The Graves at Angel Brook (Quigg Book 3)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Wake up, Walsh, we’ve got another case.’

  Walsh looked up from the report she was writing. ‘Another one, Sir? Is there no one else in the whole of the Hammersmith Murder Team that can take it?’

  ‘It has our name written all over it.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘That unless we solve it, we may as well go and look for jobs in the local supermarket.’

  ‘I don’t know if I like being your partner anymore.’

  ‘Just say the word. I hear DS Jones is looking for someone he can torture.’

  ‘As if I’m going to work with that slimy bigot.’

  ‘You’re stuck with me then, Walsh.’

  ‘Am I driving?’

  ‘Yes you are. We’ll use a pool car from now on. I’m clocking up too much mileage in my Mercedes. You can go and get the car while I finish things off here.’

  ‘Finish what things off, I thought you’d finished?’

  ‘You don’t think I’d make something like that up, do you?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

  ‘Haven’t you gone yet, Walsh?’

  It had been three months since the Angel Brook murders. Detective Constable Heather Walsh had become his permanent partner, and they seemed to be getting along reasonably well. For some strange reason she didn’t seem to be a lesbian anymore, or if she were, she was hiding it very well. He had no idea how that worked. Either someone was a lesbian, or they weren’t. Maybe there was an on/off switch. Anyway, the Chief seemed to be happy about the situation. He was old school, and didn’t trust people who weren’t straight down the middle.

  The situation with his ex-wife Caitlin, Richie the Builder, and his daughter, Phoebe, had got very messy after he and the solicitor – Celia Tabbard – had obtained a temporary Prohibitive Steps Order in January, and served them with the Court Order at the airport to stop them taking Phoebe to Canada. A month later, a family court judge had made the Court Order permanent, which meant that Caitlin and Richie the Builder were stuck here. Shortly afterwards, having had enough of Caitlin’s marital squabbles, Richie the Builder had decided to end the relationship and go to Canada without her. Of course, Caitlin blamed Quigg, and she had promptly disappeared with Phoebe as punishment. As a consequence, he hadn’t seen his daughter for four months, and had no idea where Caitlin had taken Phoebe.

  To repay Celia Tabbard for all her legal work relating to Phoebe on his behalf, he was still visiting her house four times a month at mutually convenient times to role-play – something he thought he’d never do, but had found it strangely enjoyable. The last time was three nights ago. He had been the very angry ticket inspector who had caught the young lady without a ticket. Unfortunately, he had needed to punish her most severely.

  As for his home situation – it was a mess. In fact, his whole life resembled the Gordian Knot. How had he got himself into so many impossible situations? Each facet of his life resembled a strand of that endless knot, and each was interwoven with all the other strands until he didn’t know where one ended and another began. He was still living in the fortified St Thomas’ Church on Godolphin Road in Shepherd’s Bush. Ruth and Duffy were five months pregnant, and Lucy was still stalking him like a she-wolf.

  The exclusive paedophile ring called the Apostles had been keeping a low profile, but they were still out there preying on children. Lucy and Duffy had slowly been identifying all their assets, and it wouldn’t be long now before the Apostles’ whole sordid world came crashing down around them.

  ***

  ‘I had to swear on my mother’s life that I wasn’t your partner to get this,’ Walsh said, indicating the nearly new white Volvo S80, when she came back from the car pool.

  He climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Yeah, they don’t like me much in there.’

  ‘Much? I’d say you were their least favourite person. They have dolls with pins in, pictures they throw darts at, and I think I saw a punch bag with your image on it.’

  ‘All right, Walsh, no need to overegg the pudding.’

  After a straightforward journey down Fulham Palace Road, a right just before Fulham Cemetery down Queensmill Road, it was quarter past eleven when they arrived at Eternity Wharf. The Chief had been right, the Wharf was opposite the London Wetland Centre and Barn Elms playing fields, and wedged between the Blakes and Stevenage Wharves. He didn’t know about Fulham FC, and he didn’t really care. Life was too short to worry about football.

  White-suited forensic officers were already swarming over the place like ants in an anthill.

  Eternity Wharf was actually the quay where ships and barges docked to load and unload cargo and passengers. This had been converted many years ago into a concrete path with a three-foot wall to stop the London masses from getting wet when the Thames level rose to dangerous levels. The Wharf also included a warehouse for temporary storage of the ships’ cargo, and it was here that Quigg and Walsh aimed for.

  The warehouse was brick on the outside with four Georgian arched windows left and right of the central loading bay doors – making twenty-four windows in all. There were three floors, with a wooden loading door for each floor. On the outside, next to the top door, was a winch that swivelled and was attached to the right-hand wall. On the end of the metal arm of the winch was a chain with a pear-shaped block of concrete on the end.

  Quigg tried to avoid walking under the concrete weight. It would just be his luck for the rust to finally eat through the chain, which would send the block plummeting onto the top of his head, killing him instantly.

  Walsh craned her neck to see where he was looking. ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘It’s not after you, it’s after me.’

  Walsh laughed. ‘You’re a nut, Sir.’

  Although the warehouse door had been secured with a sturdy brass lock, and was probably awaiting conversion into flats, undesirable elements of society had gained access through the wooden slats of the main door. There was evidence that drug users had been inside. Used syringes, needles, and small balls of silver paper littered the floor. A filthy mattress lay to the right of the door, piles of rubbish had drifted against the walls, and the charred remains of a small fire sat on a corrugated piece of metal.

  Some way into the warehouse, the wooden floor had collapsed, and there was a gaping hole about six feet long and three feet wide. A safety barrier had been erected around the hole, and a steel walkway led to a ladder into the hole.

  A uniformed officer was standing next to the barrier.

  ‘Perkins down below?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. You need to put on...’

  ‘...a suit. This is not my first time, Constable.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just doing what I was told, Sir.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s only doing his job,’ Walsh said.

  ‘Since when did you become a union spokesperson?’ he said as he hopped around trying to manoeuvre his right foot into the leg of the white paper suit.

  ‘I’ve always been interested in the welfare of my fellow man.’

  ‘Or woman. Tell me how that works, Walsh?’

  ‘Have you got nothing else better to think about?’

  ‘Your dilemmas stop me thinking about my own.’

  To the Constable he said, ‘Where are the couple who fell through the hole?’

  ‘The fire brigade and paramedics were here, but they’ve gone now.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Yeah well, the man is dead, and the woman is in a pretty bad way apparently. He fell onto the rocks, and she fell on him. It was a bit of a mess from what one of the paramedics said.’

  ‘Thanks.’ To Walsh he said, ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean? Either you’re ready, or you’re not.’

  ‘I don’t like dark underground places.’

  ‘You can stay up here if you’d like to?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘If you don’t want to be a detective anymor
e.’

  Walsh gripped the ladder. ‘Do you want to go first, or should I?’

  ‘You go first, Walsh, you seem to be eager to get your hands dirty.’

  ‘No wonder people don’t like you, Sir.’

  He clutched his chest. ‘I’m shocked. Name one person who doesn’t like me?’

  ‘There’s the Chief, Sergeant Jones, all the people in the car pool...’

  ‘I said one person, Walsh. Get your smartarse down that ladder.’

  ***

  James and Bartholomew had disembarked at Embankment tube station, meandered along the Thames walkway, and in the shadow of Cleopatra’s Needle turned left to cross Savoy Place. They were now loitering on Carting Lane close to the Strand and the Savoy Hotel.

  ‘So, why have you brought me here, Bartholomew?’ James asked. At five foot ten inches Lord Aaron of Shawcross wasn’t particularly tall. He had steel grey hair above his ears and at the back of his head, but was completely bald on top. His complexion was sallow, and he could easily have been mistaken for someone undergoing chemotherapy. A handful of years previously he had been the Prime Minister’s Business Advisor, but now he devoted his time between a number of high-paying non-executive directorships of blue chip companies, and the business affairs of the Apostles.

  The corner of Bartholomew’s mouth rose slightly. ‘You’ll love this.’

  James rolled his eyes. ‘I have a distinct feeling of unease.’

  ‘See that lamppost?’

  ‘I can hardly not see it, Bartholomew. We’re standing directly in front of it.’

  ‘That, my dear friend, is a Webb sewer gas lamp.’

  James’ brow furrowed. ‘A Webb sewer gas lamp?’ he repeated. ‘You’ve lost me. Why would one want a gas lamp in a sewer? And not only that, wouldn’t a gas lamp in a sewer be particularly dangerous, especially if some addled buffoon lit the damn thing?’

  Bartholomew laughed. ‘You’re exactly right in what you say, old friend.’

  ‘I expect you’re going to put me out of my misery, and then we can go to the Savoy, which I might add, is where I thought we were going until you led me up the garden path.’

  ‘Soon, James. This lane has a nickname. It’s called Farting Lane.’

  ‘You’re descending into the sewers yourself, Bartholomew.’

  ‘In the 1950s the gases from the sewer illuminated the bulb in the lamp. Or, to be more precise, the bowel movements of the guests at the Savoy lit up the street outside.’

  ‘How disgusting, Bartholomew. I’m quite sure you take an obscene pleasure in upsetting my weak constitution. You know very well that I have an extremely dicky stomach.’

  ‘Not only that, it could be considered as an early form of recycling.’

  ‘Very droll, Bartholomew. I don’t suppose it still works as intended?’

  ‘No, far too dangerous. Health and safety would be all over it.’

  James took an embroidered white handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to his nose. ‘Maybe some leakage is taking place. Shall we retire a safe distance to the Savoy?’

  ‘Most definitely, old friend.’

  They walked to the south side of the hotel and entered the Art Deco influenced River Restaurant overlooking the Thames. Bartholomew had previously booked a table for lunch, and was directed to the seat that Errol Flynn had once sat in. He’d always had in mind that he might be the reincarnation of the dashing ladies’ man. The fact that he preferred children was neither here nor there.

  Bartholomew ordered the smoked salmon for starters, the pan roasted guinea fowl supreme for the main, and for dessert a blackberry mousse.’

  ‘And to drink, Sir?’ the waiter said.

  ‘I think I’ll partake of a Bloody Mary.’

  ‘An excellent choice, Sir.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘And you, Sir.’

  James squinted at the menu. ‘Foie gras terrine, the pan seared Atlantic cod fillet, but not too pan seared, and gingerbread parfait for dessert. To drink, if we’re having cocktails, James, and you’re paying, I’ll have a Black Russian.’

  Clicking his heels and nodding like an SS soldier, the waiter did an about turn and left to communicate their requirements.

  ‘Tell me about Quigg now that we have at last arrived at our destination,’ James said.

  Sir Peter Langham had once been a Colonel in the Royal Logistics Corps. He had managed to rise up the proverbial ladder without too much trouble, and because his Commanding Officer had a KBE, he had been kind enough to put his Second-in-Command – Peter Langham – forward for the same award. Interestingly, the knighthood had been approved. All that was a long time ago though. Now, he was Chairman of the Hammersmith & Fulham Police Complaints Committee.

  ‘Two things, James. First, I have managed to slip a man into Quigg’s little redoubt. And second, he has Uptown Girl in there.’

  ‘Is it a harem, old chap?’

  The waiter returned with their cocktails.

  Bartholomew raised his glass. ‘Cocktails in the middle of the day. Whatever next, James?’

  ‘Whatever next, Bartholomew?’

  After taking a mouthful of his Bloody Mary Bartholomew said, ‘If my tastes were different, old friend, I might be jealous of Quigg. In the female department, he seems to have landed on his feet.’

  James pulled a face. ‘A matter of opinion, old friend. Not only has he to contend with three demanding women, but soon he will have at least two caterwauling offspring as well.’

  ‘It would be a kindness to put him out of his misery.’

  James nodded as if he had lost control of his neck joint. ‘My thoughts exactly, Bartholomew. So, what is our plan of action?’

  ‘For the moment, our man inside will feed us information.’

  James raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to terminate Quigg?’

  The waiter brought their starters. ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘Not yet, old friend. We need to discover what he knows, and what he’s been doing these past four months. Quigg is not one to forget what we did.’

  ‘No, taking his daughter was probably a mistake.’

  ‘Twenty-twenty hindsight is always easy, James. We need to forget the past and move forward.’

  The waiter removed their empty plates and returned with their main courses. ‘Bon appétit.’

  Bartholomew screwed his face up like an old five-pound note and said, ‘I wish he’d stop saying that, surely once was enough.’

  James examined the pan seared Atlantic cod fillet to ensure it had not been too seared underneath, and then shook his head. ‘The lower classes, Bartholomew. It’ll be the only French he knows. Likes to use it at every opportunity like a talking parrot.’

  ‘Bon appétit, pretty boy,’ Bartholomew said in what he thought was a parrot’s voice.

  James stopped chewing and stared at him. The lower classes mimic us, Bartholomew, not vice versa.’

  ‘Of course, stupid of me.’

  ‘I don’t want this Quigg-watching to drag on too long, Bartholomew. And the sooner we dispose of that hacker, the safer I’ll feel.’

  ‘I understand, James.’

  They raised their glasses and chinked.

  ‘We have a plan then, Bartholomew,’ James said, and smiled like a crumbling gargoyle.

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  Thank you for choosing and reading my book. If you enjoyed it, I would be grateful if you could write a review and post it on Amazon.co.uk and/or Amazon.com.

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  About the Author

  Tim Ellis was born in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, London, on a dark and stormy night, grew up in Cheadle, Cheshire, and now lives in Essex with his wife and four shitzus. In-between, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corps at eighteen and completed twenty-two years service, leaving in 1993 having achieved the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1 (Regimental Sergeant Major). Since then he has worked in secondary education as a senior financial manager, in higher education as an associate lecturer/tutor at Lincoln and Anglia
Ruskin Universities, and as a consultant for the National College of School Leadership. His final job, before retiring to write fiction full time in 2009, was as Head and teacher of Behavioural Sciences (Psychology/Sociology) in a secondary school. He has a PhD and an MBA in Educational Management, and an MA in Education.

  Discover other titles by Tim Ellis at http://timellis.weebly.com/

  Warrior

  (Adult Historical Fiction)

  Path of Destiny

  Scourge of the Steppe

  The Knowledge of Time

  (Young Adult Science Fiction)

  Second Civilisation

  Orc Quest

  (Young Adult Fantasy)

  Prophecy

  Adult Crime:

  Harte & KP

  Solomon’s Key

  Stone & Randall

  Jacob’s Ladder

  Parish & Richards

  A Life for a Life

  The Wages of Sin

  The Flesh is Weak

  The Shadow of Death

  His Wrath is Come

  The Breath of Life

  Quigg

  The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Novella)

  Body 13

  The Graves at Angel Brook

  The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf

  Collected Short Stories/Poetry

  Untended Treasures

  Where do you want to go today?

  Winter of my Heart (Poetry)

  The Killing Sands – As You Sow, So shall You Reap

  Also due out in 2012/2013: