The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Why? There was no sexual assault, no robbery, no violence except the manner of her death. What motive did he have?’

  ‘Well I don’t know.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘His English is not so good,’ the woman said.

  Quigg’s brow furrowed. He felt as though Miss Tinkley was slipping through his fingers like jelly. ‘Do you speak Lithuanian?’

  The woman pulled a face. ‘I am Lithuanian.’

  ‘Could you ask him the question then?’

  ‘So now I work for the police?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  She made the call. Eventually the driver answered and there was a heated exchange in Lithuanian.

  Quigg didn’t understand a word of Lithuanian, but he had the feeling that a lot of the conversation was made up of swear words.

  The woman looked up at them. ‘Yes, he dropped the woman off at her destination and then watched her go inside.’

  ‘That was kind of him.’

  ‘It was, but only because she had big tits and a nice ass.’

  ‘Typical man,’ Dwyer said.

  Quigg gave her a look, then turned back to the woman. ‘And he didn’t see her leave again?’

  She spat the question down the phone and then said, ‘No, but he drove off after she went inside the building.’

  ‘Okay, thank you.’

  The woman put her hand over the microphone. ‘Have you finished with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She swore into the phone again and put the receiver back in its cradle.

  He gave her half a smile. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  They left the portacabin and navigated their way across a yard booby-trapped with potholes.

  ‘Right, back to the station, Sergeant.’

  ‘What about going to the woman’s address?’

  ‘I have something else to do.’

  ‘Oh yeah! Like what? And with who?’

  ‘Isn’t it true that you’re the Sergeant and I’m the Inspector? Isn’t it also true that you answer to me, not the other way round?’

  ‘But we’ve got a decent lead at last.’

  ‘Which will wait until tomorrow morning. The dead are in no hurry for us to solve the case. We’ll go there after the press briefing.’

  They climbed into the car, and Dwyer began weaving along the lane to avoid the water-filled potholes.

  It seemed that there were numerous obstacles between him and success. He was beginning to understand how Hercules felt when he was ordered to perform twelve labours by Eurytheus to obtain immortality. Miss Tinkley had better appreciate the Herculean effort he was making – against all the odds – to reach her.

  Dwyer’s phone jangled.

  Quigg answered it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Amanda Higton – the Intelligence Analyst.’

  ‘About the information surrounding the Highgate Vampire?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve put it all on the desk where Tallie Kline used to sit.’

  ‘Thanks, Amanda. I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll come up and thank you personally when I have time.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that, Inspector Quigg. I’ve heard all about you.’

  ‘Then you’ll know I’m one of the good ones.’

  ‘That’s not what the chart says.’

  ‘Ah! Well, thanks anyway, Amanda.’

  The call ended.

  Everyone seemed to know about the chart. He was plagued by the chart, had nightmares about the chart. What was he doing wrong?

  Dwyer gave him a sideways look. ‘Was that Amanda Higton?’

  ‘No – the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Wanted me to tell you what a good job you’re doing.’

  ‘He often rings me up in the evening to tell me that.’

  ‘Seeing as you want to stay late tonight, you can sift through the information Amanda Higton has left on your desk, look at the old television appearances of Dr San Romani, watch the LC Club orgy and then brief me about it all before I attend the press briefing in the morning. Here’s what I’m thinking: We’ll meet in the incident room at eight tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Unless you’re telling me that your beauty sleep comes before solving a murder case?’

  ‘You’re a bastard.’

  ‘You know nothing about my parentage, Dwyer. So keep your comments to yourself. We’ll bring the incident board up-to-date and see where we are – although I’m not overly optimistic that we’re actually anywhere, but let’s go through the motions anyway. Then, I’ll conduct the press briefing and tell the Chief what a fabulous job we’re doing. After which, we’ll visit the victim’s home address – if that’s what it is – on Junction Road and see what we can turn up. We also have the cobbler – Taras Jager to visit, as well as Father de Angeli and Dr San Romani.’

  ‘Do you think James Baglio knew Emilia Whitworth wasn’t who she said she was?’

  ‘No, I can’t imagine he did.’

  ‘For all his intelligence with numbers, he wasn’t very bright. I mean, did he ever discover that the address she’d given him wasn’t where she actually lived? Did he ever go round there to pick her up, or surprise her?’

  ‘Maybe it’d be worth paying Mr Baglio another visit.’

  ‘I think so. If only to highlight that he’s an idiot.’

  ‘You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, Dwyer?’

  ‘Definitely. Also, what was the point of it all? Why was the woman fooling him? What was in it for her? He was nothing to look at, and if it was the money she was after surely she could have simply walked away with the diamond ring?’

  ‘All good questions, Dwyer – to which we have no answers. Once we know who the victim is, maybe the muddy waters will begin to clear.’

  It was twenty-five past five when Dwyer pulled into the station car park.

  ‘Okay, you know what to do, Dwyer. I’ll see you bright and early at eight in the morning.’

  ‘And where did you say you were going?’

  ‘Nice try.’ He hurried through the back door and up the stairs making sure Dwyer wasn’t following him. He had a stomach full of butterflies, and his heart was beating to the rhythm of life.

  He’d chosen the attic because it was used mainly for storage and very few people ever went up there. Of course, it was a bit dusty, and there were a whole host of spiders and creepy-crawlies waiting to ambush him, but at least he’d have some peace and quiet as he got to know Miss Tinkley a little more intimately.

  What she was hiding underneath that flowered dress with its elastic top had stretched his imagination beyond breaking point all day. The Chief would never find out. And if things went well, he’d have to organise something along more permanent lines.

  In fact, he knew nothing about Miss Tinkley. The Chief kept calling her “Miss” – was she single? He hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on her finger. Did she have a boyfriend? She must have – a beautiful woman like that.

  He reached the last set of stairs up to the attic. It had been a long day. He was tired, but not too tired to show the Chief’s secretary what he was made of. He hadn’t realised how far up the attic was, and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. It had been absolutely ages since he’d been up here. Well, he’d certainly be breathing heavily soon – as would Miss Tinkley.

  He climbed the last few stairs and opened the attic door . . .

  The light was on.

  ‘Ah, Quigg!’ the Chief said. ‘Just the very man. I was standing here wondering what to do with all this furniture, and then you turn up. How spooky is that?’

  ‘Hello, Chief.’ He looked about the attic, but Miss Tinkley was nowhere to be seen. ‘What brings you up here, Sir?’

  ‘I was wondering the same thing about you, Quigg? Here we are at five-thirty after a long hard day at the coalfac
e, and you come up here instead of going home to your menagerie. Why is that, Quigg?’

  ‘I remembered that there was furniture stored up here, and I was wondering . . .’

  ‘Well, I’ve always said to Mrs Bellmarsh that we should never look a gift horse in the mouth. So, I’d like you to shuffle all this furniture about to allow for more efficient use of the available space. Of course, I expect the floor to be swept, the cobwebs to be removed . . . I’m sure you get the idea.’

  ‘Move furniture! Sweep! Cobwebs! Me, Chief?’

  ‘Do you recall me telling you – on numerous occasions – that Miss Tinkley was off-limits?’

  ‘I remember, Chief.’

  ‘And yet, contrary to my specific instructions, you arrange an assignation with her . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you . . .’

  ‘What, Quigg? And before you try to wriggle out of this mess with lies, deception and obfuscation, you should know that Miss Tinkley was interrogated by me only an hour ago and confessed to everything.’

  His mouth dropped open like a sinkhole. He couldn’t call Miss Tinkley a liar and expect the Chief to swallow it – especially when he was standing in the attic with no reasonable explanation for why he was there. He’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, in flagrante delicto, he was holding the smoking gun like the worst kind of amateur. The only sensible and mature course of action was to own up to his crime and throw himself on the mercy of the court.

  ‘You’re right, Chief. It was all my fault. I tempted Miss Tinkley up here under false pretences. She’s not to blame, I am. I take full responsibility.’

  The Chief’s eyes narrowed to slits in his puffy face. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, Chief. I’m a lecher, a debaucher, a degenerate. I deserve to be thrown into the pits of hell.’

  ‘You’re right, Quigg. But before that, don’t come back down those stairs until you’ve sorted this attic out. And while you’re doing that, I’d like you to ruminate on the error of your ways.’

  ‘I will, Chief.’

  The Chief left.

  He phoned Celia Tabbard and explained that tonight was not a good night to play doctors and nurses – maybe tomorrow night.

  Without a credible alternative, he began moving the furniture about.

  ***

  Her father – Jack Neilson – led her through the remnants of the maze to the exit, along a short corridor, up a set of stairs which joined a long narrow winding maintenance shaft and out of a steel door that emptied into Warren Street tube station.

  As she watched the commuters trudging to and fro – some with heavy bags, some with children, some with lovers and some on their own – in the back of her mind, when she’d been alone in the maze, she thought she’d never see another human being again. She wanted to stop a few of the people and hug them, but she didn’t. She was just glad to be part of the melee.

  ‘Warren Street!’ Lucy said. ‘You made me walk for fucking miles. I started off at Camden Town and travelled under three tube stations.’

  ‘Here, let me show you something.’

  They walked down the stairs and onto the platform.

  He pointed to a mosaic in an alcove above a wooden seat.

  ‘It’s the maze,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but without the riddles, puzzles and conundrums. Someone found a reference to Henry Wise’s maze in an old Victorian almanac and thought it would be a good piece of artwork for Warren Street station.’

  ‘Ah! A rabbit warren?’

  ‘That’s right, but even though there’s the mosaic maze here, nobody knows that there’s a real maze beneath their feet.’

  ‘Except you and me?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Are you ready?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  After leaving the station they called in at a shop and bought two throw-away phones with fifty pounds of credit on each one – her father paid.

  They then went into a cafe and Lucy ordered a full English breakfast with ten pieces of toast, three pots of tea, three chocolate éclairs and a banana milkshake to finish off.

  ‘You always could polish off food and look like a rake,’ her father said. ‘We used to call you the human dustbin.’

  ‘That was when I had a mother, father and brother. Don’t think that because I’m helping you everything is all right between us – it’ll never be right. I’m helping you to save Quigg and my real family. You and Billy belong to a distant past only.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Because I’d hate to think you had any stupid ideas that we could play happy families again.’

  ‘I have no such thoughts. I’ll just be happy for you and Billy to be safe.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘As I said, I know nothing about the Druid Council, and even though I work for Lancer Communications I don’t know who all the operatives are. I want you to find out their names, where they live and anything else that might help me track them down. Once you do that, you tell me and I . . . make sure they’re no longer a threat to us.’

  ‘You’ll kill them, you mean?’

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘How can you sleep at night?’ She really had no right to judge him. She’d killed three people herself. Although all three had been in self-defence – it was either her or them.

  ‘I sleep just fine. The ghosts of those I’ve killed don’t haunt my nightmares. I don’t look in the mirror and see a whole host of apparitions behind me. It’s simply a job I’ve done for many years, and one that I’m pretty good at.’

  ‘So how am I expected to find out who all these people are?’

  ‘I know you’re good with computers. I also know now that you can solve puzzles, riddles and conundrums.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Come on.’

  He led her back into Warren Street tube station and they caught the train to Victoria on the Victoria Line; switched to the Circle Line to Edgware Road; changed to the Hammersmith & City Line . . .

  ‘Are we actually going anywhere?’ she asked him after an hour of travelling.

  ‘I have to make sure we’re not being followed.’

  ‘And are we?’

  ‘No.’

  . . . At Baker Street they travelled on the Jubilee Line to Swiss Cottage in South Hampstead.

  ‘Okay, we’re here.’

  ‘Are you sure? We haven’t been on the Bakerloo or Piccadilly Lines yet?’

  ‘That’s another thing we used to call you: Smart mouth.’

  At street level he led her down Belsize Road behind the station to a warehouse that had a sign on the metal gate which read: Under Development. There were CCTV cameras, movement activated security lights and three cars in the car park.

  Jack pulled up the collar of his jacket. ‘Let me introduce you to Lancer Communications. Carry on walking like a normal person.’

  ‘I am a normal person . . . Well, as normal as it’s possible to be after being abandoned by my father who murdered my mother and . . .’

  ‘Of course, they’ve not always been located here, and they probably won’t stay here for much longer, but for the time being . . .’

  ‘So, we knock on the door . . . ?’

  ‘In your case – the wireless door. Follow me.’ He made his way into a building called Hickes House, went up three flights of stairs and opened a door with a key he had in his jacket pocket . . .

  ‘You planned all this, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I told you, I’m good at what I do.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Offices that people pay for and use on an ad hoc basis.’

  ‘And this is your office?’

  ‘No. This is merely a room that’s close enough to Lancer Communications, so that you can infiltrate their computer system.’

  She looked around. There was a desk, a chair, a telephone and a print on the wall of a field of poppies. She could see the warehouse through the curtained window. ‘Where’s the toilet?’
/>
  ‘Left out of the door. It has a little woman in black stuck on the door.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go back to them.’

  ‘How do I contact you?’

  ‘You don’t – I contact you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He looked at her.

  She wondered whether he was going to hug her, but he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘There are lots of places to eat on the High Street.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find them. I have an uncanny knack of finding places to eat.’

  He nodded and left.

  She stared out of the window, watched him walk to the metal gates of the warehouse, enter when they opened and disappear through a door into the building.

  She imagined that she didn’t have much breathing space. If, what her father said was true, Quigg, Ruth, Duffy and the children were living on borrowed time. She shrugged off her rucksack, took out her mobile phone, laptop and tablet, and put them all on charge. Then she sat at the window and watched the warehouse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday, September 3

  It was six-thirty in the morning. He thought he’d avoid the rush-hour traffic and set off to Hastings at the crack of dawn. After he’d left Sandrine last night he sat in his car and called DI Holm to update her on his limited progress.

  ‘I’m running, Rodney.’

  ‘Running where?’

  ‘Nowhere. It’s part of my fitness programme.’

  ‘You looked pretty fit the last time I saw you.’ He recalled her fashionable short light-brown hair with its blonde streaks, the thin friendly face with rimless glasses and her petite body with 34C breasts. He hadn’t imagined her in a sexual way before because she said she had a boyfriend, but now that his brain meandered in that direction he thought she was reasonably attractive.

  ‘Well, I’d soon put weight on if I didn’t keep it up. Do you remember that school science experiment where the teacher placed a magnet in the middle of a circle of metal filings on a piece of paper and how the metal filings shifted across the paper and attached themselves to the magnet?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, I’m the magnet. If I sit still long enough, fat shifts across the room and attaches itself to me.’