The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Quigg 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Did David Blaine kill his mother?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure, but we’re working on that assumption.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be in charge of the investigation much longer, Inspector?’

  He knew someone would ask the question sooner or later. Now was the time to go. He felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, and he had to push himself down into the chair in case he floated up to the ceiling like helium balloon.

  ‘I would...’

  Lulu squeezed his arm and leaned towards him. ‘Don’t resign, I have an idea.’

  He stared at her. Was she going to save him? Did Lulu the Zulu have a ‘get-out-of-jail-free’ card? Because he loved his job and had a good feeling about Lulu he decided to keep hoping.

  ‘Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I hope, by the end of the evening, to have further news.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all for now, folks.’

  Outside in the corridor he said to Lulu, ‘It had better be the best idea you’ve ever had, because I can’t find a way out of the labyrinth.’

  She tugged him by the arm towards the car park. ‘Come on then, we haven’t got time for chatting in corridors.’

  Once they were in the car and he was fumbling to put his seat belt on she skidded out of the car park and headed along King Street towards Hammersmith Road.

  ‘So, what’s this brilliant idea of yours?’

  ‘Papa the barber.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘He knew a man who knew who David Blaine was. David Blaine was no one. If he knew who he was, he might know where he is now. I don’t mean that he’ll know him personally, but he might know his history, and we might be able to work out where he is.’

  Quigg saw a glimmer of hope. ‘He was an actor, you’re thinking he’s hiding in a theatre or something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, let’s see where it takes us.’

  ***

  Leonidas Papalexis’ barber’s shop was closed at twenty to seven at night, so Quigg had to ring the Duty Sergeant – Vic Jones – and get his home address. As usual, she made him dance a jig on the end of a piece of frayed string. He imagined that his life wouldn’t be worth a rotting bean sprout once she found out that he was seeing Marion Petersen. She’d probably hire a contract killer, or buy a sniper’s rifle and do it herself. In fact, she’d want something up close and personal like a Glock 17, so that she could see the white of his eyes. She’d want to know that he knew it was Vic pulling the trigger. Whichever way he looked at it, his time as DI was coming to an ignominious and sticky end.

  Thankfully, Papa lived above his shop, so they were heading in the right direction.

  When they knocked, someone else answered. He appeared to be having a party.

  ‘You are back?’ he said when he came to the door.

  ‘We need your help,’ Lulu said.

  ‘Of course, what can I do?’

  ‘We want to know about David Blaine’s career, we need to find out where he might be hiding.’

  ‘Of course, I have heard about the beautiful Vivienne Blaine. One moment, we will go into the shop, I have guests.’

  They waited while he climbed the stairs, and then came back down a few minutes later with the keys to the shop and a man wearing a bright green checked suit, a cravat, and a monocle who introduced himself as Leonard Crabbe.

  ‘This is the man who knows all about the Blaines,’ Papa said once they were inside the shop.

  No sooner had they sat down than the door opened and a teenager with long hair and a parka jacket came in.

  ‘We are closed,’ Papa said getting up.

  ‘Then why are the lights on and the door open?’

  ‘It is a mistake, please come back in the morning I will give you a free haircut.’

  ‘Oh okay.’

  Papa locked the door.

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘We need to know where David Blaine might be now?’ Lulu said. ‘He killed his mother three days ago, and he’s murdered a number of other people. Why, we don’t know, but we think he’s lost his mind. Have you any idea where he might go?’

  ‘You want somewhere that means something to him?’ Leonard Crabbe said.

  ‘Yes, is there such a place?’

  ‘His finest performance was in ‘In Praise of Love’ by Terrence Rattigan at the Granville Theatre on Fulham Broadway in 1993.’

  ‘Is the theatre still standing?’

  ‘Only just, my dear. It is soon to be demolished and made into a shopping mall – as if we need another shopping mall.’

  Lulu looked at Quigg. ‘He’s there, I know it.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’ He checked his watch. It was now quarter to eight. He had just over two hours before the Chief pulled the plug on his career and it spiralled down the plughole.

  They thanked Papa and Leonard Crabbe and ran to the car. Lulu drove up the A315 and joined Holland Road. She drove through Earl’s Court and continued up Finborough Road then turned off onto Fulham Road until she reached Fulham Broadway.

  ‘Should we call for back up?’ Lulu said.

  ‘We don’t want to look like idiots if there’s no one there. Let’s check it out first.’

  ‘I thought you said only stupid people went in without back up?’

  ‘We’re not going in, we’re just checking it out.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Quigg opened the boot, took out two torches, and handed one to Lulu.

  If you weren’t looking for the Granville Theatre you wouldn’t have noticed it behind the twelve-foot high wooden fence on its triangle piece of land between Marks & Spencer’s and the Chop Chop Noodle Bar. It was merely another development along Fulham Broadway. Another splinter from the past being expunged. Yes, there would be some blood, but nothing to shout about. London was rushing headlong into the future. Nobody cared about the old buildings now. Nobody cared that Fulham Broadway used to be called Walham Green, or that the famous Victorian architect, Frank Matcham, designed the Granville.

  After walking along the wooden fence like thieves trying to find a way in, Lulu eventually found a piece of wood at the back, overlooking Vanston Place, that she could slide out just far enough for them both to squeeze through.

  ‘We should have called for back up,’ Lulu whispered.

  ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll just check it out and then call.’

  The Granville Theatre was an impressive sight. Even though it was dark, and snow lay like a mantle over everything, one could still see the Queen Anne facade, the circular entrance crowned with a terracotta minaret, and the two towers surrounded by ornamental railings. Streetlights, beyond the high fence, provided enough light to see the building by.

  The main door was locked. Quigg wondered if they were in the right place. He pressed the light button on his Casio watch. It was now ten to nine. Well, if it wasn’t the right place, his career was doomed.

  Lulu wanted to go left while he went right round the building, but he refused to let her go on her own. They both went left, and spent twenty minutes strolling along the pavement trying to find a way in. It wasn’t until they were nearly back at the front entrance, and Quigg had resigned himself to being a bus conductor, a taxi driver, or a security consultant in a supermarket that they found a fire door partially open. And because fire doors don’t have handles on the outside Lulu broke one of her nails pulling it open.

  ‘I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I’m making for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, I do, Lulu, I do.’

  At twenty to ten they squeezed through the fire door of the Granville Theatre, where such stars as Mable Somers, Horace & Edna, and Micky Maxis Monkeys used to perform. Hughie Green also presented a series of ‘Opportunity Knocks’ in 1956.

  ‘Should we call for back up now?’ Lulu asked again.

  ‘I have twenty minutes before the Chief replaces me with Sergeant Jones. It would take that long to wait for back up to arrive. We’re probably in the wrong plac
e anyway.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The fire door led up a set of stairs. At the top was a musty old curtain, which opened up into the rear of the entrance vestibule. There were no lights, and no sound. A glass-fronted box office stood to the left with an opening at the bottom for money and tickets to change hands. On the walls were blue and gold raised plaster panels in the style of Louis XIV, and the ceiling was actually an iron and glass canopy in a filigree design.

  ‘It was a good idea,’ Quigg whispered, ‘but there’s nobody here.’

  ‘We haven’t checked everywhere yet.’

  ‘Upstairs or downstairs?’

  ‘If he’s here, he’ll be downstairs,’ Lulu said.

  They now had the torches on and made their way along a corridor to a set of swing doors, which led into the stalls. There was a strong smell of decay, and Quigg wondered if the building was safe. Maybe they should have called the Fire Brigade, or at the very least worn hard hats and boots with metal toe-caps.

  The doors creaked open.

  ‘Sshhh,’ Lulu hissed.

  It wasn’t as if he could have prevented the noise. For one, he didn’t know the doors were going to creak. For two, he had no oil on him. For three, only they could hear the noise because there was no...

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Lulu said.

  ‘Yes.’ It was a creak. Not a door creak, but a floor creak.

  They stood in the right aisle that led up to the stage and shone the torches all around like spotlights looking for German bombers during the Blitz.

  There was something on the stage, but they couldn’t see what it was. Slowly, they walked down the sloping aisle towards the raised stage.

  Quigg peeled off right, and Lulu went left. On each side of the stage was a short set of steps. They both ascended a single step at a time until they were both standing at either side of the stage, which was a good twenty feet across.

  The shape in the centre moved. They aimed their torches as the shape rose upwards. Then the spotlights came on and blinded them. It was all a diversion, a sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors. A wire had pulled up the shape, and David Blaine – dressed up like an Arab – appeared behind Lulu grabbing her round the neck, a large knife held in his hand.

  ‘So you have arrived Lodovico with the beautiful Emilia.’

  Quigg moved towards Blaine and Lulu, but he pushed the blade closer to Lulu’s neck. Who the hell were Lodovico and Emilia? Blaine was obviously a character in a play, but which play? He wished he’d paid more attention to Drama at school, or was it English? Maybe Lulu knew, but even if she did he wouldn’t know how it played out.

  ‘Not yet, Lodovico. I need to explain why Desdemona lies dead in her bed. I smothered her because of her adultery, and now this is my final act.’

  Maybe he could rationalise with him, bring him back from the edge back into this reality. ‘David, my name is Quigg not Lodovico, and that is Sergeant Lulu Begone not Emilia. We...’

  ‘The traitorous Emilia... She has brought the Governor and Cassio, and now deserves to die.’

  Blaine moved the knife closer.

  ‘Wait,’ Quigg shouted. Crap, what the hell was he going to do?

  ‘Othello,’ Lulu said. ‘Desdemona was innocent of the crime you accused her of...’

  So, it was Othello. He had no idea what the play was about. He knew William Shakespeare had written it, but that was all.

  ‘You lie.’

  ‘It was Iago who planted the handkerchief.’

  ‘No, not the honest and trustworthy Iago? Tell me it isn’t so, Iago?’

  Quigg had no idea whom or where Iago was, but guessed he was in Blaine’s crippled mind.

  Blaine pushed Lulu away and she fell onto the stage. ‘Away from me villainous whore.’

  Quigg rushed to her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  Blaine moved centre stage and held the knife above his own heart. He looked up towards the dress circle where his audience was sitting breathless – eleven mannequins dressed in stolen clothing with bloody faces tied to their heads – he bowed and pushed the knife into his chest. ‘I kissed thee ere I killed thee: no way but this; killing myself, to die upon a kiss.’ He fell forward.

  Quigg could almost hear the applause.

  ‘That’s twelve murders,’ Lulu said. ‘The twelve murders of Christmas.’

  ‘Blaine committed suicide.’

  ‘Which is still a murder.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘We should have waited for back up as well.’

  ‘Next time I’ll listen to you.’

  ‘Is there going to be a next time?’

  ‘Do you want there to be a next time?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about that. Do you think the Chief will let me be your partner?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then it’s not worth talking about, is it?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Aftermath

  Quigg phoned the Chief. It was three minutes to ten.

  ‘Why do you have to ring at this time of night, Quigg?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to let Sergeant Jones know he can stand down.’

  ‘You didn’t really think I’d replace you with Sergeant Jones, did you?’

  ‘It sounded pretty convincing to me.’

  ‘I only said it to provide you with some additional motivation and encouragement.’

  ‘Well it worked, Sir. Sergeant Begone and I have just caught the killer, who sadly has killed himself thus saving the taxpayer a fortune in legal costs.’

  ‘A good result all-round then, well done. I knew I could rely on you not to spoil my Christmas.’

  His heart rate trebled. ‘I’d like Sergeant Begone to be my partner, Chief, and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Have you been drinking, Quigg? It’s not like you to be so forceful.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t...’

  ‘Okay, you obviously work well together, and I know Sergeant Begone has asked me on numerous occasions if she could be your partner...’

  ‘She has?’

  ‘Oh yes, going back three months, didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘You obviously don’t know her as well as you think you do.’

  ‘So it would seem. See you in the New Year, Chief.’

  ‘Have a good one, Quigg.’

  The call disconnected. He stared at Lulu.

  ‘I guess he told you, huh?’

  ‘I’m wondering if I want someone with so many secrets as my partner now.’

  ‘No you’re not, you’re wondering if you can blackmail me into buying you lunch all the time?’

  ‘Accusing a senior officer of blackmail is a terrible thing, Sergeant Begone. I’d like to think of it more as symbiosis.’

  ***

  Tuesday, 29th December

  After arranging for forensics and the pathologist to attend the death of Othello, he and Sergeant Begone returned to the station and called a press conference to inform them that the Christmas killer was no more, and that they could all sleep soundly in their beds again.

  He arrived home at twenty-five to two in the morning and wondered if he had the strength to climb up the stairs, or whether he should just curl up in a ball in the kitchen like a dog.

  ‘Is that you, Quigg?’

  ‘What are you doing awake at this time, mum?’

  ‘Waiting for you to come home safely. You may be thirty-six, but I’m your mother, and mothers worry about their sons no matter how old they are.’

  ‘Thanks, mum, that’s really sweet of you.’

  ‘If you weren’t such a huge disappointment you’d already be asleep in your bed. Instead, you’re out to all hours with those dead bodies...’

  ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

  ‘There’s a message on the answer phone from Phoebe.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I just did.’
<
br />   He listened to the message and cried.

  ***

  Friday, 1st January, New Year’s Eve

  Marion Petersen lived in a one-bedroom flat in Chardin Road, off Elliott Road, overlooking Chiswick Common. He decided not to use his car just in case he decided to have a drink, so he caught the tube from Upton Park on the District Line straight to Turnham Green. The journey took him twenty-seven minutes, but he had the chance to doze and think about what he might say when she opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Quigg.’

  ‘Hello Marion, you look fantastic.’ It had taken him at least twenty minutes to come up with that, but it was the truth, she did look fantastic. She’d obviously had her hair done special. It was choppy, like waves on a blustery day, all different lengths. The colour was a mix of black and different shades of brown. It really suited her and he said so.

  ‘Thanks, it cost me ninety pounds so it had better look good.’

  Ninety pounds! She must be rich. Ninety pounds would have bought him lunch all month. ‘Worth every penny.’

  He’d read an article in a woman’s magazine when he’d been waiting at the dentist one time about symmetrical faces and bodies. Research had found that if you had a symmetrical face you were more beautiful, if your body was symmetrical you had more orgasms, and if a woman’s breasts were more symmetrical they were more fertile. Marion’s face was certainly symmetrical, and he was definitely attracted to her. Maybe he’d get the chance to inspect her breasts and body later. She had porcelain skin, dark brown eyes, and a crooked smile.

  She’d obviously done some research herself, because she gave him a can of draught Guinness.

  He sat down on the sofa.

  ‘You’re all tense,’ she said.

  It’s true he was tense. The murder investigation had tensed him all up, and he still hadn’t unwound. He was like a coiled spring.

  She began to massage his neck and shoulders.