The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘That was fifteen years ago now. Anyway, she’s buried in the East Cemetery, so I became a Custodian to keep watch over her. That’s how I found out about the position of security officer. I had nothing else better to do you see, so instead of rattling around an empty house with no purpose in life to speak of, I volunteered to stand guard over the dead as it were.’

  ‘Do you know anything about the Highgate Vampire?’

  He looked around to make sure no one was listening. ‘Absolutely not. Mr Mulhern has told me in no uncertain terms that I’m not to talk to anyone about such a creature.’

  ‘So you do know about the vampire?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You’re trying to get me fired, aren’t you?’

  ‘Maybe we can talk somewhere else?’

  ‘Are you going to take me down to the police station and torture me?’

  ‘We don’t do that anymore.’

  ‘I read the newspapers, Inspector.’

  ‘No, we’re not going to take you to the police station. What we really wanted to talk to you about were breaches in the perimeter security fencing.’

  ‘Oh, there are lots of those. I mean, most of the perimeter fencing dates back to 1867.’

  ‘Lots of breaches! How many is lots?’

  ‘Ten to fifteen.’

  ‘Where people can gain access to the West Cemetery?’

  ‘There’s probably about seven around the West Cemetery.’

  ‘Seven! That’s quite a few breaches.’

  ‘Sometimes I close them off, but they open them up again.’

  ‘They! They who?’

  ‘People. They imagine think they have a right-of-way through the cemetery. It’s private land, but they seem to think that it belongs to the public. Why walk round, when you can create a direct route through? I can’t understand why people would want to take a short-cut through a cemetery anyway – especially at night. You wouldn’t see me dead in there after five o’clock. People have no respect for anything these days.’

  ‘Will you show us where these breaches are?’

  ‘Of course. My car . . .’

  Quigg shook his head. ‘We’ll go in my car.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a police car before.’

  ‘Nor will you today. I have a Mercedes.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a Mercedes either.’

  ‘Then you’re in for a treat. Isn’t he, Sergeant?’

  Dwyer looked bored. ‘Am I driving?’

  ‘Do you want to drive?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  He threw her the keys. ‘Let’s go on our wild adventure around Highgate Cemetery then.’

  It took an hour to visit and examine the seven perimeter breaches, but they found nothing of interest at any of them.

  During the journey, Quigg was able to wheedle out of Noah the details of the Highgate Vampire.

  ‘You won’t tell Mr Mulhern I said anything, will you?’

  ‘Certainly not. And anyway, according to the waitress in the Café Mozart – everybody knows about the vampire already.’

  ‘That’s true. It’s hardly the best-kept secret in the world, but Mr Mulhern thinks the story undermines the standing and credibility of the cemetery and its residents. I mean, there are some celebrities buried at Highgate, you know.’

  ‘Can you still be a celebrity once you’re dead?’ Dwyer mused.

  Noah pursed his lips. ‘Oh, I think so, Miss. Take Karl Marx for example. Mr Mulhern said he wrote a book that people still read today.’

  Dwyer smiled. ‘I think he did a bit more than write a book.’

  ‘And there was that TV fellow who my wife Posey used to love watching – Jeremy Beadle. I wasn’t keen on him myself, but he used to make Posey wet herself. And, of course, there’s the astronaut Douglas Adams, who walked on the moon and wrote a book about his experiences . . .’

  ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?’ Quigg suggested.

  ‘That’s the one – marvellous book. I was certainly impressed with how he discovered the answer was 42. And then, of course, Mr Mulhern wants to deter the vampire hunters.’

  ‘Vampire hunters?’

  ‘With any mention of vampires the crazies crawl out of the woodwork. We’ve had filmmakers, rock musicians, artists, mediums and then, of course, there are the vampire hunters reeking of garlic, carrying mallets, wooden stakes and ingots of silver. I’ve lost count of the number of vampire hunters I’ve had to forcibly eject from the cemetery.’

  ‘So, what can you tell us about this vampire then, Noah?’

  ‘It began on the night of December 12, 1967. Two sixteen year-old Catholic girls were walking home along Swains Lane when they witnessed corpses climbing out of their graves. After that, one of the girls suffered from visitations and blood loss . . .’

  ‘What does “visitations and blood loss” mean?’ Dwyer said.

  ‘Somebody was trying to get into her second-storey bedroom window apparently, and there were puncture wounds in her neck.’

  ‘Sounds more like the innocent little Catholic girl wasn’t so innocent after all.’

  Noah gave a strangled laugh. ‘She wasn’t so little either if you know what I mean?’ He put his cupped hands up to his chest to illustrate exactly what he did mean. ‘Anyway, a few weeks later an engaged couple were walking in the same area when the woman saw a hideous apparition inside the cemetery through the metal railings. Others were attracted to the site by her screams and also witnessed the spectre. That night, the only topic of conversation in the local pubs was what people had seen earlier. The following day, the story appeared in the local newspaper.’

  ‘We should be able to check that,’ Quigg said.

  ‘After these events, an animal carcass was discovered that had been completely drained of blood. And then sometime after that, a human body was found in a pool of blood with wounds to the neck. Rumour has it that the police covered up how the victim died.’

  ‘A conspiracy!’ Dwyer said. ‘I love conspiracies.’

  ‘Obviously, these goings-on attracted the celebrated vampire hunter – Doctor Thomas San Romani – who came to investigate what had been happening. He appeared on television on Friday March 13, 1970 and stated that there was probably a vampire in Highgate Cemetery. The Vampire Research Society became involved, and they identified a tomb that they believed contained a Vampire King from Wallachia . . .’

  ‘Where’s that?’ Dwyer said.

  ‘The old name for Romania,’ Quigg said. ‘Carry on, Noah.’

  ‘. . . So they organised a priest – Father Giuseppe de Angeli – to carry out an exorcism . . .’

  Dwyer grunted. ‘A bloody exorcism?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Noah continued. ‘It didn’t do any good though, because the ghostly sightings and animal deaths seemed to increase. In fact, there was talk of a whole nest of vampires living in the cemetery.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Dwyer said, when Noah didn’t say anything more.

  ‘Well, yes. Except . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dr San Romani continued to investigate what had happened, and I believe that in 1974 he found the source of the vampire infestation in an old house on the outskirts of Highgate and dealt with it in the appropriate manner.’

  ‘Dealt with it in the appropriate manner!’ Dwyer said. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘You know – a stake through the heart just before first light, cut off the head and burn the remains.’

  Dwyer laughed. ‘What a load of rubbish.’

  ‘And did that stop the sightings and such like?’ Quigg said.

  ‘For a time, but I still get the locals telling me stories of what they’ve seen at night: A grey gliding figure, a tall man in a hat, a ghostly cyclist, a woman in white; a face glaring through the bars of the North Gate; a figure wading into a pond; bells ringing; voices calling them; a sleepwalking girl; the charred and headless body of woman – I’ve heard a
lot of stories. Call me a cynical old fool, but my view is that they’re perpetuating the urban legend of a vampire in Highgate Cemetery to increase tourist trade and the profits of their businesses.’

  ‘So you don’t believe there’s a vampire in the cemetery, Noah?’ Dwyer said.

  ‘I have an open mind, but you still wouldn’t get me in there after five o’clock.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Quigg said.

  ***

  She was like a rat in a maze. Part of a laboratory experiment. A crash-test dummy.

  What the fuck was going on?

  If it was the person who wanted to kill her, surely she’d already be dead by now – wouldn’t she?

  Why would he – although it could be a she, but it was more likely a he – give her water, a candle and matches? Did he want her to make her way through the maze? If so, why?

  ‘HELLO?’

  Nothing – Except the faint clickety-clack of a train on the tracks somewhere behind her.

  She needed answers. Was desperate for answers. Would kill for answers. Somebody had better tell her what the fuck was going on, and they’d better do it soon.

  ‘HEY, YOU BASTARD?’

  Nothing.

  Maybe he needed her to have light, so that he could see her pathetic attempts at navigating through the labyrinth. She held the candle up to examine the brick walls and the ceiling as she shuffled along, but couldn’t see any peep-holes or cameras.

  The map directed her right, a short left, and then she had to zigzag right, left, left and . . . there was another brick fucking wall.

  In front of the wall were thirteen odd-shaped blocks of metal. She picked one of the blocks up – it was heavy, shiny and solid. Each block was a different shape, size and colour. She guessed they fitted together to form a cube, because there was a 3-inch cube-shaped hole in the centre of the wall, as if somebody had forgotten to put the final brick in place.

  She would like to have told him to ‘FUCK OFF!’ But what would that achieve? One day, in the distant future – when robots ruled the earth – someone would find her skeleton propped up against the wall and wonder why she hadn’t solved a simple puzzle to free herself.

  There wasn’t much candle left. She placed it on the floor, sat down with her back against the wall and moved the metal blocks between her legs. She had no choice – no choice at all. If she wanted to get out of this fucking stupid maze then she had to solve the puzzles. How many more puzzles were there? She still had some way to go to reach the exit, so she guessed there were a few more ahead.

  How long had she been in the maze? She checked her watch, tapped it to make sure it was still working – it was five to five. That must be in the evening. She was hungry. How long had she been down here? Six hours!

  Jesus! She was going to die down here.

  Her ears began humming at the absence of sound. Or, was there some sound? Why could she hear scratching, scrabbling, rustling, rummaging and squeaking?

  If there were rats in this maze she was going to scream.

  She screamed!

  Then she leapt to her feet as about twenty large brown rats appeared out of the darkness and began snuffling and sniffing round her feet and the metal blocks.

  She hated rats.

  Now what?

  It didn’t look as though the rats were going to go back to where they’d come from. They were looking for a way out just like her. The sooner she completed the puzzle and the wall slid back to allow her to continue, the sooner they’d scuttle away and leave her alone.

  She sat back down and brought her breathing under control.

  The rats stayed huddled together on their side of the tunnel watching her, and that suited her just fine. Why had they suddenly appeared? Where had they come from? From what she’d seen of the maze tunnels they were enclosed, so how had the rats got inside? She just knew the bastard had let them in. But why? Her head throbbed. There were far too many questions and not one single fucking answer.

  The candle flickered, reminding her that she didn’t have a lot of candle time left. There was about an inch-and-a-half of candle remaining. How long would that last? What would happen when it burnt away? Was there another candle beyond the wall? She had a small amount of power left in her tablet, but if she used that then she wouldn’t have access to the map. Maybe she needed to copy the map onto a piece of paper. She still had the ten matches, but without a candle they wouldn’t last long.

  The interlocking geometric shapes were quite heavy. Most of the thirteen shapes were complex designs. There was one small cube, but the rest of the blocks were like salmagundi, and the whole thing looked like a dog’s breakfast. Was it even possible to fit the fucking thing together without written instructions?

  She began pushing, sliding and twisting the metal blocks together, trying to match the slots, edges and grooves like pieces of a cardboard jigsaw puzzle, but it was considerably harder than it first appeared.

  Perseverance, calm determination and stamina was what she needed to wrestle the shapes into their respective places, but she didn’t possess any of those personal qualities.

  ‘FUCK!’ she screamed, throwing two of the blocks against the far wall and scattering the rats every which way. ‘GET SOMEBODY ELSE TO PLAY YOUR STUPID FUCKING GAME.’

  The candle sputtered and went out.

  ‘You’re having a fucking laugh.’

  She felt the rats crawling over her legs, shook them off and leapt to her feet again.

  Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her face.

  ***

  The Dolphin on South Street had a plaque screwed to the wall outside to inform its customers that it had won a Beer Quality Award in 2009. It also boasted tubular rattan furniture in the family garden; a log fire in the main bar, and dolphins and bunches of fruit in the stained-glass windows looking out onto the busy main street.

  Lola Trotter was already in the pub waiting for him. He noticed a thick file on the small round table in front of her and smiled. She still had her coat on and didn’t appear to have bought herself a drink.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ he said.

  ‘An orange juice.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Are you celebrating?’

  ‘Okay, maybe I’ll have . . .’

  ‘What about a Weng-Weng?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He smiled. ‘Leave it to me.’ The barman had never heard of the popular cocktail from the Philippines, so Rodney explained to him how to make it. Not that he was any type of aficionado on cocktails, but a private investigator had to accumulate all manner of pointless information, and the contents of a Weng-Weng cocktail was just one snippet from his cornucopia of inconsequential knowledge.

  He had a pint of the Wychwood Hobgoblin beer. He was partial to a real ale when he could find a decent brew.

  Lola took a sip of the cocktail and licked her lips. ‘You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?’

  ‘Would that be such a bad thing?’ he said. ‘When was the last time you were drunk?’

  ‘I can’t remember . . . Maybe it was before my mother became ill.’

  ‘I notice you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not married.’

  ‘No man?’

  ‘Ha! Chance would be a fine thing.’

  ‘I couldn’t get a receipt off Marius Danku today.’

  ‘Oh?’ She began to slide the file away from him.

  ‘But he won’t be bothering you anymore. The debt no longer exists.’

  ‘But you have no receipt?’ She leaned her right elbow on the file.

  ‘The police killed him before I could get a receipt.’

  ‘Killed him?’

  ‘Yes.’ He told her what had happened in the Byzantine Club.

  She touched his hand. ‘You poor man. You could have been killed yourself.’

  He nodded. As far as he was concerned, it was just another day in the life of Rodney Crankshank – Senior Investigator at Bulldog Inves
tigations. ‘Yes, I’m lucky to be alive. Another drink?’

  She swallowed the last of the cocktail and licked her lips. ‘They’ll be carrying me out of here on a stretcher,’ she said, sliding the tall glass across the table towards him.

  He went back to the bar and bought them both refills.

  When he returned with the drinks, the file had shifted from her side of the table to his.

  ‘You’re sure those people will never bother me again?’ she said.

  ‘Dead and buried . . . Or, at least in the freezer at the morgue, which is the half-way point to the cemetery.’

  ‘Won’t somebody take on their debts?’

  ‘As far as I could tell, there was no one left to take on anybody’s debts. And not only that, the police confiscated all their computer- and paper-based records. The fact that Lola Trotter owed Marius Danku one thousand five hundred pounds is at the bottom of an evidence box gathering dust in a massive storage warehouse . . . Or, at least it will be soon.’

  She touched his hand again. ‘Thank you, Rodney.’

  ‘My pleasure, Lola. What’s the story behind the tattoos?’

  She hid her hands under the table. ‘I did some stupid things when I was a teenager.’

  ‘Most people do stupid things when they’re teenagers.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘What about something to eat while we’re here?’

  ‘That would be nice. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal out with a man.’

  He glanced around the pub and said, ‘It’s hardly Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

  She touched his hand again. ‘It’s not the place, it’s the company.’

  He returned to the bar and helped himself to two menus. Lola had the Gloucester old spot sausages, mashed potato and gravy. He ordered the mixed grill. For dessert they both had the mandarin and cointreau Eton mess.

  During the meal, Lola guzzled another two Weng-Weng’s, but he shifted to mineral water because he was driving.

  It was seven-thirty before he guided Lola through the Dolphin’s main door and into the passenger seat of his car, put the Tomkins’ file in the boot for safe-keeping and drove her home.