The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Are you Rodney Crankshank?’ Sandrine said to him.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m your new office manager – Sandrine Dibble.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve just been to see Mr Dring.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The owner.’

  ‘No, I don’t know him. I was sent here from Longshot Employment Agency.’

  He licked his lips and his eyes tunnelled down her cleavage. ‘But you’re staying?’

  ‘As long as you need me. Working in a detective agency sounds really interesting and exciting.’

  He didn’t want to burst her bubble and explain that it was mostly boring. ‘That’s great. Can I call you Sandy?’

  ‘No you cannot.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sandy is short for Sandra. Do I look like a Sandra?’

  ‘I can’t say I know any supermodels called Sandra.’ He thought he’d slip the reference to a supermodel in while he had the chance – women seemed to like being compared to supermodels. Although, he couldn’t see why, because they were mostly skeletons with skin and he liked his women with a bit of meat on the bones.

  ‘Yes well, this supermodel is called Sandrine.’

  ‘Of course. It’s a lovely name.’

  ‘My husband likes it.’

  ‘I like it as well.’

  ‘That’s good, because I have no immediate plans to change it. So, you’re in charge then?’

  ‘According to Mr Dring, but after what happened here I’m the only one he could put in charge. He had a choice of one.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the story on the news, read it in the newspapers and heard it on the car radio. Did they ever catch the person responsible?’

  ‘No, not yet. But I’m in regular contact with the Detective Inspector running the investigation. In fact, we’re working together on the case.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. So if you do get a call from DI Erica Holm, put her straight through to my office.’

  ‘That’s what I’d normally do anyway.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Sandrine’s coat and bag were sitting on a table by the door, and she was standing in the middle of the room directing the cleaning effort. She was wearing a tight black halter-neck top that emphasised the size of her breasts, which he would have guessed at a 38DD. Not that he was any type of expert, of course, but a detective had to know all manner of pointless information, and breast size was just one of the many pointless things that he’d taken a particular interest in. Beneath the top she wore a red lace bra that matched the red of her skirt, shoes and handbag. Dangly pearl drop earrings hung from her earlobes beneath the dirty blonde hair that was parted in the middle and brushed her naked shoulders. Although a few laughter lines had begun to appear around her mouth, her skin was clear and her lips kissable. There were a few rolls of excess fat on her back and around her midriff, and her backside was straining at the seams of her pencil skirt, but overall he thought that Sandrine Dibble was his ideal woman.

  ‘You’re married then?’ he said.

  ‘Have been for thirty years.’

  ‘I see. Children?’

  ‘Three – two girls and a boy. All grown up and flown the nest now.’

  He thought he’d grab the bull by the horns. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider an extra-marital affair, would you?’

  ‘You’re a bit forward, Rodney. We’ve known each other all of fifteen minutes and you’re asking me if I’ll jump in the sack with you.’

  A vision of her jumping into bed naked with him leapt into his mind. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m not saying yes, and I’m not saying no. Let’s see how things work out first.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Now, unless there was something else?’

  ‘No, I just came in to see if you needed any help?’

  ‘As you can see, I’m getting on with what needs to be done. Give me the rest of the week to sort the place out, and by next Monday Bulldog Investigations will be open for business again.’

  ‘What about operatives?’

  ‘I’ll organise interviews for you from Tuesday next week.’

  ‘That’ll be fabulous. And you’ll think about the extra-marital affair?’

  ‘You’re not married yourself, are you?’

  ‘Free and available – no children.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, but don’t keep pestering me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  That was three weeks ago, and Sandrine Dibble had proven herself to be an efficient administrator. The office had been cleaned, refurbished and refurnished. Between them, they’d taken on two new operatives – Alvin Mullins and Willie Steel, or Steel Willie as everyone called him – everyone being him and Sandrine.

  Sandrine had even put a photo frame on his desk. Inside the frame was a picture of her wearing a tight green dress leaning spread-eagled against a wall. She was looking sideways at the camera with puckered lips, and he knew exactly what he’d like to do to her.

  ‘Does this mean . . . ?’ he said to her, when she came into his office with a mug of coffee.

  ‘No, not yet. I’m still thinking about whether having an extra-marital affair with my boss is a good idea, or not. I put it there because you haven’t got anybody.’

  ‘And now I’ve got you?’

  ‘You’ve got a picture of me.’

  ‘I’d much prefer the real thing, Sandrine.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Now, he was just arriving at East Sussex Fostering Services on Upperton Road in Eastbourne – not far from the coach station. During the two-and-a-half--hour journey he’d stopped off at Pease Pottage Services in Crawley and picked over a Zinger Burrito at the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet while he mulled over his plan of attack. It was important to have a plan, and he was a man with a plan.

  To find out who Lancer Communications were, he’d decided to launch his attack from an oblique angle. What he didn’t want to do was get anyone else killed, especially Sandrine. As far as anybody knew, Lancer Communications were no longer of any interest to Rodney Crankshank at Bulldog Investigations. Little Sally Tomkins, who had become Mrs Caitlin Quigg was the focus of his investigation at the moment. Sooner or later though, he knew he would have to put himself in harm’s way, but by then he would know a lot more than he did now and have the backing of DI Erica Holm at Shepherd’s Bush Police Station.

  For now though, he’d begin with little Sally Tomkins. It wouldn’t be easy – child fostering records – he knew – would be sealed and only available with a court order, but an investigator had to be versatile, and apply their ingenuity, resourcefulness and brilliance.

  A reasonably pretty woman in her early thirties with short dirty blonde hair, a pale complexion and thin pinched lips looked up from her computer keyboard. ‘Yes?’

  He smiled like he’d invented a new teeth whitener and proffered his laminated detective’s license. ‘Rodney Crankshank, senior investigator at Bulldog Investigations in Shepherd’s Bush, London.’

  She squinted at the identity card, and as she took it from him and held it up to the light, he noticed the LOVE-HATE tattoos on the fingers of both hands.

  ‘Do you have an appointment with somebody, Mr Shankley?’

  He didn’t bother to correct the mispronunciation of his name – it wasn’t important. Instead, he spotted the woman’s identity card hanging round her neck on a chain. ‘You, Lola Trotter.’

  ‘Me? I don’t have appointments.’

  ‘Today’s your lucky day.’

  ‘I don’t have lucky days either.’

  ‘Today you do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need something, and you need something.’

  ‘I don’t need anything. Anyway, how do you know what I need?’

  ‘I don’t yet, but everybody needs something, Lola.’

  She burst into tears.

  He looked around the reception area and wondered if one of her work colleagues would come along and
usher her away to the staff room until she’d composed herself. ‘Come outside and talk to me, Lola.’

  She picked up the phone, keyed in an internal number and said, ‘Will you come and relieve me, Jasmine?’

  An obese female teenager appeared.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Lola said to her. ‘I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Dope.’

  Outside he said, ‘Did she just call you a dope?’

  Lola produced a joyless smile. ‘No, it’s teenager-speak for cool or awesome.’

  ‘The world has gone mad.’

  They sat down on a curved metal bench.

  ‘Weren’t you ever a teenager, Mr Shankley?’

  ‘It’s Rodney Crankshank, but call me Rodney.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Shankley.’

  ‘No, I don’t recall ever being a teenager.’ He noticed that beneath the white roll-neck jumper, knee-length skirt and suede boots, her body appeared to be in reasonable condition. ‘Why were you crying, Lola?’

  ‘It’s my mother.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She died three months ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It was expected. In a way, I was relieved. As well as holding down this job, I’d been her carer for nearly seven years.’

  ‘That must have taken its toll on you?’

  ‘I’m physically and mentally drained.’

  ‘So, what can I do to help you, Lola?’

  ‘I have bills I can’t pay . . .’ She burst into tears again.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘It was my mother’s bungalow. She meant to leave it to me, but things never work out the way you expect them to, do they?’

  ‘Very rarely.’

  ‘I needed money to pay the mortgage. The bank wouldn’t lend me any, so I went to someone else . . .’

  ‘A loan shark?’

  ‘Is that what they’re called?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I missed a couple of payments. I know I shouldn’t have done, but I just couldn’t afford to pay them when they fell due. They told me what would happen if I didn’t keep up with the payments, but I had no choice. So they piled on the interest. Now, I owe triple what I originally loaned from them.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand five hundred pounds.’ Tears ran down her cheeks again. She dabbed at her puffy eyes with a paper tissue. ‘I’ll never be able to pay off the debt, and they said they’ll take my home if I don’t give them the money soon.’

  He took her hand. ‘I’ll clear that debt for you.’

  She stared at him. ‘Why? Why would you do that for me? You don’t know me.’

  ‘As I said, I need something.’

  ‘You’re going to ask me to break the law, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes . . . but a minor transgression only. I need a copy of a child’s file from thirty years ago.’

  ‘If anybody ever found out . . .’

  ‘No one will find out, Lola. I’ll go and clear your debt and you copy the file. We’ll meet later for a drink. I’ll give you a receipt, you give me the file and that will be it.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘It will be. Just find the file, copy it like you would any other file and slip it into your bag.’

  Lola bit her lip. ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good. If you give me the details of the loan shark, I’ll sort the debt out for you.’

  She nodded, wrote down the details on a slip of paper from her handbag and passed it to him. I’ve put my address on there as well.

  He gave her one of his business cards in case of an emergency. ‘Where will we meet?’

  ‘There’s a pub not far from here – The Dolphin on South Street.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Five thirty.’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Who found the body, Perkins?’

  Perkins pointed to a group of twenty or so people milling around to the right, on the other side of the Circle of Lebanon. ‘It’s a tour group . . .’

  ‘They’re already organising tours of the crime scene?’

  ‘No, Sir. It’s an organised tour of the cemetery.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are there organised tours of the cemetery?’

  ‘Because it’s one of London’s great Victorian cemeteries with historic, cultural and wildlife attractions . . .’

  ‘You sound like an official tour guide.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  He turned to Dwyer. ‘Go and talk to them, Sergeant.’

  Dwyer opened her mouth, but then closed it again.

  ‘What?’ he probed.

  ‘Nothing. I was going to flippantly ask what you’d like me to talk to them about, but then I realised I’d be engaging in banter with you and you know that’s not something I want to do.’

  ‘You’re warming to me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do pigs fly?’

  ‘In my experience anything is possible. Anyway, go and record their names and addresses. I’d like to know if they saw or heard anything, whether any of them touched the body . . . I’m sure they promoted you for a reason, Dwyer.’

  She turned on her heel and walked over to the tour group.

  ‘Hello, Doc.’

  ‘Quigg.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  The flash from a crime scene photographer’s camera imprinted itself on his retina.

  ‘The corpse is that of a woman in her early twenties . . .’

  ‘How early?’

  ‘Twenty-one or twenty-two – no more.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘No . . . Based on body temperature, and the extent of rigor mortis in the muscles of the face and neck, I estimate the time of death to be between midnight and three this morning . . .’

  Quigg held a hand over his nose and mouth, and bent over the pale-looking corpse to get a closer look. In the open air his Necrophobia wasn’t too bad, or at least it was manageable. The dead woman was lying on her back, but turned slightly to the right. Her right arm was stretched out straight with the index finger pointing directly towards the entrance to the catacombs.

  ‘It looks as though she’s dressed for a night on the town,’ he said.

  The corpse was wearing a black sleeveless dress with lace at the top revealing her cleavage. From what he could see she had no bra on beneath the dress unless it was a strapless bra. The dress terminated mid-thigh and he could see the lace tops of her stockings. She was attractive, well-proportioned with long dark-brown hair. There was no necklace and no earrings, but she wore a gold Sekonda watch on her right wrist, which appeared to have stopped working at one minute to midnight. On her left ring finger was a white gold engagement ring with a substantial diamond in a rose lotus setting.

  ‘You’ll check the watch and ring, Perkins?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. I don’t think we’ll have much luck with the watch – Sekonda are a well-known make, but the ring is expensive with an unusual setting.’

  Both shoes were still on her feet, her stockings were intact, and there didn’t appear to be any cuts and grazes on her arms and legs that he could see.

  Doc Solberg looked up at him. ‘I agree, she has been out for the night. There is also a distinct smell of alcohol . . .’

  ‘Can you scan her with ultraviolet light during the post-mortem to see if there are any nightclub UV security stamps?’

  ‘Of course.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Is it me, or has she been put here?’

  Doc Solberg nodded. ‘I would agree with you, Quigg. There is no evidence that she was dragged here, or that she fell from a standing position. Her body has been laid on the ground and arranged in this position.’

  ‘Any idea on cause of death?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means just that – look.�
� Doc Solberg moved the hair away from the woman’s neck to reveal two small circular wounds with trails of encrusted blood.’

  He grunted. ‘She was bitten by a vampire?’

  ‘You may laugh, Quigg. In Norway the trolls who live in the mountains place curses on people and they become werewolves or vampires . . .’

  ‘The trolls who live in the mountains? I hate to be the bearer of bad news Ingrid, but trolls don’t exist. Ergo: if trolls don’t exist – no curses, no werewolves, no vampires.’

  Perkins interrupted. ‘There have been some documented cases, Sir.’

  ‘Of trolls in Norway?’

  ‘No, of vampires around the world.’

  ‘It’s mythological hogwash, Perkins.’

  ‘You’re forgetting about the Puerto Rican Chupacabra that drinks the blood of goats.’

  ‘Not humans?’

  ‘Well no, but . . .’

  ‘Let’s stick to facts, shall we?’

  Doc Solberg said, ‘It is a fact that she has been bitten on the neck above the carotid artery . . .’

  ‘Your objectivity seems to have deserted you, Doc. It’s a fact that there are two wounds on her neck above the carotid artery, which could have been made by something yet to be identified to give the appearance of a vampire bite.’

  ‘And blood has been sucked from her body . . .’

  ‘I’d be interested in knowing how much blood is missing – if any.’

  ‘Look at how pale she is.’

  ‘She’s a corpse – corpses are habitually pale.’

  ‘Is your mind closed to all other possibilities, Quigg?’

  ‘It has a triple lock, a deadbolt and retina display access.’

  ‘The post-mortem will reveal the truth.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. Now, if those wounds were made by the fangs of someone who is immortal, has no reflection and shrivels up in sunlight, then the surrounding skin should reveal a DNA profile of our suspect, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘You are mocking me, Quigg.’

  ‘I’m pointing you towards the truth, Doc. So, what you’re telling me is that you have no cause of death other than two wounds on her neck?’

  ‘That is correct.’