The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

‘Not just yet, but I will be.’

  ‘I’ll come back.’

  ‘You do that.’

  She found the code and the password, gave herself administrative rights, located “Dad’s Computer” hibernating in the study and hacked it – she was in. The computer was a wealth of information. She discovered:

  Mr & Mrs Myers had a joint account at Barclays with over three thousand pounds in the black;

  Besides the house, which was worth in excess of £1.3M, they also had assets to the tune of £300,000;

  Mrs Myers (née Lucas-Joyner) was a Bank Manager at Lingard-Jones private bank;

  Their two children – Andrew and Margaret – were aged ten and seven respectively;

  Thomas had a port-wine stain on his left shoulder that looked like the face of an Indian Chief;

  Brigitte stuttered;

  Nicholas Myers had two credit cards – a family one registered with Barclays, and a second credit card registered with Fidelity Corporate Services, which was an offshore account registered in the Seychelles;

  Mrs Myers – Priscilla – played the piano and painted cubist art in her spare time;

  Nicholas dabbled in archaeology, and had even worked as a volunteer at a dig in Quelepa in El Salvador, which was settled by the Lenca people between 500 BC – AD 250;

  Her parents lived in Sittingbourne in Kent;

  His parents lived in Dorking;

  She spent two weeks during November of each year at a painting retreat at the Chateauneuf de Gadagne, Provence in the South of France each year;

  He had a patron’s pass to The Museum of London’s Archaeological Archive, which permitted access at any time the museum was open, and a standing invitation when exhibits were being shown; and the museum was located not far from St Paul’s underground station.

  ‘Would Madam care to eat now?’ the skinny waiter asked her as he passed by her table.

  She looked up from her laptop. Beyond him, she could see the iconic dome of St Paul’s Cathedral across the river. She nodded. ‘Yes, Madam would care to eat now. What do you recommend?’

  He smiled. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Madam. You look like a medium-cooked ribeye steak kind of woman, with skin on chips, a flat mushroom and confit tomato.’

  ‘You know me so well. Any sauces?’

  ‘Peppercorn or blue cheese.’

  ‘Blue cheese.’

  ‘Another shandy?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  ***

  ‘Well, Perkins?’

  ‘I think we’ve found the mothership, Sir.’

  They were at 74 Junction Road in Highgate and had just donned the forensic garb at the front door. It was a shared three-bedroom house. The other two rooms were rented by two first-year students – Edith Russell and Jessica Wren – who were both taking a Fashion Design & Development Bachelor of Arts (Honours) degree at the London College of Fashion at Central Saint Martins in Granary Square.

  There were shared facilities such as the kitchen, bathroom, dining and sitting rooms. The victim’s room was small and basic. There was a three-quarter sized bed against the wall behind the door. The bed had been slept in, but there was no evidence of any sexual activity. At the foot of the bed were two free-standing white chipboard wardrobes that had been pushed together. Inside the wardrobes were a few clothes, handbags and shoes – nothing that would lead anyone to conclude that the person wasn’t in transit to somewhere else. A chest of drawers contained underwear, t-shirts and a dearth of other possessions. A closed Venetian blind cut out the light and the view of Junction Road from the window. There was a three-seat sofa covered in a black throw, three different patterned cushions to break up the lack of colour, and an oval glass coffee table with a laptop and mouse sitting on it.

  ‘Mothership! We’re in a flat in Highgate, Perkins. Which reminds me, what are the UFO sightings like this month?’

  ‘It’s early days for this month, but last month we saw significantly more UFOs per square mile than we’ve ever seen before. At one point, I wondered whether we were witnessing an invasion and they were creating a beachhead at Rendlesham Forest in Suffolk. Of course, it might have been something to do with the British UFO Research Association’s annual conference in London a fortnight ago. I was honoured to be invited as a guest speaker this year, and gave a talk on the occult significance of UFOs.’

  ‘What the hell are you two talking about?’ Dwyer said.

  ‘Didn’t you know, Dwyer? Perkins here is a ufologist. If you want to know anything about alien abductions, government cover-ups or flying saucers – he’s your man.’

  ‘Bunch of crazy old men, if you ask me.’

  Perkins nodded. ‘That’s certainly what the majority of people think the prominent demographic is, but I would say that a quarter of the attendees at the conference this year were under thirty, and a similar proportion were female.’

  ‘Have we come here to talk about UFOs?’

  ‘It doesn’t do any harm to take an interest in your fellow man, Dwyer. Well, what makes you think we’re pottering about inside the mothership, Perkins?’

  ‘We’ve found the victim’s handbag.’

  ‘A major breakthrough at last. So, we know who she is now?’

  ‘You would think so, Sir. But sadly – no.’

  He pulled a face under the paper mask. ‘No! Don’t say that, Perkins. Trying to identify this woman is becoming a task of epic proportions. Until we can find out who she is, we’re going round in circles.’

  ‘I’m sympathetic to your plight, Sir. We found her photo driving licence inside the bag, together with a credit card, library card and so on in the same name, but they’re forgeries.’

  ‘Forgeries! Damn! What was the name on the documents?’

  ‘Karen Bailey.’

  ‘But it’s not her?’

  ‘No. Before you arrived I called the station and asked one of my people to run it through CrimInt, because I knew that’s what you’d want me to do.’

  ‘Mobile phone?’

  ‘Also in her bag. I’m obtaining the records.’

  ‘Is it me, or are you becoming vaguely useful?’

  ‘It’s you, Sir. Anyway, the identity belongs to a woman who died in prison seven years ago.’ He passed Quigg a metal box approximately twelve inches long, eight inches wide and four inches deep with a hinged lid. It had a hasp and staple at one end, but there was no lock hooked through staple.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A metal box. Take a look inside.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Under the floorboards beneath the bed.’

  ‘It’s not a bomb, is it?’

  ‘It wasn’t when I opened it about ten minutes ago.’

  Quigg lifted the lid like a child with a surprise Christmas present. Inside was a collection of photographs of a pretty blonde-haired girl with freckles. The pictures depicted the child from birth to aged seven or eight years old. The name “Bethany” had been scrawled on the back of the latest photograph in a child’s handwriting . . .

  ‘Any idea who she is?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  There were also three stacks of ten, twenty and fifty pound banknotes in the box . . .

  ‘How much is here?’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Counterfeit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’ His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘We should be able to trace the serial numbers, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘My people are already onto it.’

  A Taurus 738 TCP .380 calibre pistol with a box of ammunition sat in the corner of the box. He looked for the serial number on the pistol and found it . . .

  ‘I’m getting ballistics to check the serial number out.’

  ‘Probably imported illegally.’

  Perkins nodded. ‘Yes probably, but it’s unusual to still find the serial number intact.’

  Finally, there was a gold wedding ring.

  ‘I’m getting conflic
ting messages here, Dwyer. We have a wedding ring, which suggests she’s married, so why was she engaged to James Baglio? She was living in a pokey house-share with a couple of students, and yet she had ten thousand pounds in a box under the bed. She was probably poisoned in her own room, and yet she had a handgun and ammunition with which to defend herself. And, Doc Solberg said the woman had never given birth. If that’s the case . . .’ He pointed to the photographs in the box, ‘. . . who’s that?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a sister, a niece, or maybe . . .’

  ‘Phone Doc Solberg. Ask her to confirm that the woman had never given birth. Tell her we have pictures of a child here that could be eight years old, which would make the woman about thirteen or fourteen when she gave birth.’

  Dwyer nodded and moved out of the room.

  ‘Was this the crime scene?’

  Perkins shook his head. ‘There’s no evidence that it was.’

  Dwyer returned and said, ‘The pathologist doesn’t know how she could possibly be mistaken, but she’ll check anyway.’

  Quigg nodded. ‘So, she was brought back here by Metro Minicabs. The driver watched her walk inside and then he drove away . . .’

  ‘Or maybe he didn’t,’ Dwyer said. ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘We’ve already had that conversation. There’s no motive. No evidence of sexual assault, no robbery, or . . .’

  ‘Maybe he was acting on someone else’s orders?’

  Quigg ignored her. ‘. . . The driver watched her walk inside and drove away – then what? We know that she left her bag here, so she wasn’t planning on going out again. We know that she didn’t have the opportunity to arm herself with the gun . . .’

  ‘Or she knew her attacker and went willingly,’ Perkins suggested.

  ‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Quigg said. ‘There’s no evidence of a struggle. What about the other two women?’

  Perkins pointed towards the door. ‘They’re downstairs in the sitting room’

  ‘Any more thoughts, Dwyer?’

  ‘It’s like something out of the movies.’

  ‘Very helpful.’

  ‘Undercover police officer? Secret service?’

  ‘Taking part in orgies?’

  ‘Deep, deep undercover?’

  ‘I don’t think so. For one thing, she’s not old enough to be a deep undercover officer. Not only that, her picture is plastered all over the television and newspapers. Someone would have claimed her, or at least given us the heads-up out of courtesy. What else?’

  ‘I have nothing more.’

  ‘What about you, Perkins?’

  ‘Assassin?’

  ‘Why not simply kill the target and walk away?’

  ‘I don’t know. What about a thief, con artist . . . ?’

  Dwyer interrupted. ‘I don’t understand why she would take part in orgies regardless of what she was.’

  ‘Maybe she just liked orgies,’ Perkins suggested.

  Quigg rubbed his stubble under the mask. ‘Possible.’

  ‘She definitely seemed to be enjoying herself on the recording,’ Dwyer said. ‘Also, why was she engaged to Baglio? He liked orgies. Maybe he was the target. Maybe she had to take part in the orgies because . . .’

  ‘Far too many maybes,’ Quigg said. ‘Let’s go and talk to the two other house-sharers.’

  They walked downstairs to the sitting room.

  Quigg pushed his hood down and took the mask off.

  Dwyer followed suit.

  There was a female officer sitting with the two women. Quigg recognised her as Paula Kealey – another one of the infamous gang of three who had taken advantage of him in the shower of the women’s locker room. He remembered her because she had given him specific instructions on his performance: “A little faster”; “there – that’s it”; “harder”; “put your hands on my breasts”; “squeeze – not too hard”; “thrust like you mean it”; “put a bit of effort in”; “have you got anything bigger?” Yes, he remembered Kealey, because he’d never had any complaints about performance or size before. And it was common knowledge that it’s not what you’ve got, but what you can do with it.

  He nodded at her. ‘Constable Kealey.’

  She smiled like an innocent bystander at a lynching. ‘Morning, Sir.’

  The two students were sitting on the sofa. Neither were ever going to be fashion models. One was short and fat with triple chins that wobbled when she moved. The other was tall and thin with buck-teeth and hairy legs.

  Dwyer led. ‘What can you tell us about Karen Bailey?’

  The two women looked at each other and the short fat one spoke. ‘Nothing really. We said hello, how do you do and stuff like that, but we didn’t really know her. She kept herself to herself. Sometimes we saw her in the kitchen making a drink or something, but the rest of the time she stayed in her room.’

  ‘What about visitors?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘Phone calls?’

  More wobbling of chins.

  ‘Post?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Which brings us to Sunday night and Monday morning. What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘Nothing really,’ the tall thin one said.

  ‘Did you see her go out?’

  ‘No. We were both at the university and didn’t get back here until about eight o’clock.’

  ‘Did you hear her come back?’

  ‘No. We were both in bed by ten o’clock because we had classes first thing in the morning.’

  ‘She had no visitors during the night?’

  They shook their heads again. ‘There was one thing,’ the short fat one said.

  Quigg leaned forward in anticipation. ‘Yes?’

  ‘When we came back from the university on Monday afternoon, the woman across the road – Mrs Lucifer – well, that’s not really her name, but that’s what we call her. She wanted to know whether we’d opened up a brothel . . .’

  ‘A brothel!’ Dwyer said. ‘Why?’

  The girl’s face went red. ‘That’s what we asked her as well. I mean, we’re not really the type of girls who you’d find working in a brothel, are we?’

  ‘And what type are they?’

  ‘Well, you know . . .’

  Dwyer did know. ‘Did she tell you what she meant by her comment?’

  ‘Yes. She said that a black car with blacked-out windows arrived during the night and a man got out and came inside the house.’

  ‘But you heard nothing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘. . . Lucifer.’

  ‘Do you know her proper name?’

  ‘No – sorry.’

  ‘Did she remember the number plate?’

  The short woman turned to her friend, but she shrugged. ‘No, we don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for your help, ladies,’ Quigg said.

  They went outside, stripped off the forensic suits and walked across the road to Mrs Lucifer’s house.

  A short woman in her eighties with ill-fitting false teeth and a paisley apron opened the door.

  Dwyer showed her warrant card. ‘Police. Can we ask you a few questions?’

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to get to me. You’d better come in then. Tea?’

  ‘Not for us, thanks,’ Quigg said.

  She led them into a spotless living room full of photographs of daughters, sons and a horde of grandchildren.

  ‘Sit down. I’ll make myself a cup of tea even if you two aren’t imbibing. Any time is a good time to partake of a good cup of tea.’ She left them and returned after a few minutes carrying a red and white flowered cup and saucer. ‘It’s about that young woman who was killed in Highgate Cemetery, isn’t it?’

  Dwyer took the lead again and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. I had a feeling something wasn’t quite right with that woman. Coming and going at all hours of the day and night wearing God only knew what.’

/>   ‘You mentioned to the two women across the road that you saw a black car in the early hours of Monday morning . . .’

  ‘That’s right. Twelve minutes to four to be precise.’ She slipped a hand in her pocket and passed a folded piece of paper to Dwyer. ‘Registration number. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s what we were hoping that you’d recalled.’

  ‘Obviously, I’m not usually up at four in the morning like a crazy woman, but I am a light sleeper. I didn’t used to be, but having seven children and dozens of grandchildren makes you sleep with one eye open . . .’

  ‘Seven children!’ Dwyer said.

  ‘The only contraception when I was young was keeping your legs crossed, but well . . . Bert wanted what he wanted, and I was in no nevermind to deny him what he wanted, so we ended up with seven children. Could have ten, but I lost three.’

  ‘You were telling us about the black car,’ Quigg interrupted her.

  ‘That’s right. A man got out. Now, I couldn’t see whether he got out of the driver’s door or the back door, but I guessed he must have been at least six feet tall. He wore a dark overcoat, fairly slim with short grey hair. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but there’s a streetlamp . . .’ She pointed across the road to a metal streetlamp that was positioned outside 72 Junction Road. ‘. . . So I could see reasonably well what the man looked like.’

  ‘Do you think you could pick him out of a line-up?’

  ‘I reckon I could.’

  Quigg wanted to show the old woman a picture of the Assistant Commissioner. He could have downloaded Scott-Simpson’s official mugshot from the Met’s website onto his phone, but he knew that if he did it would have contaminated any future identification provided by the woman. ‘So, the man got out of the car . . . ?’

  ‘. . . And went inside the house.’

  ‘Did someone let him in?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Or at least I didn’t see anybody. People usually ring the bell or knock, and then they stand there waiting for the door to open. Well, he didn’t do no waiting. Either the front door was left open for him, or he let himself in with a key.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Well, then they both came out shortly afterwards, climbed into the car and it drove away.’