The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  He made his way out.

  ‘Thanks for saying so, Mr Crankshank.’

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your life, Tom.’

  In the car he phoned DI Holm.

  ‘Hello, Rodney. Good news, I hope?’

  ‘I have two pieces of information for you.’ He told her about the diplomatic number plate, and about Commander Nicholas Myers.

  ‘I’ll find out about the diplomatic plate, but I don’t know what to do with Myers. I mean, he’s one of the top police officers in the country.’

  ‘If I can make a suggestion?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘I would keep it just between you and me for the time being. I mean, all we have is a retired Sergeant’s story about what happened. In the end, it’s his word against a senior officer. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out who they’d believe. I suggest you find out what you can about Myers without ruffling any feathers, and then sit on the information until we have a clearer picture.’

  ‘Sounds like good advice. That is – if we ever find out what’s going on.’

  ‘We will. I think Nicholas Myers is the key to finding out who Lancer Communications are. What about meeting tomorrow morning for brunch? We can discuss what we know and where we are and go from there.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. The Hummingbird Cafe on Oaklands Grove at eleven o’clock – they serve a fabulous avocado breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  The call ended. He started the car and headed towards the motorway, but then changed his mind. It was lunchtime, and he knew a cafe called Cuba’s on the A22 where a pretty waitress who went by the name of Echo worked. He had time to kill – he’d run out of leads until he met with DI Holm and they tried to piece together the information they’d accumulated.

  ***

  She caught the tube from Swiss Cottage to Westminster and found a bench on the opposite side of the road – under the shadow of Big Ben – where she sat cross-legged with her laptop open in the triangle created by the crooks of her knees. Number 1 Horse Guards Road was impressive. In her humble opinion, the Victorians knew how to build proper English buildings. Today, all anybody built was cheap rubbish that had no lasting merit at all.

  As she expected, the defences keeping unwelcome visitors out of the government computer system were formidable, but not impregnable. It was a massive network and like any government monolith was difficult to control completely. She found an open TELNET port – not unlike Dover or the Channel Tunnel – and discovered that somebody called Maestro had already wormed their way into the network. She piggybacked the Trojan horse as a route into the inner workings of the system, and soon found who she was looking for – Simon Kilborn: Third Financial Secretary to the Treasury:

  . . . was educated at Rugby School and Corpus Christi College, Oxford. After joining the Civil Service in 1986 he worked at the Treasury until the early 90’s. He spent time in Thailand at the British Embassy and in the Number 10 policy unit. He then worked on Third World Aid programmes in the World Bank before taking the role of policy assistant at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office. He returned to domestic policy at the Department of Energy & Climate Change and the Ministry of Work & Pensions, before rejoining the Treasury.

  Simon is married to Louise (née Marshall-Joiner) and they have two teenage children – Anthony and Rosemary . . .

  All very nice, but it told her nothing about Simon Kilborn really. The Civil Service seemed to be a job for life – an extension of the old boys’ network. A couple of years here, a promotion there, keep your nose clean, learn the secret handshake, don’t rock the boat . . . Yes, a good job if you had the right background and were connected in the right places.

  She knew that what she was looking for wouldn’t be lying around waiting for her to trip over it. His email, phone records and meeting schedules would provide her with a pattern, and patterns were the key to unlocking the Druid Council. Who did Kilborn contact before he met with Nicholas Myers in The Museum of London’s Archaeological Archive? Who did he contact afterwards. Those were the patterns she needed to find, and it would take time – something she couldn’t do while she was skulking about in the government’s computer system. She had to get out before somebody discovered her footprints and she compromised Maestro’s illegal access as well, so she downloaded all the information she needed together with his home address. A home computer was always a good place to retrieve personal information.

  ***

  ‘You can call him, Dwyer. The Chief will laugh all the way to the men’s room. You do know he has a niggling prostate, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s lying down or not, just as long as we get to interview Scott-Simpson.’

  ‘Put the call on speaker, so I can listen to what he says. Don’t let on that I’m here. Tell him I’m interviewing witnesses, or something that sounds like important police work.’

  She dialled the Chief’s number.

  ‘Bellmarsh?’

  ‘It’s DS Dwyer, Sir.’

  ‘Why isn’t Quigg calling me?’

  ‘He’s a bit busy and he . . .’

  ‘. . . Lost his bottle?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, Chief.’

  ‘You’re a wimp, Quigg.’

  He put his hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing.

  ‘What do you want, Dwyer?’

  ‘AC Scott-Simpson under caution and in an interview room.’

  ‘You’re in luck. He’s agreed to come in and answer all your questions. He’ll be here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning with his solicitor, so you’d better have more than a grainy DVD of him at an orgy.’

  ‘We have a witness who says that she saw the victim leaving her house-share with the AC in the early hours of Monday morning and getting into his car approximately fifteen minutes before she was murdered.’

  ‘Be careful, Dwyer. If you want to remain a Sergeant . . . Quigg?’

  ‘Yes, Chief?’ He put his hand over his mouth, but it was too late – the horse had already bolted.

  ‘You’re an idiot, Quigg.’

  ‘Very good of you to say so, Sir.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘You’re an idiot, Sir.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there was an echo in here, Dwyer. Right, where should we go next?’

  ‘We’re under pressure now . . .’

  Quigg pulled a face. ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘You told the Chief about the AC.’

  ‘At your insistence.’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Are we going to sit here blaming each other when, as you quite rightly state, we’re under pressure now?’

  ‘Well, stop blaming me then.’

  ‘Get on with it, Sergeant.’

  ‘We’ve got a few people to see before we interview the AC tomorrow, so I think we should follow the shortest route between two points . . .

  ‘What does that mean in English?’

  ‘We plot a course, so that we go to the nearest address first and the furthest address last.’

  ‘Seems logical. How long will it take you to do that?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘About twenty minutes.’

  ‘All right. Well, I suppose preparation is the key to success. You can start by finding the shortest route between here and the nearest pub. And then, while you’re plotting our route, I’ll nip into the pub and go to the toilet.’

  ‘The nearest pub?’

  ‘We can’t stay here. As you were quick to point out earlier – it’s against the law to park on the pavement and obscure double yellow lines.’

  ‘And you want to go to the pub for the toilet?’

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  ‘You could go back into Taras Jager’s shop and . . .’

  ‘Are we going to sit here all day when we’re under such crushing pressure?’

  Dwyer started the car and pulled off the pavement into the flow o
f traffic. ‘Not long now,’ she mumbled under her breath.

  ‘Not long?’

  ‘Until I go back to Vice.’

  ‘Do they like you in Vice?’

  ‘They love me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes – really.’

  ‘And yet they were willing to let you come and work with me.’

  ‘My boss saw it as an opportunity.’

  ‘To see how the professionals do it?’

  ‘To witness first-hand how an Inspector ends up at the bottom of the chart.’

  ‘That was below the belt, Dwyer.’

  She pulled into The Coal Hole on the Strand. ‘This do you?’

  ‘Just the job. I was getting desperate.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a couple of minutes then?’

  ‘Of course. What do you think I’m going to do – have lunch in there without you?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

  Inside the enormous bar, before he went to find the toilet, he ordered half a Guinness and a roast beef and mustard sandwich . . . ‘In fact, make that two,’ he said to the Bulgarian barmaid. He knew she was Bulgarian because there were framed photographs behind the bar advertising the countries each member of staff originated from: Poland, Croatia, Sudan Eritrea, Syria, Afghanistan, France, Germany, Lithuania, Russia . . . There seemed to be an ounce of pride in the depth of their multiculturalism.

  ‘Are there any English people working here?’ he asked the barmaid when she brought his roast beef sandwiches. She was petite, with a red rose pinned in her brown hair that matched the red top she wore over an uplifting red lace Basque. He thought she was pretty in a foreign sort of way.

  ‘English people? Like you?’

  ‘Exactly like me.’

  ‘No. We need jobs. English people get paid not to work. This land of moussaka and mekitsi.’

  ‘You like it here then?’

  ‘Depends . . . Are you somebody or nobody?’

  ‘Oh, I’m nobody.’

  ‘Yes, I like England very much. This good place to get handouts, free education, free medical treatment, lots of other free benefits and meet English man to marry and have lots of Bulgarian babies. I tell everyone from Bulgaria to come here.’ She laughed like a foreigner. ‘Soon, there will be more Bulgarians here than English people.’

  He felt someone poke him in the back.

  ‘I thought you were going to the toilet?’ Dwyer said when he turned round.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me use the toilet unless I bought something.’ He offered her a sandwich from the plate. ‘I bought you a roast beef and mustard sandwich.’

  ‘I don’t like roast beef and mustard sandwiches.’

  ‘Shame. I suppose I’ll have to eat them both then. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Pineapple juice.’

  ‘You really like to live on the edge don’t you, Dwyer?’

  ‘Is there a menu on the bar?’

  ‘Menu? No. You don’t have time to eat. Maybe if you’d come in a bit sooner. Are you sure you don’t want a roast beef and mustard sandwich?’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Sir. Don’t worry, I’ll get my own back. I have a feeling that after today your name won’t even appear on the Inspectors’ chart. You’ll become a non-person, an untouchable, persona non grata.’

  ‘You think that chart worries me? It doesn’t even enter into my thoughts. I do my job, and I do it to the best of my ability. If people think I’m a lousy Inspector, then so be it. At least if they’re talking about me, they’re leaving some other Inspector alone. Right, are you ready?’

  ‘But my pineapple juice . . .’

  ‘I thought we were under pressure. You yourself pointed out that we were under an excessive amount of life-sapping pressure. If we’re under so much pressure, then we haven’t got time to stand around mingling in pubs drinking pineapple juice – let’s go.’ He threw back the last of his Guinness, grabbed the remaining two roast beef and mustard sandwich triangles off the plate and pushed Dwyer towards the door.

  Chapter Twenty

  He called the office, but there was no answer. His heart skipped a beat. The last time he’d called the office and there’d been no answer Deidre, Sue and Peter had been tortured and murdered. Surely lightning couldn’t strike twice in the same place, could it? Maybe it could. Even though he’d tried to keep the fact that he was still investigating Lancer Communications out of the office, maybe someone had spoken out of turn. Maybe they were looking for Rodney Crankshank – senior investigator at Bulldog Investigations. Maybe Sandrine was lying on the office floor bleeding to death . . .

  His mobile activated.

  ‘Rodney . . .’

  ‘Did you ring?’ It was Sandrine.

  ‘Thank God you’re still alive.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re glad I’m still alive, Rodney. I was cleaning the glass on the photocopier. The service engineer arrived and pointed out that the imprint of my breasts were obscuring the glass.’

  ‘Did he know they were your breasts.’

  ‘He didn’t say as much, but when he began eyeing up my breasts and my face turned a fire engine red I think he had a pretty good idea whose breasts were obscuring the glass.’

  ‘If anybody’s breasts should be obscuring the glass in a photocopier, it should be yours, Sandrine.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Rodney.’

  ‘You could start a craze. All our stationery could have the imprint of your breasts on it – you know, like a watermark.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Rodney.’

  ‘Oh well, it was just an idea.’

  ‘So, what are you doing now?’

  ‘Lunch, and then I’m coming back to the office. It’s been awhile since I spent some time in the office, and as senior investigator I suppose there’s some paperwork to look at, cases to review, expenditure to authorise and so on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh! Well, I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Maybe I could find something else to do to pass the time.’

  ‘Rodney!’

  His penis began to enlarge, and then it started burning and throbbing. For a fleeting moment he’d forgotten about the hundred and ten percent chilli burns. How could he have sex when his penis was in such a damaged condition? And was there still a chance that he could transfer chilli dip to the woman he was having sex with? She wouldn’t thank him for that. It was one thing suffering external burns, but internal burns would be a wholly different matter. It could jeopardise his relationship with Sandrine. He’d have to make an excuse . . .

  He pulled into the car park of Cuba’s and went inside. Echo was on duty.

  She smiled at him.

  He smiled back as he found a seat by the window.

  Eventually she came over. ‘Hello, Rodney.’

  ‘You remember my name.’

  ‘Sure do.’

  ‘You look good enough to eat today, Echo.’

  ‘And I might just let you when things quieten down.’

  ‘No . . . I wasn’t meaning . . .’

  She laughed like a church organ. ‘Two people can be weird, Rodney. What’ll it be?’

  His penis had a mind of its own. At the merest suggestion of sex it began to gorge on itself. Maybe it was some form of defence mechanism from man’s evolutionary past. Or, maybe he was just a dirty old man. He had at least ten years on her for goodness’ sake. Last time she was green – lime green hair; lawn green t-shirt; mint green skirt and fluorescent green leggings. Today she was orange – orange hair cascading over her shoulders like a Spanish orange orchard; an orange t-shirt that did nothing to hide her 36B braless breasts and puffy nipples; an orange mini skirt with orange lace panties underneath – she was really something.

  ‘I’ll have the creamy pasta with salmon, please.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Any chance of a glass of water with a couple of ice cubes?’ He had a specific mission in mind for the ice cubes.

  ‘Can do.’

&n
bsp; ‘That’s it then.’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  ‘Great.’

  It wasn’t long before she was back with the water and ice cubes, and then she was off again. The cafe was busy. As a consequence, Echo and the other waitresses were darting from table to table like honey bees – although Echo looked more like an exotic orange bird than a honey bee.

  When no one was looking he slipped an ice cube into his mouth, spit it into his hand, and then slid it into his boxers. He breathed a sigh of relief as he ran the frozen cube up and down his penis and then left it there to melt and work its soothing magic.

  Was he any closer to finding Quigg’s daughter Phoebe? Was he even looking? The dead Caitlin Quigg – or Sally Tomkins – had left him nothing to go on. He’d found her in the morgue, but she’d had no personal possessions to provide him with any leads. He’d focused on the young Sally Tomkins, found out about the murder of her parents, the fostering and the adoption that never was . . . and then the trail had gone cold until she married DI Quigg. She had clearly been working for Lancer Communications. Why had she married a police officer? Why had she become pregnant and had a child? Why was she murdered?

  Echo brought his meal. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  And then she was gone.

  The ice cube had melted and left a noticeable wet patch on his trousers. It would dry. He just had to make sure he didn’t get up and go to the toilet until it had dried. He opened up the paper napkin, tucked a corner into his waistband and spread the rest of it over his lap to hide the wet patch.

  Caitlin Quigg reminded him of a sleeper agent similar to those placed in England by the Russian KGB during the Cold War. Had that been Caitlin Quigg’s mission – to burrow into the fabric of society and lie dormant until activated? Activated to do what? Could he have stumbled on a sleeper cell? Could it be about espionage? Were the Russians responsible for all the murders? Was DI Quigg an unwitting spouse? He certainly seemed oblivious to his ex-wife’s secret life, but was he? Could he also be a sleeper? If he was – why recruit Rodney Crankshank from Bulldog Investigations? No, he wouldn’t want someone as skilled as Rodney poking about in any assumed identity. Why had Caitlin been murdered? Had she been activated, but then refused to carry out her orders? She was on her way to Canada with a boyfriend when DI Quigg had stopped her going with a court order. Could that be the reason she was murdered? Had she burrowed too far into family life that she couldn’t extricate herself?