The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Quigg 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  Once the waitress had gone to do their bidding Quigg said, ‘You’re very good, Sergeant Lulu Begone.’

  ‘I’m not buying you dinner.’

  ‘After a sirloin steak, I don’t think I’ll be able to eat a dinner as well. No, I was referring to your question about what the building used to be.’

  ‘From the outside it looks like one of those old English theatres.’

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘Of course, you don’t know that I went to school and university here, do you? I’ve spent a long time in England.’

  ‘I should have known.’

  The waitress brought their drinks.

  ‘I think we’re ninety-five percent sure the killer is or was an actor, aren’t we?’

  Quigg was in seventh heaven as the Guinness lubricated his tonsils. ‘Mmmm, I suppose we are,’ he said wiping the froth off his top lip.

  ‘The ring, the tattoo, and now the King’s Theatre, it’s as if he’s leaving us breadcrumbs.’

  ‘Most serial killers want to get caught, so I suppose it’s logical that he should provide us with titbits of evidence to reach that goal.’

  The food arrived. Murder was forgotten as they devoured the evidence.

  ‘Could I have the dessert menu please?’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  ‘You’re not having a pudding?’

  ‘No, I just like to look at menus.’

  The waitress brought the menu and waited while he scanned the choices.

  ‘I’ll have the Hot Sticky Toffee Pudding with rich velvety Chocolate Sauce and Vanilla Ice Cream, please.’

  The waitress smiled like a heart specialist.

  ‘You’ll be dead before you’re fifty,’ Lulu said.

  He reached across the table and gripped Lulu’s hand. ‘I’ve still got some time left to say goodbye to my loved ones then, Doctor?’

  Lulu laughed. ‘Why don’t men get big backsides?’

  Quigg thought for a moment. ‘I have no idea, maybe it’s a hormonal thing.’

  ‘A man would say that. You think hormones rule women.’

  ‘Excuse me for breathing, but I never said anything of the sort.’

  ***

  Debbie was just about to cut open Mr Faverolles when they entered the Mortuary at two o’clock.

  ‘You’re lucky, Quigg,’ Debbie said.

  ‘That makes a change.’

  ‘We paid for a locum to come in and carry out some of my PMs because there was a backlog. I was able to start the Faverolles early, so this is the last one. Nothing to report so far.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll just stand over here by the door and wait for you to finish.’

  ‘You should get another job, Quigg.’

  ‘I don’t think I have time for another job as well as this one.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘I thought that was a given in this job.’

  After half an hour he left Lulu in the Mortuary while he went and sat in the corridor. Debbie would be at least another half-hour. He took hold of the snake’s tail and rang Marion Petersen.

  ‘Why has it taken you so long to ring me?’

  He should have anticipated this question. It wasn’t as if it had come out of the blue. He should have been more prepared, treated it like an interview, made bullet pointed lists, mindmaps, practised in the mirror.

  ‘You know I’m up to my ears in dead bodies. I’m under a lot of pressure to catch the killer, and...’

  ‘One little phone call?’

  ‘I have no money.’

  ‘I’m not after your money.’

  ‘No, I mean to take you out.’

  ‘We don’t have to go out.’

  ‘And I live with my mum.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m separated and have a daughter. The CSA take all my money. I can’t afford to get a place of my own. In fact, some months I can hardly afford to eat.’

  ‘And this is why you didn’t ring me?’

  ‘Yes, I’m not really anybody’s idea of Mr Right.’

  ‘I have a flat.’

  ‘I feel like a charity case.’

  ‘Come round to my flat and I’ll cook you a meal.’

  ‘You’re running a soup kitchen?’

  She laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was off the hook. Being honest had worked.

  ‘I know you’re busy with the murder investigation, but what about Friday? We can re-arrange if necessary.’

  ‘I’d love that, Marion, and I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner – I wanted to.’

  ‘I’ll see you Friday... Oh, what’s your first name?’

  ‘Quigg.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘Only my mother knows my first name.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Phew. That went well. He rang the number Edie Golden had given him. Why stop when he was on a roll?

  ‘This better be good?’

  ‘Hello, it’s DI Quigg.’

  ‘The copper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you forget to ask me something?’

  ‘You asked me to ring.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe you fancied me.’

  ‘I don’t normally like coppers.’

  ‘Sorry to have bothered...’

  ‘I’m having you on, DI Quigg.’

  ‘Ha, very funny.’

  ‘So, do you want to show a girl a good time?’

  He thought he’d try the same strategy. ‘I have no money.’

  ‘That’s a significant barrier to showing me a good time.’

  ‘The CSA take all my money. I’m separated, have a daughter of eighteen months, and live with my mother. There, now you know the gory details of my life.’

  ‘Does that chat-up line ever work?’

  ‘No, but it’s better than a woman finding out later. It gets messy and tearful then.’

  ‘Okay, if we’re playing ‘Show and Tell’, I spent eighteen months in prison for Actual Bodily Harm, my parents have disowned me, and I gave my daughter up for adoption at fifteen.’

  ‘Okay, you win.’

  ‘I usually do... Have you got a first name, DI Quigg?’

  ‘Quigg.’

  ‘Oooh, I love mysteries. Well, what’s it to be?’

  ‘I’m interested if you are?’

  ‘You know where I live, come round on Saturday night at about eight.’

  ‘Should I bring wine or anything?’

  ‘Condoms, it’s been a while.’

  ‘You’re not backwards in coming forwards are you, Edie Golden?’

  ‘Never was, Quigg.’

  ‘See you Saturday.’

  The call ended, but immediately the phone lit up and vibrated in his hand.

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘It is Papa – Leonidas Papalexis – from the barber’s shop.’

  ‘Oh yes, what can I do for you?’

  ‘It is what I can do for you, Inspector. I have a name for the man in the paper.’

  ‘You do? That’s excellent.’

  ‘He is called David Mertens, but his stage name is David Blaine.’

  ‘Sorry, never heard of him.’

  ‘No, he was a bit-part player never the starring role, but his mother... Iris Mertens, or should I say... Vivienne Blaine, she was always the leading lady.’

  ‘I don’t watch television.’

  ‘On the stage.’

  ‘No, sorry. No time for the theatre either.’

  ‘The theatre is dying, Inspector. People do not have the time, money, or inclination to go to the theatre now.’

  ‘Well, thanks...’

  ‘No... I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Oh sorry.’

  ‘Vivienne Blaine appeared at the King’s Theatre before they demolished it. Her son was never in a show there. In fact, I don’t think he started acting until he was in his twenties.’

  ‘That explains the i
mportance of 178 Hammersmith Road, I suppose.’

  ‘I have an address, also.’

  ‘An address for what?’

  ‘An address for whom... David has always lived with his mother.’

  His heart started dancing the ChaCha. ‘I’m listening?’

  ‘They live at 7 Ladbroke Terrace. It is close to the Gate Theatre, Notting Hill Gate tube station, and Portobello Road.’

  ‘You’re a star yourself, Papa, thanks very much for your help.’

  ‘It has been my pleasure.’

  The call ended, he opened the Mortuary door, and stuck his head through the crack. ‘Sergeant, we have to go.’

  ‘I’ve nearly finished now, Quigg,’ Debbie called to him.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘You know what I know.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. Hopefully, we won’t be meeting for some time.’

  ‘You have a lead?’

  ‘An address.’

  ‘Good luck, Quigg.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lulu followed him along the corridor and up the stairs. He told her what Papa had said as she ran to keep up with him. Then he phoned the Duty Sergeant, who wasn’t Vic Jones, and told him he needed back up at 7 Ladbroke Terrace.

  ‘You’ve rung someone?’ Lulu said as they left the A219 and joined the A40.

  ‘I ring a lot of people.’

  ‘A girl knows, you know. You look smug.’

  ‘I’m sure that calling your DI smug is bordering on insubordination, Sergeant.’

  ‘Which one did you... You rang both of them, didn’t you? And I was beginning to think you were a wimp.’

  ‘A wimp, Sir.’

  Lulu laughed. ‘Come on then, tell me what you said and what they said?’

  ‘A gentleman never tells.’

  ‘Yeah, but you can.’

  ‘You really know how to hurt a guy.’

  ‘Did I tell you I’m a 2nd Dan Black belt in Karate?’

  He told her what he’d said, what they’d said, and what had been arranged.

  ‘You’ll get caught.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Because where women are concerned you’re useless, and women always know.’

  ‘It’ll only be the once. I need to find out which one I like the best, and nobody mentioned anything about exclusivity.’

  ‘I see disaster in my crystal ball.’

  ‘You never said you were a medium.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  Chapter Ten

  From the outside 7 Ladbroke Terrace did not look like the home of a star of stage and screen. It was a Georgian stucco-fronted house situated on the corner of Ladbroke Terrace and Ladbroke Road.

  It seemed a shame to smash open the beautiful white Georgian door of the second-floor flat with a battering ram, but that’s what they did when there was no answer to their knocks and shouts of “Police, open up!”

  The Blaine’s flat boasted four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a reception room, kitchen, and utility room. Quigg guessed that the value of the property would be in excess of one and a half million pounds – not that he knew anything about house prices in Notting Hill Gate. The decor and the carpets were off-white. There was floor to ceiling windows, and an enormous mirror above the fireplace in the reception room. Throughout the flat – hung on the walls – were an abundance of posters and pictures of the very beautiful and sexy Vivienne Blaine in her various productions, from ‘No Sex Please, We’re British’ at the Olympic Theatre in Leicester Square to ‘Whodunnit’ at the Clapham Imperial Palace. Quigg knew the names of some of the plays, but he didn’t recognise Vivienne Blaine at all, and he recognised her even less when they found her on a bloodied white quilt in the master bedroom naked with a knife through her left breast and her face ripped off. The smell and flies were atrocious and they quickly shut the door.

  He told Lulu to ring Perkins and Debbie Poulson, put one of the uniformed officers on the front door, and another outside. As David Blaine was obviously not on the premises, he let the other two uniforms go.

  ‘This is where it all started,’ Lulu said.

  ‘You’re quite the expert on serial killers, aren’t you?’ Quigg said.

  ‘Did I tell you that I’ve been to America?’

  ‘Disneyland?’

  ‘FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia.’

  ‘Sightseeing?’

  ‘Behavioural Analysis Unit for six months.’

  ‘I see, so you’re really in charge and I’m just along for the ride?’

  ‘No, you’re in charge, Sir.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say so, Sergeant. Is there anything else you’d like to confess while you’re in the mood?’

  ‘No, you know nearly everything about me now.’

  ‘Nearly everything?’

  ‘A girl has to have some secrets.’

  ‘Secrets?’

  ‘I think he killed his mother first,’ Lulu said changing the direction of the conversation

  ‘Let me have a stab at why,’ Quigg said feeling decidedly un-knowledgeable and under-trained. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are no pictures of David Blaine on the walls. He lived here as a second-class citizen. This flat was Vivienne Blaine’s residence, and all David Blaine had was his own room. She dominated him, embarrassed him, made him feel small – a failure, which of course he was in her eyes and in his own eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made him pay to live here. There has been bad feeling between them for years, and three days ago they had the last of many arguments, which resulted in David killing his own mother.’

  ‘Not bad for an amateur. I think that act has resulted in a psychotic break with reality.’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed by your positive feedback.’

  Lulu smiled. ‘Now we need to find out where David Blaine is.’

  ‘And you were doing so well before you began stating the obvious.’

  They found David Blaine’s bedroom, and in comparison with the rest of the flat it was decidedly shabby. There were three cast photographs of plays in which he had been a part, but it was clear that throughout his life he had been in the shadow of his mother – the leading lady, the star – David Blaine was a nobody. Until now – now he was somebody – somebody who had killed eight people.

  Quigg’s phone activated.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Despatch, Sir.’

  ‘You’re going to give me bad news, aren’t you, Paula?’

  ‘It’s not Paula, Sir, it’s Sally, and yes, I’m the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘Let’s hear it then, Sally?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Black and their two grown-up children have been murdered at 107 Bird Lane, off Fulham Palace Road, near the cemetery.’

  ‘Postcode?’

  ‘SW6 6JB.’

  ‘We’re on our way.’

  He ended the call and sighed. It was twenty past five, and he had the press briefing at six o’clock.

  ‘What’s wrong, Sir?’

  ‘Four calling birds.’

  ‘Counting Vivienne Blaine that’s eleven people he’s murdered.’

  ‘Thanks, I don’t have to get my abacus out now.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m stating the obvious again, aren’t I?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  As they were about to leave Perkins arrived.

  ‘This is getting a bit monotonous, Sir.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t found any of that so-called evidence you’re so fond of.’

  ‘I’m not going to credit that with an answer.’

  Marion smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  Debbie arrived.

  ‘It’s getting positively crowded in here, so it’s time for us to leave. Oh, and if you haven’t already heard there’s been another four murders at 107 Bird Lane in Fulham.’

  ‘The bodies are mounting up, Quigg,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Someone else who states the obvious. Come on Sergeant, let’s go, I have my resig
nation to tender at the press briefing.’

  ‘You’re not really going to resign at the press briefing, are you?’ Lulu said as they walked down the stairs and out into the darkness of Ladbroke Terrace. It had started snowing again. The flakes swirled like dervishes in the Siberian wind. He pulled the hood of his duffel coat up over his head, hunched his shoulders, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  He told her what the Chief had said. ‘I’d rather jump than be pushed.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, Sir.’

  ‘You don’t know the Chief. This is the ideal opportunity for him to get rid of me. He thinks that the day he promoted me the world came to an end.’

  ‘But you’re one of his best Detective Inspectors.’

  ‘I’m a thorn in his side. If he gets rid of me he’ll be able to promote his golden boy Sergeant Jones.’

  ‘When does the twenty-four hours run out?’

  ‘Ten o’clock tonight.’

  ‘We still have time then.’

  ‘Time for what? We have no idea where he is, or how to find him. The sooner someone else takes over the case, the sooner they can see what I’m missing, and stop him before he kills again.’

  ***

  As usual the briefing room could have been mistaken for an opium den. He’d mentioned to the Chief on numerous occasions that the room needed air conditioning, or an extractor fan, anything to pump some fresh air in and stop it smelling like a midden, but money was always the stumbling block. In the meantime, police officers and the press had to be subjected to unhealthy conditions while they imparted the latest news on their investigations. Well, he thought, in half an hour he wouldn’t have to put up with it anymore.

  Lulu had joined him, and the men with cameras seemed to be more interested in photographing her than finding out what had happened with the investigation.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have some order please.’ He felt like a toastmaster at a wedding.

  Quiet descended.

  ‘I can report that a further five bodies have been discovered. We are, however, urgently seeking the whereabouts of David Blaine in connection with these, and the earlier murders.’

  ‘Can you give us details of these latest murders, Inspector?’

  ‘I can tell you that the stage actress – Vivienne Blaine – was one of the bodies we found murdered earlier, but until such time as we have informed the relatives I can’t reveal the names of the other victims.’