The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

‘My bed.’

  ‘Your bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  All he had on was his boxers and socks. He followed her into the bedroom.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘Do you know how long it’s been since I had sex with a man?’

  ‘A long time?’

  ‘A very long time.’ She unwrapped the dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. ‘I’m thirty-two now, and I haven’t been with a man since I was twenty-two.’

  She had the body of a Greek goddess and reminded him of the Venus de Milo. It was inviting and well-proportioned. Her breasts were still firm with no evidence of sagging – probably a 34B with small areola and nipples. She had a thin waist that curved nicely down to smooth average-sized hips. He noticed that she smelled of soap and that her pubic hair had recently been trimmed and shaved into the shape of a heart. If he was forced to be overly-critical, he might have mentioned the few extra pounds at the top of her arms, her thighs and on her stomach, but there was nobody there to compel him.

  ‘That is a long time.’ He slipped off his boxers and socks, and slid into bed next to her.

  If he was ever asked after that night: “What was the noisiest sex you ever had?” He would always say: ‘Oh, without doubt Lola Trotter. She howled like a werewolf and screamed like a banshee. I thought the neighbours would call the police and report that somebody was being tortured in number eleven. I expected a knock on the door at any moment. And it wasn’t a simple case of having sex for five minutes and then getting some shut-eye. Oh no! We’re talking three hours, and I’m not bragging when I say that she hollered the whole time. This was a woman who hadn’t had sex for ten years . . . That’s right – ten years. She ruined me for other women. When a woman screams like that it makes you want to push the boat out, so to speak. Best three hours I ever spent on God’s green earth. Well, in one of his beds anyway. Although we didn’t stay in the bed . . . Oh no! She wanted to prove to herself that the bungalow belonged to her, so we had to have sex everywhere, and I mean everywhere. I drew a line at the bedroom that her mother had died in, and said I’d come back another day to finish off after she’d cleaned the room.’

  ‘God, Rodney. You’re the best I’ve ever had,’ Lola said, flopping back on the kitchen table.

  They were both dripping in sweat.

  ‘I’m the only one you’ve ever had . . . Well, in the last ten years anyway.’

  ‘You’re still the best.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but a sculptor is nothing without the beauty of Italian marble.’

  ‘I have to get ready for work now.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I grab a couple of hours sleep, do you?’

  ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘I’ll pull the door to when I leave.’

  ‘Will I see you again, Rodney?’

  ‘You’ve got my number.’

  And that’s how they left it, but both knew they’d probably never see each other again. He’d got more than he came for, and she’d had her first lucky day in a very long time.

  ***

  He made quick work of the lock on the French windows, let himself in and pulled the door to. People thought that just because they lived in an apartment on the third floor they were safe. The corner of his mouth creased upwards into a crooked smile. It didn’t matter where people lived – they were never safe. Not from him, nor others like him.

  She was asleep in the half-light. Her nakedness aroused him slightly, but that was not why he was here. She had small breasts – he liked large ones. There was no meat on the bone – he liked meat. Not too much, but enough to feel comfortable. She was all sharp edges like scaffolding held together by nuts and bolts.

  There was a rocking chair in the corner. It was piled high with clothes that were queuing up to make the long journey to the washing machine. He scooped them all onto the floor and sat down.

  The smell of her invaded his nostrils. It reminded him of his father’s sister who had let him touch her breasts when he was eleven years old. He’d never had sex with her, but he’d thought about it often enough. The fact that she was still alive was a testament to his willpower and generosity.

  She moaned in her sleep, turned over and kicked the sheet off. He had a good view of her bony arse through lace panties.

  He began rocking.

  The chair needed oiling.

  She sat up in bed, took an intake of breath and covered her breasts with crossed arms. ‘Jesus fucking wept!’

  He smiled. ‘Corn plasters would hide them.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She grabbed her cotton dressing gown off the floor, shrugged into it and tied the belt at the waist. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A report would be good.’

  ‘I’ve been working with him for one day.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. We’ve been up to our jugulars in vampires.’

  ‘No mention of his ex-wife or child?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘You need to find out what he knows.’

  ‘He’s going to suspect something is up if I start interrogating him about his ex-wife already. I hardly know the man. I’ll find out, but you have to give me time.’

  ‘Friday. Don’t let me down, Jane.’

  ‘Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘I’ve often found that past performance is not a reliable indicator of future performance.’

  ‘I won’t let you down.’

  He stood up. ‘Good. I’ll see you on Friday then.’

  ‘And can you knock on the door like a normal person?’

  ‘I’m not a normal person, Jane.’ He let himself out through her apartment door and closed it after him.

  It would be a shame to kill her, but if she didn’t do as she’d been ordered that’s exactly what he’d have to do. Everyone had to answer to someone. If he didn’t kill her, then somebody else would. After they’d killed him, of course. And that wasn’t going to happen. Orders were orders. No excuses, no second chances, no sympathy.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Morning ‘Spector Quigg,’ Mandy said as she came into his office and sat down. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Why? What have people been saying?’

  ‘Only that there are vampires out there.’

  ‘London is swarming with them, Mandy. You be careful if you go out at night.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall – it was eight-thirty. He had the press briefing at nine, and then a quick soft-shoe shuffle with Chief Bellmarsh. ‘No post this morning?’

  ‘You know I don’t deliver the post ‘till after nine o’clock. I saw you in here all on your lonesome and thought I’d come and cheer you up.’

  ‘Very kind. Do you know anything about the chart in the women’s locker room?’

  ‘I ain’t meant to talk about the chart.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be secret.’

  ‘It can’t be a secret if I already know about it, can it?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So, what can you tell me about the chart?’

  ‘You’re at the bottom of it.’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘I was surprised to find that out for sure, but when it was explained to me . . .’

  ‘Who explained it to you?’

  She laughed. ‘No, I can’t give you any names.’

  ‘Well, what explanation did they provide? Why am I at the bottom of the chart?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  He shook his head and stuck out his bottom lip. ‘No one will tell me a thing, Mandy.’

  ‘I gotta admit that I feel a bit sorry for you, but I can’t tell you that either. If you knew about the five categories, you could cheat your way up the chart.’

  ‘You could help me, Mandy.’

  She stood up. ‘I don’t think that would be right, ‘Spector Quigg. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a woman as well. You’re asking me to do the dirty on my friends. I got a bad feeling th
at you just moved even further down that chart.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Mandy opened the door and smiled. ‘You have a nice day, ‘Spector. And remember, ya want to take a gander at my melons, just say the word.’

  ‘Will it help me move up the chart?’

  She laughed. ‘My melons ain’t on that chart.’

  ‘Thanks anyway, Mandy. Maybe later, once my breakfast has had time to settle.’

  ‘Sure thing, ‘Spector.’

  Leaving the door open, she shuffled out.

  He thought he’d solved the problem of the chart. The idea that it was a wind-up suited him just fine. If there was no chart then he wasn’t at the bottom of it, and as such he wasn’t the worst Inspector at Hammersmith Police Station. But now, the chart was back on the wall, it was real and he was really at the bottom of it. Everyone said he was, so it must be true. He’d even seen the chart and his position on it himself in the women’s locker room. The one thing he didn’t know was the categories for which people scored marks and moved up and down the chart. If he could just find that out . . . He was becoming obsessed with the chart. Maybe he should just forget about the chart and let nature take its course, get on with his life, let bygones be bygones.

  When he’d finally got home last night he discovered that the children were all asleep, so he’d journeyed from crib to crib and kissed each one of them goodnight. Then, he’d followed the grunting and snorting sounds along the corridor and into the small gym that Ruth had paid to be installed at the back of the church.

  Ruth and Duffy were working out. He was impressed. They nearly had their pre-baby bodies back.

  ‘You two look fit, fabulous and frisky.’

  ‘No,’ Duffy said.

  ‘No? You don’t mean that, Duffy.’

  ‘I mean every word of it.’

  ‘But it’s only one word.’

  ‘Then it has double the meaning.’

  ‘Ruth – You’ve never looked more beautiful.’

  ‘And I am staying this way, Quigg.’

  ‘You could incorporate it into your exercise regime.’

  ‘No,’ they said in unison.

  Duffy was on the exercise bike. She had on a pair of shorts and a floppy cut-off white t-shirt that revealed the small of her back and midriff.

  He licked his lips. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he could see her breasts moving backwards and forwards beneath the thin cotton. He put his hand on the skin of her back and began moving it round the front of her body. If he could just squeeze her sensitive breasts, she’d be his for the taking.

  She sat upright on the seat, carried on peddling as if she was competing in the Tour de France, and pushed his hand away. ‘Which part of “No” don’t you understand, Sir?’

  It drove him crazy when she called him “Sir”. ‘All of it, Duffy. I could help you lose weight, tone up your muscles, improve your breathing . . .’

  ‘You could also ruin all my hard work.’

  Ruth was lying on her back pulling weights on the multigym wearing a blue bathing costume. Her legs were positioned either side of the bench, and with each repetition the curvature of her pubic bone rose up to suck him in like a black hole.

  Sitting on the edge of the bench, he ran his hand up her thigh towards her nook and cranny. ‘Think of the advantages, Ruth. Not only will you lose more weight, improve a whole range of muscles you’d forgotten you had, but we’d both be having some fun as well.’

  She sat up and moved his hand from her thigh. Sweat ran in rivulets off her face, down her neck and into the natural chasm of her cleavage.

  His eyes followed those beads of sweat, and his tongue mimicked a licking motion.

  ‘You should do some exercise yourself, Quigg. We do not want the father of our children dying of a heart attack.’

  He wandered out into the hallway and headed towards his room. Where was Lucy? He’d seen the tweet that she was coming home, so where was she?’ Maybe when she’d left him she’d hitchhiked to Scotland, France or possibly New Zealand. He didn’t know how he could love three women all at the same time, but he did. She’d be home soon, and then things would get back to normal. He undressed and walked into the shower.

  As he was shampooing his hair and letting the hot water massage the back of his neck, he felt hands begin to massage him and grinned like the Cheshire cat.

  ‘Taking pity on me?’

  ‘No more babies, Quigg,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘You have to have your tubules cut.’

  ‘My what cut?’

  She grabbed his testicles and squeezed. ‘These – you must get the tubules cut.’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘A vasectomy,’ Duffy clarified, should there be any vestiges of doubt in his mind.

  ‘Ah!’ A vasectomy! It wasn’t something he’d considered, or ever would consider. The idea of someone cutting his tubules filled him with horror. He agreed, of course. With an erection like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, he was hardly in a position to disagree. And then, it was a bit of a tight squeeze with the three of them in a one-man shower, but necessity is the mother of invention.

  ‘Morning, Sir,’ Dwyer said, dragging him back into the reality of another day of vampire hunting.

  ‘Hello, Sergeant.’

  She sat down in the chair that Mandy had recently vacated. ‘You look troubled, Sir. Not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘Bad news comes in all shapes and sizes, Dwyer. While I’m briefing the press followed by the Chief, I’d like you to go up to forensics and tell Perkins that we want a lead which doesn’t involve vampires. Up to now he’s provided us with nothing of any practical use whatsoever. Explain his role in the investigative process, and how he’s meant to be the link between a murder and detectives finding the killer. Describe how that link has been broken because he isn’t doing his job . . .’

  ‘I get the idea, Sir.’

  ‘Good. After that, obtain copies of the original newspaper reports relating to the Highgate Vampire from 1967. Also, see if you can find anything about the exorcism carried out by Father de Angeli, the investigation and subsequent television interview by Dr San Romani, and the LC Club . . . Oh, and find out if there’s an unsolved murder in Highgate still on the books from 1974 that resembles a vampire slaying.’

  ‘You’re taking this vampire idea seriously then?’

  ‘I’m taking the murder of a young woman seriously, Sergeant. And until we can separate fact from fiction, we pursue every lead that comes our way no matter how ridiculous. Meet me back here at ten o’clock and we’ll go and see what the Satanists have got to say for themselves.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  As he made his way down to the press briefing room, he had the feeling that Dwyer’s attitude towards him had somehow softened overnight. Maybe his natural charm and good looks were getting to her.

  Usually, he rehearsed something in his head when he needed to brief the press, but this time he had no idea what the hell he was going to say.

  ***

  Now what?

  The rats – she was sure – were getting louder. Maybe they were reproducing. How long did it take for rats to have babies?

  She had no light, a dead phone, an even deader tablet and a completed puzzle that wasn’t fit for purpose. She was about to throw the cube down the corridor like a pitcher at a baseball game when she heard a noise. It wasn’t any old noise, it was metal-on-metal. She held the puzzle up to her ear and shook it. Yep – there was definitely a noise. It might be that a shape was loose, but she didn’t think so. Maybe one of the pieces was hollow?

  Well, that was all well and good, but . . .

  The matches!

  She put her hand into her jacket pocket and slid the box with nine matches inside out. Ten matches weren’t going to last very long. How long? How long would it take to dismantle the puzzle, find the metal-on-metal, put the cube back together again and . . .

  What if it was a false da
wn? What if there was no hollow piece? What if she used up all the matches and found nothing inside? Did she have any other ideas? If she did, they didn’t line up to be counted.

  It needed careful planning like a military operation. She couldn’t just light a match and hold it until it burnt her fingers – she needed both hands to dismantle the cube, hopefully find what she was looking for and then reassemble it.

  Maybe she could kill a few rats, pile them up and start a fire. The fumes would probably kill her, the live rats would probably squeal like skewered pigs, and there was no guarantee that they’d catch light because they were mostly liquid. No, a bonfire of rats was probably not a good idea.

  In fact, a fire was probably not a good idea. It would fill the tunnel up with fumes and smoke, and more than likely kill her in the process.

  She knelt down on all fours. Maybe she didn’t need any light to take the puzzle apart. That would give her more light and more time to put it back together again. She began sliding the pieces out and trying to remember where they all went. Eventually, there were thirteen pieces lying in front of her again. She held each one up to her ear and shook it. Inside the small square that sat in the very centre of the cube, she heard the sound of metal-on-metal.

  In the darkness, she ran her fingers over the smooth metal and soon found the side that opened like a lid on a tin of coffee. She’d kill for a coffee now. The water had long gone. Coffee would just be lovely round about now. She licked her dry lips. Inside the square was a solid metal plug. It was a tight fit. No wonder she hadn’t heard it first time round and wondered how she’d ever heard it at all. On one end she felt the engraved design. She jiggled the metal plug out, stood up, found the small circular hole in the wall and pushed the plug half into it. She guessed that the cube and the plug had to be put into position in order, but which order she had no idea. Would there be consequences if she got it wrong?

  Now she lit a match, wedged the unlit end into a gap between the bricks on the floor and began reassembling the cube. She had no empirical evidence for such an assumption, but she was sure it would burn more slowly if it was pointing up or sideways instead of down.