The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘No parents . . . or relatives, so she said. Her parents died young and she was an only child. She wouldn’t talk about her childhood, or her past. She said that only the here and now mattered.’

  ‘If she didn’t live here with you, where did she live?’

  ‘I said she could move in here if she wanted to, but she wouldn’t. She said she needed her independence.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I respected her decision. I’m not possessive about people – only money.’

  ‘So, she didn’t move in here?’

  ‘No. She came and went as she pleased, but she had a small one-bedroom flat above a 24-hour launderette on Brecknock Road in Tufnell Park – number 257. I offered to buy her a luxury apartment, but she said she was happy where she was.’ He shrugged. ‘If she was after my money, she had a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘What’s your own background, Mr Baglio?’

  ‘My grandfather was Italian and came to England after the Second World War. He worked on the land, married a Polish woman and they had one son – my father. Joe Baglio was a miner at Brookhouse Colliery in Sheffield and he married an English woman called Lisa Falco. I was born in 1984 and brought up in a terraced two-up two-down in Swallownest. Of course, the colliery closed in 1985 at the same time as the miners’ strikes, which meant that my father was out of work and couldn’t afford to feed us. At first, it wasn’t too bad, because my mother had a job at the local hardware store, but that only lasted another four months. After that, we quickly descended into abject poverty living off handouts like the rest of the people in the area. Luckily, I had a knack with numbers, and was awarded a scholarship to attend Cambridge University. I’ve never been back since.’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘They died. I’m the last of the Baglio line, and I think the family tree will die out with me.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ Dwyer said.

  ‘Survival of the fittest, as Darwin said.’

  Quigg interrupted again. ‘Did you often leave Emilia on her own at the club?’

  ‘No, not often. Sometimes she left me there.’

  ‘If you left early, how was she planning on getting home?’

  ‘We went there by taxi from Chelsea. I caught a taxi back here when I left, and I assume she would have done the same.’

  ‘You weren’t worried about leaving her there?’

  ‘No. Emilia and I are regulars at the club. Lilith knew to look after her.’

  ‘Okay,’ Quigg said. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Baglio, and we’re sorry for your loss.’

  ‘You wanted me to identify, Emilia?’

  ‘Someone will contact you from Hammersmith Hospital soon. Oh, and please don’t leave the country until we’ve concluded our investigation.’

  ‘I’m a suspect?’

  ‘Everyone is a suspect until we find Emilia’s killer.’

  Outside, Dwyer said, ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. He seemed genuinely upset and surprised when he learned of her death. And there are better ways to break off an engagement.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Tufnell Park. Let’s go and see who Emilia Whitworth really is.’

  It took Dwyer forty minutes to reach 257 Brecknock Road. During which time Quigg phoned the Duty Inspector, which turned out to be Nichola Wright.

  ‘What do you want, Quigg?’

  ‘How do you know I want anything?’

  ‘You always want something. Otherwise you wouldn’t be calling.’

  ‘You make me sound so mercenary.’

  ‘I do, don’t I? Well?’

  ‘I need to know which taxi firm Emilia Whitworth used and what time she left the LC Club on Deacons Rise . . .’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘We raided it a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘A lot of naked people.’

  ‘They’re Satanists, you know?’

  ‘Is that all you want?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You know there’s no such thing as a free lunch, don’t you, Quigg?’

  ‘I’ve not asked you for lunch.’

  ‘I have more odd jobs for you.’

  ‘Odd jobs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That was the problem – he was too good for his own good. He’d gone out of his way to please her the last time he’d gone round to her house. He’d mowed her lawn, weeded her borders, cleaned out her shed, sorted out her attic, given her a whole-body massage and de-greased her passages – not once, not twice, but three times. She’d obviously been pleased with his after-sales service. Which was all well and good, but he was beginning to feel like Odd Job.

  ‘I’m bogged down with a case at moment?’

  ‘There’s no rush, Quigg. I can wait. In the meantime, I’ll prepare a list of odd jobs that need doing.’

  She was right: There was no such thing as a free lunch. Had there ever been? He was sure he’d had a free lunch in the past. Maybe that was in the good old days when free lunches were two-a-penny. ‘Once this investigation has finished we’ll arrange a date.’

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve got the answer.’

  The call ended.

  Dwyer glanced at him. ‘Inspector Wright?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘I have to go round to her house and do odd jobs.’

  ‘Odd jobs! Is that what they’re calling it these days?’

  ‘You have a dirty mind, Sergeant.’

  Access to the upstairs flat was through a side door, but it was locked. They went into the launderette and spoke to the manager.

  ‘Name?’ Dwyer said to the woman.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We like to know who we’re dealing with.’

  ‘You’re not dealing with me. I don’t do deals.’

  Quigg pulled a face. ‘We need to get into the flat upstairs.’

  ‘Have you tried ringing the bell?’

  They glanced at each other. Neither of them had rung the bell, they’d just rattled the door. The flat was obviously empty because the occupier was dead.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, you want to try ringing it again, because I saw her go up there twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Emilia Whitworth?’

  ‘Yeah – that’s her.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Mrs . . . ?’ Dwyer said.

  The woman smiled. ‘Do you think I fell out of a coconut tree?’

  They returned to the side door and rang the bell. Eventually, a young woman with blue hair, black lipstick and black eye shadow appeared. She was wearing shredded jeans, a black Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and was as pale as Meissen porcelain. ‘What?’

  ‘Emilia Whitworth?’

  ‘That’s who I am. Who’re you?’

  Dwyer produced her warrant card. ‘Police.’

  ‘You think you can turn up here and start hassling me at my front door?’

  ‘Have you heard about the woman who was found dead in Hammersmith Cemetery yesterday morning?’

  ‘I can read.’

  ‘Her name was Emilia Whitworth.’

  ‘So, she has the same name as me. So what?’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Quigg said.

  ‘No.’

  Dwyer leaned forward and began sniffing. ‘I’m sure I can smell something . . . odd. I’ll give the Drug Squad a ring. They’re sitting around doing nothing at the moment.’

  ‘Bastards.’ She led the way up the stairs and welcomed them into her flat. ‘Sit down, and don’t fucking touch anything. Don’t leave anything that isn’t already here. Keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t start wandering around being nosy bastards. Keep your comments about my stuff to yourself and don’t try to put words in my mouth – I have my own fucking words.’

  They perched on the edge of a two-seater sofa covered in old Army blankets and Indian-patterned cushions.
/>   Dwyer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t think I’m gonna offer you tea and biscuits. You’ve got more chance of catching fleas.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Well, now that you’ve managed to finagle your way into my luxury pad, what do you want?’

  Dwyer glanced at Quigg.

  He nodded for her to lead the questioning.

  ‘What work do you do?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m a student at University College London.’

  ‘Studying what?’

  ‘Theoretical Physics.’

  ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘You thought I’d be doing Surfing Studies, the Beatles or the Science of Harry Potter, didn’t you?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘We’re trained not to do that in the police force.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Quigg chipped in. ‘Have you seen the dead woman’s picture?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘And do you recognise her?’

  ‘She seems familiar.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’m bisexual, so I go with men and women, depending on how the mood takes me.’

  ‘Okay.’ He’d never understood how that worked. Men were men and women were women, weren’t they?

  ‘She looks like someone I had a thing with about four months ago. I only went with her a couple of times. She said her name was Paula.’

  ‘Another student?’

  ‘Well, she said she was a student, but I’ve never seen her on campus before or after.’

  ‘Any last name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything about herself?’

  ‘Nothing you’d find remotely interesting, and I’m guessing it was a pack of lies anyway. She stole my name. I wonder what else she took from me.’

  ‘Anything else you want to confess to?’ Dwyer said.

  She stood up. ‘You can fuck off now. I know my rights. Arrest me, or get out.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Miss Whitworth,’ Quigg said.

  Outside, Dwyer said, ‘Back to the start.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He called Nicky Wright again. ‘Any luck on the taxi firm?’

  ‘Do you think no one but you knows how to do police work, Quigg?’

  ‘I’m only asking.’

  ‘Well, you want to try reading your text messages every so often.’

  The line went dead.

  He found his text messages and read the last one: Pick-up 3:30 am. Metro Minicabs, 38 Wood Lane N6 7ER, Nicky.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ he said.

  They climbed into the Mercedes and set off. Estimated travel time was twenty-five minutes along the A1.

  It was quarter past four, and he was conscious that he needed to be in the police station attic by five-thirty. He certainly didn’t want to be late, or stand Miss Tinkley up. He was on a promise, and he intended to take full advantage of that promise.

  ***

  ‘Why do they want you to kill Quigg?’

  ‘That’s what I do. And I was already . . . dealing with matters.’

  ‘No. I mean, what’s he ever done to them that they want you to kill him?’

  ‘He knows too much.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘That’s too much. He was married to one of their operatives, and now they’re not sure how much he knows.’

  ‘He knows nothing about nothing. His brains are in his dick.’

  ‘They’re not willing to take the chance. He knew about Lancer Communications, and now he’s paying a private investigator – who’s already found out far too much about his wife and is trying to track down his daughter Phoebe, the police are trying to find me . . .’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I killed some people.’

  ‘How many people have you killed?’

  ‘I don’t keep count, but it’s well over a hundred.’

  ‘So, my father is a mass murderer?’

  ‘An assassin. I kill people for a living, not for any other reason.’

  ‘You’re splitting hairs.’

  He shrugged. ‘So now they want Quigg dead, and I’ve been ordered to do it.’

  ‘What if you don’t do it?’

  ‘They’ll kill Billy, and then they’ll kill us. After that, they’ll send someone else to kill Quigg and his extended family. The job will get done one way or another.’

  ‘Unless . . . ?’

  ‘There’s no “unless”. We free Billy, and then all three of us will come down here and disappear until it’s safe to come out again. They don’t know about this place.’

  ‘And what about Quigg, Ruth, Duffy and the children?’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re not my concern.’

  ‘Well, they’re mine. I was the one who started all this off. I called the private detective agency. It’s my fault your people now want to kill everyone.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do. Look after number one – that’s my motto.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind – I’m not going to help you.’

  ‘But . . . Billy’s your brother.’

  ‘And Quigg is the man I love. Ruth, Duffy and the children are my family.’

  ‘Me and Billy are your family.’

  ‘Biological family only. I don’t really know who either of you are anymore. We save everybody or nobody.’

  ‘It’s impossible. They’re too powerful.’

  Lucy sat down in the tunnel opposite him. ‘We’ll just hide down here then, should we?’

  ‘You always were a troublesome child.’

  ‘That’s what Quigg thinks as well.’

  ‘Who is this Quigg anyway?’

  ‘I’ve told you, he’s the man I love.’

  ‘You’re still young. There are lots of men out there.’

  ‘Not like Quigg. He’s both strong and weak at the same time, and he loves me.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘It’s not the same. So, do we just sit here with our arses in the air, or is there a way?’

  ‘You never used to talk like that.’

  ‘Yeah well, I do now. It’s what happens when your parents desert you and you’re taken into care.’

  He looked away. ‘Even if we were stupid enough to kill all the operatives who work for Lancer Communications, there’s still the Druid Council.’

  ‘We’ll kill them as well.’

  ‘I have no idea who they are.’

  ‘Then we’ll find out.’

  ‘You’re talking about months of painstaking investigative work. By the time we find out who the Druid Council members all are they would have replaced the operative we killed, Quigg and his family would be dead, and they’d be looking for us.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re an assassin? I get the impression there’s an old woman in there struggling to get out.’

  Her father sighed. ‘All right. Maybe I need to go back to them.’

  ‘Will they trust you?’

  ‘They don’t trust anyone. They’ll keep hold of Billy so that I have no other choice but to complete the job. I’ll work from the inside, and you work from the outside. I’ll try and keep Quigg and his family alive as long as I can, but you have to find out who the members of the Druid Council are. We have to make sure we kill every last one of them.’

  ‘Is there a fucking way out of here, or what?’

  They both stood up.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I know a place where we can wash your mouth out with soap.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Metro Minicabs was located down a gravel lane full of potholes and overgrown hawthorn bushes. It was owned by a Lithuanian man called Vitautas Jurgaityte, and employed mainly Lithuanian immigrants as drivers. The company had a fleet of Skoda Fabia 5-door hatchbacks, which looked as though they’d be more at home in a breakers
yard than picking up punters around Highgate.

  ‘Yes?’ the old woman said when they entered the portacabin that was being used as an office. She was at least in her sixties. Her bottle-blonde hair had been cut into a pageboy style, and she was painfully thin. The veins, arteries and sinews in her neck stood out like strings on a balalaika.

  Quigg flashed his warrant card. ‘We’d like to talk to the driver who picked up a woman from the LC Club on Deacons Rise at about three-thirty on Monday morning, please.’

  ‘The sex club?’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘That’s what everybody calls it.’

  ‘Is the driver available?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ She moved the computer mouse around the screen, clicking as she went. ‘Here we are. Now, let’s see. Ah yes, night duty on Sunday night . . .’ She glanced up at them. ‘The drivers do a twelve-hour shift overnight – eight in the evening until eight the following morning . . . Vaclavas Verkys was on that night and picked up a client at that time on Monday morning . . . Of course, it doesn’t say here whether that particular client was a man or a woman . . .’

  ‘Does it give a destination?’

  ‘Yes. Number 74 Junction Road, Highgate.’

  ‘That’s not far from the cemetery, is it?’ Dwyer said.

  The woman flipped through a London A-Z booklet she had lying on her desk. ‘A couple of streets away. Definitely within walking distance.’

  ‘Do you know if he took her all the way to her destination?’

  ‘It doesn’t say that here, but he charged her the full fare for the journey, so I assume he did.’

  ‘Is the driver on shift now?’

  ‘Comes on again at eight tonight.’

  ‘Do you have an address for him?’ He didn’t really want to come back at eight o’clock, because he had an appointment with the naughty nurse – Celia Tabbard. Nor did he want to go somewhere else this afternoon when Miss Tinkley was waiting for him in the police station attic. ‘Or . . . you couldn’t call him, could you?’

  ‘I’ve got a mobile number here for him.’

  ‘Would you phone him, please?’

  ‘We have time to go round there,’ Dwyer said. ‘I don’t mind working late.’

  ‘No. We only need to know if he took her all the way home.’

  ‘Are we interviewing suspects by phone now? He could have killed her and dumped her body in the cemetery.’