The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’

  ‘I know you will, Perkins. If it wasn’t for you I’d be up to my neck in alligators.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Did you get the gist of that, Dwyer?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. AC Scott-Simpson’s the murderer just like I said he was.’

  ‘It’s a bit more involved than that.’

  ‘But we’ve got the jumped-up, snot-nosed bastard by the short and curlies.’

  ‘Why are we still sitting here, Dwyer?’

  She started the engine and set off towards Melissa Hornsey’s address – 83 Crouch Hall Road, not far from the cemetery.

  Before Dwyer could knock on the door it opened.

  ‘You must be Quigg?’ a young woman said staring at him. She was in her thirties with short blonde hair, high cheekbones and a good figure. ‘It’s about time you got here. I was beginning to think my powers had deserted me. Let’s go, we haven’t got much time. I’ll just grab my coat and . . .’

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said. ‘Who are you? How do you know who I am? Why haven’t we got much time? What powers have deserted you? And where do yu think we’re going?’

  ‘My mum Melissa died two years ago . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Holly Hornsey, her daughter.’

  He immediately looked at her left hand, but was surprised to find no engagement or wedding ring on her finger, because she was very attractive. ‘I see, but . . .’

  ‘I know who you are because I’m a psychic as well. I inherited my mother’s powers.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘We’re going to Highgate Cemetery. There’s something going to happen in the catacombs, and if I’m not mistaken you need my help.’

  Aryana’s printed message on the postcard he’d received on Monday morning came back to him:

  Beware the supernatural entity

  You need a sacrifice in the catacombs

  Was Vlad the Impaler the supernatural entity? How could Holly Hornsey help him? Was she the sacrifice? Was he really going into the catacombs? ‘We’d better go then.’

  Dwyer gave him a strange look, but didn’t say anything.

  It didn’t take them long to reach the cemetery. In fact, it took them longer to walk from the entrance to the crime scene near the Circle of Lebanon.

  ‘Where are PCs McPhail and Wood, Dwyer?’ he said, looking around.

  ‘They should be here.’

  ‘I’m always amazed by your insightful comments.’

  He phoned the station.

  ‘Duty Sergeant?’

  ‘Sergeant Marsh, didn’t I give you specific instructions that McPhail and Wood were to stay at the crime scene in Highgate Cemetery until Dwyer and I arrived?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘They’re still there.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘Have you had a good look around, Sir?’

  ‘Do you want to keep your job, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’ll call them on the radio, shall I?’

  ‘You do that.’ He waited.

  Dwyer waved her hands and pointed towards the crypt. ‘I hear something.’

  He walked towards her. ‘What do you hear?’

  ‘I heard a voice, but I can’t hear it now.’

  Then they heard the faint voice of Sergeant Abbey Marsh seeping through the gaps in the crypt walls and doors. ‘Constable McPhail, Constable Wood – are you there – over?’

  He spoke over the phone again. ‘Sergeant Marsh?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘We can hear you on McPhail and Wood’s radios, which are inside the crypt. There’s no sign of McPhail and Wood though.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Stop asking stupid questions, Marsh.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’ll call you back once we find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  Holly Hornsey pointed to the third door from the left in the long line of doors that made up the terraced crypt, which was standing ajar. ‘That seems to be how they got inside,’ she said.

  He didn’t want to go inside. In fact, he would rather have run off and joined the Circus or the French Foreign Legion than put one foot inside that crypt, but he knew he had no choice. Two of his men were missing and he had to find them. Also, two women were looking at him, watching his every move. He knew Dwyer would be the first to tell everybody at the station – in the whole police force – that when push came to shove Quigg was a damned coward who left his men to die agonising deaths because he was too frightened to face his demons.

  He stepped forward, opened the door and went inside before his resolve deserted him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rodney reached the top of the stairs.

  The soft hum of traffic on the roundabout outside invaded the silence. The half-glass internal door to the office was open, but he couldn’t see Sandrine sitting at her desk. Where was she? There was a knotted serpent in his gut that seemed to be growing with every step he took. Last time, when Deidre, Sue and Peter had been tortured and murdered, the smell of fear, blood and bodily waste had made him gag as soon as he’d begun climbing the stairs. Now, he was relieved that there were no such smells.

  He tip-toed round the office, but there was no one there. He stuck his head round the door of the unlocked ladies toilet, but it was empty. Which only left the photocopier room. The door was shut, so he opened it and switched the light on.

  ‘Sandrine?’

  ‘Oh, Rodney!’

  The love of his life was hiding behind the photocopier.

  She pushed herself up and he took her into his arms. Her clothes were ripped and torn, her breasts were on display and there was a small amount of blood dripping from a wound in her neck.

  She began kissing his mouth, his face and neck.

  He wanted to know what had happened, why her clothes were torn and ripped, and why she was bleeding. Instead, she dragged him to the floor, pulled off his trousers and before he knew what was happening he was pushing into her.

  Afterwards, as they lay on the floor of the photocopier room breathing hard and sweating like new members at the gym she said, ‘I always want to have sex when I’m afraid.’

  ‘What were you afraid of?’

  ‘A man came up the stairs carrying a knife. I thought he was going to kill me.’

  ‘Did he . . . ?’

  ‘No. When he ripped my blouse open, and cut up the middle of my bra, I thought he was going to rape me. I was petrified.’ She brought a hand up to feel the wound in her neck. ‘He stuck the tip of the knife into my neck. I felt it pierce the skin and the blood dripping from the cut. He said you’d know who he was, what he wanted and what would happen if you continued on your present course.’

  Rodney nodded. ‘I expect he’s the same man who killed Deidre, Sue and Peter. As for what he wants – I expect he wants me to stop trying to find DI Quigg’s daughter Phoebe, and to close the investigation into Lancer Communications.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You’re the love of my life, Sandrine. I’m going to do as he asks, of course. No one means more to me than you.’

  She kissed and hugged him.

  He wondered whether he should stand up and put his clothes back on, but there were stirrings between his legs and he wondered . . .

  ‘It’s one case, that’s all. There’ll be lots more cases. As far as I’m concerned Lancer Communications don’t exist – if they ever did. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to meet with DI Holm and tell her that I’m off the case. Then, I’ll let DI Quigg know that I was unable to find his daughter Phoebe, and he’ll receive my final bill in due course. Then together, we’ll knock Bulldog Investigations into shape, employ more people, take on more cases and . . .’

  ‘Live happily ever after?’ Sandrine suggested.

  ‘Do you think that’s even possible for us, Sandrine?�
�� He imagined her walking down the aisle in a white see-through lace wedding dress, jetting off on honeymoon to Mauritius – or somewhere just as exotic – where they’d make love on the white sand, in the clear-blue sea, up against coconut trees, in canoes . . .

  She took hold of his erection and manoeuvred it inside her. ‘I don’t see why not, Rodney. We both deserve some happiness.’

  ***

  It took him a good few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the half-light forcing itself through the small round windows in the roof, and for his heart rate to slow down to something close to normal.

  Dwyer and Holly Hornsey bundled themselves in through the door behind him.

  ‘We should have brought torches,’ he mumbled, knowing it would take ages to go back to the car and retrieve them from the boot.

  ‘Here,’ Holly said, passing him a heavy-duty torch sealed in black rubber that were far better than the police torches. ‘I came prepared, because I knew we were coming in here.’ She passed a torch to Dwyer and had another one for herself.

  The crypt was a brick vaulted building that was lit by oculi – small round windows – set into the terraced walkway above. It was more than eighty yards long and lined with separate recesses. Each recess was large enough to take a single coffin end on, and there were five recesses one on top of the other from floor to ceiling down both sides of the length – space for 840 coffins in all. The apertures were sealed with inscribed concrete slabs or glass inspection windows through which shrivelled remains could be seen.

  They found a pile containing McPhail and Wood’s radios, utility belts, batons and stab vests.

  ‘Why have these been left here?’ Dwyer said.

  Quigg picked up one of the crackling radios. ‘Sergeant Marsh?’

  ‘Is that you, Inspector Quigg?’

  ‘The very same. We’ve found McPhail and Wood’s radios and equipment in the terraced crypt, but there’s no sign of the two officers.’

  ‘That’s worrying, Sir.’

  ‘It certainly is. How long will it take for you to get four officers here as back-up?’

  ‘I’d say about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He passed the radio to Dwyer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You carry it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s why I passed it to you.’

  She opened her mouth, clamped it shut again and sighed instead.

  ‘Have you got anything to say, Holly?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. You must have invited yourself along for a reason.’

  ‘To help you.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I don’t know until the time comes.’

  ‘Okay. Take a look around, Dwyer. You walk on the left. Holly and I will walk on the right.’

  Dwyer nodded.

  Quigg shone the light from his torch into one of the glass inspection windows, peered inside and then jumped back in alarm. An eyeball hanging from a stalk had been staring at him. His heart began thrashing about again, and he had to focus on breathing.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Holly said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Doing the job you do when you have Necrophobia.’

  He didn’t bother asking her how she knew that he suffered from a fear of dead people. ‘It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. Anything, Dwyer?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any ideas, Holly?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Dwyer stopped in front of a recess. ‘What’s this?’ she said, shining her torch on the concrete floor.

  Quigg and Holly crossed to where she was standing and shone their torches on the floor as well. There were parallel scrape marks leading out from the central stack of recesses.

  Dwyer passed the radio to Quigg, crouched down and ran her fingers over the scrape marks. ‘These are fresh,’ she said, and stood up again.

  He tried to pass the radio back to her, but she wouldn’t take it. ‘Do you mind? I’m trying to find out how these scrape marks were made.’ She began examining the alcove. There were fifteen recesses in all – three stacks of five with a coffin end-on in each. The scrape marks were in line with the centre stack of recesses. ‘This must come forward, but I can’t see how.’ She tried pushing, pulling and twisting everything within reach, but nothing seemed to work.

  Quigg passed the radio to Holly and shone his torch over the coffins. Dwyer was right, he thought. There was nothing obvious that might release a catch and open a doorway. ‘

  ‘Here,’ Holly said.

  He turned round.

  Holly was shining her torch into the opposite alcove at the third central concrete slab sealing in a coffin. There were dark smudges on the slab that had been created over time by dirty hands. A dragon seal had been engraved inside a circle – approximately three inches in diameter – in the concrete with an inscription below it that read:

  O how merciful is God,

  Faithful and just

  ‘Vlad Dracula and the Order of the Dragon,’ Quigg said, his throat as dry as the Gobi Desert.

  ‘Somebody’s playing a joke on us,’ Dwyer said.

  Quigg pressed the dirty side of the concrete slab and it moved inwards.

  The opposite central stack of five coffins began to shift outwards into the corridor accompanied by the noises of grinding gears and concrete scraping on concrete. When it stopped, there was a dark opening and steps leading downwards.

  ‘If you think it’s so funny you can go first, Dwyer.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Quigg.’

  ‘I don’t see why. You’re the one who seems to think we’re here for a surprise party.’ He shone his torch into the gaping doorway. ‘Off you go then.’ He turned to Holly Hornsey. ‘You can stay here.’

  ‘You need me down there.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know until the time comes. All I know is that if I don’t go with you, you won’t be coming back.’

  ‘You’re a civilian. If anything happened to you, I’d lose my job.’

  ‘I won’t tell anybody if you don’t.’

  ‘You say that now, but . . .’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Stay close then. And you can make yourself useful by carrying the radio.’

  ‘I got the impression, when I saw you during one of my psychic episodes, that you were a lot nicer than you actually are.’

  ‘Claustrophobia and Necrophobia make me grumpy.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Dwyer threw over her shoulder as she started down the concrete steps into the pitch black. ‘He’s not a nice person at all. In fact, he’s like that all the time.’

  ‘Get going, Dwyer. I’d be well within my rights to close the door and leave you in there.’

  They followed Dwyer into the darkness.

  It was cold, damp and silent as the grave. There was a distinctive dank underground smell that seemed to be a mixture of tree roots, soil and dead people.

  ‘Which way?’ Dwyer asked.

  He shone his torch both ways along a thin corridor cut out of the soil, but couldn’t decide which way to go until he saw the signs of human traffic on the ground leading off to the right. ‘Go right.’

  As Holly stepped off the last stair, the doorway above them began to close. She stepped back on the stair, but it didn’t make any difference.

  ‘I hope there’s another way out,’ she said.

  ‘I thought psychics were supposed to know these things.’

  ‘It’s not an exact science, you know.’

  He recalled that Aryana used to say the same thing. ‘So I believe.’

  ‘We should have waited for back-up,’ Dwyer mumbled.

  ‘Full of the joys of Spring as always, Dwyer. Keep going.’

  They followed Dwyer one after the other.

  Quigg tried to contact Sergeant Marsh on the radio, but it was as dead as a dodo. He dropped it. There
didn’t seem to be any point carrying something that was no longer of any use. Although it was police equipment it wasn’t his. He hadn’t signed for it, and he wasn’t the custodian of McPhail or Wood’s radio. If they had to retrieve it, they could damn well come back down here and get it themselves. He’d tell them where it was, he was good like that.

  ‘There’s something up ahead,’ Dwyer whispered.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Flickering lights. Candles I guess.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Then they walked out into a large circular chamber, which had a dozen candles flickering in alcoves cut out of the walls. Steps led down to a concrete altar, upon which a naked man and woman were rhythmically copulating. People in cloaks with the hoods pulled up to hide their faces were standing around the altar chanting.

  Quigg had the feeling that he’d walked onto the set of a low-budget horror movie, but he couldn’t see the cameras rolling.

  ‘Can you see McPhail or Wood anywhere, Dwyer?’

  ‘Aren’t they the ones on the altar?’

  He squinted in the dim light. ‘I think you’re right.’ Dereliction of duty came to mind. They were meant to be guarding the crime scene. Instead, they were taking part in an orgy. He’d have no option, but to discipline them. Disciplining the rank and file wouldn’t make him any friends, or move him up the chart for that matter, but what choice did he have? Maybe they could offer mitigating circumstances for deserting their post.

  ‘POLICE,’ he shouted, moving into the chamber proper. ‘EVERYBODY STAY EXACTLY WHERE THEY ARE.’ He wished he’d brought one of the batons from either of the utility belts that they’d discovered in the crypt above to protect himself.

  All the lights went out.

  His torch stopped working.

  A wind began whistling round the chamber.

  Where the hell had the wind come from? Maybe somebody had left a door open.

  The smell of blood and death rushed up his nose and forced him to his knees. He felt slimy hands clawing at his neck. Above him, in the pitch black, he saw a pair of red glowing eyes, a wide gaping mouth dripping saliva, and felt the stench of a long-dead corpse’s breath on his face. He knew he was going to die, or at least become one of the undead.