by Tim Ellis
‘The door was open.’
‘And you went inside?’
‘We looked in the bathroom and then called it in.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere? Anyone acting suspicious?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a soul, Sir.’
‘Did you question the woman who reported it?’
‘About what?’
‘Whether she’d seen anything?’
‘She saw blood dripping down her walls.’
‘Besides that?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, thanks Louise, but don’t think I’ve forgotten about the chart.’
The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. ‘What chart would that be, Sir?’
It was a conspiracy. If Perkins wanted conspiracies – he only had to open his eyes inside the station. The place was a viper’s nest of conspiracies.
He walked down the stairs and knocked on Flat 26/3. The brass nameplate identified the woman inside as Miss Safari Tremaine.
The door opened. A thin woman – probably in her late twenties or early thirties – was standing there. She had short black wavy hair, nice teeth and he thought she was pretty in an unusual sort of way. Over a black and red striped blouse and black skirt, she wore an apron with “Kiss the Cook” on the front in large red letters.
She smiled. ‘Hello?’
He held up his warrant card. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’
She swivelled her head sideways.
‘Oh sorry,’ he said, turning it the right way round. ‘DI Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station.’
‘About the blood from upstairs?’ she enquired.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you eat?’
‘I’ve been known to.’ He was starving. ‘Why?’
‘I’m writing a cookbook called “Strange Dishes from Around the World” and I need a taster.’
‘I’m game.’
‘Excellent. For each dish you taste, I’ll answer a question. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Exceedingly fair.’ Licking his lips, he followed her into the bright kitchen and sat on a stool at the off-white Carrara marble-effect breakfast bar.
She put a bowl in front of him.
‘Mmmm. What is it?’
‘Try it, tell me what you think.’
‘Well, I think I can safely say it’s fish.’ Feeling like a Michelin Inspector, he cut a helping off the white meat with the side of a tablespoon and popped it into his mouth. ‘Interesting.’
‘Keep going,’ she said, pen poised over a notebook.
‘It doesn’t taste of anything really. I’d say it was a bit bland. Wait . . . Mmmm! I’m getting a tingling sensation all over my tongue.’
‘Excellent. That’s exactly what should happen with fugu – Puffer fish.’
‘Puffer fish! Aren’t they meant to be dangerous?’
‘Only if they’re prepared incorrectly. Do you know that they contain the poisonous toxin todrotoxin, which is 1,250 times stronger than cyanide? I don’t know how they can be so accurate.’
‘No, I didn’t know that. Am I going to die now?’
‘Do you feel a creeping paralysis in your arms and legs?’
He began flopping about like a disoriented marionette. ‘A little bit.’
She laughed. ‘That’s all right then.’
‘I’m relieved. So, did you hear or see anything last night?’
‘Trying to cheat already – that’s two questions. No, I didn’t see anything last night.’
‘Okay, what’s next?’
She pushed a plate in front of him. There were three large spiders sitting on it.
His heart began beating three to the dozen, and he jerked backwards.
‘Don’t worry, they’re dead.’
‘What the hell are they?’
‘Fried tarantulas.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
‘No. These are a delicacy in Cambodia.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Close your eyes.’
He felt like vomiting and he hadn’t even touched one yet. His hand slid over the hard bristles of a leg, and he was trying to think of cheese nibbles or something. Slowly, he raised one of the tarantulas up to his mouth and took a bite. Surprisingly, it tasted of caramel – crunchy caramel – and he ate it all.
‘Crunchy caramel,’ he said.
‘You’re in the wrong profession.’
‘Did you hear anything last night?’
‘Around one-fifteen this morning I heard about half a dozen people chanting.’
‘How . . .’
She held up her hand and slid a small dish in front of him containing an egg the size of a large jacket potato. ‘Eat.’
‘What is it?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘An egg.’
‘An what do we do with eggs?’
‘Break them?’
‘There you are then.’
He broke the egg and picked the shell off. If he’d ever visited the sulphur pits of Hell he was sure they would have smelled just like the egg smelled. Inside was a brown gooey mess and the foetus of a nearly-formed bird with a beak, feathers and clawed feet.
Holding a hand up to his mouth he turned away. ‘Jesus! I hate dead things.’
‘They’re called Balyut. In the Philippines they’re sold like hot dogs by street vendors. Boiled fertilized chicken or duck eggs are full of protein and believed to boost the libido.’
He put a spoonful of the gooey broth into his mouth and swallowed it down.
‘Well?’ Safari asked him.
‘Delicious. I can taste the lemon and coriander.’
‘Just what I wanted you to say.’
‘How could you hear the chanting?’
‘For the same reason as blood seeped into my bathroom – there are gaps around the pipes.’
‘Ah!
Another plate materialised in front of him.
‘Raw meat?’
‘Yes.’
He used a knife and fork to cut a sliver off, slid it into his mouth and chewed.
‘Yes?’
‘Interesting.’
‘In a good way?’
‘A cross between fish and duck.’ He cut a larger piece off and popped it into his mouth.
‘Usually,’ Safari said, ‘the Icelanders eat Puffins by breaking their necks, skinning them and eating the fresh heart raw.’
He stopped chewing and spit the sludge out onto the plate. ‘Raw Puffin heart?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘There’s certainly a psychological aspect to eating. If I’d said it was Vulture heart you probably wouldn’t be bothered, but because it’s the heart of a nice cuddly Puffin you think it’s disgusting.’
‘Everybody likes Puffins.’
The corner of her mouth creased up. ‘Especially the Icelanders.’
‘I think I’ve had enough now.’
‘Are you sure? I have snake wine from Vietnam to wash it all down.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘What about Casu Marzu – a Sardinian cheese riddled with insect larvae? It’s commonly called maggot cheese.’
‘You’re very kind, but I don’t think so.’
‘I have mouse in wine, fried grasshoppers, pig brain, bat, eye tuna, hedgehogs – you’d be surprised what they eat in other countries.’
‘Any chance of a coffee?’
‘Of course.’
She made him a mug of coffee and slid it across the breakfast bar.
He helped himself to sugar and milk and slurped a mouthful down. Did he feel all right after eating all that weird food? Much better after the coffee that was for sure. Only time would tell if his legs and all the other important parts of him still worked when he left.
‘Coffee okay?’
‘Very tasty.’
‘Kopi Luwak from Indonesia.’
‘Really? Well, I’d recomm
end it.’
‘It’s the rarest and most expensive gourmet coffee in the world.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘I do. Do you want to know why?’
He examined her face. ‘No, I don’t think I do. I think I’ll just sit here and drink it in ignorance.’
‘It’s made from the excrement of an Indonesian cat-like creature called the Luwak.’
He put the mug down. ‘You couldn’t help yourself, could you?’
She grinned. ‘You have one last question.’
He thought for a time and then said, ‘What did you hear them chanting?’
‘Name her, or something like that.’
‘Name her! Name who?’
‘What would you like to eat next?’
He shuffled off the stool. ‘I don’t think so. I have to go now.’ He backed towards the door.
‘You’ve forgotten something, haven’t you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
She pointed at the instruction to “Kiss the Cook” on her apron.
‘I don’t think . . .’ but it was too late.
She had his head in a vice-like grip and her mouth smothered his.
He thought his tongue was going to be sucked from his head and replaced by hers. When he started to gag and feel faint she let him go. Without the structural support he nearly collapsed in a heap on the floor.
‘Not bad for an amateur,’ she said, dabbing at the dribbles of saliva around her mouth with the corner of her apron.
‘I have to go, but thank you for your hospitality and an interesting lunch.’
‘The pleasure was all mine.’
As he pulled the door closed behind him, he was sure he heard mocking laughter.
***
Constable Louise had been replaced by a tall thin angular-faced officer, who had a nose like a beak, a variety of different sized hairy moles on her face and neck, and a uniform that was far too big, which made her look like a skeleton that had been dressed up by students for a jest.
‘Louise on her break now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And you are?’
‘Constable Tabby Byrd.’
‘Interesting surname.’
She smiled, revealing crooked teeth. ‘It was originally used as a nickname for someone who could sing like a bird.’
‘Can you sing like a bird?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘I see. What can you tell me about the chart, Byrd?’
‘Chart, Sir? You mean the music chart?’
‘You know exactly which chart I mean.’
‘I’m sure I have no idea, Sir.’
‘Stand up straight, Byrd. Don’t think you can slouch outside one of my crime scenes.’
She jumped to attention. ‘No, Sir.’
As he walked back into the flat, he got the impression that he wasn’t making much headway with the chart. Yes, he’d worked out what one of the categories represented, but what about the other four? He’d moved up a couple of places, but if he didn’t find out how to get more points he’d slip back down and end up on the bottom again. As interesting as having sex with three women in a shower was, he couldn’t imagine himself doing that on a regular basis.
‘Perkins?’
‘Yes, Sir?’ came from the living room.
‘What time is it?’
‘Sorry, my watch has stopped.’
‘Anybody else got the time?’ he asked, raising his voice slightly.
Nobody answered.
‘That’s what happens, you know.’
Quigg’s forehead creased up. ‘What are you going on about, Perkins?’
‘It’s the radiation and electromagnetic interference that sends everything haywire. You see it in films on the television a lot – cars stop, light bulbs explode, computer motherboards get fried . . .’
‘If you’re talking about aliens again . . .’
‘You’re in denial, Inspector. Earlier you said I was a man of science – you’re right, I am. It would be folly to think that we’re the only intelligent beings in the universe. Not only are they out there, but they’re here as well. All the evidence points to us not being alone.’
‘Evidence! What evidence?’
‘Forget the government conspiracy for the moment. There’s a whole catalogue of UFOs recorded throughout human history; there are documented cases of astronauts having seen UFOs; then there’s the WOW signal from an empty spot in space, which was recorded by the Big Ear telescope at Ohio State University in 1977; there’s the 2001 Drake equation, which suggests that there are hundreds of thousands of life-bearing planets in the galaxy; and the 2003 SETI signal . . .’
‘You’re crazy, Perkins. Right, I’m going to start searching for evidence of . . . Oh! I didn’t bring you up to date, did I? With you rambling on about aliens I forgot to tell you about Safari Tremaine who lives in the flat directly beneath this one.’
‘What about her?’
‘She phoned it in. Blood ran through the gaps around the pipes in this bathroom into her bathroom. At one fifteen this morning she heard chanting . . .’
‘Chanting?’
‘Yes. Half a dozen of them, apparently. They were chanting “Name her,” or something along those lines.’
‘Why would they chant something like that?’
‘Next time I see a Satanist I’ll ask them.’
‘Mmmm.’
Perkins’ phone started playing a song by Pink.
‘What the hell’s that noise Perkins?’
‘Is it for me?’
‘Who would want to phone you?’ He accepted the call. ‘Quigg?’
‘You took your time,’ Kline said.
‘Perkins was waffling on about aliens. So, have you got some news for me?’
‘The lift’s working.’
‘Okay, I’ll meet you outside.’
He ended the call.
‘I’m going to retrieve Kline from wherever she’s been.’
‘You might like to stop off in the bathroom as you’re passing.’
‘Why?’
‘To look at the gaps around the pipes.’
‘Don’t gaps around pipes all look the same?’
‘Not when there are no gaps around the pipes.’
‘Are you saying there are no gaps around the pipes?’
‘I thought that was fairly obvious.’
He strode along the hallway and into the bathroom.
Perkins stood behind him and began pointing. ‘As you can see . . .’
‘Yes, I can see. I don’t need you to point out that the pipes all have sealant around them.’ He was quiet for a moment then said, ‘Get one of your people in here to double check that there are no gaps that could let blood seep through into the bathroom below. I don’t want to go down there and make a fool of myself if what she says is true.’
‘Okay, Sir.’
He headed towards the lift.
Louise and Byrd were both back on duty standing outside the flat.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come clean about the chart?’ he asked them.
‘We both have a weight chart for different reasons,’ Louise said. ‘I could explain . . .’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going to find out about that chart if it’s the last thing I do.’
Byrd gave him a crooked grin. ‘Good luck, Sir.’
He walked along the corridor and pressed for the lift. When it arrived he stepped inside and pushed the “G” button.
Why wouldn’t they tell him about the chart? It was probably a wind-up as Kline had said. He was probably sitting at the top of the chart, and they were telling him he was at the bottom. How could he be at the bottom? He was a good DI, wasn’t he?
The lift doors opened. He stepped into the lobby and made his way outside.
Kline was sitting on a small brick wall opposite the entrance waiting for him.
When she saw him walk out of the door, she ran and hugged him. ‘God, it’s good to see a friendl
y face again.’
‘You think I have a friendly face?’
‘Not really, but you know what I mean.’
They sat on the wall next to each other.
‘What have you been up to?’ he asked her.
‘Nothing. What could I do? I couldn’t go up, I couldn’t go down, there was no one in the flats except that crazy fucking bitch with the pointy hat. I just had to sit in the corridor and wait for the lift to start working again.’
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘What I had couldn’t be considered lunch, so no I haven’t had lunch. Is your watch working?’
‘No. The clock on my phone doesn’t work either.’
He walked to the forensic truck. Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” was blasting from the driver’s cab. He banged on the door.
The window wound down and the music pounded out. A head appeared. It was a female head with a red neckerchief tied over the top like an old-fashioned scarf. She wore a red sleeveless tank top, a plethora of gold chains round her neck and a pair of fingerless black leather gloves. ‘Yeah?’
He could have sworn the truck driver was a man. Maybe he’d been mistaken. He’d obviously seen the tattoo on her forearm and made an incorrect assumption.
‘You couldn’t turn the music down, could you?’
‘Why?’
‘So that I don’t have to shout.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, okay. Have you got the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Quarter past four.’
‘In the afternoon?’
She looked at the sky. ‘What do you think?’ she said, and wound the window up.
As he walked back to Kline, he wondered where the day had gone.
‘Well?’
‘It’s quarter past four.’
‘What! In the afternoon?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘Should we go and get something to eat before we go back inside?’
‘Too fucking true.’
When they reached his Mercedes they found it had been completely stripped – no wheels, no engine, no seats – anything worth taking had been taken.
‘That was a waste of twenty pounds,’ Kline said.
‘So it would seem.’ Ruth would go mad. Would he be able to claim on his insurance? How was he going to get home? The one day Kline couldn’t get a pool car and they had to come to Apocalypse Heights. ‘We’ll have to walk then.’