was late and on his way, especially after she’d told Emma Potter to make a fool of him and watched the result on the television.

  ***

  During the drive over to the May Fair Hotel, it started snowing again.

  Aryana was waiting for him in reception. She appeared to be fully prepared for the weather in a full-length blue fur coat that looked like it had been donated by a hundred minks, a Russian ushanka hat, mittens, and a pair of snow boots. Everybody seemed to own snow boots, except him, and if he sent away for some, the snow would have gone by the time they got here.

  Attack was always the best form of defence. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Me, what?’

  ‘Who told the press.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Didn’t you watch the press briefing this morning?’

  ‘No. I’ve been here having breakfast and waiting for you. I couldn’t remember what time you said you’d arrive.’

  ‘That must be a bit of a handicap.’

  ‘Eating breakfast, or not being able to remember?’

  ‘So, you didn’t tell the press you were helping the police?’

  ‘That would be stupid. If I got a reputation for being a publicity-seeker, I’d never be able to help the police.’

  Shit! If it wasn’t Aryana, who the hell was it? That left either Sally Vickers or Perkins. He couldn’t believe either one of them would jeopardise their jobs over a psychic. ‘Have a look and tell me who it was.’

  She ignored his attempt at humour. ‘Are we spending the morning in the hotel reception, or are we going to the gravesite?’

  He ushered her outside.

  In the car, she was like a ball of fur sitting in the passenger seat. He had the heater on to keep his feet warn, and he could hear her huffing and puffing next to him.

  ‘You should have taken that coat off before you got in,’ he said, helpfully.

  ‘I wouldn’t need to if you didn’t drive around in a sauna.’

  He opened the windows a quarter of an inch. He hated the cold, and hoped his long retirement would be spent in a hot country, like Mali in Africa, where he could bask in 36o temperatures by the pool, drinking extra-cold Guinness. That would be the life. He wondered if he’d ever get there. Every year he completed on the force, the government added five years to the retirement age. By the time he reached the official age of retirement, he’d probably have to be 130 years old.

  They arrived at Barn Elms Park at eleven twenty. He didn’t have much time if he was going to meet Walsh at the station at twelve o’clock.

  ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes, and then I’ll take you back to the station and deposit you in forensics again. I’m meeting someone at twelve for lunch, and then I have an appointment this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you think I can simply turn it on and off like a light switch, Inspector? My gift pleases itself when it wants to visit me. I have no control over the time or place, nor what I see. I am merely a receptacle for my third eye.’

  Third eye! He didn’t mind a bit of clairvoyance or precognition, but he wished these gifted people wouldn’t use corny expressions that made him cringe.

  His phone vibrated.

  ‘Quigg.’

  I’ve just finished interviewing Mr Putney.

  ‘And?’

  He’s the son of Mr Putney, the butler.

  ‘And? Come on, Walsh, I’ve got a life to live, you know.’

  Mr Putn
ey the butler died twelve years ago and his son doesn’t remember anything about the house at Barn Elms.

  ‘No diaries or journals?’

  Nothing, Sir.

  ‘Couldn’t he give you any other names?’

  No, Sir.

  ‘OK, speak to you soon.’

  He disconnected the call, and directed Aryana along the duckboards. The uniformed officer guarding the crime scene opened the tent flap for them when they reached the tent. Quigg thanked him. Two forensic officers were examining the nineteenth grave.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ Quigg said, trying to hurry her along.

  Aryana turned to her left and walked slowly down to the first grave, and then moved back along the length of the two adjoining tents until she reached the twenty-third grave. She didn’t stop or turn around, but carried on to the canvas wall.

  ‘There are another three children outside.’

  ‘WHAT?’ Quigg said. The last thing he needed was more dead bodies.

  His phone rang again. ‘Yes?’

  I’ve just left the first Mr & Mrs McLeish.

  ‘Do we have to go through this palaver every time you ring me, Walsh? Just tell me, for God’s sake.’

  They’re not connected to Barn Elms, Sir.

  He disconnected the call and looked askance at Aryana.

  ‘They are further along the bank,’ she said.

  Quigg looked at the two forensic officers. They shrugged.

  ‘Well, don’t just squat there,’ he said to them. ‘Go and see if it’s true.’

  ‘We’ve already checked along the bank, Sir, and found no other bodies,’ the female officer said.

  ‘Where are they?’ Quigg asked Aryana.

  ‘I don’t know where they are, I just know they are out there.’

  ‘Great,’ Quigg grunted. To the forensic officers, he said, ‘Look again.’

  The two scientists carefully finished what they were doing and stood up. They were anonymous in forensic garb. Both of medium height and pear-shaped, but Quigg could see from a rather lumpy chest that one was a female and seemed to be in charge. She stepped forward, and said, ‘If you’re coming with us, Sir, you and your… lady friend will have to put suits on.’