The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Quigg 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘And did you see this man’s face?’

  ‘I jolly well did.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to describe the man’s face to a nice lady so that she can draw a likeness of him?’

  ‘Did he kill my Mother?’

  ‘We don’t know, but if we could find the man we’ll be able to ask him.’

  ‘Yes, I can do that. I’ve been training myself to observe things, because there’s a lot more to being an explorer than just exploring, you know. You have to be able draw things from memory. I want to be a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society just like David Livingstone.’

  ‘And I’m sure you will be,’ Lulu said.

  Quigg didn’t normally warm to children, but he liked this boy. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about the man?’

  ‘What, you mean like a tattoo?’

  ‘Did he have a tattoo?’

  ‘He jolly well did.’

  ‘Do you remember what the tattoo looked like?’

  Livingstone jumped up and ran out of the room.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Theresa said. ‘He’s gone to get his Explorer’s Journal. He will have drawn the tattoo from memory, you wait and see.’

  Quigg helped himself to a Rich Tea biscuit. He didn’t particularly like Rich Tea biscuits, but any biscuit in a storm was his motto. He was just glad that lunch was imminent. His stomach was rumbling, and he was sure he’d lost a stone in weight during the morning because his clothes felt unusually baggy. The first thing they were going to do, as soon as Livingstone had solved the case for them, was to find an establishment that served food of epic proportions. Somewhere he could warm his hands and feet by a log fire, stretch his legs out, and doze for a few minutes to recharge his Christmas batteries.

  ‘What do you think?’ Livingstone said as he pushed his open journal at Lulu, and sat back down on the sofa next to her. ‘I drew them shortly after I saw the tattoo because I thought they were interesting.’

  The drawing depicted cartoons of the comedy and tragedy theatre masks. Each face had a line down the centre. Half of the tragedy mask was coloured blue, and half of the comedy mask coloured yellow.

  ‘And this is what you saw?’ Lulu said.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘You’ve not changed them in any way?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I saw. An explorer has to tell the truth, you know. The sad mask came down to here...’ he pointed to his lower back. ‘And the smiling one came to here.’ He reached his hand round and pointed to a spot between his shoulders at the base of his neck.

  ‘So the masks covered his whole back?’ Quigg said.

  ‘They jolly well did.’

  ‘And the blue and yellow are the same?’

  ‘Exactly the same. An explorer has to be exact, you know.’

  ‘This is really excellent,’ Lulu said. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a fabulous explorer one day, Livingstone.’

  Livingstone beamed. ‘Have you been to Africa?’

  ‘That’s where I was born, in a little place called Mtubatuba.’

  ‘I love Africa. Have you been to Lake Tanganyika?’

  ‘No, that’s in Central Africa, I’m from South Africa.’

  ‘I want to see Lake Tanganyike. That’s where Livingstone was trying to find the source of the Nile, you know.’

  ‘Do you mind if we take the picture with us, Livingstone?’

  ‘Are you going to use it to catch my mother’s murderer?’

  ‘We hope it will help. We’ll take a copy, and get someone to bring it back to you probably tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d rather you took the whole journal than rip a page out, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Quigg stood up. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Livingstone. I’m sure your mother would have been very proud of you.’

  He looked sceptical. ‘If you say so, Mister.’

  They said goodbye to the children and headed towards the door. ‘A forensic artist will visit this afternoon to draw the man’s face from Livingstone’s memory,’ Quigg said. ‘Thank you for your time, and we’re sorry about your daughter-in-law.’

  Edith Partridge grunted. ‘Don’t be, I’m ashamed to say I hated the bitch. Made my son’s life a misery and ours and the children’s if the truth be known. I hope you find her killer, but I’m not sorry she’s dead. I know that sounds uncharitable at this time of year, but you didn’t know her.’

  In the car Quigg phoned Perkins and arranged for the forensic artist to visit Livingstone.

  ‘Maybe you can integrate the picture into that computer wizardry you’re doing with the Father Christmas from the security DVD.’

  ‘We’ll see what happens.’

  ‘I want it distributed at the press briefing at six o’clock.’

  ‘We should be able to do that.’

  ‘Should?’

  ‘Will.’

  ‘Good. See you then, Perkins.’

  Lulu had Livingstone’s journal open on the steering wheel. ‘He could be an actor. We have the mask ring and now this tattoo of the theatre masks. What do you think, Sir?’

  ‘What I think is that I’m going to shrivel up into a mere husk of a man unless we find somewhere to eat within the next five minutes.’

  Lulu started the car.

  ‘Also, I’d like you to remember you’re driving in England, not on the open plains of South Africa with the wildebeest.’

  Lulu drove out of Epple Road onto Parsons Green Lane heading towards the A308, and on the corner of Ackmar Road and Parsons Green they found the White Horse pub. After they’d parked in a ‘Residents Only’ space on Irene Road, and put a ‘Police’ sign on the dashboard they walked round to the Sloaney Pony – as it was called – and were shown to a table for two in the restaurant. Quigg ordered the rabbit and crayfish Cornish stargazey pie, Lulu had the pork cutlet with baked apple and bubble and squeak.

  ‘Drinks?’ the east-European waitress asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ Quigg said. ‘A Guinness.’

  ‘Extra cold?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Lulu ordered a diet coke.

  ‘Still worried about your backside, huh?’

  ‘You can scoff, but you wouldn’t like a big backside.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, you’re right.’

  The waitress brought their drinks.

  ‘Someone should be able to tell us who the tattoo artist is,’ Lulu said.

  Quigg took a swallow of his Guinness. ‘It’s going to be a long day that’s for sure.’

  Chapter Seven

  After locating all the addresses in the London A – Z they decided to visit The Flower Shop first, and then follow a clockwise circle back to the station for six o’clock.

  The Flower Shop was located just off Kings Road on Beavor Road between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park tube stations in Chelsea, which wasn’t that far from the first of the Faverolles addresses close to the Thames.

  Outside the shop was some bedraggled pot plants on a small table to the left, and there were two large empty windows either side of the entrance. Quigg didn’t know much about selling flowers or running a shop, but he did know that if he’d been a customer looking for flowers he would have gone somewhere else. A bell jangled as they opened the door and entered.

  A short plump-faced woman with dark brown curly hair was on the telephone. A thin muscular man in a black sleeveless T-shirt with an assortment of tattoos on both arms was in a back room arranging flowers in a vase.

  The man stopped what he was doing and came into the main shop. ‘You want me, I suppose?’

  Quigg was always astounded at how criminals could spot a plain clothes copper after a fleeting glance from half a mile away. It was as if he glowed a fluorescent bright blue in the dark.

  ‘If you’re Hunter Capel?’

  ‘Whatever it is I didn’t do it. This is who I am now, and I know you bastards... nice policemen...’ He smiled at Lulu. ‘Present company exc
luded... want to believe that I’ll be a criminal for the rest of my life, but I’m actually a fine upstanding pillar of the community now.’

  The woman put down the telephone. ‘I can vouch for him.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Hazel de Flores, the owner. What are you trying to frame him for now?’

  Quigg smiled. ‘The police don’t frame innocent people. It’s good news. We’re investigating a murder...’

  ‘Hey...’

  He held up his hand. ‘A wreath was found on the front door of a murder victim’s house, one of your hairs was found on the wreath...’

  ‘Now just a fucking...’

  Quigg raised his hand again. ‘Look Mr Capel, we don’t think you murdered anyone. We know you work here, and I’m guessing you sold the killer the wreath.’

  ‘Well yeah, that’ll be it.’

  ‘It was probably three days ago – Christmas Eve.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you know how many wreaths we’ve sold over the Christmas period?’

  ‘Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Over two thousand.’

  ‘Would it help if I showed you a photograph of the wreath?’

  ‘When I say over two thousand – that’s of the large ones, which are all the same. We also sell a smaller version, which accounts for a further five thousand and you want me to remember someone who purchased one wreath?’

  Quigg craned his neck and looked around the ceiling. ‘CCTV?’

  ‘We don’t get many armed robbers in here.’

  ‘You’re one,’ Lulu said.

  ‘Used to be – there’s a difference. Is there anything else I can help you nice police with?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so. Except...’ He said to Lulu, ‘Go and get Livingstone’s journal out of the car.’

  She did as he asked.

  ‘I notice you have a number of tattoos,’ Quigg said. He opened the journal and showed Livingstone’s theatre masks to Capel. ‘Have you ever seen a tattoo like that?’

  Capel pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Nice tattoo, but it doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Any ideas who might know?’

  ‘Have you tried Hammersmith Tattoo on North End Road, just off King Street?’

  ‘We haven’t tried anywhere yet.’

  ‘Yeah, you wanna see Quinny – Dave Quinn owns the place – If he doesn’t know who did that, the guy ain’t alive. Quinny’s like the Godfather of tattoo artists here in the UK.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Capel, you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘You’re not gonna tell people I helped you, are you? I have a reputation to maintain... and certain people might want to turn me into a saint – If you know what I mean?’ He rolled his eyes upwards.

  ‘Don’t worry, your reputation’s safe with us.’

  Quigg checked his watch. It was quarter to two. ‘About four hours left,’ he said more for his own benefit than Lulu’s, or for a topic of conversation. They both knew time was limited and that Quigg was the official timekeeper.

  They made their way along Chiswick Mall to 12 Eyot Gardens with the Thames close to freezing on their left.

  ‘Do you think I should ring the number on the card?’ Quigg said as Lulu turned into Eyot Gardens.

  ‘I thought I wasn’t permitted to talk about your private life?’

  ‘This one time, but after we’ve finished talking you’re to forget everything we’ve talked about, especially anything to do with me?’

  Lulu’s brow furrowed. ‘I see... More to the point, do you think you should ring it?’

  ‘I don’t know that’s why I’m asking you.’

  ‘You obviously want to otherwise you’d have thrown it straight in the bin.’

  ‘There are obstacles.’

  ‘I definitely do not want to hear anything about your sexual problems.’

  ‘No nothing like that. I have no money to take a woman out.’

  ‘Going out with a woman doesn’t have to involve money.’

  ‘I live with my mother.’

  ‘You could go to her place.’

  ‘I’m married and separated with a baby daughter.’

  ‘Everyone comes with baggage.’

  ‘I’m shy when I’m with women, I get tongue-tied.’

  ‘Most people do.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d give me a reason not to ring her.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the wrong relationship advisor. I think you should ring her. It’s Christmas, everyone should have someone at Christmas.’

  ‘That’s what the Chief said. What about you?’

  ‘I have people, and I also have you.’

  ‘Then I must have you?’

  ‘No, you haven’t got me.’

  ‘Oh. So, you think I should ring her?’

  ‘If you leave it any longer she won’t answer. It’ll be like, you rang round everyone else and she’s the only one left.’

  ‘Maybe later... when I’m on my own.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘No, I will. Right let’s do what we came here to do.’

  They climbed the steps and knocked. There was no answer.

  A man wearing a dark heavy coat, a woollen hat, and a scarf wrapped around his neck and the lower part of his face came along the road and began walking up the steps of the house next door. He told them that the old French couple had returned to France for the holidays and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year.

  The next address was north near Wendell Park, number 27 Valetta Road. There was a Christmas tree with flashing lights in the window. Mrs Faverolles’ husband had died three years ago of a heart attack, and she lived there with her two-year-old son called Pierre.

  Quigg’s forehead creased as he thought about whether Pierre was the husband’s son or not. After making sure there were definitely only two Faverolles in the house, and no more were coming to visit, they left.

  Lulu made her way along the A4020 past Shepherd’s Bush Market to 7a Caxton Road. It was a flat above a woman’s clothes shop called Rag Mama Rag.

  ‘You go and knock,’ Lulu said. ‘I’ll just take a quick look in here.’

  He retraced his steps, took her arm, and dragged her away from the windows.

  A young man with dark wavy hair opened the door.

  ‘Mr Faverolles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many people live here?’

  ‘You’re from the Census office?’

  Quigg showed his warrant card. ‘Please answer the question.’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Will you be having any visitors?’

  ‘No, I’m going on holiday to Hawaii with my girlfriend tonight.’

  ‘Have a lovely time, Mr Faverolles.’

  Outside in the car Lulu said, ‘Sorry, I thought we were on the right lines.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry it was a good idea. It was certainly better than the alternative, which was nothing.’

  Quigg checked his watch. It was now ten past five. They had time to stop off at Hammersmith Tattoo before returning to the station.

  Lulu drove down Holland Road, turned right onto the A315, and then took a left into North End Road. The tattoo shop... Quigg wondered if it was a shop, or a parlour, and he’d heard recently that they were also called ‘Inks’. Was ink another name for a shop? “I’m going to the ink.” No, that didn’t sound right. People would think you’d been let out of the asylum if you said something like that, or put you in there if you weren’t already an inmate. The tattoo shop... was wedged between Johnson’s Estate Agents and The Nail & Pedicure Shop.

  He’d been in a few of these places before while pursuing lines of enquiry, and they always made him nervous. He thought it was maybe because there were people inside covered with tattoos and had strange body piercings, and he didn’t have any. In a dark recess of his mind he imagined the tattooed and pierced people as aliens, strange beings who m
odified their bodies because they liked pain. He’d seen the film Hellraiser once, which was based on a Clive Barker story and that’s what came to mind when he thought of tattoo parlours – they were places where people practised and enjoyed sadomasochism.

  A shiver rippled down his spine. ‘I hate these places,’ he said as Lulu pushed the door open.

  Inside, he expected it to smell of body odour, fear, and burning flesh, but instead there was a strong smell of antiseptic and cleanliness. There was a dark wood reception counter with a computer monitor. A large book, papers, and various leaflets were lined up on top of the counter as if someone had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The ceiling was white with a four-bladed fan above a light. The walls were painted an orange-red colour, and along the walls were racks containing hundreds of tattoo examples that opened like books.

  A tattooed woman appeared. She had bottle blonde tight curly hair, was probably in her early sixties, and was wearing a low-cut sleeveless putrid pink top and matching leather skirt. Apart from her face, every bit of skin had tattoos.

  Quigg expected her to start talking in cockney rhyming slang, and was surprised when she spoke with an upper-class accent.

  ‘How may I be of service?’

  He showed his warrant card. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Quinn, please.’

  ‘My son is with a client at the moment, and it’s actually Dr Quinn. Please take a seat, he won’t keep you long.’ She disappeared through a smoked glass door.

  They sat down in two matching dark wood chairs behind the front door.

  ‘This is a bit different from what I was expecting,’ Quigg said.

  ‘First time I’ve been in a tattoo parlour.’

  A man with a crew cut and goatee beard came through the door behind the counter. He offered his hand. ‘How can I help?’

  Quigg shook the man’s hand. ‘Dr Quinn?’

  ‘I’ve told my mum not to tell people I’m a Dr. I have a PhD in Fine Arts, hardly worth mentioning when you’re a tattoo artist.’

  Lulu opened up Livingstone’s journal and thrust it under his nose.

  ‘Edie.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Quigg said.

  ‘Edie Golden, that’s her work. If you want a cartoon or a caricature, Edie’s your woman.’