The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Quigg 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘And where might we find Miss Golden?’

  Quinn laughed. ‘Christ, don’t call her that, she’ll tattoo your lips purple with yellow dots. SouthWest3 Ink – SW3 is the Fulham Road postcode – that’s where she plies her trade. It’s on the corner of Fulham Road and Edith Grove opposite the Valmont Club.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, thank you.’

  ‘No problem.

  Outside Quigg said, ‘Come on it’s ten to six, we don’t want to keep the press waiting.’

  ‘What about Edie Golden?’

  ‘’We’ll pop round after the press briefing and see if she’s still open. If not, it’ll have to be tomorrow.’

  ‘I could...’

  ‘No you couldn’t. We have partners for a reason, Sergeant Begone.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Put your foot down, and no buts.’

  They arrived three minutes after six. Quigg told Lulu to accompany him into the briefing room, which was full to bursting with reporters, photographers and TV cameramen. They sat at the raised table with the blue, red and silver Hammersmith and Fulham coat of arms as a backdrop. The motto: JUDGE BY OUR LABOUR was apt. The press would certainly judge him if he failed to find the festive murderer, and the Chief would demote him and transfer him to somewhere desolate and inhospitable.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began although he was sure there were none in the room. ‘As you are well aware there has been three people murdered in two days...’

  ‘Is that your new partner, DI Quigg?’ somebody shouted from the back of the room. TV camera and flashlights prevented him from seeing anything but the first few rows.

  ‘My apologies, I should have introduced Sergeant Lulu Begone who is on a two-year exchange programme from the South African Police Service. Sergeant Begone is assisting me with this case.’

  ‘What do you think of Hammersmith, Sergeant?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Quigg said. ‘This is a briefing about the three murders that have taken place. Sergeant Begone’s views of Hammersmith are completely irrelevant. Please aim your questions at me and keep them relevant to the current investigation.’

  ‘Cathy Cox from the London Tribune. Do you have a suspect?’

  ‘Good evening Miss Cox. We’re following a number of leads, and yes we do have a suspect.’ He looked around but couldn’t see Perkins. ‘I’m hoping that before we finish this briefing you’ll receive a photofit of a man we’d very much like to question in connection with these murders.’

  The door to his right opened. Marion the Masseuse appeared carrying a stack of A4-sized photographs. She smiled directly at him and robbed him of his faculties. He now had no idea why he was there, what he was meant to be doing, or who he was. His mind had been transformed into noodle soup.

  He watched her as she moved easily among the press handing out photographs as if she were a member of the royal family giving alms to the poor. Once he’d finished what he was doing – whatever that was – he would ask her out on a date.

  Lulu nudged him.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Look.’ She slid one of the photographs along the table.

  He tore his eyes from Marion and stared at the photograph – it took his breath away. It was of a good-looking man, probably in his late forties, with a receding hairline and piercing blue eyes. He turned his head to look at Lulu.

  ‘We have to go now, Sir.’

  ‘Go and get the car started, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, some new evidence has come to light and I have to leave. We’ll resume at the same time tomorrow evening.’

  He stood up and followed Lulu through the door. The press had more or less everything they needed. It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to reveal the gory details of the murders, or the content of the messages. They had the photograph, and that was all that mattered. It would be on the front page of the late editions, on the nine and ten o’clock TV news reports, and splashed all over tomorrow’s papers. But after seeing the photograph, he was hoping that it would be the picture of the killer in custody not just a suspect they’d like to question about six murdered people.

  He and Lulu had seen the man earlier when they’d gone to find out about the Faverolles living at 12 Eyot Gardens. He’d told them that the old couple had returned to France for Christmas and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year.

  Lulu put her foot on the accelerator even before he’d shut the door.

  ‘It won’t do any good if you kill us before we get there. Remember, you’re not on the Serengeti plains chasing giraffes.’

  ‘The Serengeti is in Tanzania.’

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘What do you British call this?’

  ‘We call this a cock-up of the highest order. Thankfully, we’re the only ones who know we cocked-up.’

  ‘We weren’t to know though, were we?’

  ‘We made an assumption – we assumed that because the man was walking up the steps of the adjoining house he lived there.’

  ‘Anyone would have made the same assumption.’

  ‘We’re not anyone, we’re detectives. Detectives question everything and everyone. We simply accepted the situation as given, like a pair of amateurs.’

  Although the man had been wrapped up against the cold with a scarf around the lower half of his face and a woollen hat on his head, they had seen enough to recognise him in the photograph. Between forensics and Livingstone they now knew what the killer looked like.

  Lulu pulled up across the road from 12 Eyot Gardens.

  The lights were on in the house.

  He phoned the Duty Sergeant.

  ‘Sergeant Jones?’

  ‘Vic, it’s Quigg.’

  ‘Was my message unclear?’

  ‘I’m outside 12 Eyot Gardens. I think our killer is inside. I need back up ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Don’t you go in there until someone arrives, you hear me Quigg?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘You’d better. If I find out you went in there before back up arrived, I’ll bloody kill you myself.’

  ‘And I thought you didn’t care, Vic.’

  ‘I don’t, I’m thinking of the mountain of paperwork.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘We’re not going in?’ Lulu asked.

  ‘Only stupid people go in without back up.’

  He climbed out of the car, opened up the boot, and took out two stab vests.

  ‘Put this on,’ he said to Lulu as he climbed back in the car and shut the door.

  ‘In here?’

  ‘Well, apart from it being cold enough to freeze your... Oh, you haven’t got any of those, have you? We don’t want to be dancing around outside while the killer watches us, and then slips out the back door.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  They both began wriggling like snakes in a sack, but then Quigg decided to wait until Lulu had finished because there clearly wasn’t enough room for both of them to squirm out of their coats, wriggle the stab vests over their heads, and then put their coats back on.

  Eventually, they both had the vests on.

  Two squad cars arrived a minute later. He should have told Vic, “No sirens or lights,’ but she was obviously thinking more clearly than he was because there were neither.

  He sent two coppers round the back with Lulu, and kept the other two with him. One of them carried a hand-held battering ram.

  As they walked up the steps of 12 Eyot Gardens he saw the wreath on the door.

  Crap! Were they too late?

  Chapter Eight

  They didn’t need the battering ram because the door was open.

  With a feeling of impending disaster, Quigg entered the hallway first. The stairs were to his left, the kitchen directly ahead. He gripped the truncheon in his right hand, the leather strap round his wrist.

  There were no footprints on the black and grey tiled floor.
He signalled one of the coppers to go through into the kitchen and open the back door for Lulu and the others while he and the second copper moved into the open-plan living and dining room. All the furniture looked heavy and expensive. There was no evidence of anything untoward.

  He returned to the hallway.

  Lulu joined him.

  He ordered one copper to stand guard at the back door, and another one at the front. He then led the way upstairs.

  The second room they entered was the main bedroom. It was there that they found three naked bodies with matching knives protruding from their chests and their faces ripped off. There were two women and a man – it was a nightmarish sight. Not least because they had been murdered, but also because they were old and naked, and there were pools of coagulating blood where their faces were meant to be. The man and one of the women looked to be in their fifties and were obviously the Faverolles. Quigg guessed the other woman – who was probably in her eighties – was the man’s mother. What was the killer doing stripping his victims of their faces and clothes?

  On the wall – written in blood – was the relevant part of the third verse of the Christmas carol: Three French hens.

  He left one of the coppers on guard outside the bedroom door. Feeling a thousand years old, he moved back downstairs to the kitchen and sat on a chair at the block wood table.

  ‘Maybe they were already dead when we came round before, Sir.’

  ‘Stop trying to justify it. We cocked up and we’ll just have to live with it, which is more than they will.’

  She moved closer to him and bent down. ‘We’re not going to tell anyone we cocked up, are we?’

  ‘Definitely not, but we’ll know.’

  He pulled out his phone and called Perkins and Debbie Poulson.

  ‘What now, Sir?’

  ‘We carry on. If we’d had the photofit earlier the killer would have been in custody by now, and the Faverolles would probably still be alive. Unfortunately, life doesn't usually play out like that. The jigsaw pieces don’t magically appear in the correct order and fit nicely into place to form the picture on the front of the box, we have to hunt them down and fill in the gaps.’

  ‘We know what he looks like now,’ Lulu said sitting down opposite. ‘It shouldn’t be too long before we catch him.’

  ‘Criminals elude us for years even when we do know what they look like.’

  ‘You’re not being very positive.’

  ‘I don’t feel very positive. My one consolation is that I know we’re human, and human beings make mistakes. The important thing is not to make the same mistake twice.’

  ‘We’re not likely to do that, are we?’

  ‘No.’

  Debbie arrived.

  ‘Three French hens?’

  ‘Apparently they’re called Faverolles.’

  ‘You’re becoming cosmopolitan, Quigg.’

  ‘I’m becoming depressed.’

  ‘You’ll catch him, you always do.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s before I’m demoted and transferred to the frozen wastes of Siberia.’

  ‘I hear it’s nice and peaceful there. You’ll have time to write your memoirs.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic.’

  ‘Right, I’ll get on. Post mortems tomorrow at two.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He stood up and said to Lulu, ‘Come on, we have one more call to make.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Edie Golden.’

  ‘It’s...’ She looked at the antique Ann Street train station clock on the kitchen wall. ‘...Quarter past seven on a Sunday evening.’

  ‘If she’s not there we’ll call it a day, and it’ll be our first port of call tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They made their way outside and met Perkins and his team coming in.

  ‘I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Perkins.’

  Perkins nodded.

  Marion gave him an accusing look as she walked past him.

  He had seen that look many times before. After a while, Caitlin had always looked at him like that. That look had come between them, and she had passed it onto Phoebe until he was haunted by that look. It was like a living thing that strangled him from the inside out.

  What could he say to Marion? He turned away from those eyes. He was in no mood to explain why he hadn’t called her. Life was full of obstacles. Sometimes – in fact, most times – the only sensible course of action was to side-step an obstacle because it would simply stop you dead in your tracks. In a way, a murder investigation was sometimes like life.

  ‘You haven’t called her have you?’ Lulu said when they were heading along the A4 towards Earls Court.

  ‘When have I had the chance?’

  ‘I saw the way she looked at you.’

  ‘Don’t ever look at a man like that, it’s a look that says, “Choose between your job and me.” A man should never be forced to choose between the woman he loves and the job that defines him. A woman should understand that sometimes a man has to put the job first, but that doesn’t mean he loves her any less.’

  ‘Is that what happened to you?’

  ‘Are you trying to manoeuvre the conversation round so that I tell you all about my personal life?’

  ‘You started it.’

  They arrived at SouthWest3 Ink – on the corner of Fulham Road and Edith Grove – at ten to eight. The tattoo shop was in darkness, but Quigg remembered that Quinny had said Edie Golden lived above the shop and there was a light on. They found a door round the side and knocked.

  Quigg was about to knock again when a light came, and they heard running feet on the wooden stairs.

  The door opened. A woman – in her late twenties – with rimless glasses and long brown hair tied back in a ponytail stood before them.

  Quigg thought she was pretty and was surprised not to see any tattoos or piercings. She wore a black and white striped top underneath a blue cardigan, jeans, and a pair of Goofy slippers.

  ‘Police,’ he said showing his warrant card.

  ‘So?’

  He’d heard stories of the ‘good old days’. Times when there’d been a high degree of respect for the police. People knew that if you gave the police any lip, or caused them any trouble, you were liable to find yourself in all kinds of bother. Depending on your perceived crime, you could end up with a clip round the ear, a serious beating, or fitted up for a crime you didn’t even know had been committed. Quigg wondered whether they should bring back those ‘good old days’. He’d certainly volunteer to discipline Edie Golden.

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions if you’re Edie Golden?’

  ‘What type of questions?’

  ‘Do you mind if we come in?’

  She eyed Quigg. ‘You police always want to invade people’s privacy. Keep your hands in your pockets. I don’t want you planting anything in my flat like drugs, counterfeit money, or whatever, and then raiding me at three in the morning when I’m in my pyjamas.’

  ‘I think you have the wrong idea about the police, Miss...’

  ‘How did you get my name anyway?’

  ‘Mr Quinn.’

  ‘I bet his mum put him up to it. That is one weird bitch. Have you seen what she wears? She must be a hundred and seventy, and she dresses like a teenager.’

  ‘I don’t think...’

  ‘I could offer you coffee, but I’m not gonna. What are these questions you want to ask me?’

  Quigg was surprised at how large the flat was. Fitted into the low ceiling were spotlights. The floor was wood with a variety of rugs scattered around. In an alcove was a dining table with six chairs. Hung on the walls were large abstract paintings, and he wondered if they were originals as he sat down in a brown leather chair.

  Lulu opened Livingstone’s journal and showed her.

  ‘Yeah, that’s one of mine. Who did the drawing?’

  ‘A young boy called Livingstone,’ Lulu spoke for the first time.

  ‘You should send him to see me
, I’ll give him a job.’

  ‘He’s only seven.’

  ‘He has a talent.’

  ‘What we’d like to know is who was the recipient of that tattoo?’

  ‘Artist-client privilege.’

  ‘I could arrest you for obstructing a murder investigation.’

  ‘Murder huh, and this guy did it?’

  ‘He’s someone we’d like to question urgently in connection with a spate of murders in the area.’

  ‘The ones on the news? Yeah that’s right, I saw you both on the telly earlier. You weren’t very good, DI Quigg, if you don’t mind me saying. You looked like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights.’

  ‘We’ve not come here to talk about my performance at press briefings.’

  ‘Maybe you should have done. I could help you, you know.’

  ‘Can we get back to the man with the tattoo?’

  ‘He said his name was John Smith and expected me to believe him.’

  ‘Do you take an address?’

  ‘Oh yeah, we take an address, telephone number, email if they’ve got one. I give them a questionnaire with a lot of personal questions on, but you know what – sometimes people lie on those questionnaires.’

  ‘Do you remember what address he gave?’

  ‘I remember everything DI S. Quigg, date of birth...’

  ‘So, you’ve got a photographic memory?’

  ‘Yes. He put down on the questionnaire that he lived at 178 Hammersmith Road, but I didn’t believe that.’

  Quigg showed her the photofit.

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. So, I tattooed a murderer. Well, it takes all types I suppose.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else about him? Did he say anything?’

  ‘He said nothing of consequence, but I remember one odd thing about him. Well, when I say odd, it was only odd before he chose the tattoo. He’d been wearing make-up. I saw it in front of his left ear. He hadn’t cleaned it off properly, but when he showed me the tattoo he wanted I guessed he must be an actor.’

  ‘Did you do the tattoo in one sitting?’

  ‘Normally, something that big takes three sittings, but he wanted it done in one – took me four hours and frequent coffee breaks.’

  Quigg stood up and handed her his card. ‘If anything else comes to mind, please ring me.’