by Tim Ellis
***
‘Where are you, Perkins?’ he said into his mobile.
‘At the station.’
‘Good. I want you to check if a Catherine Bernado boarded a flight to Reykjavik at five thirty this morning from Heathrow.’
‘Me personally?’
‘You could delegate if you want to.’
‘Very generous. Do you want me to call you when I’ve found out?’
‘No, I want you to keep it to yourself.’
‘I was only asking.’
‘Of course I want you to ring me.’
‘I’ll do that then.’
‘I look forward to it.’
They were too early to go to the Strand Campus to speak to Professor Emilia Razinsky, so they travelled the short distance back to Bleeding Heart Yard. He was surprised at the number of people on Greville Street and at how small the yard actually was.
They walked across the cobbles to the far right-hand corner, through the alleyway into Ely Place and stopped outside St Ethelreda’s Church on their right.
‘Did you speak to anyone in the church?’ he asked Kline.
‘No. Why?’
‘Maybe they were open to sinners when the horse galloped past. Maybe the horse is eating hay in the crypt. Maybe . . .’
‘Should we go in?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
The massive wood door creaked as Quigg opened it. On a board inside, they were provided with the opportunity to join the Beavers, Cubs or Scouts; the mother and toddler group; the choir or the bellringers; become a flower arranger or join the book club.
‘Are you a church goer, Kline?’
‘I’ll treat that with the contempt it deserves.’
‘That’s a “No” then?’
A brass plaque informed them that Ethelreda had been an Anglo-Saxon saint who founded the monastery of Ely in 673, that the church used to be the London residence of the Bishops of Ely and is one of the oldest Roman Catholic church buildings in England.
The church interior was full of shiny pews, ancient stone and impressive arched stained-glass windows remembering the martyrs who were put to death by Henry VIII.
‘Hello?’ a young man in a clerical collar with short curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses asked.
Quigg produced his warrant card.
‘Not again?’
‘Not again what?’
‘No, you first.’
Quigg had a vague recollection of something amiss a few years ago, but couldn’t put his finger on what it was all about. ‘We’re here about the murder in Bleeding Heart Yard in the early hours of Monday morning.’
‘Oh that.’ A weight seemed to lift from the priest’s shoulders. ‘I’m Father Lesley McDonald. How can I be of assistance?’
‘Were you open at that time of the morning?’
‘Open? You make the church sound like a 24-hour mart, or drop-in centre for drug addicts.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No, we were not “open” at that time of the morning.’
‘Do you live on the premises?’
‘I have a small living space at the rear of the church.’
‘So you didn’t see or hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘What about the night before – between ten and midnight – were you open then?’
‘Sunday night? No. The doors are locked at six-thirty in the evening.’
‘Have you seen a mounted police officer riding around the local area recently?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t say I have.’
‘What do you keep in the crypt?’
‘We don’t keep anything in there. It is, however, available for hire. King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon hosted a grand feast in there in 1531. More recently, it was used for a fundraiser by members of the New Zealand Society with celebrity chef Peter Gordon and opera singer Dame Malvina Major.’
‘No decaying bones of royalty or the Knights Templar?’
‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’
‘Oh well, thanks very much for your help, Father.’ He turned to leave.
‘There was one thing.’
‘Yes?’
Father McDonald thrust a donation plate towards him.
‘Kline, pay the man.’
‘Me?’
‘It’s too late for me, but you might still sneak into heaven.’
She threw a few coins on the plate. ‘That’s about as likely as you shifting off the bottom of the chart.’
As they made their way back out into Ely Place Quigg said, ‘Tell me everything you know about that chart.’
‘Chart! What chart? I have a holiday chart, a chart I use for shopping, a chart for when my period is due . . .’
‘Are you going to disobey a direct order?’
‘You can’t order me to tell you something that I don’t know the answer to.’
As they reached the end of Ely Place, Quigg’s phone vibrated.
‘Quigg.’
‘Catherine Bernado wasn’t booked onto the five-thirty flight to Reykjavik, and never boarded that or any other flight yesterday morning.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes – really.’
He gave Perkins Nicola Brennan’s phone number. ‘Ask Mrs Brennan for Catherine Bernado’s mobile number, and then get someone to locate her phone?’
‘Wouldn’t you like me to do it personally?’
‘I’ll leave that to your discretion, Perkins.’
‘Very kind.’
He ended the call, and decided not to ring Nicola Brennan for the moment – bad news could always wait.
They turned right and stumbled into Ely Court, which was an arched passage with an old crooked streetlamp on the corner and a small sign in the shape of a bishop’s mitre with 1546 underneath.
‘Ye Olde Mitre,’ Quigg said, staring at the small building nestled on the right side of the passage. ‘You never said there was a pub here.’
‘Was I meant to?’
‘After being a passenger in a vehicle driven by you, I need a drink to steady my nerves.’
‘You’re turning into a lush.’
‘I can think of worse things.’
There were four barrels outside the bar that had been painted black and were being used as plant pots. He didn’t think they’d win any prizes at the Chelsea Flower Show.
As he peered through the Georgian windows, he could see people laughing and joking inside. There were tankards hanging from hooks screwed into the wooden beams, a whole selection of beers on offer, and when a couple came out through the door arm-in-arm, the smell of scotch eggs, pork pies and cider squirreled up his nose.
‘Let’s go in.’
‘We’ve only just had lunch.’
‘That was hours ago. While I’m checking that the Guinness and ploughman’s meet European Union standards of quality and hygiene, I want you to mingle with the staff and guests, and find out what they know about the murder.’
‘I’d like . . .’
‘Yes . . . what we’d like and what we get are invariably two completely different things.’
‘So, you’re going to prop up the bar swilling beer and eating cheese and pickles while I do all the work again?’
‘In a word . . .’
Licking his lips, he shouldered his way through the door like a mystery diner.
‘A pint of Guinness, a stilton ploughman’s and an orange juice, please,’ he said to the buxom barmaid when she glanced in his direction. She had tight curly blonde hair, a beauty spot on her top lip and a cleavage that invited exploration on an epic scale.
‘That’ll be twenty-seven pounds fifty, Sir.’
‘I’ll need a second mortgage or a win on the lottery to pay for it.’
‘Have you come far?’ she asked as she shooed his Guinness into a glass.
‘Bleeding Heart Yard.’
‘You heard about the other night?’
‘No, what?’
‘The murder?’
/> ‘They said London was a dangerous place to visit. What happened?’
‘A woman was attacked and hacked to pieces.’
‘That’s terrible. Have they caught who did it yet?’
‘Not yet, but they will.’
‘You seem confident.’
‘They’ve got their best detective on the case.’
‘Really? What do you know about him?’
‘He’s a woman.’
That wasn’t the response he’d expected.
Kline elbowed him in the back. ‘Have you got my orange juice yet?’
The barmaid passed Kline her drink. ‘There we are, love.’ She turned back to Quigg, put his overfilled pint of Guinness on a brass drip tray and said,.‘The ploughman’s won’t be long, Sir. As you can see, we’ve still got the lunchtime crowd in.’
A man in a pin-striped suit waved a hand and the barmaid shuffled to the other end of the bar to serve him.
‘Well?’ Quigg said. ‘I’ve shown you how to do it, so start mingling.’
Kline wandered off.
As he guzzled his Guinness he cocked his ears every which way, but none of the conversations jumped out at him. The murder was yesterday’s news. Today they were complaining about fat-cat bonuses, the sacking of Fulham’s manager – and not before time either apparently, the danger of holidaying in Egypt and the dwindling civil service pension.
‘There we are, Sir,’ the barmaid said as she made a space on the bar for his ploughman’s, knife and fork, and condiments. ‘Can I get you anything else such as brown sauce, marmite or salsa?’
‘Marmite?’
‘You’d be surprised what some people ask for? Only the other day a man was telling me about the “Northerners” and some of the disgusting things they like to eat such as: apple pie and cheese, stotties, and ham and pease pudding. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. He said it was a another country beyond the Watford Gap services. Have you ever journeyed north, Sir.’
‘Do I look crazy?’
‘No, but there’s something familiar about you.’
‘Some people say I’m the spitting image of a young Brad Pitt.’
She laughed. ‘In your dreams, Sir.’
‘Whatever happened to the customer always being right?’
‘That rule hasn’t applied since Queen Victoria was on the throne.’
‘My friend wants me to take a photograph of her next to a policeman on a horse – are there any of those about today?’
‘You don’t normally get the mounted police around here. The horses are used for the parades, marches, riots and football matches. Sometimes we see them here, but . . .’
‘Any recently?’
‘No, not recently.’
‘Do you know where the horses are kept?’
‘In the stables.’
‘Oh well, maybe next time.’
Kline eventually joined him.
‘Well, anything to report?’
‘Like what?’
‘You tell me. I sent you out there on a mission – did you complete that mission, Constable?’
‘Nobody knew anything relevant to the case.’
He checked his watch – it was five past four. ‘We’d better get a move on.’
‘I saw you staring at the barmaid’s cleavage.’
‘My eyes might have lingered for a moment only. It was like the entrance to Aladdin’s Cave.’
‘And you were wondering if “Open Sesame” might work. Men are all the same.’
‘That’s a sweeping generalisation.’
‘But the fucking truth.’
‘Truth can be a scary place, Kline.’
***
The bell chimed.
Lucy opened the door.
‘Steve Gibbs?’ she asked the small, balding, unshaven beefy man dressed in dirty shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt and wellies.
‘The very same,’ he said and smiled like a used-car salesman. ‘At your service.’
He was covered in hair like a mountain gorilla, and for some strange reason she took an instant dislike to him. ‘Have you had a look round?’
‘Only a quick look.’
‘Do you want me to tell you what I want?’
He grinned. ‘I think I know what you want.’
‘And what would that be, Mr Gibbs?’
‘You want me to perform surgery on your bushes, shrubs and trees; cut your grass; do some weeding; sweep up the leaves and so forth. Also, the place is in desperate need of some colour. I can provide and place a wide selection of seasonal plants, and establish your borders . . .’
‘What about price?’
‘One thousand three hundred pounds a month.’
‘You’re fucking joking.’
‘But I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’
‘What type of arrangement?’
‘The type where you take your clothes off and pay me a couple of hundred in kind.’
‘Fuck off.’
She shut the door in his face, but that didn’t deter him.
‘We also carry out patio construction, pond and water feature installation, fence erection . . . no job too large or too small . . .’
‘What was that all about?’ Duffy asked when she went back inside.
Lucy told her.
‘So, what’s your problem? I thought a hunky gardener with dirt under his fingernails would be right up your back passageway.’
‘Not my type, too full of himself, too hairy and too small.’ Also – although she didn’t say as much to Duffy – she wasn’t going to have sex with a man when there was a strong possibility that she was carrying Quigg’s baby – the fucking bastard.
She opened up the Yellow Pages. What she needed was a female gardener – were there such animals?
Before she could call anybody the phone jangled.
‘Yeah?’
‘Lucy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Jessie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I have two names for you.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Janet Thomas is the housekeeper and Amanda Oliver will be the nanny.’
‘What about CVs?’
‘They’ll bring their CVs with them. They both understand that they’re on a month’s trial. If there are any problems – call me.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘And I’ll see you soon.’
‘As part of the monitoring program?’
‘Of course.’
There was no way to tell if a gardener was a male or a female, so all she could do was ring round until she struck lucky. It took her twenty minutes, a trip to the kitchen to make coffee for her and Duffy and a nappy change for Dylan – smelly boy.
‘Potter’s Horticultural Services. I’m David Potter – how can I help?’
‘I want a female gardener.’
‘I have a sister.’
‘I’m happy for you, but is she a gardener as well?’
‘We run the company together, and we’re both gardeners.’
‘Can she do my garden then?’
‘We’d have to come and take a look.’
‘When?’
‘Now?’
‘Okay.’ She gave Potter the address. ‘Hey?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s just clicked.’
‘You’re not going to make a tenuous connection between the name Potter and gardening, are you?’
She laughed, and then ended the call. Of course she was – who wouldn’t? That’s what gardeners do, isn’t it – pot plants?
Duffy yawned. She’d had a bath, and was now dressed in a pair of Quigg’s striped pyjamas. ‘What if she’s pretty?’
‘We’ll make her wear a mask.’
‘What type of mask?’
‘One like Hannibal Lector.’
‘That was scary.’
Lucy sat cross-legged on the sofa nursing her coffee. ‘Yeah, or the hockey mask used by Jason in Friday the 13th.’
&nbs
p; Duffy shivered. ‘Don’t forget Ghost Face in Scream.’
‘And Jigsaw’s mask.’
‘Those Saw films were disgusting.’
As it turned out Pansy Potter did need a mask, but not to hide her beauty.
‘Yes, we can do a monthly visit,’ David Potter said. He wasn’t going to win any prizes in a beauty contest either. Genetically, the family had been given the short straw.
‘How much?’ Lucy asked, as if she was paying with her own money.
‘Five-fifty.’
‘That’s acceptable. When?’
He looked at Pansy. ‘Are you okay for tomorrow?’
She nodded. ‘In the afternoon. I’ll start about one o’clock. I’ll have two male apprentices with me, but I’ll be the one in charge.’
‘Okay. See you then.’
Chapter Nine
They walked through the elaborate stone archway of the Strand Campus, out into the quadrangle and past the main building on their left to the South West Block overlooking the Embankment and the River Thames..
Students – both young and old – were coming and going weighed down with text books, laptops and backpacks. King’s College London was a popular destination for students of all ages. Not only were they attending a prestigious world-class university, but they also became an integral part of the London nightlife.
The Grade I listed building was designed in the byzantine and gothic styles by Sir Robert Smirke in 1931. The lifts were busy, so they walked through the foyer and up the grand double staircase to the fourth floor.
Professor Emilia Razinsky was eighty-seven years old. She had a face like a crumpled map of the ancient world and hair that resembled candyfloss – pink and fluffy. When they were shown into her wood-panelled office, she came out from behind her desk like an Olympic sprinter to welcome them and shake their hands with the grip of a yeti.
‘Detective Inspector Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station – how are you?’
‘I’m . . .’
‘And Detective Constable Kline – you look very beautiful.’
‘Thank . . .’
‘Please, sit down.’ She indicated two old hard-backed chairs with creased leather seats and padded armrests. ‘I imagine it’s been a long day?’
‘It certainly . . .’
‘You’ll have coffee with me – won’t you?’
‘I . . .’
‘Of course you will. Bring a tray please, Abigail,’ she said to the frumpy middle-aged woman in a paisley dress who had shown them in..