The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  Another woman pushed herself up. She was good-looking with long dark-brown hair and a maternity top over jeans that were in desperate need of repair. ‘Karen Goodyear from the Hammersmith Graphic. If that’s the case, how do you explain the loss of blood?’

  ‘I can’t yet, Mrs Goodyear. I’m still waiting for the full post-mortem report.’

  ‘Wendy Sowden from the Ravenscourt Register,’ a tall woman with a long thin face and an elongated neck like a giraffe said. ‘What happened to Detective Kline?’

  ‘Sadly, Detective Kline resigned,’ he replied, pulling a face. ‘She said she wanted to travel and pursue other activities. I’m sure she’ll come back to us one day.’

  A much smaller woman with ginger hair and misshapen teeth stood up at the back. ‘Gail Whittle from Wire TV. Who’s your new partner?’

  ‘That would be Detective Sergeant Jane Dwyer from Vice. She’s not a permanent replacement for DC Kline you understand – just a one-case girl.’ He stood up himself. ‘Thank you for crawling out of the rotting woodwork to grace us with your presence today. There’ll be another briefing at the same time tomorrow morning.’

  He made his way out through the side door, up the stairs and along the corridor to the Chief’s office.

  Miss Tinkley smiled at him like a Venus flytrap. ‘Go right in, Inspector. He’s expecting you.’

  With everything that had happened, and the Chief telling him she was off-limits, he’d forgotten all about Chief Bellmarsh’s new secretary – Christy Tinkley. He licked his lips. Even though he’d had his breakfast, she looked good enough to eat this morning. She had shoulder-length blonde hair with a fringe, oval glasses, and the body of a goddess poured into a light-blue flowery dress that was held up with elastic around the top. Her shoulders were bare, and she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. All he had to do was wiggle his fingers behind the elastic and ease down . . .

  ‘QUIGG?’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’

  ‘Remember what I told you about Miss Tinkley?’

  ‘Vaguely, Chief.’

  ‘Get your mind out of the sewer and come in here.’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’ He gave Christy Tinkley a pathetic smile and shuffled into the Chief’s office.

  ‘Quigg. I’ve just had a call.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you, Sir.’

  ‘From Mrs Bellmarsh.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She thought you were a bit flippant with the press, but overall she liked your performance.’

  ‘Is Mrs Bellmarsh writing my annual appraisal now?’

  The Chief’s eyes narrowed. ‘She was just making a comment, Quigg. Take it in the spirit it was intended.’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Sorry, Sir. What about a pay rise?’

  ‘Maybe I will let my wife do your annual appraisal.’

  ‘Does she know about the chart, Sir?’

  ‘Of course she does. Mrs Bellmarsh likes to keep abreast of what’s happening with the people at the station. And with that in mind, she was disappointed to learn that you’re at the bottom of the chart again. I wasn’t surprised – the dross always ends up at the bottom, but Mrs Bellmarsh was bereft. For some strange reason she’s rooting for you, Quigg. I’ve told her it’s a waste of time, but she won’t have it.’

  ‘Give your wife my kind regards, Sir.’

  ‘I will. How’s DS Dwyer doing?’

  ‘I’m not impressed.’

  ‘Really? She comes highly recommended.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Commander Nicholas Myers. He’s in charge of Operation Warrior with the Major Investigation Team for sexual crimes.’

  ‘How does she know him? How does he know her? How does he know she’s a decent detective?’

  ‘They worked together for a short time at Mole Valley in Surrey in 2002 before he was promoted. Why are you interrogating me, Quigg?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Anyway, whether you’re impressed with Dwyer or not is totally irrelevant. That’s who you’ve got. Now, tell me how a simple corpse in Highgate Cemetery has become a paranormal investigation into the existence of vampires.’

  He told the Chief what he’d discovered so far.

  ‘And Dr Solberg and Perkins think you’ve stumbled into a nest of bloodsuckers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Idiots. Suspects?’

  ‘Until we know who the woman is I’d like to call them leads.’

  ‘Lilith’s Children Club?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. And, of course, there’s also Father de Angeli and Doctor San Romani.’

  ‘What about the people who work at the cemetery?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘And what’s this about access to underground tunnels through the crypt?’

  ‘I’m planning on sending Perkins with a team . . .’

  ‘Go yourself, Quigg. Perkins isn’t paid to go potholing. Unless you’re telling me that you’re scared?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Good. Anything else you think I should know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to disobey my orders in respect of Miss Tinkley, Quigg.’

  ‘You know me better than that, Chief.’

  ‘That’s what concerns me.’

  On his way out he made sure the Chief’s door was shut tight, then he leaned over close to Miss Tinkley’s left ear and whispered, ‘Meet me in the attic at five-thirty.’

  Her face reddened. She gave a sideways glance at the closed door and then nodded.

  ***

  Why were there two keys?

  The lock hanging on the ring protruding from the wall had the look of a normal padlock. The shackle was made of stainless steel, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, and the whole lock was only about two inches in length. On the front of the lock body was the keyhole, above which was a raised square piece of metal with – she presumed – the maker’s initials in the four quadrants: ZKBT. Around the edge of the lock were six metal studs, which appeared to hold the lock together because there were matching studs on the back of the lock body. It was a solid lock that she might have been able to open with bolt cutters or a hammer and chisel if she’d had them.

  She picked the two keys up and held them in the palm of her hand. They were similar – except for the bits. It was clear that each one opened a different lock, but how could that be when there was only one lock?

  O-U-T spells out,

  You are not it,

  Pig snout you are out,

  Out goes Y-O-U.

  Picking up the key she’d chosen, she eased it into the keyhole and turned – nothing happened. It obviously wasn’t the right key. She took it out, swapped the keys over, slipped the second key into the hole and turned – it worked, but the shackle didn’t release. She turned the key anti-clockwise and locked it again, and then turned the key clockwise to unlock it, but it still didn’t unlock.

  She swapped keys again and tried the first key, but it wouldn’t turn either way. That key clearly didn’t fit this lock. But if it didn’t fit this lock, what lock did it fit? And why didn’t the other key open the lock?

  God she was tired! What the hell time was it? She looked at her watch – nine-thirty. When? Without daylight she had no idea whether it was morning or night. How long had she been down here? The last time she’d checked the time it had been five-thirty, so it must be nine-thirty in the evening. Had only four hours passed? Surely she’d been down in this maze for days, months! She was hungry as well . . . and thirsty. She slid down the wall and sat with her back to it. At least there were no rats to worry about.

  Her brain had turned to mush, thoughts were disconnected pieces of spaghetti and her eyelids were the heaviest eyelids in the universe. She blew out the candle, lay her head on the floor and closed her eyes.

  Where was Quigg when she needed him? Where was anyone? Would she ever get out of this maze? Who was watching her? If they knew about the chocolate spread and sugar sandwiches
and the orange juice with three eggs mixed in it, then it must be someone she knew. That was scary, because she didn’t know anyone now except for Quigg, Duffy and Ruth. The people whose paths she’d crossed didn’t know about those two things, and there was no way they could find out unless they’d spoken to the other three.

  As the blackness enveloped her, slivers of long-forgotten memories jumped into her mind – a three-year-old girl in a pretty summer dress; a man in a white coat coming towards her with a needle and syringe; a white room full of shiny metal and strange-looking instruments; and a clock on a wall that seemed to go backwards . . .

  ***

  Rodney held Hannah Hutchins’ hand all the way to the Maternity Ward at Eastbourne District General Hospital, and now he couldn’t feel any part of his hand at all. He didn’t need an x-ray to tell him that every phalange, metacarpal and carpal were crushed beyond surgical repair. The doctors in the Accident and Emergency would look at his deformed hand, shake their heads in despair and send him to the bionic department for a replacement.

  Hannah – as she now insisted he call her – had begun her labour in earnest as soon as the paramedics had deposited her in the back of the ambulance. While the male paramedic drove through the streets of Eastbourne like the clappers, the female was at the business end of the delivery providing calm, reassuring advice:

  ‘Don’t push until you feel a contraction coming, Hannah.’

  ‘Fuck off, nadbadger.’

  ‘Stay relaxed and breathe deeply, it will help to keep your baby calm.’

  ‘Piss off you twat ratchet.’

  ‘That’s right, don’t bottle your feelings up – let it all out.’

  ‘If you don’t shut the fuck up chimney whore, I’m going to crush your head with my thighs.’

  The blue light was flashing, the siren was blaring, and Hannah Hutchins was screaming blue murder. Some of the swear words that came out of her mouth at him, the paramedic offering her pain relief in the form of entonox gas through a face mask, and the world in general must have been foreign, because he’d never heard them before. Being a senior investigator he was familiar with the majority of swear words in daily use, but he had no idea what a “Mitch”, a “Chimney whore”, or a “Nadbadger” were.

  Just as they arrived at the hospital, Hannah Hutchins gave birth to a baby girl, which later turned out to weigh seven pounds three ounces.

  ‘If it had been a boy I was going to call him Rodney,’ Hannah said.

  ‘I’m glad it’s a girl then,’ Rodney said. ‘Rodney isn’t a very nice name. I wish I had been called something more . . . dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous!’

  ‘You know, like Dirk Gently, Mike Hammer or Sam Spade. Rodney Crankshank is not really a name that conjures up a private investigator who operates on the edge of mystery and danger.’

  ‘I thought you were pretty dangerous in the shower, Rodney – look what happened.’

  They both laughed. Although Hannah grimaced more than she laughed.

  ‘I have to go now, Hannah.’

  ‘I know you do, Rodney. You want to try Mrs Lavender across the street at Number 18. The nosy bitch has lived in that house forever and knows everybody else’s business. If anyone can tell you what happened to the Perez’s, she can.’

  He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Hannah.’

  ‘No. Thank you, Rodney.’

  He turned as he was about to leave. ‘I forgot to ask, what will you call your daughter?’

  ‘Vienna . . . Vienna Hutchins.’

  ‘Now that’s a name to conjure with.’

  He had to catch a taxi back to Dallaway Drive in Stone Cross, which cost him twenty-five pounds. If he left out the bit about having sex in the shower with a pregnant woman he could argue that he was the hero of the hour who saved the day and claim the money back from the business, so he asked for a receipt.

  The front garden of number 18 was well-tended also, but the house and garage looked a bit dilapidated. He could imagine that doing all the chores around a house when you were on your last legs was a bit of a problem. It would be all right if you could afford to pay people to do the work for you, but not everyone had the money, and some tradesmen weren’t necessarily reliable but only too-pleased to take advantage of old aged pensioners.

  The door opened a crack before he could knock. ‘You were over at that hussy’s house earlier, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has she had her fatherless baby yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the weight?’

  ‘Seven pounds three ounces.’

  ‘Mmmm! I thought it would be closer to a hogshead the way she was shuffling about like a tractor and the faces she was pulling. Was it a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Girl.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Vienna.’

  ‘Likes to put on airs and graces does Hannah Hutchins. Don’t really matter what she calls that child, it’ll still be a . . . Anyway, who are you?’

  He produced his ID Card. ‘Rodney Crankshank, Senior Investigator with Bulldog Investigations in London.’

  ‘And what were you doing inside her house?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You go in, next thing is the ambulance arrives and then you both come back out dripping wet . . . You didn’t?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s it.’ Mrs Lavender opened the door slightly wider than a crack. ‘She had information you needed, but you had to work for it. I have a chart with the days crossed off, so I know she was overdue. Just wait until I tell the girls at bingo tonight what you had to do for her. And why are you standing here making my doorstep look untidy? Don’t think I’m going to invite you in, Mr Sheepshank.’

  ‘Miss Hutchins said you might know Maria and Alfonso Perez who used to live . . .’

  ‘Foster carers. There was always children coming and going, and most of them were trouble I can tell you. I had my own two brats then . . . What did you want to know about Maria and Alfonso?’

  ‘Where they moved to would be a start?’

  ‘The graveyard.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, it was a long time ago. They died in a car accident in 1995, although there was some doubt about whether it was an accident or not. The car went over the cliffs at Birling, smashed into the rocks below and the car burst into flames. Goodness knows what they were doing up there in a car, but there wasn’t much left of them when the firemen finally pulled the four bodies out . . .’

  ‘Four bodies?’

  ‘Two of the bodies were children they were fostering.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘It certainly was. I can only go off what I read in the newspapers at the time, but the police found another set of tyre tracks on top of those cliffs.’

  ‘They thought the family were murdered?’

  ‘The police never came right out and said so, but that’s what they were implying all right. They never could explain how Alfonso’s car had gone over that cliff.’

  ‘Do you happen to remember one of the foster children called Sally Tomkins?’

  ‘Parents committed suicide?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She was different from the other children – quiet, respectful, no trouble at all. In fact, it’s funny you should mention her. The day before the accident, a man and a woman from Social Services came and took little Sally away. I remember, because there was a bit of a hullabaloo. Sally didn’t want to go with them. The man dragged her out of the house kicking and screaming. Maria and her husband, and the other children as well, were all crying. I didn’t see what the upset was because Sally was being adopted, but I suppose she’d become part of the Perez family after eighteen months of being fostered and it was a bit of a wrench for a young girl especially after what had already happened to her parents.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Lavender.’

 
; ‘She didn’t really force you to do that to her, did she?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It was in the shower standing up. That’s why you were both wet, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve been very kind, but I have to go . . .’

  The old woman rubbed her hands together. ‘And you’ve made my day, Mr Gangplank.’

  The door banged shut.

  Chapter Nine

  He walked back to his office.

  DS Dwyer was waiting for him.

  ‘Are you ready, Dwyer?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You can drive?’ He threw her his keys and headed towards the stairs. ‘So, what did you find out?’

  ‘Tracking down newspaper articles from 1967 is a full-time job in itself. Did you know that they didn’t have computers in 1967?’

  ‘I find that hard to believe?’

  ‘Well, not computers you could use anyway. They had fifty-ton monstrosities that filled a whole warehouse, but the first useful personal computers didn’t arrive until 1992.’

  He pulled a face. ‘That late?’

  ‘So, I had to submit a written request to the Intelligence Analyst – Amanda Higton – for her to obtain the information on everything you asked for. The Highgate Vampire is really old news. If it weren’t for the fact that a woman’s body was dumped in the cemetery yesterday, we’d be calling it a cold case. It’ll need someone to interrogate one of those microfiche reader thingy machines in a university library or some such.’

  They climbed in Quigg’s Mercedes and set off towards Deacons Rise to confront the Satanists.

  ‘What about Perkins?’

  ‘He’s an oddball.’

  ‘They’re all oddballs in forensics.’

  ‘Said he was reluctant, but seeing as I had my hands round his throat he was willing to reveal that when they’d moved the body they found a child’s footprints.’