The Terror at Grisly Park (Quigg 5)

by Ellis, Tim

  He took Jiggins’ luggage down to reception, gave the key back, and made his way out to the command centre.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday, July 4

  Sanchez only had three rules. Number 1: Everything you took you gave to him. In exchange, he’d teach you how to relieve people of their valuables – and other useful criminal skills – give you a place to live, and put food in your belly. Number 2: If you were caught you were on your own, and if you snitched you were dead. Number 3: Get yourself a nickname, because nobody wanted to know who you really were or why you were here.

  After finding out what the others’ nicknames were, she’d called herself Goldie, and they’d nodded as if she’d always been called that. Mind you, she did have golden blonde hair that reached to her shoulders, and a band of freckles across her nose and cheeks, so it wasn’t a nickname without a toe-hold in reality.

  She’d found Sanchez and his gang nine months ago after running away from home. Her real name was Sara Collins, and she came from the Chells Manor council estate in Stevenage.

  When she was six, her dad had come into her bedroom, and started touching her. He’d said it was something special – just between them – and she wasn’t to tell anyone. She had though, she’d told her mum, but her mum didn’t believe her, said she was a lying little bitch, and never to speak of it again – to anybody, or she’d be in for it.

  She hadn’t. She’d kept it to herself, and cried herself to sleep at nights. Then, at her eleventh birthday party, her dad had told her that he had a special present for her, and he’d give it to her later. She didn’t need to be a genius to know what he had planned for her. She was terrified.

  If her mother wouldn’t protect her, the only thing she could think to do was run. To get as far away from her father as she possibly could. So, she had packed her rucksack, stolen thirty-five pounds out of her mother’s purse that she’d been saving for a night on the town, and slipped out of the house before her father came into her room.

  She’d sneaked into the back of a truck at an all-night cafe close to Stevenage, which had taken her to East Barnet where she’d stayed in a squat for six weeks. It was there that she heard about Sanchez, and his gang of child thieves living and working in Grisly Park.

  She hoped it was a place where she might be safe. Already, she’d seen men watching her and licking their lips, and she knew that if she stayed where she was, sooner rather than later she’d pay the price. Being an eleven year-old girl, with no one to look after her, was a very dangerous occupation.

  So she ran again, but this time she only ran as far as the train station to catch the train. It was easy getting into Grisly Park, but a lot more difficult trying to find Sanchez and his gang. In the eating areas she watched and waited. When she spotted one of the thieves she followed, but then lost them. She didn’t give up though. Another six times she tried to follow different children – who were of a similar age to her, but they soon gave her the slip.

  On the eighth time she was able to keep up with one of them, but it was too easy. It was a trap and she walked right into it. If she was going to be one of them what choice did she have? She just had to trust her instincts.

  Sanchez had agreed to take her in, but he left her in no doubt that if she didn’t pay her way she’d be on her own again. The others had taught her. She’d been quick to learn, because she wanted to stay so much. Soon, she was doubling up with Pogo, Random, or Wingnut. Then, one day, Sanchez had said to her, ‘You’re ready, my treasure.’ He used to call all of them that. It was his way of making them feel that Grisly Park was their home.

  Her heart thrashed about like a fish on a hook, and she struggled to breathe. She wasn’t ready! She still had so much to learn.

  Dunkin touched her hand. ‘You’ll be all right, Goldie,’ he whispered. ‘You got the gift.’

  She glanced at some of the others, and they nodded like they’d always known she’d be staying. She was one of them. That night, Dunkin had cuddled up to her and kept her warm. He didn’t do anything, but she knew that someday he might very well be the one for her. The future was a long way down the road though, and before anything ever happened between her and Dunkin, she had a lot of thieving and growing up to do.

  Now though, it was time to call it a day. The witching hour had come and gone, people were jumping on the ghost trains to go home, and her rucksack was full to bursting with stolen goods. Anybody would think she was a beast of burden.

  She headed down Elm Street, and began making her way back to the abandoned Count Orlok’s Labyrinth – the place she now called home. It had been fenced off, and was quite a way from the main theme park.

  Splinter and Flake fell into step either side of her. They’d had the same idea about calling it a day.

  Altogether – not counting Sanchez, because he was a grown-up – there were fifteen of them aged between nine and thirteen years old. It had taken her awhile, but she’d eventually remembered all their nicknames. There was: Pogo, Random, Wingnut, Dunkin, Puddles, Diesel, Hawkeye, Colt, Splinter, Flake, Dutch, Marbles, Juice, Hoops, and her – Goldie. Puddles, Dutch, Flake, Juice and she were girls, the rest were boys. Dutch came from Holland, which was another country, so she said. Got here on board a boat, so she said. And she spoke funny, which some of the boys liked, but Goldie thought it made her sound stupid. Ran away from some men in Holland who wanted to eat her – legs ‘n all, so she said.

  ‘How you done, Goldie?’ Flake asked, as they passed Freddy’s Nightmare.

  ‘Done good,’ she said patting her rucksack. ‘If I weren’t a girl, I’d be a donkey for sure.’

  ‘I thought you was a donkey first time I saw you,’ Splinter said with a laugh.

  ‘I thought you was an elephant,’ she threw back at him.

  ‘Nah, you’re thinking of Wingnut. He’s got big flappy ears like an elephant.’

  They all laughed.

  Splinter was right, Wingnut had the flappiest ears she’d ever seen. Wingnut was a good nickname for him, but she guessed he hadn’t chosen it himself.

  ***

  It was as if he couldn’t control his own body. He’d aimed it at the command centre, but ended up climbing the steps into the forensics truck. He’d said he wasn’t going to introduce himself to Deborah Chan, and yet here he was opening the door like a burglar who’d been caught a dozen times doing exactly the same thing, but never learned a damned thing. God, he should be ashamed of himself.

  ‘Hi!’

  ‘Oh, hello. You must be Inspector Quigg? I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘All good, I have no doubt?’

  One of Deborah Chan’s ancestors must have been Chinese, but it was so far back in history as to be inconsequential in relation to her DNA. She certainly didn’t look Chinese. Yes, she had black hair, and probably an IQ off the scale, but that was as far as it went. She was in her late thirties, small and dumpy, with an eye patch over her left eye. In fact, she looked more pirate than Chinese. A parrot would have tipped the scales.

  ‘Sadly, no. I’m surprised they still allow you to meddle in other people’s lives when yours is such a mess.’

  ‘It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you were a bacteria, I’d throw you in the incinerator.’ She emphasised a mushroom cloud with her hands. ‘Puff. That’d put a stop to your shenanigans.’

  ‘No second chance? No court of appeal?’

  She did the mushroom thing again with her hands. ‘Puff. Obliteration, elimination, extermination . . .’

  ‘You sound like a Dalek. I think I get the message. So, anything to report?’

  ‘You struck lucky. The DNA analysis spewed out Carl Morgans. He was on the database because he used to beat the shit out of his wife.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He got off with it after his wife changed her evidence, apparently . . . and there’s something else, but I haven’t got access.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My password access onl
y allows me to see certain information.’

  ‘That’s a bit stupid.’

  ‘Well, there it is.’

  He wrote the details down in his notebook. That was one of each sex from the eight victims.

  ‘Can you identify how many of the victims are women and how many men?’

  ‘Perkins didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘There’s no way in hell we can determine whether the DNA is male or female. We got a match with Morgans, and Jiggins was in the room, but that’s it. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the only genetic difference between men and women is one gene on the Y chromosome. Women don’t have the gene that makes you male. If we did, we’d all be men, the human race would die out and you wouldn’t be in the mess you’re in.’

  ‘No, Perkins didn’t tell me anything like that. What about the other biological material? Is there something else he hasn’t told me?’

  ‘Nope. Still can’t identify it.’

  ‘Now, correct me if I’m wrong, because I’m not a scientist by any stretch of the imagination, but hasn’t human and animal DNA been mapped?’

  ‘Mostly, but there’s still a lot of work to be done. There’s a mountain of research taking place all over the world. For instance, they’re comparing the DNA of humans and different animals, they’re also investigating the DNA that varies between different ethnic groups, and . . .’

  ‘As interesting as I find DNA mapping . . . Haven’t you got any idea where this other DNA has come from? I mean, if you’ve mostly mapped all of human and animal DNA, what’s the problem in identifying this particular DNA?’ He gave a half laugh. ‘My partner thinks it might belong to a werewolf, vampire, or zombie. What do you think?’

  Deborah Chan nodded slowly. ‘I think she might be right.’

  Quigg pulled a face. But before he could call her the worst kind of charlatan, she smiled.

  ‘Only joking. I’m quite sure, if any of those creatures did exist, that their DNA would be ninety-nine-point-nine percent human. They are, after all, human creatures. You keep calling it DNA, but it’s not. This biological material is different.’

  ‘Different – how?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not human, and it’s not animal either.’

  ‘What’s left?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘But you’ll keep working on it?’

  ‘I don’t think we will, you know,’ her voice morphing to the consistency of treacle or syrup. ‘I think we’ll put it in the freezer and simply forget about it.’

  His lip curled up. ‘Good. I’ll wait to hear from you then.’

  ‘Have a nice night, Inspector Quigg, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘What wouldn’t you do?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ***

  ‘I’m parched,’ he said to anybody who was listening, as he stepped into the command centre.

  ‘Ladies,’ one of the constables said. ‘This is the infamous Inspector Quigg. The exact same one that your mothers warned you about.’

  His face creased up. ‘Infamous! That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘I’m Constable Diane Cheal, Sir,’ she said offering her hand for him to shake it.

  He took the proffered hand in both of his, and kissed the back of it like a French noble at the court of Louis XIV. ‘At your service, Madame.’

  She pulled her hand away, and her face turned the colour of a Royal Mail post box. ‘See what I mean, ladies.’ She pointed to the other two one at a time. ‘These are Constables Claire Simcox and Amanda Lay.’

  He kissed both of their hands.

  Oddly enough, he was attracted to all of them. Maybe it was because of what Lucy had said on the phone. Maybe he was missing the women in his life. Maybe he was just a horny bastard who should focus on what he was here for, instead of undressing every woman he came into contact with.

  ‘Okay, now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way, shall we get down to some proper work. First, I need coffee and hobnobs.’

  Constable Lay brought him a steaming mug and two hobnobs.

  ‘Only two?’

  ‘I have a young brother like you, Sir.’

  ‘Good looking, with a mischievous glint in his eyes?’

  ‘A slimy toad who steals all the biscuits.’

  ‘I get the feeling I’ve not won you three over yet.’

  ‘You’ve got your work cut out after what Inspector Wright told us about you,’ Simcox said.

  ‘It’s all lies.’

  Lay smiled. ‘The proof is in the pudding.’

  ‘Pudding! You didn’t tell me you had pudding. I particularly like apple pie and custard.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, Sir?’ Simcox asked.

  ‘Okay, I want one of you to input two names into the database and see what comes out the other end: Cora Jiggins and Carl Morgans, and that includes phone and credit card records.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Lay said.

  ‘Someone else can find out everything they can about Waterbury Asylum for the Criminally Insane.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Simcox said, sitting down in front of a computer.

  ‘Anything for me?’ Cheal asked.

  He grabbed the pile of papers that Kline had left on the centre worktop earlier, found the security DVDs from the previous night, and passed them to her. ‘Security coverage from last night. One is for the park, the other for the hotel. Examine the hotel one first, and then take a look at the theme park.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  He shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  Kline burst into the truck like a tornado looking for a place to touch terra firma.

  ‘Coffee, I need coffee.’ She headed to the kitchenette, made her own coffee, and helped herself to three hobnobs.

  ‘Hey, she’s got three,’ he complained to Lay. ‘I only had two.’

  The four women burst out laughing.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ he said.

  Kline broke a hobnob in half, and put one of the halves on the worktop in front of him. ‘There, we’re all square now.’

  Smiling, he picked up the hobnob half, and began to nibble at it. There were crumbs on the worktop, so he licked his index finger, pressed the crumbs into it, and put the finger in his mouth.

  ‘You must have had a terrible childhood, Sir,’ Kline said.

  ‘Desperate.’ He put the back of his hand against his forehead. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. How did the interviews go?’

  ‘Complete waste of time. Nobody saw or heard anything.’

  ‘Do you think they’re all telling the truth?’

  She shrugged. ‘Everyone’s got something to hide, but I don’t think any of them are lying about last night.’

  ‘Maybe the security tapes will give us some idea of what happened.’

  ‘When are we going to bed?’

  He stood up. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going now. All that paperwork can wait until tomorrow.’

  She threw the rest of the coffee down her throat. ‘If you’re going, I’m not staying here.’

  ‘Goodnight, ladies,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight, Sir.’

  As they walked into the hotel Kline said, ‘Do you think I’m a lady?’

  ‘What do you think I think?’

  ***

  Lying in bed, he opened one of the two files he’d brought with him, and began to read . . . Rufus Murdoch had been arrested on numerous occasions for sexual offences. Invariably, the victim had not followed through with the complaint. However, someone had obviously obtained enough evidence against Murdoch, because he was now serving nine years for the rape of . . .

  The phone rang and made him jump.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you asleep yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He heard Kline laugh. ‘I think I need to go on some of the rides tomorrow . . . as research, you understand. What do you think?’
<
br />   ‘I think you should go to sleep.’

  ‘You want to see the size of the fucking second-hand knickers that bitch has left on my bed.’

  ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘I could use them as a tent, or a parachute, or as a cover for a king-size quilt, or . . .’

  ‘They’re big, huh?’

  ‘The bitch . . . We’re going home tomorrow, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. We’ll take tomorrow night off to re-charge our batteries.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Waking up in a meat grinder.’

  ‘I think they’d choose you before me.’

  She laughed again. ‘Thanks for letting me be your partner.’

  ‘Goodnight, Kline.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sir.’

  ***

  It was seven thirty. Loud, insistent knocking forced him to open the door.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Kline asked, barging past him.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Breakfast.’

  He indicated the hotel bath towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Yes, should we go now?’

  ‘If I were you, I’d take the towel off first. Have you had a shower?’

  He rubbed his stubble. ‘Do I look like I have?’

  ‘Is it a trick question?’

  ‘I see that you’ve had a shower,’ he said flicking her wet ponytail.

  ‘You betcha.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to wait for me. I was about to head in there.’

  She leapt on his unmade bed. ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘I’m curious about those knickers you mentioned.’

  ‘Curiosity can be a dangerous thing.’

  It wasn’t until he’d smothered the free shampoo on his hair that he remembered the two files on the bedside cabinet.

  He hurried through the rest of his shower. When he went back into the room she’d moved to the easy chair. The files were open on the coffee table.