The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights: (Quigg #7)

by Tim Ellis

  He called the Chief.

  ‘Why are you phoning me, Perkins?’

  ‘No, it’s me, Chief.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask why you’re using Perkins’ phone, Quigg.’

  ‘I lost mine.’

  ‘You do know that’s a hanging offence?’

  ‘There are mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘Why is it, that whenever you’re given a simple open and shut case, it turns into the crime of the century?’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing you.’

  ‘To tell me it’s more difficult than you first envisaged, that you want more men, more resources, transport, forensics . . . In fact, you want to suck my budget dry on one open and shut case. Well, I can tell you now that it’s never going to happen, Quigg.’

  ‘There’s something weird going on here, Chief.’

  ‘The only thing that’s weird in Apocalypse Heights is you. Now, if you’ve got something important to tell me then I’m all ears, but otherwise I have figures, financial reports and clear-up rates to massage for the Commissioner. Well, do you have something important to tell me?’

  ‘Not really, Chief.’

  ‘As much as I like chewing the fat with you . . .’

  The call ended.

  He walked back along the corridor to Flat 27/3, wandered down the hallway and into the lounge.

  ‘So, what have we got, Perkins? And don’t say more aliens.’

  ‘Lance Flowers . . .’

  ‘Where’s the pathologist?’

  ‘She should have been here a while ago, but it looks like she’s been delayed.’

  He returned Perkins’ phone. ‘Try calling her.’

  Perkins made the call, but there was no answer. ‘She might be driving.’

  ‘Or she might be the latest victim of increased alien activity.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The phone.’

  ‘But it’s mine.’

  ‘My need is greater than yours. Hand it over. You’ll get it back - eventually.’

  ‘Stay out of my messages.’

  ‘Why would I want to look in there?’

  ‘I’m just saying.’ He handed Quigg his phone.

  ‘So, what about Lance Flowers?’

  ‘The front door isn’t damaged.’

  ‘So he let the killer in, which could mean he knew the person.’

  ‘Possibly. We’ve collected a significant amount of fingerprints, hair, fibres and bodily fluids . . .’

  ‘Bodily fluids?’

  ‘There’s strong evidence that Mr Flowers was a homosexual.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘We’ve found sperm and other discoloured samples on the bed linen . . .’

  Quigg pulled a face. ‘All right, I don’t think you need to go into the gory details.’

  ‘There’s also some toys . . .’

  ‘Toys? Did he have a dog or a child?’

  ‘Not those type of toys, I’m afraid. There’s anal plugs, penis pumps, vibrating nipple clamps, dildos, silicone lubricants . . .’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about homosexual toys.’

  ‘One of my officers has inside knowledge.’

  ‘Inside knowledge . . .’ He grunted. ‘You never told me you were a poor excuse for a comedian.’

  ‘I have my moments.’

  ‘So, Mr Flowers’ demise might be the result of a lover’s tiff?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Perkins walked over to the wireless phone sitting in its housing, and pointed at the flashing light indicating that there was a message. ‘But you should listen to this before you start jumping to any conclusions.’ He pressed the “Play” button.

  There was a lot of crackling and interference on the tape and then a chilling voice said, “We’re coming for you, Flowers.”

  ‘Was that a male or a female voice?’ he asked.

  Perkins shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Have you had your people check where . . . ?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you going to keep it to yourself?’

  ‘You won’t believe me.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that the call came from the mothership, are you?’

  ‘It came from nowhere.’

  ‘Nowhere?

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Nowhere must be somewhere.’

  ‘By definition, nowhere is nowhere.’

  ‘You mean, you can’t trace it?’

  ‘I mean, there’s nothing to trace.’

  ‘You’re not making much sense, Perkins. Messages don’t just appear on an answerphone out of the blue.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances.’

  ‘These are normal circumstances.’

  ‘If that’s the case, why can’t my people find any evidence of an incoming call?’

  ‘I don’t want to start telling your people how to do their jobs, but have they tried all the frequencies?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Infra-red and ultraviolet?’

  ‘They’re visual frequencies.’

  ‘I want them to keep working on it, Perkins. If, as you say, these are unusual circumstances, then we need to use unusual methods.’

  ‘You’re right, of course! Aliens wouldn’t necessarily use our frequencies. I’ll get my people on it.’

  ‘What about the body?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Ah! What does that mean?’

  He followed Perkins into the bathroom. The room was awash with blood.

  ‘It’s like an abattoir in here,’ he said.

  ‘That’s exactly what it’s been used for.’

  There was a pewter tankard overflowing with blood on the side of the bath, a butcher’s axe and three knives dripping blood into the sink, a heart sitting on a pewter plate on the washstand and etched into the blood on the wall to their right was a five-pointed star.

  ‘Ah!’ Quigg said. ‘I see what you mean. You’re thinking Lance Flowers has been sacrificed to Satan?’

  Perkins nodded. ‘It’s a strong possibility.’

  ‘But not the only possibility. This whole scenario could have been staged to look like a murder. The heart, the blood, the small intestine may very well belong to an animal . . .’

  ‘No, they’re definitely human.’

  ‘All from the same body?’

  ‘We haven’t verified that yet.’

  ‘Was the person alive when the heart and small intestine were removed?’

  ‘We won’t know that until . . .’

  ‘It might be that the blood and organs came from a person who had previously died of natural causes.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought . . .’

  ‘So it would be safe to say that if anyone’s jumping to conclusions, Perkins – it’s you.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would.’

  ***

  Had the murder been staged? Where had the blood and body parts come from? If they did belong to Lance Flowers – where was his body? The axe and knives suggested that the body had been cut up. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the body had been cut into manageable parts, wrapped in plastic and taken away – but why? And where? And why leave everything else in the bathroom?

  Where was Kline? Kline would have asked the questions he didn’t think to ask, the ones that had fallen through the cracks.

  Was the murder related to black magic and/or Satanism?

  There was something not quite right about it all. Who had reported the murder?

  ‘Do you know who called it in, Perkins?’

  ‘No. I was merely told to come up here with my team. The two officers at the door were already on guard when I arrived.’

  He walked along the hallway and back out into the corridor. There was only one of the uniformed officers there – a small rotund woman who looked as though she’d had one beef chilli wrap too many.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked.

  ‘Taking a break, Sir.’

  ‘And you are?’<
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  ‘Constable Louise.’

  ‘Is that your first or your last name?’

  ‘Last. My full name is Constable Jennifer Louise.’

  ‘Your parents christened you “Constable”?’

  She blushed. ‘You’re DI Quigg, aren’t you?’

  ‘The very same. Why?’

  ‘The girls talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know – this and that.’

  ‘This and that! What does “this and that” mean?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’

  ‘Coveney has told you to wind me up until my springs snap, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Angela Coveney didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Tell me about the chart.’

  ‘What chart?’

  ‘The one that I’m at the top of.’

  ‘No, there’s definitely no chart that you’re at the top of.’

  ‘So you do know about the chart?’

  ‘Did you come out here to ask me about the chart? Or, was there something else on your mind, Sir?’

  ‘Were you and your partner first on the scene?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘The woman in the flat directly beneath this one – Flat 26/3. She found blood dripping down her bathroom walls.’

  ‘Did you go in and look?’

  ‘Yes, and then we came up here.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘The door was open.’

  ‘And you went inside?’

  ‘We looked in the bathroom and then called it in.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere? Anyone acting suspicious?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a soul, Sir.’

  ‘Did you question the woman who reported it?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whether she’d seen anything?’

  ‘She saw blood dripping down her walls.’

  ‘Besides that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, thanks Louise, but don’t think I’ve forgotten about the chart.’

  The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. ‘What chart would that be, Sir?’

  It was a conspiracy. If Perkins wanted conspiracies – he only had to open his eyes inside the station. The place was a viper’s nest of conspiracies.

  He walked down the stairs and knocked on Flat 26/3. The brass nameplate identified the woman inside as Miss Safari Tremaine.

  The door opened. A thin woman – probably in her late twenties or early thirties – was standing there. She had short black wavy hair, nice teeth and he thought she was pretty in an unusual sort of way. Over a black and red striped blouse and black skirt, she wore an apron with “Kiss the Cook” on the front in large red letters.

  She smiled. ‘Hello?’

  He held up his warrant card. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’

  She swivelled her head sideways.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ he said, turning it the right way round. ‘DI Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station.’

  ‘About the blood from upstairs?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you eat?’

  ‘I’ve been known to.’ He was starving. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m writing a cookbook called “Strange Dishes from Around the World” and I need a taster.’

  ‘I’m game.’

  ‘Excellent. For each dish you taste, I’ll answer a question. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Exceedingly fair.’ Licking his lips, he followed her into the bright kitchen and sat on a stool at the off-white Carrara marble-effect breakfast bar.

  She put a bowl in front of him.

  ‘Mmmm. What is it?’

  ‘Try it, tell me what you think.’

  ‘Well, I think I can safely say it’s fish.’ Feeling like a Michelin Inspector, he cut a helping off the white meat with the side of a tablespoon and popped it into his mouth. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Keep going,’ she said, pen poised over a notebook.

  ‘It doesn’t taste of anything really. I’d say it was a bit bland. Wait . . . Mmmm! I’m getting a tingling sensation all over my tongue.’

  ‘Excellent. That’s exactly what should happen with fugu – Puffer fish.’

  ‘Puffer fish! Aren’t they meant to be dangerous?’

  ‘Only if they’re prepared incorrectly. Do you know that they contain the poisonous toxin todrotoxin, which is 1,250 times stronger than cyanide? I don’t know how they can be so accurate.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. Am I going to die now?’

  ‘Do you feel a creeping paralysis in your arms and legs?’

  He began flopping about like a disoriented marionette. ‘A little bit.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s all right then.’

  ‘I’m relieved. So, did you hear or see anything last night?’

  ‘Trying to cheat already – that’s two questions. No, I didn’t see anything last night.’

  ‘Okay, what’s next?’

  She pushed a plate in front of him. There were three large spiders sitting on it.

  His heart began beating three to the dozen, and he jerked backwards.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re dead.’

  ‘What the hell are they?’

  ‘Fried tarantulas.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’

  ‘No. These are a delicacy in Cambodia.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  He felt like vomiting and he hadn’t even touched one yet. His hand slid over the hard bristles of a leg, and he was trying to think of cheese nibbles or something. Slowly, he raised one of the tarantulas up to his mouth and took a bite. Surprisingly, it tasted of caramel – crunchy caramel – and he ate it all.

  ‘Crunchy caramel,’ he said.

  ‘You’re in the wrong profession.’

  ‘Did you hear anything last night?’

  ‘Around one-fifteen this morning I heard about half a dozen people chanting.’

  ‘How . . .’

  She held up her hand and slid a small dish in front of him containing an egg the size of a large jacket potato. ‘Eat.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘An egg.’

  ‘An what do we do with eggs?’

  ‘Break them?’

  ‘There you are then.’

  He broke the egg and picked the shell off. If he’d ever visited the sulphur pits of Hell he was sure they would have smelled just like the egg smelled. Inside was a brown gooey mess and the foetus of a nearly-formed bird with a beak, feathers and clawed feet.

  Holding a hand up to his mouth he turned away. ‘Jesus! I hate dead things.’

  ‘They’re called Balyut. In the Philippines they’re sold like hot dogs by street vendors. Boiled fertilized chicken or duck eggs are full of protein and believed to boost the libido.’

  He put a spoonful of the gooey broth into his mouth and swallowed it down.

  ‘Well?’ Safari asked him.

  ‘Delicious. I can taste the lemon and coriander.’

  ‘Just what I wanted you to say.’

  ‘How could you hear the chanting?’

  ‘For the same reason as blood seeped into my bathroom – there are gaps around the pipes.’

  ‘Ah!

  Another plate materialised in front of him.

  ‘Raw meat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He used a knife and fork to cut a sliver off, slid it into his mouth and chewed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘In a good way?’

  ‘A cross between fish and duck.’ He cut a larger piece off and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Usually,’ Safari said, ‘the Icelanders eat Puffins by breaking their necks, skinning them and eating the fresh heart raw.’

  He stopped chewing and spit the sludge out onto the plate. ‘Raw Puffin heart?’
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  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘There’s certainly a psychological aspect to eating. If I’d said it was Vulture heart you probably wouldn’t be bothered, but because it’s the heart of a nice cuddly Puffin you think it’s disgusting.’

  ‘Everybody likes Puffins.’

  The corner of her mouth creased up. ‘Especially the Icelanders.’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough now.’

  ‘Are you sure? I have snake wine from Vietnam to wash it all down.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What about Casu Marzu – a Sardinian cheese riddled with insect larvae? It’s commonly called maggot cheese.’

  ‘You’re very kind, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘I have mouse in wine, fried grasshoppers, pig brain, bat, eye tuna, hedgehogs – you’d be surprised what they eat in other countries.’

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She made him a mug of coffee and slid it across the breakfast bar.

  He helped himself to sugar and milk and slurped a mouthful down. Did he feel all right after eating all that weird food? Much better after the coffee that was for sure. Only time would tell if his legs and all the other important parts of him still worked when he left.

  ‘Coffee okay?’

  ‘Very tasty.’

  ‘Kopi Luwak from Indonesia.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’d recommend it.’

  ‘It’s the rarest and most expensive gourmet coffee in the world.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  ‘I do. Do you want to know why?’

  He examined her face. ‘No, I don’t think I do. I think I’ll just sit here and drink it in ignorance.’

  ‘It’s made from the excrement of an Indonesian cat-like creature called the Luwak.’

  He put the mug down. ‘You couldn’t help yourself, could you?’

  She grinned. ‘You have one last question.’

  He thought for a time and then said, ‘What did you hear them chanting?’

  ‘Name her, or something like that.’

  ‘Name her! Name who?’

  ‘What would you like to eat next?’

  He shuffled off the stool. ‘I don’t think so. I have to go now.’ He backed towards the door.

  ‘You’ve forgotten something, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She pointed at the instruction to “Kiss the Cook” on her apron.