by Tim Ellis
‘So, what can I do for the police?’ he said, sitting down himself behind his desk.
‘You do know there’s the corpse of a young woman in your cemetery, don’t you?’
‘Of course. Libby informed me as soon as the tour guide – Minette Saayman – notified her. Night revellers and vandals – we get a lot of high jinks in there. Obviously a practical joke gone wrong.’
‘Do people regularly leave dead bodies lying around in the cemetery?’
‘No, but we do find drunks and tramps sleeping in there, memorials desecrated, graffiti on the stonework and the remains of the dead sometimes interfered with. The cemetery is locked at night, of course, but . . .’
‘To keep the bodies in?’ Quigg interrupted.
A shadow of smile darkened Mr Mulhern’s face. ‘And blessed with a sense of humour as well, Inspector?’
‘One of my many talents.’
‘I’m sure. But even though the gates are locked, people still find a way in. The cemetery wasn’t designed to keep people – alive or dead – in or out. You would think that the last place a living person would want to be is in a cemetery. They’ll arrive there soon enough, but everyone seems to be in a hurry to reach their destination these days – even if it is the terminus.’
‘I was going to ask you how someone might gain entrance to the cemetery carrying a corpse?’
‘Are you sure that’s how it happened?’
He looked at Dwyer who shrugged. ‘No, I suppose we’re not positive that’s what happened, but there was no evidence that the young woman was killed where she was found, so it’s the most likely scenario.’
‘Well, as I said, people find a way in. The cemetery extends over thirty-seven acres, and there are over 168,000 names in 52,000 graves, so you can imagine that the perimeter is quite substantial. Also, the cemetery is not a viable going concern, it operates as a charity and survives on charitable donations. So, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that there were a few breaches in the defences.’
‘But you don’t know where those breaches are?’
‘Me? No. You probably need to talk to Noah.’
‘Noah?’
‘Oh sorry. Noah Hanneck – our security officer.’
‘You only employ one security officer?’
‘Yes. Remember, we’re a charity. Noah only works from nine to five for a small remuneration. Keeping the cemetery completely secure twenty-four hours a day would require an army of qualified people, so we tip our hats to security by employing Noah.’
‘And is Mr Hanneck about today?’
‘I’m sure he is. Speak to Libby on your way out and she’ll find out where he is.’
‘Fine. What about CCTV?’
‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Watching what the dead get up to when they think that nobody’s watching.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us, which might throw a light on what happened last night?’
‘Such as?’
‘Any threats by letter, phone or email?’
‘No – nothing like that.’
He glanced at Dwyer. ‘Any suggestions, Sergeant?’
‘How many tour guides do you have?’ Dwyer said to Mulhern.
‘Ten.’
‘Have any of them reported anything unusual over the previous week?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Could you ask them?’
‘I’ll certainly ask Libby to ask them.’
‘Thank you. Also, what about funerals? Do you still bury people in the West Cemetery?’
‘Yes – occasionally.’
‘Have there been any funerals recently?’
‘There was a funeral last Wednesday afternoon.’
‘Could we have the name and address of the surviving relative . . . ?’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of pestering . . . ?’
‘This is a murder inquiry, Mr Mulhern. Pestering witnesses is not something the police condone. As yet, we have no idea who the victim is, and we’d be remiss in our duties if we didn’t pursue every lead regardless of how nebulous that lead might appear.’
‘Of course. If you ask Libby, she’ll give you the details, but you will be sensitive, won’t you?’
‘The police are renowned for their sensitivity.’
‘That’s what concerns me.’
Quigg stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Mulhern.’
‘Anything I can do to assist.’
‘Oh, one other thing. Nobody is to talk to the press.’
‘Be assured, no one here will discuss what has occurred with anyone beyond the confines of the cemetery.’
‘Thank you.’
In the outer office Libby provided them with the name and address of the surviving relative of the person who had been buried the previous Wednesday, and arranged for the security officer Noah Hanneck – who was out and about performing his security duties – to return to base.
‘He’ll be about fifteen minutes,’ Libby advised them.
‘That’s fine,’ Quigg said. ‘I’ll go and talk to the press who are loitering outside, we’ll grab a coffee at the cafe across the road and then come back and talk to Mr Hanneck.’
Outside, he sauntered through the metal gates to confront the media. They were there en masse shouting questions at him.
‘Here, Inspector!’
‘Can you tell us who the victim is?’
‘Do you have any suspects?’
‘Male or female?’
‘Young or old?’
‘How?’
‘Why?’
‘Is it connected to the Highgate Vampire?’
He looked sideways at Dwyer.
She raised her eyebrows.
The Highgate Vampire! Who the hell was that?
He held up a hand for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. You know I don’t give impromptu interviews at the crime scene. There are rules, procedures and guidelines to adhere to. A formal and detailed briefing will be conducted in the station press room at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Thank you very much for your patience and understanding.’
But it didn’t stop the press from following them across the road and shouting more questions.
They dived into the Café Mozart.
A young woman with frizzy hair tried to join them.
‘I’m sure your editor has told you to report the news, and not to become the news,’ Quigg said. ‘If you follow us into this café you’ll become the news.’
She remained outside.
They ordered drinks and sat down at a table as far away from the door as they could get.
The middle-aged waitress brought their drinks over. His was a strong coffee with milk and one sugar, Dwyer’s was a herbal tea with one flake of camomile in it, or at least that’s what it looked like.
‘Do you know anything about a vampire who’s moved into the local area?’ he said to the waitress before she left.
She pulled a face. ‘Everybody knows about the Highgate Vampire, but as you can see we’re rather busy, so I haven’t got time to stand here and tell you about him.’
‘Okay, thanks anyway.’
‘Did you know there was a vampire living in Highgate, Sergeant?’
‘No.’
‘That covers that then.’
***
A maze! Here? This far underground? Maybe she wasn’t in a maze at all. Maybe it was just a mosaic of a maze. But why? Why had the grate been hidden behind all those bill posters? Had it been covered up by accident or on purpose?
All she had were questions, questions and more questions. None of it made any sense.
‘HELLO?’
‘HELP!’
‘IS THERE ANYBODY THERE?’
Another train came and went, but nobody heard her calling.
She stared up at the hole. Why weren’t there foot and handholds leading up and down from the grate? What was the grate for? An air vent? An access point to the maze?
The arrow
on the mosaic – supposedly indicating her location – suggested that she was at the bottom left-hand corner of the maze, which meant that she was required to navigate through the labyrinthine structure to reach the exit point at the top right-hand corner. Was it really a maze? Where was the exit point?
How could she possibly travel from where she was to the exit point? It was pitch black for fuck’s sake. Maybe there were directional arrows at turnings and junctions showing her the way to go. But what if there weren’t? If she entered the maze, she might never get out.
Maybe if she went in the opposite direction she’d be able to find another way out. She did an about turn and began feeling her way, but after about ten feet she found a brick wall.
What were her options now? She couldn’t climb up, down or backwards. The only option available to her was to venture into the maze.
First, she used her tablet to take a photograph of the mosaic maze inset into the floor. She imagined that the Victorian designer of the maze hadn’t anticipated a player turning up with a tablet that could take a photograph of the maze to guide them through it.
After committing the first bit of the maze to memory, she sent the tablet into hibernation and set off. She had to go forward to a right-hand bend, follow that until she reached a t-junction and then turn left.
Usually, if a person entered a maze they went in blind, but she had a map from start to finish. As long as she followed the right path to the exit there shouldn’t be any problem. It probably wouldn’t take her more than an hour or so to zigzag through the labyrinth to the exit. And, she didn’t have to waste time following redundant pathways, and then have to retrace her steps.
She was quite looking forward to the challenge.
There were problems though. First, her tablet had a battery life of nine hours. She hadn’t charged it in days, and there was only two hours fifteen minutes left. Was that long enough to make her way through the maze? If the tablet ran out of power, she wouldn’t be able to see the photograph of the maze and follow the pathway to the exit. Also, without the tablet she had no other source of light – she’d be completely in the dark and have to feel her way along, but not only that – she’d have no idea which path to follow. So, she had to use her tablet sparingly.
Second, she had no water and no food. Not that it was an immediate problem because she’d not long had brunch at the Jazz Cafe, but it certainly could be if she was stuck in this crazy maze for any length of time.
After reaching the bend, she turned right and continued moving forwards. There was a redundant branch off to the left, which she ignored. After that there was a jink in the tunnel, which sent her right-left-left-right and put her back on the path. She should have reached the t-junction, but it was a dead end.
She brought her tablet back to life and stared at the map. Yes, she’d gone the right way. Why was there a wall in front of her instead of a t-junction ?
Looking more closely, she realised that the wall wasn’t simply a brick wall, it was covered in mosaics, and in the centre was a twelve-inch square 4 x 4 sliding tile puzzle. Each tile had a number engraved on it from one to fifteen, and there was one blank space. She remembered the small plastic puzzles from the children’s homes that benevolent people used to donate. The tiles needed to be moved around until the numbers were in order and the blank space was in the bottom right-hand corner.
It appeared as though she needed to solve the puzzle and then presumably the wall would . . . slide sideways? Upwards? Collapse inwards? As long as it shifted out of her way and let her pass.
She began sliding the tiles into numerical order, conscious of the fact that the power in her tablet battery was draining away. She hadn’t realised how difficult sliding tile puzzles were, and it took her forty-five minutes to solve the fucking thing.
The wall slid right into the side wall like something out of Indiana Jones and the Lost Underground Station. On the floor beyond the wall was a lit candle flickering in the claustrophobic breeze, a matchbox with ten matches inside it and a plastic bottle half full of water.
She was being watched.
There was someone down here with her.
‘HELLO?’
No one responded.
Her voice sounded strange and pathetic in the tunnel. ‘I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE.’
Nothing. Except . . . she could have sworn she heard mocking laughter.
‘FUCKING BASTARD! SHOW YOURSELF.’
She waited, but nobody appeared.
What the hell was going on? Who was down here with her? Was it the person who had threatened to kill her on Twitter? Or somebody else entirely? Well, at least she had light, and didn’t have to rely on her tablet. She put the matches in her jacket pocket, sniffed the water and then took a swallow, picked up the flickering candle and set off again.
***
Somebody had hold of his arm and was pulling him to his feet.
Thick dense smoke hung in the air like treacle.
He scrambled up, but he seemed to have lost the ability to stand without falling down.
The man gripping his upper arm guided him to a seat.
His head was throbbing, his ears were ringing and he couldn’t focus his eyes properly. At first glance, he could have sworn that the Lithuanians were all dead in the booth, and briefly wondered what had happened to the two young women.
He watched police officers dressed in black coveralls and ski masks with rifles hanging on straps from their necks as they covered up the Lithuanian bodies. Marius Danku was dead, but he wasn’t the only one. As well as the men in the booth, Rodney saw five more in different parts of the club.
Slowly, his faculties returned.
‘And you are?’ a tall man with thick unruly hair said.
‘Rodney Crankshank from Bulldog Investigations.’ He produced the Identity Card that Deidre had arranged for all of them. There was no current requirement for a private investigator to have a licence, so Deidre had organised professional-looking identity cards for all the staff and operatives. Having an identity card – especially in his business – certainly saved him a lot of hassle and explaining.
The man reciprocated by showing Rodney his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Brian Hough of the Organised Crime Unit. Tell me why I shouldn’t lock you up for interfering with an active police investigation?’
‘Lock me up?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I came here to pay Mr Marius Danku money that one of my clients owed him. I’m an innocent bystander who’s been caught up in your operation.’
‘Innocent! Highly unlikely. If you were innocent you wouldn’t be embroiled in our operation. Anymore talk of innocence, litigation or compensation and I might have to look more closely at who you are, what you do, and how guilty you really are. Do we understand each other, Mr Crookshank?’
‘I never . . . Yes, we understand each other, Superintendent.’
‘Excellent. So, you were here laundering money illegally through the Bank of Lithuania, is that right?’
‘I was here to pay off a debt that a female client of mine had regrettably taken out with Mr Danku, who she knew to be a loan shark.’
‘How much?’
‘A thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘And did you pay him any money?’
‘No. Apparently, Mr Danku wasn’t interested in her money, he wanted her bungalow. I was trying to explain to him that he had no claim on her property when a stun grenade rolled across the floor.’
‘Regrettably, you were mistaken for somebody else, but it matters not. So, you can go back to your client and tell the woman that her debt has been cleared.’
‘They’re all dead?’
‘A few minor functionaries are still breathing, but they’ll be deported. We’d previously deported Marius Danku three times from the UK, but he kept coming back to continue his criminal activities. Well, now I can inform the Home Office that he won’t be coming back here anymore.’
‘And all
debts are cleared?’
‘Correct. Do you have any other business here, Mr Shawshank?’
‘No.’
‘You can go now then. And for your own safety I suggest you don’t mention what happened here to anyone. Are we clear on that point?’
‘Clear.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Lambshank.’
‘Goodbye, Superintendent.’ He was still a bit unsteady on his feet, so a man with a ski mask on helped him across the room and up the stairs. Once outside, he was left to his own devices. He staggered across the road to his car and sat in the driver’s seat until his head cleared, his vision returned, and the ringing in his ears became a distant hum.
The outcome was exactly what he had in mind, but getting there had been a bit hairy – the cure was worse than the disease, or the bark was worse than the bite, or . . .
Well, he’d fulfilled his part of the bargain. Now, all he had to do was meet Lola Trotter at The Dolphin on South Street at five thirty and collect the copy of Sally Tomkins’ Social Services file. He didn’t have any proof of payment, but once he explained what had happened and she heard the details on the news she’d understand.
Chapter Five
After the much-needed refreshments they walked back across Swain Lane, fought their way through the swelling ranks of reporters and rubberneckers, and entered the administrative building again.
Noah Hanneck was waiting for them. He wore thick rimless glasses over washed-out eyes, and although his face had a healthy glow his neck was a repository for saggy skin, which jiggled when he spoke. He had on a dark-blue security uniform over a light-blue shirt and a dark-blue tie. Above his left breast was a name badge which read:
Mr N Hanneck
Chief Security Officer
‘How old are you, Mr Hanneck?’ Quigg said.
‘Eighty-five. Why?’
‘No reason. I’m sure I heard somewhere that people retired at sixty-five.’
‘Oh, I was retired, but then my wife died.’