by Tim Ellis
‘Hang on a minute,’ she said taking his card. She went to a cabinet, opened a drawer and withdrew a small card and a pen, and wrote something on it. ‘My card,’ she said passing it to him. ‘If you need to ask me any more questions.’
‘Thanks.’
They made their way out and climbed in the car. The clock on the dashboard said five to nine.
‘Let’s call it a day,’ Quigg said. ‘I’m done in.’
Lulu switched the ignition on. ‘What did she write on the card?’
He smiled. ‘Of all the questions you could have asked, you ask that one.’
‘I can’t help myself. Detectives are meant to be nosy anyway. Well?’
He passed the card to her.
‘I knew it. Women know these things, you know. I could see she fancied you by the way her pupils were dilated.’
She passed the card back to him, put the car in gear, and headed towards the station. He slipped the business card on which Edie Golden had written, “Ring Me” into his trouser pocket with the Christmas card from Marion the Masseuse. That was two women he didn’t have the time to ring, the money to entertain, or the place to take them. Life was a bowl of rotting cherries.
He leaned his head against the cold window and watched the Christmas lights blur past.
‘Everything points to him being an actor.’
‘Everything?’
‘Well, most things. There’s the ring, the tattoo, and the make-up.’
‘The make-up is not evidence, she might have been mistaken, and what about the knives, the verses of the Christmas carol he writes on the wall, the clothes? Let’s leave it until the morning when we’re fresh, my brain has shut down for the day.’
***
‘Is that you, Quigg?’
‘Do you know someone else with a key to your front door, mum?’
‘You’re late, and you’re lucky.’
‘Oh?’
‘I made stew with chunky carrots and dumplings, so I saved you a plate full. There’s some fresh bread in the kitchen as well.’
He leaned over the back of the chair and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘Sometimes I remember why I love you, mum.’
‘Stop being soppy, Quigg. Have you found yourself a nice girl yet?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘That means you haven’t got a clue as usual.’
‘Did anyone ring?’
‘No, Phoebe didn’t ring, but what would have been the point anyway, you were out with your dead bodies again? I saw you on the news. If you’d have spent as much time on your marriage as you do on your dead bodies you’d still have a wife and daughter.’
‘She went with another man, mum.’
‘Only because you weren’t there.’
He went through into the kitchen, put the plate of stew and dumplings in the microwave for four minutes, and cut two thick slices of bread. The microwave pinged as he finished spreading a thick layer of butter on the bread. He thought about joining Beryl in the living room, but he was really in no mood for a conversation about his shortcomings, so he sat at the kitchen table.
Was the killer an actor? If so, how did that help them? He tried connecting up the dots, but his brain wouldn’t function. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, but first he needed to phone the Chief, and hoped he was less intoxicated than he was last night.
***
It was five past ten when he finally rang the Chief.
‘Are you ringing me late on purpose, Quigg?’
‘I’ve not long got home myself.’
‘I saw you on the television. You’ll never make it in Hollywood with performances like that you know.’
‘I received news of another three murders, that’s why I had to cut the briefing short.’
‘How many is that now?’
‘Six.’
‘I’ve had the Commissioner on the phone.’
‘I hope he’s having a good Christmas, Chief?’
‘He had a call from the Home Secretary, who had a call from the Prime Minister, who had a call from the Queen.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Queen sends her regards.’
‘That’s very nice...’
‘She said that England expects you to solve these murders quickly, Quigg. There’s too many, it looks bad on you, but more importantly it looks bad on me. And then, of course, it also looks bad on the Commissioner; the Home Secretary; the Prime Minister; and the Queen.’
No pressure then, he thought.
‘I’m going to give you another day, and then I think I’ll get Sergeant Jones out of his sickbed to replace you.'
‘A late Christmas present, Chief?’
‘Something like that, Quigg. You need to be crystal clear that before I’m forced to resign you’ll be long gone. What happened to yesterday’s report?’
‘I rang and spoke to you.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I hardly think that’s likely. I was here all day and I never heard the phone ring. Have you been drinking, Quigg?’
He had an idea. ‘I spoke to you about making Sergeant Begone my partner, and you said it was an excellent idea.’
‘I’ll give you ten out of ten for ingenuity, Quigg. What I actually said was, “In your dreams”.’
‘So you do remember me ringing?’
‘Vaguely, now you come to mention it. I wasn’t feeling at all well yesterday.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Chief.’
‘The only thing you’re sorry about is that I haven’t lost my mental faculties.’
‘Goodnight, Chief.’
‘Twenty-fours, Quigg.’
***
He climbed into bed with his hot water bottle and put it between his knees. As he burrowed under the quilt and began to drift off to sleep he realised that he’d be wearing a different pair of trousers in the morning. He’d left the business card from Edie Golden and the Christmas card from Marion the Masseuse in the pocket of today’s trousers.
If he didn’t retrieve them and put them on his dressing table with his warrant card, his keys, his phone, and all the other junk he carried around with him he knew – a pound to a penny – that he’d forget all about them. He whipped the quilt back, slid out of bed, and dived into the wardrobe to get the cards. It took less than a minute, but by the time he was back in bed he was freezing again and it took him ages to get warm.
Now he had the choice of two women. If he was going to call one of them, which one should it be? They were both attractive, and he’d be lucky to have a date with either one. Maybe he could play the field, have one date with each of them and then choose. Marion certainly had lovely hands, a nice smile, and an endless supply of cleansing cream, but on the obverse she worked in forensics. Perkins would probably know what was going on, and if he finished with Marion things could get awkward. On the other hand, he didn’t know much about Edie the Tattoo Artist apart from the fact that she knew her own mind, and had her own business and flat. Also, if he finished with her she lived far enough away for things not to be awkward. The trouble was, because he hadn’t rung Marion things were already awkward.
The other problem, of course, was whether he had the right to be enjoying himself when people were dying. This was the same old problem he’d had with Caitlin. There was a killer out there he had to catch, and the expectation was that he wouldn’t rest until the killer was behind bars or lying on a mortuary table, but how long must you put your private life on hold?
Chapter Nine
Monday, 28th December, Feast of the Innocents
‘There were no deletions from the phonebook on Mrs Partridge’s mobile phone,’ Perkins said.
They were in the incident room working out which way to jump next.
Quigg felt bright and bushy-tailed this morning. His brain was functioning at its operating temperature. ‘Have you compared all the phone records of the three sets of victims to see if there are any matches?’
; ‘Yes, nothing. If the killer is contacting the victims then he’s not doing it by phone.’
‘We only know he had contact with Mrs Partridge at the moment,’ Lulu said. She was wearing knee-length boots, jeans and a thick woollen jumper with a reindeer on the front.
‘Very Christmassy,’ Quigg had said when she took off her coat. It made him want to scratch his itching skin just looking at it. He couldn’t stand anything woollen next to his skin.
‘We only have evidence of that,’ Quigg corrected her. ‘But we can surmise that he had contact with the others because of the kitchen knives. What about the French mask ring, anything on that?’ he directed at Perkins.
‘Sorry, we’ve spoken to one of the owners, and a couple of dealers, and they’re of the opinion that it’s a copy. Apparently, there are a number of versions on the market.’
‘So, it doesn’t help us?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, today it’s “Four Calling Birds”, how can we interpret that?’
‘The Four Gospels,’ Perkins said. ‘Mathew, Mark, Luke and John.’
‘I think we can discount our killer being a religious fanatic, Perkins. It’s not about religion, but thanks for suggesting and knowing about the religious slant.’
‘A Call Centre?’ Lulu offered.
‘Explain?’ Quigg said.
‘Birds are women, women usually work in a Call Centre.’
‘What the hell is a Call Centre anyway?’ Quigg said. ‘Who do they call?’
‘When you phone the bank, the gas or electricity company, your credit card company, or numerous other large companies, you’re talking to someone in a call centre. They bring your customer details up on a computer screen and deal with your problem – a Call Centre is like a sweatshop. Most are open-plan with the staff in cubicles.’
‘How do you know this stuff, Lulu?’
‘One of my cold case victims worked in a Call Centre.’
‘It’s an interesting suggestion, but I suppose there are hundreds of Call Centres, so it doesn’t really help us. Also, he’s focused on families living in houses, killing people in a Call Centre would be a major departure from his normal routine.’
‘Calling birds are colly birds, or blackbirds,’ Perkins said. ‘Colly means black.’
‘Ah yes, now we’re getting somewhere. I had the idea that calling birds might be songbirds like nightingales.’
‘Apparently, “calling” is an American deviation from the traditional English word of “colly”, and colly means black as coal.’
‘You’re like an encyclopaedia, Perkins.’
‘I simply did a spot of research this morning, I like to help where I can.’
‘Very single-minded of you, I’m sure. Someone else without a private life?’
‘My work consumes me, but I do have a couple of hobbies. Do you want...’
‘No time for hobbies, Perkins. So, four blackbirds could be Mr and Mrs Black and their two children living in Bird Close, or Mr and Mrs Bird and their parents living in Black Close, or any other combinations. We have the same problem we had with Turtle Doves.’
Lulu and Perkins looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Exactly,’ Quigg said.
‘We’ll just have to carry on,’ Lulu said.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sergeant.’
She smiled. ‘I know, Sir.’
‘Find me some evidence, Perkins.’
Perkins sighed loudly.
‘We might get some help from the public today, Sir. Now that the photograph of our suspect is in the newspapers and on the television, someone ought to recognise him.’
‘Yes, there is that. Okay, we’ll meet back here at five o’clock tonight and work out what I’m going to tell the press. Lulu and I are going to see what’s at 178 Hammersmith Road this morning, and this afternoon we’ve got the Faverolles’ post mortems. Oh, and I should tell you, that if we haven’t caught the killer by tonight, Sergeant Jones will replace me.’
‘But...’ Lulu said and then tailed off.
As they were walking down the stairs to the car park Lulu said, ‘Will the Chief really replace you with Sergeant big mouth?’
‘Oh yes. He’s been waiting for the opportunity to get rid of me, and the way this case is going it looks like he’ll get his chance.’
‘The Chief is a fat pig. I don’t like him either.’
Outside in the car park he saw the pool car parked up with four inches of snow on the roof from last night’s snowfall. ‘You didn’t take the pool car back?’
‘It was late, and we needed it today.’
He sighed. ‘Something else I’ll get into trouble for. You’re meant to take it back at the end of every day.’
‘Sorry, nobody told me.’
‘You’ll find they did. You had to sign a piece of paper when you signed it out, it was on there.’
‘Oh, it would have taken me half an hour to read that.’
‘Never mind.’
After clearing the snow from the car they set off along King Street to 178 Hammersmith Road, but found it didn’t exist.
At the junction of Hammersmith Road and Rowan Road – adjacent to Latymer Court – they found King’s House at number 174. King’s House was a Business Centre, and housed a number of businesses from insurance to online dating. They walked in through the double glass doors and found a thin pale looking man behind a counter with a name badge stating that he was called Jeffrey.
‘We were looking for 178 Hammersmith Road?’ Quigg said.
‘This is number 174.’
‘Yes, we know that. Do you know where 178 is?’
‘Well, probably further along that way,’ Jeffrey said pointing to his left. ‘Next door must be 176, and then you’ll find 178.’
Quigg stared at Jeffrey to check he wasn’t being sarcastic, but he appeared to be trying to help.
‘What was this building before it was a business centre?’ Lulu asked.
Jeffrey shrugged. ‘Sorry, I’ve only been here for seven weeks.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ Quigg said.
They began to walk out of the reception, but Jeffrey called after them, ‘You might want to try Papa in the barber’s shop across the road. Papa’s Greek. He’s been here for over thirty years. If he doesn’t know, nobody does.’
‘Why did you ask what the building was before?’ Quigg said.
‘I have a feeling.’
They finally crossed Hammersmith road with their heads and limbs still attached to their bodies.
Leonidas Papalexis owned ‘Papa’s’ the Barber’s shop opposite King’s House. Inside, it was like a Who’s Who of theatre and stage with signed photographs of famous actors on the walls and ceiling such as John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier, and Ralph Richardson. Memorabilia – such as mugs, ties, hats, and such like used in past stage performances – adorned shelves at picture rail height.
Quigg showed Papa his warrant card.
Papa stopped cutting a young man’s hair. ‘How can a poor Greek barber help the police?’ he said in perfect English. Leonidas Papalexis was between sixty and seventy. He had white hair brushed back, white bushy eyebrows, and a thick white moustache that extended at least an inch beyond his cheeks and could have won competitions for thickness and width.
‘Do you happen to know if there was ever a 178 Hammersmith Road?
‘Of course. That building, before they demolished it in 1963, used to be the King’s Theatre 178 – 180 Hammersmith Road – it is nothing now.’
‘I knew it,’ Lulu said.
Quigg grunted. ‘The man we’re looking for is no older than fifty-five. If he is an actor he couldn’t have acted in that theatre unless he was a child actor.’
‘You’re talking about the picture in the paper?’ Papa interrupted them, and grabbed a newspaper from the bench seats along one wall. ‘Here, this one,’ he pointed.
‘Yes,’ Lulu said. ‘You seem to know a lot about the theatre, you don’t recognise him
do you?’
‘I don’t, but I know someone who might.’
He went to an old dial telephone on the wall and dialled a number.
‘Sorry, he is not there. I will speak to him when comes back.’
‘Today?’ Quigg asked.
‘Yes, this afternoon,’ He shrugged. ‘John MacKinnon is one of those backward people who refuse to have a mobile phone. I have left a message. As soon as he returns he will ring me, and I will ring you.’
Quigg passed Papa his card. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘My pleasure.’
Outside Quigg said, ‘It’s a bit early, but I’m hungry. Let’s go and get lunch.’
They walked along Hammersmith Road and passed a sushi restaurant. Quigg told Lulu that under no circumstances was he going to eat raw fish.
‘If that’s all there was in a post-apocalyptic world between you and becoming a zombie?’
‘Being a zombie sounds interesting.’
After crossing over, they walked down Shortlands and just as they were about to give up, they found the Artisan Grill.
‘The very place,’ Quigg said.
He could feel the extra cold Guinness sliding down his throat, but he ordered a coffee instead.
Lulu, backside-conscious as ever, asked for a still water.
Ignoring the ‘British Classics’, the ‘Fish Market’, and the ‘Vegetarian and Pastas’, he went straight for something ‘From the Grill’ – a real man’s meal. ‘I’ll have the 28 Day Aged Angus Beef Sirloin Steak, please,’ he said to the waitress – who was obviously a schoolgirl on Work Experience. ‘Does it come with...’
‘Chips and peas, Sir.’
‘Excellent, and can I have the peppercorn sauce with it as well?’
‘Of course, Sir, and what would Madam like?’
Quigg grinned.
‘Madam would like Goats Cheese and Red Pepper Tortelloni, Wilted Spinach with Toasted Pine Nuts, and Carbonara Sauce.’
‘In fact,’ Quigg said. ‘Cancel the coffee and bring me a pint of Guinness.’