The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Probably from one of the sightseeing tours.’

  ‘He said you’d say that, which is why he was reluctant to tell us about them in the first place.’

  ‘So why does he think these particular footprints are any different from all the other footprints he found at the crime scene?’

  ‘After taking photographs and arranging plastercasts of the footprints he spoke to Mr Mulhern about the policy for letting children into the cemetery. There are no restrictions . . .’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘. . . However, visitors are not encouraged to bring children under twelve years of age into the cemetery, and when they do they’re to be supervised at all times.’

  ‘Just as I thought. What was the age of the child who left the footprints?’

  ‘Perkins estimated between six and eight years old.’

  ‘I still don’t see why he’s creating a song and dance routine of some child’s footprints when they’re permitted into the cemetery anyway.’

  ‘Mr Mulhern informed Perkins that they’ve had no children in the West Cemetery for over a month.’

  ‘So, they were old footprints?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Or they belonged to children who had sneaked into the cemetery for a game of hide and seek, or desecrate the gravestone?’

  ‘Possible, but he thinks they were deliberately placed under the body.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, although forensics carried out a detailed search of the area, they found no other footprints belonging to a child.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising with the amount of people traipsing through there day after day.’

  ‘And yet, they found some under the body.’

  ‘I’ll admit, that seems a bit suspicious.’

  ‘Also, the child’s footprints were deeper than all the adult footprints.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘A child is lighter than an adult. There’s no way their footprints could make a deeper impression than an adult’s.’

  ‘What about . . . ?’

  ‘And the ground beneath the corpse was no different from the ground elsewhere in the vicinity.’

  ‘Mmmm! Okay, let’s say that what Perkins has suggested is true – how does it help us? Where’s the non-vampire lead I asked for?’

  ‘Well, apart from the obvious link to Lilith’s Children . . .’

  ‘Obvious? It’s not obvious to me. I’m sure the reference to children in “Lilith’s Children” is not meant to be literal. They’re only children in the context of being followers.’

  ‘Okay. Well, Perkins said they found an imprint of the maker’s stamp in the soil.’

  ‘Which will probably tell us that a million children’s shoes were made and sold . . .’

  ‘Actually – no.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. They eventually deciphered the stamp as BESO, which was the nickname of Besarion Vanovis Jughashvili. Perkins carried out some research and discovered that Jughashvili was a Russian cobbler who made children’s footwear between about 1870 and 1900 . . .’

  ‘That’s all very interesting, but . . .’

  ‘He was also Joseph Stalin’s father.’

  ‘You’ve lost me now, Dwyer. How does a pair of children’s shoes made by Joseph Stalin’s father over a hundred years ago, feed into our investigation?’

  ‘Besarion had two other children besides Joseph – Mikheil and Giorgi. While Joseph was running the country and doing some purging of his enemies, Mikheil and Giorgi followed in their father’s footsteps. Mikheil died during the Second World War, but Giorgi survived and made his way to England with his family . . .’

  ‘He can’t still be alive.’

  ‘No, but his grandson Taras is. He has a cobbler’s shop in Soho on the corner of Poland Street and Oxford Street, and still uses the BESO maker’s stamp.’

  ‘I didn’t think we were ever going to get there, Sergeant. So, Perkins is suggesting that the child’s shoeprints found underneath our victim with BESO imprinted on them were made by Taras . . . ?’

  ‘Jager – The name Jughashvili has been partially anglicised.’

  ‘I can understand why he would do that. Okay, so there might be a Russian link to the murder?’

  ‘That’s my guess, Sir.’

  ‘Did you have any luck . . . ?’

  Dwyer’s phone vibrated. She passed it to him. ‘Can you answer it?’

  ‘I’m not your secretary, Sergeant.’

  ‘You’d rather I break the law and answer it while I’m driving?’

  He pulled a face as he answered the call. ‘Quigg?’

  ‘Oh hello, Sir.’

  ‘Hello. Who’s this?’

  ‘Sergeant Simeon Herbert in Records.’

  ‘Didn’t Carole Craighead use to work there?’

  ‘Transferred to the Mayor’s Office as the Commissioner’s liaison officer.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Why are you calling Sergeant Dwyer on this number, Herbert?’

  ‘She wanted to know about any unsolved murders in Highgate from 1974 that were . . . a bit strange.’

  ‘That’s right. Anything?’

  ‘I think I might have something for you, Sir.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Number 35 Willow Walk, which isn’t actually in Highgate, it’s in Islington, but I think it comes under the umbrella of “strange”.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sixty-seven year-old Romanian immigrant Mr Bozhidar Dimitrov was murdered during the early hours of Friday, March 13, 1974 in his wine cellar. He was a wealthy businessman who imported wine from the Balkan countries and sold them on to restaurants, hotels and such like. That night the police couldn’t get into the house until after the fire crews had brought the fire under control the following morning. When they did, they found Mr Dimitrov’s charred body with a metal stake through his heart, he’d been decapitated, and there were a dozen nails through his hands and feet.’

  ‘Who was the senior investigating officer?’

  ‘A DS Gary Goodwin, but he was killed by a shark in Australia during a family holiday in 1989.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘They narrowed it down to a shark called “Big Blue”, Sir.’

  ‘Very funny, Sergeant. I’m rolling about here holding my sides.’

  ‘No, Sir. There were no suspects.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there was any DNA evidence collected either?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I have the metal rod and nails, but that’s all.’

  ‘Thanks anyway, Sergeant Herbert.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Sir. Oh, seeing as you answered Jane Dwyer’s phone, what do you think my chances are of getting her into bed?’

  He laughed. ‘Now that’s a much better joke than the one you told before. Goodbye, Sergeant.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sir.’

  He ended the call and passed Dwyer’s phone back to her.

  ‘Was that Herbert from Records?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Wanted to know if there was any chance he could get you into bed.’

  ‘Fucking pervert.’

  ‘He obviously finds you attractive, Dwyer.’

  Her lip curled up. ‘That’s what I mean – fucking pervert. I’m about as attractive as a slice of stringy bacon.’

  ‘Some people possess exceedingly strange fetishes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ***

  There was something tickling her nose. It’d be Quigg, or one of his rugrats. She tried to brush it away, but as she did so her hand came into contact with something large and furry that squeaked . . .

  ‘FUCK’S SAKE!’

  She opened her eyes in the pitch black, sat upright and spat bits of fur out of her mouth. It was more than probable that she now had bubonic plague, and it would only
be a matter of time before the vomiting, stomach cramps and diarrhoea began. A couple of hours after that she’d be a rotting corpse in the tunnel. Masked men would arrive pushing a wooden barrow and shouting “bring out your dead”, take her black putrid cadaver away and throw it in a plague pit with all the other flea-infested carcases.

  The fucking rats were back. Where had they been hiding? Or had someone let them in?

  She re-lit the candle.

  There were two flasks on the floor in front of her.

  The bastard had come into the tunnel while she’d been sleeping. What was going on? Who was he?

  She unscrewed the caps of both flasks. The first one had steaming hot vegetable soup inside. The second one – ice cold orange juice with eggs mixed in it again. She was starving and thirsty. God only knew what time it was. Her watch said ten-fifteen, but it had stopped. Was it morning or night? How long had she been in this fucking maze? With the exception of the squeaking and scurrying rats, there was no noise. Her head throbbed at the absence of noise.

  This was her second meal – wasn’t it? The last time he’d given her chocolate spread and sugar sandwiches, and orange juice with eggs mixed in it, before that just some water . . . and now vegetable soup.

  Rummaging in her rucksack, she found the camping utensils she always kept in there and separated out the spoon. Then, she poured soup into the top of the flask and screwed the internal stopper in to keep the rest of the soup hot. She scooped up a spoonful of soup, blew on the liquid and slid it into her mouth.

  The rats sat watching her and licking their lips.

  Vegetable soup!

  She never ate vegetable soup. Why? Why did she never eat vegetable soup?

  The smell and taste triggered some chemicals in her unconscious mind and a buried memory clawed its way to the surface. She was five years old, sitting at a kitchen table that was covered by a yellow and green plastic tablecloth. It was evening, nearly bedtime. An unshaven man was washing his muddy hands in the sink. A baby was sitting in a highchair scooping sloppy food out of a plastic bowl and then licking his hands.

  ‘Eat your soup, Lucy.’

  ‘Yes, daddy. Where’s mummy?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Somewhere she can never hurt me . . . or you and Billy ever again.’

  ‘Will she be coming back?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be possible, love. Are you eating your soup?’

  ‘Yes, daddy. Have you been gardening?’

  ‘Yes. I had treasure to bury.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Really?’

  He laughed. ‘No, not really. I’ve been feeding the roses.’

  ‘We have the best roses in the whole street.’

  ‘And they’ll be even better tomorrow.’

  ‘This is lovely soup.’

  ‘I made it especially for you, Lucy. I know how much you like vegetable soup.’

  ‘Can Billy have some?’

  ‘He’s still a bit young for lumpy soup. Maybe in a couple of months.’

  But there was no tomorrow, no couple of months. Daddy put her and Billy to bed, but when she woke up he was gone. Without a mummy or a daddy, people came and took her and Billy away, and put them both in care. She never saw her daddy, mummy or Billy ever again.

  The memory ran out, but the reel kept on turning – clickety, clack – clickety, clack – clickety, clack . . .

  Her face was wet with tears.

  The soup had gone cold.

  The candle had flickered out.

  Vegetable soup was the last meal she’d shared with her father and her brother.

  The memories of her life before that meal had been buried so deep and forgotten – just like daddy’s buried treasure.

  ‘Oh daddy!’ she whispered into the darkness.

  ***

  ‘DI Erica Holm?’

  ‘Oh hello, DI Holm – it’s Rodney Crankshank from Bulldog Investigations.’ He was sitting in his car outside Hannah Hutchins’ house. Although he’d had a good breakfast earlier he was hungry again and would have to drop in somewhere on his way to East Dulwich.

  ‘I know who you are and where you work, Rodney.’

  ‘Of course you do – sorry . . .’

  ‘Did you ring for any particular reason?’

  He laughed, but it sounded like the mating call of a pterodactyl. ‘Oh yes. I thought I’d better tell you what I’d found out so far . . .’

  ‘Before someone tortures and murders you, and the information is lost forever, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. Have you found out anything else, Inspector?’

  ‘Nothing, Rodney. I was surprised that forensics drew a blank, but they did. Someone walked in off the street, tortured and killed three people, and we have no leads worth shit.’

  ‘What about Lancer Communications?’

  ‘Officially, no such company has ever existed. We checked Companies House – nothing. We tried to trace the telephone number you were given, but it led us nowhere. The records relating to the purchase of Quigg’s old house and Caitlin’s forwarding address in Canada have disappeared. A search of the internet and other databases drew a blank as well. Lancer Communications was obviously a front for something else, but what is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘They’re going to get away with what they did to Sue, Peter and Deidre, aren’t they?’

  ‘Unless you’ve found anything we can use, Rodney.’

  ‘Well, let’s see. I was able to obtain a copy of the Social Services file for Sally Tomkins . . .’

  ‘And break the law in the process?’

  ‘As I said to my source – a minor transgression.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There wasn’t a lot in the file really, but I did find out that Maria and Alfonso Perez fostered Sally for eighteen months after she was taken into care.’

  ‘I don’t see . . .’

  ‘Well, neither did I really. I thought it was a long shot, but we had nothing else, so I decided to go back to the beginning.’

  ‘And what did Mr and Mrs Perez tell you?’

  ‘Nothing – they’re dead.’

  ‘Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘Definitely. I had to work hard for it, but I eventually found someone who knew the Perez’s. And I discovered that they had died under suspicious circumstances the day after Sally was taken away by Social Workers to her new adoptive parents.’ He told her the details of what had happened. ‘Apparently, the police suspected it was murder, but they couldn’t prove anything. It might be worth taking a look at the police file to see if they had any suspects or leads that we could re-examine.’

  ‘Good work, Rodney. I’ll see if I can get hold of it.’

  ‘Also, I think it all started before then.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Sally’s parents supposedly committed suicide, which is what it was classified as in the Coroner’s report, but the woman who ran the post office – Mrs Sheila Howe – was convinced that they were murdered, and knowing what I know now, I’m inclined to agree with her. I think it might be worthwhile doing some research on Leonard and Fanny Tomkins. If we want to find out about Lancer Communications, we need to go back to the beginning – there’s a lot more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘I’ll get my team onto it. I made a good decision when I asked for your help, Rodney.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so, DI Holm.’

  ‘And hey, be careful out there.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘To see the couple who adopted Sally – Carol and Kenneth Hughes – they live at 44 Underhill Road in East Dulwich. You might want to take a look at them while you’re at it as well.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘I have a couple more ideas as well. Do you want to hear them?’

  ‘Every little helps.’

  ‘I don’t know whether it’s even possible now, or if you’d get permission to do it, but I wonder about comparing Sall
y’s DNA with her parents.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a feeling I have.’

  ‘Do you know if her parents were buried or cremated?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Also, I have two names for you – Martin Webster and Heather Drake – they were the two Social workers named in the file who went to the Perez house to collect Sally and take her to her new adoptive home. My guess is that you’ll find they never worked for Eastbourne Social Services.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that someone from Lancer Communications murdered Sally’s parents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  ‘And then Sally worked for them?’

  ‘That’s what we understand from Inspector Quigg. It was the only thing he did know about his wife from seeing one of her business cards.’

  ‘Yes, I wonder about him. You’d think a man would check a woman out before he married her.’

  ‘A woman might do that, but a man wouldn’t.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Oh well. Thanks for calling anyway, Rodney’

  ‘No problem, Inspector. I’ll call again tomorrow and let you know how I get on in East Dulwich.’

  He ended the call.

  After keying the Hughes’ address into the satnav, he started the engine, headed towards the A27 and stopped at the first pub he came to, which was the Berwick Inn on Station Road in Polegate.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ the barmaid said. She was the same height as him with greasy black hair, gaps between every one of her teeth, and eyes like a pug. She wore a white shirt with a black tie knotted haphazardly as if she was a defiant schoolgirl. Her breasts were small, encapsulated in a black bra, and without actually holding them in his hands, he guessed they were a 32A.

  ‘Half a bitter shandy, please. And do you have a menu I can look at?’

  She pointed a finger along the bar to a stack of menus.

  His face reddened. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see them.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  He picked a menu up, opened it and glanced at the main courses. He had in mind that he didn’t want to be smelling like the food he was eating, but there wasn’t a lot he fancied. ‘I’ll have the haddock and poached eggs with rancheros sauce.’