The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  He pulled up to the station exit and waited.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Quigg’s phone … Oh, hello, Mave. … No, he can’t talk now he’s…’

  Quigg elbowed her in the ribs.

  ‘Ow, Sir - that hurt.’

  ‘Get off the phone, Walsh.’

  ‘Sorry, Mave - got to go.’ She ended the call. ‘She says ring her when you’ve got time.’

  A red and white VW camper with red curtains at the windows went past the entrance to the station, followed shortly after by what looked like an old clapped-out blue Ford Fiesta. They were heading along Drakefell Road, towards Nunhead.

  Quigg pulled out behind the Ford Fiesta.

  ‘Did you see who was driving the camper van Walsh?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  His phone activated.

  ‘Quigg’s phone … DI Quigg is driving. I’m DC Heather Walsh … Thank you, Sir - you’ve got a nice voice as well…’

  Quigg released his elbow again, but she moved towards the door to avoid it.

  ‘Ask him if the blue Ford Fiesta is the car following the camper van.’

  ‘He says yes, Sir.’

  ‘Tell him to tell the driver to pull in so I can pass him, then he should follow me.’

  ‘He’ll do that, Sir.’

  ‘How far ahead is the next car?’

  ‘He says about ten minutes, Sir, but he’s waiting until he knows which direction the camper van is heading in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The van took a left along Evelina Road, onto Nunhead Lane and East Dulwich Road. At the roundabout, the camper turned left down Lordship Lane, and then hung a sharp right along East Dulwich Grove, Village Way, and Half Moon Lane.

  ‘He’s going back to Barnes, isn’t he, Sir?’

  ‘It looks like it, Walsh, but let’s not get complacent. Signal to the Fiesta to overtake me; I’ve been tailing him for too long.’

  Walsh stuck her arm out of the window and waved it for the driver to overtake. Quigg pulled into a bus stop and let the Fiesta pass.

  ‘Ring Inspector Muchamore; tell him we need another car. What we don’t want is for Ruben to notice he’s being followed.’

  Walsh navigated to his phonebook. ‘I presume it’s ‘MUCHA’, Sir?’

  ‘You presume right.’

  ‘Hello, it’s … You’re making me blush, Sir…’

  Quigg’s elbow moved to the left, and so did Walsh to avoid it.

  ‘DI Quigg says he needs another car … Okay, Sir.’ Walsh ended the call. ‘Robert says a silver Peugeot with POT as the last three letters of the number plate will be arriving shortly.’

  ‘Good. Call me a messenger from the underworld, Walsh, but I get the feeling you’ve switched sides.’

  ‘I’m just being polite, Sir.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  The van stayed on the A2214 with Brockwell Park on the left until it reached Effra Road, where it turned right. The silver Peugeot took the lead, and the red Fiesta turned off. They were in Brixton now, and the van took a left down Acre Lane, onto Clapham Park Road, then Common Long Road, with Clapham Common on the left. At this time of day, the traffic on the A3 was moving at a good speed. They reached Battersea Rise and moved on to the South Circular.

  Quigg felt comfortable now that they were heading to Barnes on the A205.

  His phone activated.

  ‘Hello, Sir … I can’t tonight, but…’

  Quigg jabbed his elbow.

  ‘Robert says you were right, Sir. It looks as though he’s going towards Barnes.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not there yet and…’

  Walsh put her hand up, and Quigg eased his foot on the break as the traffic in front of him began slowing down. He could see the silver Peugeot, but the camper van was gone.

  ‘Shit, Walsh - what’s happened?’

  ‘Robert says there’s been an accident and his driver has lost the van.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He grabbed the police light from the floor between his legs, rolled down the window and thrust his arm out. The magnets at the bottom of the light crunched on the roof, and he passed the end of the wire to Walsh, who plugged the connector into the cigarette lighter.

  Quigg pulled onto the hard shoulder and moved forward until he was alongside the Peugeot. The driver shrugged and pointed to the carnage in front of him. Two articulated lorries and a white van were skewed across the two lanes. One of the lorries was on its side, half way up the embankment and blocking the hard shoulder.

  ‘Oh, God, Sir,’ Walsh said. ‘He’s going to get away and kill those two children, isn’t he? What are we going to do?’

  ‘Is Inspector Muchamore still on the phone?’

  ‘Hello, Sir?’ Walsh shouted into the phone. ‘Sorry, Sir… Yes he’s still there.’

  ‘Tell him we need a helicopter.’

  ‘He said it’ll take time.’

  ‘We haven’t got any fucking time, tell him.’

  ‘He says…’

  ‘Never mind that.’ He snatched the phone off Walsh. ‘Robert, listen - we don’t have time to get a police helicopter. Ring one of the London tour operators and see if they’ve got anything in the air. Direct them to Barnes.’

  Who’s paying?

  ‘Fucking hell, I’ll pay, just…’

  I’ve already got somebody doing it. Yes, Accrington Helicopters has got a twin-engine Augusta 109 in the air with six sightseers, close to Barnes… They’re on their way.

  He turned to Walsh. ‘Get out, Walsh. Go and use your sexy voice to make a gap we can drive through. If that doesn’t work, show your warrant card and tell them two children’s lives depend on someone creating a gap for us. Can you do that, Walsh?’

  ‘You leave it to me, Sir. I’ll make a gap, even if I have to do it myself.’ She climbed out of the car and strode purposefully towards a police car, fire engine, and ambulance.

  Are you there, Quigg?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  I’ve got an American Marine on the other end of the telephone; he’s a passenger in the helicopter. The pilot is map reading for him. He can see the VW. It’s turned off Rocks Lane onto Station Road … Now it’s on Priory Lane, moving towards Roehampton…

  Walsh came back. ‘Drive, Sir.’

  He passed her the phone, reversed up, and found a gap. A traffic cop waved them through. Drivers moved left and right as he aimed for the gap created between the two lorries. The fire fighters had attached a chain to the lorry blocking the fast lane and dragged it along the road with their fire engine to create a gap wide enough for him to drive through. He quickly reached eighty miles an hour, and, glancing up, he noticed that the Peugeot had followed him. He turned right off the South Circular into Rocks Lane.

  ‘What’s happening, Walsh?’

  ‘The van has pulled into a side road leading to Chestnut Farm.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Quigg said. ‘We’ll never get there in time. He’ll kill them.’ He was now at the top of Priory Lane, doing a hundred and ten miles an hour.

  ‘You’ll kill us, Sir,’ Walsh screamed.

  He slowed to ninety.

  ‘What’s happening now, Walsh?’

  ‘The helicopter is landing, Sir. The marine is leading the other people in the helicopter and they’re going to make a citizen’s arrest.’

  ‘Bloody hell. I hope Ruben doesn’t put up any resistance.’

  He found the track and raced up it to the farm. The helicopter was powering down in a field. Outside one of the outbuildings, Ruben was sitting on the ground surrounded by a small group of people. The group consisted of a Japanese man with two females, an old German couple, and a young man with a blond crew cut and white teeth, who detached himself from the group and came to meet them with an outstretched hand.

  ‘Hello, I’m Corporal Andrew Mitchell, United States Marine Corps. We caught your man, and the pilot has the two children safe in the building.’

  Quigg shook his hand. ‘Thanks for your help
, Corporal. I’m Detective Inspector Quigg, and this is Detective Constable Heather Walsh.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sir. It was a lot harder running killers to ground in Eye-raq.’ He turned to Walsh and took her hand. ‘Hello, maam - pleased to make your acquaintance. You must be one of those English beauties I’ve heard so much about?’

  Walsh blushed.

  ‘Oh, she’s definitely one of those, Corporal. And free tonight, I believe.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, maam, how would it be if I took you out for a meal, to celebrate?’

  ‘She says yes, Corporal. Right, come on, Walsh - give him your number. We’ve got work to do.’

  In the outbuilding, the female helicopter pilot had wrapped blankets around the two young girls and was sitting with them.

  ‘I’m Janey Christian. The children are safe.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Janey. Get your phone out, Walsh. We need an ambulance, Perkins and his team, a squad car, and some uniforms. But first, go and handcuff Ruben and put him in the back seat of my car.’

  He rang Inspector Muchamore from Peckham. ‘The children are safe, Robert. Thanks for your help today. I owe you one.’

  Which could be repayed by giving me Constable Walsh’s number.

  He gave it. ‘I know she’s looking to get into a long-term relationship with a decent guy.’

  Leave it with me, Quigg, There’s nothing I like better than long-term relationships with beautiful women.

  ‘Oh you won’t be disappointed with Walsh; she’s definitely a beautiful woman. I’ve told her, she should be a topless model.’

  Really? Good luck, Quigg.

  ‘And to you, Robert.’

  ‘Who was that you were speaking to, Sir? I hope you’re not meddling in my private life?’

  ‘Me, Walsh? You know I’m not like that. Anyway, I think we’re needed.’

  The Japanese man wanted photographs and bunched everybody up around Quigg’s car. The back door had been opened; Ruben stared out like a fragile old man who had escaped from a nursing home, and the helicopter pilot and passengers crowded round Quigg and Walsh, smiling, while the Japanese family took turns in taking the pictures.

  The ambulance arrived and took the two girls to Hammersmith Hospital, where they would be met by their parents and a family liaison officer who would extract statements over the next couple of days.

  After more photographs, the helicopter eventually took off with its payload of passengers. Quigg and Walsh waved goodbye.

  Finally, they were on their own again, waiting for Perkins to arrive.

  ‘We did it, Sir.’

  ‘Only just, Walsh. For a while there, I thought you’d blown it.’

  ‘Me, Sir?’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly going to blame myself, am I?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Do you want to carry on being my partner, Walsh?’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Sir.’

  ‘What’s to think about?’

  ‘You have a lot of bad points, Sir. I need to make one of those two-sided lists and decide whether the good outweighs the bad.’

  ‘Bad points, Walsh? Bad points! Bad… You can see how shocked I am. Name one, if you can?’

  ‘You make me pay for everything; you interfere in my private life; you get me to make the coffee all the time; you…’

  ‘I said one, Walsh.’

  The forensics team arrived.

  ‘Hello, Perkins. This is where he brought all the children. Get in there and solve the case.’

  ‘You can count on me, Sir.’

  ‘I know I can, Perkins. Make sure you catch my press briefing.’

  ‘Oh, okay, Sir.’

  ‘Right, Walsh. Our work here is done, and if memory serves me right, we haven’t eaten.’

  ‘Are you still paying, Sir.’

  ‘Was I ever paying, Walsh? According to you I make you pay for everything. So, if that’s the case, then you must be paying.’

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it, Sir.’

  Quigg turned away and put a hand up to his mouth, as if he were struggling to control his emotions. ‘It’s too late, Walsh. You’ve trampled over my feelings. I don’t know how you could treat me like that, when all I’ve been doing is singing your praises. It was me who arranged for that beefy American Marine to take you out tonight. I also gave Inspector Muchamore your number and told him how beautiful you were. All in all, Walsh, I think I deserve some thanks.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Walsh.’

  ***

  They got back to the station at three twenty-five, and Quigg decided to bring the press briefing forward two days, to four-thirty. Strike while the news was fresh, he thought. People would have time to read the details thoroughly in the Sunday papers, rather than skimming the late editions on Monday. He rang the press officer and asked her to organise it.

  There was no rush to interview Ruben Andrews. He had been caught in flagrante, and all the evidence was stacked up against him. Quigg went down to see the duty sergeant and told him to put Ruben on suicide watch. What he didn’t want was the old man killing himself while he was in protective custody.

  Then he went back to the squad room and typed up his report for the file, and did a shorter emailed version for the Chief. Walsh had finished her report, which he read and counter-signed. She was on the other side of the squad room talking on her mobile and acting like a teenager.

  ‘Are you switching sides, Walsh?’

  ‘If I were, Sir, it would be none of your business.’

  ‘I’m your partner, Walsh; don’t I have a right to know?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Which of your many admirers was that, then?’

  ‘Andrew Mitchell - he’s taking me out tonight.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘The American Bar & Grill, and then to a nightclub.’

  Quigg put his hand to his forehead, and said, ‘I think I’m having a flash-forward, Walsh. You’ll go out with this hunky American Marine tonight, and he’ll treat you like a porcelain princess. He’ll take you back to his hotel room and make love to you all night, like a Greek god. You’ll be pregnant with sextuplets, but you won’t know it yet. You’ll fall irretrievably in love and he’ll beg you to go back to Arkansas with him to meet his parents and seven siblings. You’ll conveniently forget you’re a lesbian, and come in on Monday morning to hand in your letter of resignation. I’ll be devastated, of course, after all the effort I’ve put into your professional and personal development. Is that how it’s going to go, Walsh?'

  ‘You’re a nutcase, Sir.’

  ‘A nutcase who has to go to the press briefing now. Come along with me; you deserve to be there as well.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘In a joint operation with Peckham Police Station, we apprehended Ruben Andrews at one thirty today and charged him with twenty-six counts of murder. Kylie Pavlenski and Miriam Turnbull have been returned safely to their families. This investigation has been a team effort, and I would like to thank a number of people who normally don’t get a mention. First and foremost, I would like to thank my partner, the lovely DC Heather Walsh, who I know many of you have already met.’

  The two of them were sitting at the raised table with the Hammersmith coat of arms as a backdrop. The television cameras panned to Walsh and flashlights made her look like a hedgehog caught in the main beam of a car’s headlights. Her face turned scarlet and she grinned like an escaped convict.

  ‘Without her invaluable assistance I would still be stumbling around in the dark. Then there is Chief Scientific Officer Peter Perkins and his forensic team, the unsung heroes who anonymously collect the evidence behind the scenes. Also, Doctor Jim Dewsbury, from Hammersmith Hospital, who worked non-stop to provide me the information I needed to identify a motive, Inspector Robert Muchamore and his officers from Peckham Police Station who trusted my instincts, Father Paidraig from Saint Peter-in-Chains Church in Shepherd’s Bus
h, and last, but not least, Madame Aryana, who came all the way from Canada to provide us with invaluable information.’

  ‘Emma Potter, London Standard. ‘I see you’ve come out smelling of roses again, Inspector.’

  Quigg unwrapped his best Sunday smile and shone it at Emma Potter. ‘Miss Potter - how lovely to see you. I’m surprised that you ever doubted that I would. If I’m not mistaken, I think they’re going to name a rose after me at the Chelsea Flower Show this year.’

  ‘Cathy Cox, London Tribune. I thought you had eliminated Ruben Andrews as a suspect, Inspector?’

  ‘Hello, Miss Cox. New information came to light, which made us re-evaluate who the suspects could be. Mr Andrews was the only viable suspect that we had.’

  ‘John Montrose, Scottish Herald. Now that the children have been saved and Mr Andrews is in custody, could you tell us what it was all about?’

  ‘It was about love, Mr Montrose, an enduring and incestuous love between two siblings. It was about a father destroying his family. It was about betrayal and a lifelong atonement for that betrayal.’

  ‘Andrew Morton, Isle of Man Star. Can you tell us about the helicopter, the American marine, and the sightseers?’

  ‘That sounds like the title of a Hollywood blockbuster, Mr Morton.’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘Because I failed to incorporate Murphy’s Law into my planning, Ruben Andrews managed to elude us as a consequence of a serious accident on the A205. We were in serious danger of losing him, and our last chance to save the children. There was no time to organise a police helicopter, and it occurred to me that there were always helicopter tours taking place over London, so I co-opted one such helicopter. Thankfully, the pilot, a Miss Janey Christian, and an American Marine, Corporal Andrew Mitchell, were on board and willing to help us. If the truth be told, Mr Morton, they were the real heroes who saved the day.’

  ‘Gillian Monteray, Dulwich Times. You mentioned the psychic from Canada, Inspector. In what way did she help you?’

  ‘In a number of ways: she identified the killer’s mode of transport and told us when he would strike again. But as I said earlier, this was a team effort. Peter Perkins analysed the locations of where the children had been abducted from and discovered that they followed the train stations on the Inner South London Line. So we were able to predict when and where he was going to strike and identify the vehicle he was driving.’