by Tim Ellis
‘That’s hardly fair, Sir,’ Lulu said.
‘Fair... Ah yes, the concept of fairness. Do you think it’s fair that we have a killer snatching people away from their loved ones at Christmas, Sergeant? Do you think it’s fair that he is ending people’s lives prematurely? Do you...’
‘I mean it’s not fair that you should be picking on Mr Perkins, he’s...’
‘You’re going to say, “He’s just doing his job,” aren’t you?’
‘Well...’
‘Yes, but Perkins is at the bottom of the food chain. If he doesn’t find something then we can’t investigate anything, and the killer continues to roam the festive streets murdering people with gay abandon.’
‘It’s not all down to me, Sir. I can’t manufacture evidence. If the killer doesn’t leave me anything to collect and examine at the crime scene then there’s not much I can do about it.’
‘Is it true, or is it not true that you once said to me that, “Wherever there’s people there’s forensic evidence”?’
‘Well yes, but...’
‘But what? Are you retracting that statement?’
‘No, but...’
‘Then find me some of that forensic evidence you’re so fond of.’
Perkins said nothing, but his face looked as though he’d sucked on a lemon.
‘Right then...’
‘Marion Petersen asked me to give you this,’ Perkins said as he stood up to go.
Quigg looked at the small envelope in Perkins’ hand as if it was a vial of the Black Plague. ‘What is it?’
‘Without opening it and subjecting it to a whole battery of tests, I would say it was a Christmas card, Sir.’
‘A Christmas card, why?’
‘I’m probably going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing you two had a meeting of minds at the crime scene last night, or at least hands, and because of that she’s added you to her Christmas card list.’
He took the card gingerly and slipped it into his trouser pocket.
‘You’re welcome,’ Perkins said. ‘Any card in return, or a message perhaps?’
Quigg’s eyes closed to slits. ‘I’d much rather you focused on finding me some evidence I can use to catch this killer. If I need a go-between I’ll let you know, and if there’s any return card or message to be communicated I’ll do it myself.’
Once Perkins had left Lulu said, ‘Aren’t you going to open the envelope, Sir?’
Quigg stared at her. ‘No, I’m going to leave it in my pocket until such time as I’m on my own, and then I might open it if the mood takes me.’
‘But then I won’t know what it says.’
‘Don’t you have other things to worry about other than a Christmas card in my pocket, such as a serial killer who is going to murder three more people tonight unless we can stop him?’
‘The card will distract me until I know, Sir. It would be in both our best interests if you were to open that card and let me see inside.’
He knew she was right. It would be like an elephant in the room. He took the white envelope out and held it between thumb and forefinger. On the front Marion the Masseuse had written ‘DI Quigg’ using a calligraphic scrawl. What did she want? Did she want anything? Was this simply a Christmas card – nothing more, nothing less? Was he reading too much into it? Was he reading something into nothing? He should just open the envelope and put the little card on top of his computer like a normal person. What if she’d written something inside, what then? What if...
‘Do you want me to open it?’ Lulu said.
He passed it to her.
She ripped the envelope apart and extracted the card. It had a Robin and some glitter on the front. She passed it back to him.
He stared at the telephone number, the M, the X signifying a kiss, and the drawing of what he assumed was an open pot of cream with a hinged lid. His heart rate tripled. Maybe he was having a heart attack?
‘She obviously wants you to ring her.’
What would he say? What was the hidden message inside the card? What did the kiss mean? Was it a Christmas peck on the cheek, or a French kiss during which she was using her tongue to clean his tonsils and extract DNA? And more importantly, what did the open pot of cream mean? In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he was reminded of those calling cards that were left in telephone boxes. ‘Hi, I’m Marion the Masseuse – call me.’ or ‘Come up and see me sometime, big boy.’
‘What does that little drawing mean at the bottom?’
He put the card back in his pocket. He wished he hadn’t opened it. He needed to focus on the investigation, not on a telephone number, a kiss, or a pot of bloody cleansing cream.
‘I have no idea. Anyway, we have an appointment with two children in an hour, so let’s go. We’ll walk round to the garage and sign out a pool car, you can drive.’
Lulu shrugged into her coat. ‘Okay. You must have impressed her, Sir.’
‘Didn’t I already say that my social life was not a topic for conversation?’
‘Yes, but I know you didn’t mean it, and from what I’ve seen you haven’t got a social life. You could do with my advice.’
‘And you’re an expert on people’s social lives now, are you?’
‘I know an invitation when I see one.’
Outside, as they crunched over the frozen snow to the garage, it began snowing heavily again. An invitation! Oh yes, the telephone number was certainly an invitation all right, but to what? He knew nothing about Marion except that she had beautifully soft hands – probably from using too much cream on all the men who climbed up those rickety old stairs to see her in the flat she rented at nights using her working name of Marion the Masseuse. No, he had no time to get involved with a woman. He had to focus on finding a serial killer.
Chapter Six
As they made their way along the A219 towards Parsons Green tube station and 3 Epple Road Quigg said, ‘Talk to me about the killer?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘Not a lot really. We know it’s a man. We know he wears a Father Christmas outfit and a gold ring with a face on it. Pretty soon we’ll know his height, weight, and what he looks like according to a computer-generated forensic artist. We know that he’s getting into the victims’ houses before he kills them and finding out certain things about their lives such as what kitchen knives they use, and when they’ll be alone. We know he moves the victims from where he kills them to the bedroom and lies them on the bed. We know he strips the victims naked and takes all the clothes with him, and then he cuts their faces off. He also leaves us a verse of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and the victims are chosen to match the verse.’
‘Three French hens... What does that mean?’
‘Faverolles.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s what they’re called. I looked on the Internet last night. They were first developed in the early 19th century in the French village of Faverolles.’
‘I wonder if...’
‘There are three families called Faverolles in the local phone book.’
Quigg peered at Lulu. ‘And you were going to tell me this when?’
‘Last time I suggested trying to anticipate his next victims you said it was a waste of time.’
‘I would never say such a thing.’
‘Well, not exactly in those words, but that’s how I understood it.’
‘What I actually said was that ‘Turtles Doves’ generated too many possibilities for the resources available – you and me, but you’ve narrowed French hens down to three, which is certainly manageable. If we’re going to work together effectively, don’t keep anything like that from me again, and certainly don’t read anything into what I say. I’m a black and white type of guy, what you see is what you get. I have no hidden depths, or sharp corners.’
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘And while we’re on the subject of your performance I think you’re doing an excel
lent job.’
‘That’s very kind of you to say so.’
‘After we’ve seen these two children, we’ll...’
The car swerved as she wriggled forward, took a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans, and passed it to him. ‘The three names and addresses are highlighted.’
He looked at the torn folded page from a telephone book. ‘This could have waited until we had reached our destination. My heart was in my mouth then, and my hand hurts from gripping the dashboard. I had visions of dying a horrible mangled death. Is that how they taught you to drive in South Africa?’
‘We did a little wiggle that’s all.’
‘A little wiggle! The performance appraisal does not extend to your driving.’
Lulu grinned.
They arrived at Mr Partridge’s house ten minutes early and parked outside.
Quigg passed the page from the phonebook back to Lulu. ‘Phone Despatch and ask them to send a car to each address until seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Quigg wondered if their luck was changing. Maybe they didn’t need three cars. After they’d spoken to the two Partridge children they could visit each of the three Faverolles addresses. There had to be three in the family. Up to now the killer had murdered only adults, but was it his intention to murder a child this time? He hoped not. Murder was terrible whoever the victim was, but when a child was involved it made everything that much harder, and the pressure from the press and the public to find the perpetrator increased exponentially. He had to be back at the station at three o’clock for the press briefing.
‘They have no cars, Sir.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘There’s a march planned by 100,000 public-sector workers about changes to their pensions, and everyone they’ve got is involved in policing the route to 10 Downing Street.’
Being a public-sector worker himself he was sympathetic to their cause, but did they have to organise a march today? ‘Looks like we’re on our own, Lulu.’
‘We could ring each family?’
‘And say what? Don’t let Santa in he’s planning on murdering your whole family. No, we’ll make this interview with the Partridge children quick, and then drive to each address and talk to the families properly. It might be that not all of the three Faverolles meet the killer’s requirements.’
As they were climbing out of the car Quigg’s phone activated.
‘Yes, Perkins?’
‘I forgot to mention that we found a hair on the first wreath.’
‘Yes you did, so why are you admitting to this oversight now?’
‘There’s a DNA match on the database.’
‘Do I have to come back to the station and start pulling your teeth out until you tell me everything?’
‘We’ve got a name and address.’
‘You can be exasperating sometimes, Perkins.’
‘I know. So, the name we’ve got is Hunter Capel. According to his record he’s been in prison three times since the age of sixteen for burglary, armed robbery, and manslaughter.’
‘And you think this Mr Capel is our killer?’
‘Not at all. He works in The Flower Shop.’
‘You led me on, Perkins.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.’
He gave Quigg the address of The Flower Shop.
‘Has it got a name?’
‘The Flower Shop.’
‘You’re loving this aren’t you?’ In his mind’s eye he could see Perkins grinning from ear to ear, maybe the call was on speakerphone and the whole of the forensics team were howling with laughter in the background.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Proprietor’s name?’
‘Hazel de Flores.’
‘Keep looking, Perkins.’
He ended the call and told Lulu what Perkins had said.
‘So, we now know where the killer bought one of the wreaths?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe this Mr Capel will remember the person who bought it.’
‘Maybe, but it puts us in a difficult position because we’re running out of time.’
‘Can’t you re-arrange the press briefing for six o’clock, or maybe tomorrow?’
‘The Chief organised it.’ So what! He rang the press officer’s number, but got no reply. He tried the Duty Sergeant – it was Vic Jones.
‘Hi Vic, it’s Quigg.’
‘And?’ Vic was short for Victoria. She’d been giving him the eye, and some seriously suggestive body language, for months. He’d been meaning to ask her out, but he wasn’t very good at that sort of thing. In fact, where women were concerned, he was a train wreck. Now, it had been such an embarrassingly long time that he didn’t have the nerve to say anything. He remembered the Christmas card from Marion the Masseuse in his pocket and the palpitations started again. What was he going to do with that? If he ignored it long enough that would be another woman he’d never be able to talk to again.
‘I need to shift a press briefing from three o’clock to six o’clock, but the press officer isn’t in her office.’
‘And you think I’m going to do it for you after everything you’ve put me through?’
Excuse me! He hadn’t put her through anything, he hardly knew the damned woman.
‘I’m sorry.’ What the hell was he apologising for? He was innocent, surely a case of mistaken identity? He should tell her straight: “This is work, Sergeant. Whatever you think I’ve done to you, I haven’t. Do your job, and leave everything else at home.” She’d understand that, she was a professional.
‘Why haven’t you asked me out? Not even a Christmas card. I thought there was something between us, but you’ve made your feelings abundantly clear. Now, you ring me up out of the blue, not even a “Merry Christmas, Vic” and you want me to do you a favour. What type of a man are you, Quigg? Don’t answer that, I don’t care anymore. I’ll re-arrange your press briefing this one time, but after that you’re on your own. Don’t write, don’t call, and if you see me in the station you’d better hide under a table until I’ve passed by.’
The phone went dead.
What the hell was that all about? How did he keep getting himself into these dark places with women? It wouldn’t be so bad if he had something to show for it, but he had nothing. Maybe he should ring Marion the Masseuse, but then what? He had no money, no home of his own, and if the Chief had anything to do with it – no prospects either. He wasn’t a catch he was a ball and chain. Why would any woman want to lumber herself with him? Superficially, maybe he was weirdly attractive, but once they’d burrowed beneath the facade all that awaited them was a world of trouble and disappointment. What to do, what to do?
‘You look as though you’ve had bad news?’
‘A misunderstanding is all.’
‘Did you manage to re-arrange the press briefing?’
‘Yes, it’s now at six o’clock, which means we’ll have time to do everything we need to before we have to return to the station.’
‘Maybe they’ve got CCTV.’
‘In a flower shop?’
‘You never know.’
As they approached Mr Partridge’s front door it opened and a woman with short grey hair, a thin face, and perfect false teeth stood there.
‘You must be the police?’
‘DI Quigg and Sergeant Begone.’
‘I’m Edith Partridge – Toby’s mother, please come in.’
She stood to one side and let them in. The two children were sitting together on the sofa and looked as though they’d been dressed in their Sunday best for the interview. The pale girl had shoulder-length brown hair brushed back and held there with a blue ribbon. The boy wore thin-rimmed glasses, had bat ears, and his two front teeth were missing.
Lulu went to sit with them, but Quigg remained standing.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Coffee would be good,’ Quigg said, but Lulu declined and shook her head.
‘What shall we call you on our official police report?’ Lulu said to the two children.
‘You’re going to write a police report about us?’ the boy said.
‘Yes we are.’
‘I’m Livingstone David Partridge. Livingstone... after the famous explorer, Mother said. You know... Dr Livingstone I presume? I’m going to jolly well be one as well... An explorer I mean. There’s still unexplored places in the world like the Amazon Rainforest, and...’
‘Give your sister a chance, Livingstone,’ Mrs Partridge said as she came in with a tray full of drinks, orange juice, and biscuits.
Quigg sat down in an easy chair.
‘Sorry Gran,’ the boy said. ‘And this is my sister Theresa... after Mother Theresa, you know...’
‘They know who Mother Theresa is, I’m sure.’
‘Sorry Gran... But she’s not going to be a nun like that old woman are you, Theresa?’
Theresa put her hand over her brother’s mouth. ‘He’s like this all the time. The doctors say he has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder – ADHD for short, but Mummy thinks it’s because his IQ is too big for his brain.’
‘I’m going to be tested in the New Year, you know,’ Livingstone said. ‘I’ll show them I’m not a special needs kid from the wrong side of the tracks.’
Lulu looked at Quigg and smiled. ‘We came to talk to you about your mother,’ she said to the children.
‘Yes, we know. Father told us this morning, and...’
‘Livingstone, enough now,’ Mrs Partridge said.
‘Sorry Gran.’ He closed his mouth and looked at the hands in his lap, which reminded Quigg of Mr Partridge’s Hummingbird hands.
‘We’d like to know if you saw any men come to the house in the week before Christmas?’ Lulu asked them.
Theresa shook her head. Livingstone wrung his hands together and swung his legs.
‘You can speak if you have...’
‘Yes, there was a man,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like him, but Mother did. Theresa didn’t see him because she goes to the big school, but I come home earlier. They were in mother’s bedroom with no clothes on doing things, you know...’