The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  Dwyer glanced at Quigg. ‘Have you any idea what he’s rambling on about?’

  ‘The Order of the Dragon,’ San Romani said. ‘That’s who I’m talking about. They were modelled on the Teutonic Knights from the Crusades. They spread throughout Europe during the middle ages – which included England – and a small group of soldiers, who swore to guard the body of Vlad the Impaler, came to England as well.’

  Quigg screwed up his face. ‘Didn’t the Vampire Research Society identify a tomb that they believed contained a Vampire King from Wallachia?’

  ‘They thought they did, but when they opened the tomb it was empty.’

  ‘And it was empty because the Satanists raised him from the dead?’

  ‘Yes and no. First of all, the Satanists aren’t Satanists . . .’

  ‘. . . Ah!’ Quigg said, his eyes opening wide. ‘They’re members of the Order of the Dragon?’

  ‘You’re a lot more intelligent than you look, Inspector.’

  ‘Very kind of you to say so.’

  ‘Of course, they’re quite happy hiding behind the Satanist name, because essentially they’re a secret order, and nobody takes the Satanists seriously anyway. But yes – they’re members of the Order of the Dragon. In fact, they’re the original ten soldiers who came over from Wallachia to guard Vlad’s body.’

  ‘Where’s Vlad now?’ Quigg said.

  ‘Alive. Well, I use that term in its loosest sense, of course. I suppose it would be more accurate to call him undead.’

  ‘And the ten members of the guard are undead as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dwyer interrupted. ‘Aren’t vampires meant to be the bad guys?’

  ‘And they are.’

  ‘And aren’t they meant to be afraid of the cross?’

  ‘Oh yes – it burns them.’

  Confusion was etched into Dwyer’s face. ‘Nope, I’ve completely lost the plot. I mean, Christians want to kill vampires, don’t they? So why are vampires sworn to defend the cross and fight the enemies of Christianity?’

  San Romani gave a smug smile. ‘Because not only are they hiding behind the Satanists, they’re also hiding behind the Order of the Dragon. Originally, their mission was as I’d stated, but when those ten soldiers came over here to England with the body of their dead king, defending the cross and fighting the enemies of Christianity was no longer relevant. Their mission from that time was to guard Vlad’s body from being discovered and desecrated by the Ottomans. And what better way to protect him than to make him immortal. I don’t how it happened exactly, but it would have involved human blood and the skills of a necromancer. So now, there’s a nest of vampires residing somewhere in Highgate.’

  Dwyer grunted. ‘Of course, it all makes sense now.’

  ‘Your Sergeant isn’t as intelligent as she looks, Inspector,’ San Romani said.

  ‘I’ve been saying exactly the same thing to her all day, but will she listen?’

  ‘. . . In reality, the Order of the Dragon no longer exists in its historical form. And unfortunately, there’s no one defending the cross or fighting the enemies of Christianity anymore, but that’s another story. The infidels who shroud themselves in secrecy and now form the Order of the Dragon are vampires – Vlad the Impaler and his ten soldiers.’

  ‘Vampires?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dwyer gave a laugh. ‘So why aren’t you out there hunting them with silver bullets and wooden stakes?’

  ‘Oh, if I could get out of this chair I’d be hunting them to destruction believe me, but my time has come and gone. And what’s worse, is that there’s no one to take up my mantle. People don’t seem to believe in real vampires anymore.’

  ‘Really?’ Dwyer said.

  ‘You may scoff Sergeant, but they’re a real and present danger. So, if you ask me who killed that young woman, I’d have to say vampires.’

  Quigg shuffled to the edge of the plastic chair. ‘And who would you say killed the Romanian immigrant – Bozhidar Dimitrov – from 35 Willow Walk in Islington in 1974, Dr San Romani?’

  ‘Ah! That would be me, I’m afraid. Looking back, he probably wasn’t a vampire, but at the time I definitely thought he was. Of course, I didn’t know about Vlad the Impaler and his ten soldiers then. My research has only revealed the truth to me in the last few years. If I’d have known then what I know now he would still be alive. An innocent victim of the war between good and evil, unfortunately – what the Americans call collateral damage I believe. Are you going to arrest me now?’

  ‘How long have you got left to live?’

  ‘Probably a thousand years, because I’m thinking of going over to the enemy, you know. With what I know, I think I’d be a valuable resource for them.’

  ‘And if you don’t go over to the enemy?’

  ‘If I’m lucky – three months. The stomach and bowel cancer is untreatable, and my kidneys are failing.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much point then. But if you do decide to become one of the undead, I’ll be forced to come and arrest you.’

  ‘I understand.’

  On their way out Quigg said, ‘So, you still think it’s rubbish?’

  ‘I’m not even going to answer that. Vlad the Impaler and ten soldiers from the Order of the Dragon! I think I might die laughing. AC Scott-Simpson murdered the woman and nothing will convince me otherwise.’

  ‘It’s good that you still have an open mind, Dwyer.’

  ***

  He pulled into his personal parking space behind Bulldog Investigations on Pennard Road, which was wedged in the triangle between Shepherd’s Bush Market, the tube station and the Bush Theatre.

  There were two women standing up and a man sitting down smoking behind Billings’ Newsagents. Emily Jones worked in the newsagents; Bill Grice was a chef at the Hog Cafe; and Ursula Upsala was an assistant in the Two-Tan Tanning Salon. The Sunflower Florists was closed on a Wednesday afternoons, but Gilly Bunting didn’t smoke anyway.

  ‘How’s it hanging, Rodney?’ Bill Grice said.

  His lip curled up. If only you knew, he thought. ‘Yeah good. Afternoon, ladies. You’re both looking particularly beautiful on this lovely day.’

  ‘You’re a smarmy bastard, Rodney,’ Ursula said. ‘Ain’t he a smarmy bastard, Em?’

  ‘You won’t find anybody who can beat Rodney for smarm, Urs.’

  ‘If that ain’t the truth I don’t know what is.’

  He cast his mind back to lunch at Cuba’s Cafe on the outskirts of Eastbourne. Once the customers had thinned out to a paltry trickle, Echo, and her friend Binky, came over and sat on either side of him.

  ‘Hello?’ he enquired.

  ‘Don’t mind Binky,’ Echo said. ‘She’s the one who saw you put the ice cube down your trousers.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Apparently, the manager was on a management course in Scarborough, and the woman who was meant to be in charge while the manager was away on the course had called in sick, so there was actually no one in charge.

  ‘And anyway,’ Binky said. ‘We’re on a break.’ Binky was older than Echo – probably in her early to mid-thirties. She had short ginger hair, lovely white teeth and a wedding band on her ring finger. He guessed she had 36C breasts under her denim dress, and although she wasn’t as seductively dressed as Echo she was sexy in a covered-up sort of way.

  ‘Okay.’ He wondered what they wanted from him.

  ‘You gonna tell us why you’re putting ice cubes down your trousers?’ Echo said.

  He told them what had happened at Sheila Howe’s.

  They looked at each other. ‘Chilli dip!’ Binky said with a smile. ‘You’ve gotta be crazy.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘We’re curious,’ Binky said, licking her lips.

  Echo leaned over and whispered something to Binky.

  Binky shot off towards the kitchen.

  Echo took his arm. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You’ll see.
’

  She led him into the men’s toilet, unlocked a thin cupboard, took out an OUT OF ORDER sign and hung it on the handle on the outside of toilet door.

  Binky came in with something behind her back and locked the door.

  ‘Did you get it?’ Echo said.

  ‘Yep.’

  He was worried now. What were they planning to do to him?

  ‘Show us then?’ Binky said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The chilli stick.’

  ‘I think I should probably . . .’

  ‘. . . Show us your chilli stick.’ Echo echoed Binky’s request.

  He made no move towards his belt and zip, so they rounded on him and stripped him naked.

  ‘Mmmm!’ Binky said, leaning forward like an ER doctor examining a patient’s curious ailment. ‘There’s some superficial damage, and I can understand how that might feel slightly uncomfortable. What do you think, Echo?’

  She took his penis in her hand and it began getting hard. ‘It’s still seems to be functioning properly. I think we should apply the cream and go from there.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Binky said.

  ‘Cream!’ he said. ‘What cream?’

  Binky revealed a large industrial tub of ice cream. ‘Raspberry ripple. We’ve run out of chocolate.’

  ‘Ice cream?’

  ‘Lie down, Rodney,’ Echo said.

  ‘The floor’s cold.’

  ‘Wait,’ Binky said, and found a couple of old towels in the store cupboard. ‘There we are,’ and laid the towels down end to end on the floor.

  He positioned himself on top of the towels with feelings of trepidation mixed with fear and excitement. ‘You’re not going to hurt it, are you?’

  ‘You tell us,’ Binky said. She took the lid off the ice cream tub, scooped out a generous helping and slathered it up and down his penis.

  ‘Oh God!’ It was as if he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Binky stared at him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Do you do double scoops?’

  Echo grinned. ‘We certainly do,’ she said, taking a scoop out of the tub herself. ‘Double scoops are our speciality.’ She slapped the second scoop on his confused penis and gently moved her hand up and down.

  They both stripped off their clothes, gradually emptied the tub of ice cream on his jewels and then began devouring the raspberry ripple.

  After all the ice cream had gone, baring a sticky reddish stain on the towels, the two waitresses took turns in sitting astride him. Binky took the first turn, and as she moved up and down with a stern determination on her face, he noticed that she had the tattoo of a red heart on her left breast. Echo rode him in reverse. Her back was adorned by a scorpion tattooed that curled all the way down her spine. Yes, she certainly had a sting in her tail.

  At least he now knew there was no permanent damage to his manhood. What would life have been like if there had been? Did they do penis transplants? Hadn’t he heard something recently about a transplanted penis fathering a child. Well, he didn’t have to worry about that anymore – it worked just fine. In fact, double fine.

  Once Binky and Echo were satisfied they turned their attention towards him like a pair of puppets in a mechanical clock – tick, tock; tick, tock; tick, tock. And when he ejaculated he thought he might fill the industrial ice cream tub right up to the top.

  ‘It looks like we got to you just in time, Rodney,’ Echo said.

  He was embarrassed. ‘I didn’t realise I was so full.’

  After wiping the sticky raspberry ripple residue from their bodies with water-soaked paper towels, all three got dressed again and left the men’s toilet one at a time.

  Nobody seemed to pay them any notice.

  He left a five pound tip on the table.

  On his way out Echo called, ‘Feel free to come again, Sir.’

  He smiled. ‘I will, Miss.’

  Now, as he climbed the stairs to the second-floor office of Bulldog Investigations, he could hear the afternoon prayers emanating from the mosque on Loftus Road.

  .

  ***

  As well as being Taras Jager’s biographer, Jenny Steffensen collected BESO shoes.

  When they caught the lift up to the third story apartment and were ushered in, they expected to see rooms lined with shelves of BESO shoes, but there were only eight pairs of shoes, and they were displayed on three shelves in a locked glass-fronted cabinet in the main living room.

  ‘Only nine pairs of shoes?’ Quigg said, clearly disappointed.

  Jenny Steffersen smiled. She was in her mid-thirties with long dark hair, silver antique-looking dangling earrings and a short blue dress that emphasised her large breasts, slim waist and long legs.

  Quigg thought that Dwyer and Steffersen standing side-by-side would probably be a good illustration of the concept of opposites. Dwyer was a symptom of the present-day fixation on dieting and Size Zero. In contrast, Steffersen was curvaceous and buxom. If he’d had to choose, he would have chosen Steffersen. Dwyer was far too much like a corpse for his liking.

  ‘Yes,’ but those nine pairs of shoes are worth one-point-seven million.’

  ‘Peanuts?’ Quigg suggested.

  ‘Pounds,’ Steffersen replied.

  ‘They should be in a museum,’ Dwyer offered.

  ‘A bit like yourself,’ Steffersen said.

  Dwyer showed Steffersen the photograph of the shoeprints from beneath the body in the cemetery. ‘What can you tell us about these?’

  ‘Taras phoned me and said you were on your way. What he didn’t say was that you were so rude.’

  Squaring up to her Dwyer said, ‘You’re the one being rude.’

  Quigg put himself in harm’s way between them. ‘I’ll deal with Miss Steffersen, Dwyer. You stand over there and don’t touch anything.’

  ‘I should . . .’

  ‘Follow orders?’

  Dwyer clenched her jaw shut and wandered to the shoe cabinet.

  ‘We’d be very grateful for anything you can tell us about those shoes,’ Quigg said, his voice sounding like syrup being poured from an ancient Egyptian urn covered in hieroglyphics.

  ‘Come with me, Inspector.’

  He didn’t really have time for sex, but he went with her anyway. Dwyer would just have to wait.

  Sadly, there was no offer of sex on the table that she led him to. She picked up a piece of paper and passed it to him. ‘These are the only pair of BESO children’s shoes that have changed hands in the past ten years. Children’s BESO shoes are extremely rare, and when they’re sold it’s a big deal. Anyone who’s anyone in the antique shoe business knows when BESO shoes are on the move.

  He glanced at the piece of paper. It had a name and address written on it:

  Fleur Trengrove

  147 Bridewell Street,

  Wymondham,

  Norfolk

  NR18 7PQ

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Do you know anything about her?’

  ‘No, nothing. Except for names and addresses, I’m not interested in who sells or buys the shoes, only the shoes themselves.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. Thanks very much for your help, Miss Steffersen.’

  ‘Jenny,’ she said, passing him a business card. ‘Give me a call sometime, Inspector Quigg.’

  He licked his lips as he put the card in his pocket. ‘Maybe I will, Jenny Steffersen.’

  She led him out.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ he said to Dwyer as he passed her standing by the shoe cabinet.

  Outside Dwyer said, ‘You took her side.’

  ‘Took her side? You were getting heavy-handed and objectionable with a woman who . . . Ah, you were jealous?’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. Why would I be jealous?’

  ‘She had a fabulous body, lots of money, intelligence, beautiful . . .’

  ‘Besides all that?’

  Quigg’s phone vibrated. ‘Saved by the bell, Dwyer . . . Quigg?’

  ‘It’s Perkins, Sir.’r />
  ‘You’ve been unusually quiet these last few days, Perkins. What’s given you a reason to stick your head above the parapet now?’

  ‘I have a name and address for you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me . . .’ He read Fleur Trengrove’s name and address from the piece of paper that Jenny Steffersen had given him.

  ‘That’s really spooky, Sir. You’re not an alien, are you?’

  ‘Police work. Something they used to do before the false promise of forensics. How did you get the name, Perkins?’

  ‘A combination of Karen Bailey’s phone records, the serial numbers on the banknotes, and the Taurus 738 TCP pistol. I spoke to her parents about half an hour ago. Apparently, their daughter has been missing for four months. She won two hundred and fifty thousand pounds on the national lottery and then disappeared.’

  ‘What about the pretty blonde-haired girl with freckles called Bethany?’

  ‘Yes. They said that Fleur gave birth to a daughter when she was thirteen and they put the child up for adoption.’

  ‘Who was the father?’

  ‘They don’t know. Fleur would never say.’

  ‘This is a story of revenge, isn’t it, Perkins?’

  ‘That’s my guess, Sir.’

  ‘What about the wedding ring?’

  ‘Fleur was married, but her husband died in a skiing accident in Austria nine months ago.’

  ‘It’s beginning to sound like Fleur Trengrove thought she had nothing left to live for and wanted revenge on the man she blames for destroying her life. Okay, Dwyer and I think we know who the killer is – Assistant Commissioner Scott-Simpson . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. He’s voluntarily coming into the station tomorrow morning for an interview. I want to know the details of when and where he was able to impregnate Fleur Trengrove.’