The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  He couldn’t see any point in traipsing behind them as they moved inch by inch along the bank. It would probably take hours to search it again, and his stomach was rumbling. ‘No, we’ll leave you to it.’

  The male officer followed his female colleague outside, carrying a piezoelectric receiver, which, according to Perkins, sent out an electric pulse and received an echo back in return. The echoes joined up to form a picture of what was underground to a depth of three metres.

  ‘Have you got anything else?’ he asked Aryana as they stepped outside.

  ‘He was here last night.’

  ‘No, that can’t be possible; the crime scene is guarded night and day.’

  ‘I tell you what I see, you believe me or not. But I have been right so far, haven’t I?’

  Yes she had, he thought. How could the killer have been here last night? If it was true, that meant the uniforms weren’t doing their job. He decided to keep the information to himself, because psychic visions clearly weren’t evidence. If he accused Pernicious Bedweasel’s boys of flunking off, she would want to know how he knew. What could he say? "A psychic told me." She’d throw him out on his ear.

  ‘What was he doing here?’

  ‘Watching. He will have the last two children to bury soon, and he is wondering whether he can bury them now, or he will have to wait.’

  ‘Give me a ring if you find anything,’ he called to the forensic officers as they began the long and arduous task of searching the bank again.

  ‘Will do, Sir,’ the female shouted back.

  He expected they weren’t happy about a psychic coming down here and telling them how to do their job. Psychics were nothing but trouble. At the moment, Aryana was seeing things that eventually they would have found out. What he really needed was the killer’s name and address, but nothing was ever simple with a psychic. They never had a complete gift. The information they provided was always partial, fragments of a puzzle. No wonder police forces tended not to use them. They were more trouble than they were worth.

  ‘Who was on last night?’ Quigg asked the officer outside the entrance.

  ‘PC Washowski, Sir.’

  ‘Is he on tonight?’

  ‘No, Sir. He’s on four days off now.’

  ‘Tell the night shift to keep their wits about them; I have reason to believe the killer might pop in for a chat.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And I might also pay them a visit.’

  ‘I’ll give them the gypsy’s warning, Sir.’

  ‘Good - Happy New Year, Constable.’

  ‘And to you, Sir.’

  As they were walking back to the car, his phone went again. ‘Speak, Walsh.’

  No luck with the second couple, Sir.

  ‘Are you going to make it back for twelve?’

  I might be about five minutes late.

  ‘Any longer, and you’ll starve, Walsh.’ He disconnected her before she could answer.

  He drove Aryana back to the station and dropped her off in forensics, where Perkins met them. Quigg could see that Perkins was attracted to the psychic, and he secretly wished him all the very best in his pursuit of Aryana.

  ‘I’ll pop by the hotel about five tonight to see if you’ve had any more glimpses of the killer,’ he said to her.

  ‘I’m in room 416. Come right up.’

  ‘I’m available should you need a chaperone, Quigg.’ Perkins said.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Perkins, but thanks for the offer.’

  Perkins ushered Aryana along the corridor with his arm around her waist.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pequod, Bone & Turnkey were located at Dove Pier on the bank of the Thames at Lower Mall. Quigg decided to drive there, park up, and then find a pub for lunch.

  He didn’t give Walsh a choice of venue because she was ten minutes late. He also informed her she was paying.

  ‘You’re really mean sometimes, Sir,’ Walsh said in the car. ‘If Christmas hadn’t come and gone, I’d say it was like working for DI Scrooge.’

  ‘Where does he work, Walsh? I can’t say I know him. Nice name, though, it has a certain ring to it.’

  They walked along Lower Mall, through Furnival Gardens, and stumbled upon the Rutland on Upper Mall squashed between two houses.

  ‘This will do,’ Quigg said, ducking as he stepped through the door.

  Walsh didn’t have to duck as she followed him in, but she said, 'It’s a bit murky in here, Sir.'

  ‘Murky! We’re not in a London fog, Walsh.’ He looked around. It was a bit dim, but he put it down to the low winter clouds. During the summer, he was sure it would be a refuge from the glare and heat. There weren’t that many customers inside, but the door kept opening and closing and the noise began to increase.

  ‘I bet they use five watt bulbs so you can’t see what you’re eating.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re not happy with my choice of hostelry?’

  ‘No, Sir. I like eating in places that resemble the black hole of Calcutta.’

  ‘We can go somewhere else if you’re not happy, Walsh.’

  ‘I’ll have a diet coke, Sir.’

  Quigg passed her a bar menu. ‘Get your piggy bank out.’

  He ordered an extra-cold Guinness and a lasagne with garlic bread for himself. Walsh asked for a Caesar salad with her diet coke. She passed him a twenty. He paid and told the barman to keep the change. Walsh huffed.

  ‘Sit near a window,’ Quigg said. ‘You’ll be able to see what you’re eating and watch the ducks on the river at the same time.’

  ‘Wrong side, Sir. If you wanted to look at the frozen swans on the river, we’d have to go to the back of the pub and sit outside the opium den overlooking the midden.’

  ‘I’m getting the feeling you’re not enamoured by ye olde London pub, Walsh. Pubs like these have a long history attached to them.’

  ‘You mean, they were open for business during the black plague?’

  Quigg directed the conversation to why they were really there. ‘So, your visits to Putney and McLeish were a wash out?’

  ‘None of the McLeish families were related to the cook at Barn Elms. It’s highly probable that she moved away and didn’t settle locally.’

  ‘You could have said that before you wasted the taxpayer’s money, Walsh.’

  ‘And Mr Putney was the butler, but as I said, he’s dead.’

  ‘A shame he didn’t leave a diary or something.’

  Walsh bent down and pulled a book from her bag that she’d deposited on the floor between her legs.

  Quigg stopped mid-drink, and, with a white frothy moustache, asked, ‘What have you got there, Walsh?’

  ‘A photograph album.’

  ‘You’ve brought your holiday snaps in - excellent. I hope there’re some of you topless on the beach.’

  She ignored him. ‘There are five pages of black and white photographs from Barn Elms taken by Mr Putney. I promised to return them tomorrow.’ Walsh opened the album at the start of the relevant photographs, and passed it to him.

  He scanned the photographs, then said, ‘This is all very interesting, but what use are they?’

  ‘Look on the backs, Sir.’

  ‘Ah.’ He pulled a photograph of two young boys out of its plastic envelope. On the back had been written: Ruben and Roger, April 1949. ‘Roger who?’ He said impatiently. ‘Are they all like this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. I haven’t had a chance to look. You made me rush back to buy you lunch.’

  ‘Stop complaining, Walsh,’ he said, beginning to pull out all the photographs and placing them on the table. ‘You’re like one of those union troublemakers, whinging about health and safety issues all the time.’ He saw her staring at him with her mouth open. ‘Do you know there’s a bird that lives in Papua New Guinea called a frogmouth? It’s called that because it sits in trees with its mouth open all day, catching flies.’

  Walsh closed her mouth.

  ‘Well,
come on then, they’ll be bringing our food soon. Start looking at the back of each photograph for a clue.’

  She collected up a handful of photographs. ‘What about you, Sir? Did the psychic tell you who the killer was?’

  ‘I wish, Walsh. Instead, she said there were another three bodies buried outside the tent.’

  ‘I thought forensics had searched the whole area and found all the bodies.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘I bet they didn’t take too kindly to a psychic telling them how to do their job. Were there any more bodies?’

  ‘We left them looking. They’re going to ring me if they find anything.’

  Just then, a young man came to the table carrying their food. He wore a chequered waistcoat and had short spiked blond hair. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he spoke with a melodic Welsh accent from the valleys.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ He glanced at Quigg, but his smile was reserved for Walsh.

  ‘I’ll have another pint of Guinness, and have you got some Parmesan cheese?’

  ‘Yes, we have, Sir. What about the young lady?’

  ‘Do you want another diet coke or some oil for your leaves, Walsh?’ Quigg said.

  She ignored Quigg and spoke directly to the young man. ‘Just some Thousand Island dressing please.’

  After the waiter had gone, Quigg began breaking up his garlic bread into individual pieces and said, ‘Call me a romantic old fool, Walsh, but I think you’ve got an admirer.’

  ‘I thought he fancied you, Sir.’

  ‘You’re too modest, Walsh. You’re a good looking bird with a fit body.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir, but I’m sure you’d say that to the bearded lady at the circus. And anyway, you know I’m not that way inclined.’

  ‘I’m sure you could make an exception in his case, Walsh. I mean, if you’re not with anyone at the moment, who would know you’d sneaked into the other team’s tent? He’d be someone to keep you warm at night.’

  ‘Can we not talk about my personal life, Sir?’

  Quigg smiled. ‘Just trying to be helpful, Walsh.’

  ‘There’s nothing useful on the back of these photographs, except…’

  Quigg pulled the heaped fork back out of his mouth to say, ‘Don’t say "except", Walsh, unless you mean it.’

  She lined up four photographs on the table, facing Quigg. One was of Ruben on his own. The others were of an assortment of people with Ruben.

  ‘Haven’t I already given those suspects the once over?’

  ‘Look again, Sir. Look at Ruben.’

  Quigg looked.

  ‘I…’ He leaned closer. ‘I could do with a magnifying glass. Is it me, Walsh, or…?’

  ‘It’s not you, Sir. Who do you see?’

  ‘Well, I mean… it’s sixty years between then and now, but I would say that this boy is not the old man we saw in the chair. Shit, Walsh, I feel as though I’ve been mugged.’

  ‘That’s probably why we didn’t get any answer from Stone House Hospital when we rang earlier. He’s mislead us, and now he thinks we don’t suspect him.’

  ‘You’ve put me off my food now, Walsh,’ Quigg said, pushing his plate to the side. He pulled out his mobile phone and rang the station.

  Hammersmith Pol…

  ‘Is that you Ted?’

  Yes.

  ‘It’s Quigg. Can you do me a favour, Ted?’

  You know Pernicious is after you, Sir?

  ‘I didn’t, no - what for this time?’

  Apparently, you owe her one, and she wants to collect.

  ‘Pre-arranged deal. Anyway, Ted, I need you to ring Dartford police and ask them to check out Stone House Hospital. If they find anybody there, especially two old men and a nurse, could they please arrest them and give me a ring. Tell them it’s concerning the Angel Brook murders.’

  Sounds easy enough, Sir. Do you want me to ring you afterwards?

  ‘Not unless there’s a problem.’

  Consider it done, Sir.

  ‘Thanks, Ted.’

  Walsh took a sip of coke, then said, ‘They won’t find anybody, will they, Sir?’

  ‘I’ve told you before about that pessimistic streak, Walsh. Come on - let’s go and see Pequod, Bone and Turnkey. I don’t feel very optimistic now. Ruben didn’t seem to mind us coming to see them, which suggests they don’t know anything.’

  Walsh collected up the photographs and put them back into the album in the order she had them in her hand. She put her coat and scarf on, and followed Quigg out. Out of the corner of his eye, Quigg saw her lean across the bar and pass the blond-haired man one of her business cards and a smile.

  Outside, the sky was heavy with snow again. They began walking towards Dove Pier and Quigg said, ‘So, you took my advice, then, Walsh?’

  ‘Hell would have to freeze over before I took your advice about relationships, Sir. After two pints of Guinness, you’re probably hallucinating.’

  ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall, Walsh.’

  ‘In your dreams, Sir.’

  ***

  At Dove Pier they walked down three flights of damp stone steps that took them below the level of the Thames. It was as if they had descended into a London of long ago, one where Jack the Ripper still stalked the streets of Whitechapel. They reached a thin stone walkway that disappeared into a dark arched tunnel. The lapping of water on stone and the scurrying of rats echoed all around them. Quigg looked up, but a fog had crept down the steps and he couldn’t see the pier anymore.

  ‘Are you sure this is the way, Sir? It’s a bit spooky.’

  Quigg thought Walsh was being coy; it was a lot spooky. ‘The solicitor’s office should be just inside that tunnel. Keep close, Walsh - I don’t want you wandering off in the darkness.’ He felt her holding onto his scarf.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sir - you won’t get rid of me that easily.’

  A worn-out light filtered through small squares of glass in the top half of a crooked door in the tunnel wall. On a sign above the wood, Pequod, Bone & Turnkey had been written in a calligraphic style, but a line had been drawn through Bone. A bell tinkled as Quigg bent to open the door. The two of them were glad to step inside and leave the dank alleyway behind them.

  ‘We’re bit players in A Christmas Carol, aren’t we, Sir?’

  Quigg didn’t know what to think. A pale-looking man, probably in his late thirties, was sitting on a rickety stool hunched over a tall lectern, squinting in the half-light and scratching noisily on parchment with a quill. He looked up as they entered, and said in a plaintive voice, ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg and Detective Constable Walsh to see… uh, one of the partners.’

  ‘It will have to be Mr Turnkey,’ the man said. ‘Mr Bone died two weeks ago, and Mr Pequod is on his deathbed.’

  An old grandfather clock in the corner behind the door began chiming three o’clock.

  ‘We’re sorry to hear that, Mister…?’ Quigg said, leaving the question hanging.

  Just then, a door creaked open and an old white-haired man came out leaning heavily on an ivory and silver handled cane. ‘What’s going on, Cratchit? I heard talking. Who is it?’

  Quigg and Walsh grinned at each other, and Walsh mouthed, "Cratchit".

  ‘Sorry, Mr Turnkey. A Detective Inspector from the local constabulary wants to see you.’

  ‘See me? Why? What have I done?’

  ‘We hadn’t got that far, Sir.’

  ‘Well ask them, man.’

  ‘We’re making enquiries about the whereabouts of Ruben Andrews, Mr Turnkey,’ Quigg said.

  ‘They’re here about…’

  ‘I’m not totally deaf, Cratchit.’ The old man signalled Quigg and Walsh to follow him into his office. ‘Ruben Andrews? Yes, Mr Bone looked after the Andrews’ estate until his untimely demise. It took us all by surprise; he was only ninety-nine. And now Mr Pequod is under the weather…’

  Quigg introduced himself and Walsh again. Mr Tu
rnkey’s office didn’t seem to have a straight line in sight. The walls and floor were made of wood, and beams broke up the plaster ceiling. Quigg was sure he could hear water sloshing against the wood, and felt as though he was in an old galleon.

  ‘Do you happen to know where Mr Andrews is now, Mr Turnkey?’

  Mr Turnkey shook his head. ‘A sad case. They all died in the fire, you know?’

  ‘Yes, we are aware of the fire. We spoke to Ruben a few days ago, but he has now disappeared.’

  ‘He terminated our services two weeks ago; that’s what did for poor Mr Bone. The Andrews’ estate was his only client - without that to live for, well…’

  ‘We met Mr Andrews in Stone House Hospital; he was living there as their last patient.’

  ‘No… that can’t be right, young man. Mr Andrews was released from the hospital when it closed in 2003. He committed himself, you know, which meant that he could come and go as he pleased.’

  ‘Have you any idea where he’s living now, Mr Bone?’ Quigg asked the old man again.

  ‘He rented a house in Barnes - wanted to be close to the remains of his family, so he said. He started the fire, you know.’

  ‘Yes, he told us that. Have you got an address or a telephone number for him?’

  ‘We don’t hold with telephones - contraptions of the devil. They won’t catch on, you know.’

  ‘An address?’

  ‘Cratchit?’ The old man shouted in a voice that echoed through the rooms.

  Mr Cratchit entered. ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Give these people Mr Andrews’ address.’

  Quigg extended his hand towards Mr Turnkey, but the solicitor was clearly distracted and muttered to himself about Judge Andrews and the death of the Andrews’ family. Quigg lowered his hand, and simply said, ‘Thank you, Mr Turnkey,’ then followed Mr Cratchit out.

  Walsh wrote the address down in her notebook. They thanked Mr Cratchit, left the offices of Pequod, Bone & Turnkey, and retraced their steps along the alley and up the three flights of stone stairs.

  Once they were safely at the top of Dove Pier, Walsh said, ‘Don’t ever make me go down there again, Sir.’