by Tim Ellis
‘Pleased to meet you, Doctor,’ Quigg said.
‘Should we get inside? This is the worst winter since 1964, if memory serves.’
‘Before my time,’ Quigg said. ‘What about you, Walsh?’
Walsh looked at him with narrowed eyes, but didn’t respond.
‘This will be about the twenty-three children found in Barn Elms Park, I suppose?’
‘Yes, Doctor. Is Mr Andrews aware of what’s been found in his old back garden?’
‘Now there’s a multi-layered concept – awareness. When he’s lucid, he probably is aware of what’s been going on. He watches the news like the rest of us, but…’
‘There’s always a but,’ Walsh offered.
‘I’m afraid that when we’re talking about the human mind, young lady, there’s nothing but buts.’
Dr Harrelson led them up a set of steps that had been cleared of snow and gritted, towards a heavy-looking dark wood front door.
‘These are really nice buildings, Doctor.’
‘So much so, that the developers are turning them into luxury flats.’
‘Why did the NHS decide to close the hospital?’ Walsh asked.
‘It was originally built in a Gothic brick style between 1862 and 1866 for £65,000 to house the pauper lunatics of London. Unfortunately, in 2003, Thames NHS said it wasn’t suited to modern healthcare.’
‘That’s a bit sad,’ Walsh said.
‘Yes it is sad. I’ve been here thirty-five years, and Ruben Andrews will be my longest and last patient. Once he is gone, I will retire. I’m semi-retired now; Ruben doesn’t take up much of my time. There are five staff who have agreed to look after Ruben until his demise.’
They entered the building through the main wooden door. The reception area was empty, but it was warm. The walls were painted lime green. Where the pictures had been taken down, there were square marks. The only items remaining were an easy chair, a rubber plant in a large orange pot and a threadbare dark green carpet.
‘Before we see Ruben, Doctor, I have a number of questions.’
‘I’ll answer them if I can.’
‘I don’t understand how Ruben has been permitted to stay at the hospital until he dies. Surely it’s preventing the developers from getting a return on their investment?’
‘At best, Ruben has three months remaining. Ten months ago he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and then a month later, intestinal cancer. His mind and body are being eaten away from the inside out. Some days he is in agony from the cancer, which is compounded by the constipation caused by the Parkinson’s disease. On other days he has no idea where he is, or who we are. You’re lucky: today is a good day, but he is in the later stages of both diseases, so don’t expect him to be like you and I.’
‘Who’s paying for all this? If the NHS were funding it, surely they wouldn’t have allowed him to stay on, so somebody must be paying?’
‘My knowledge of his financial affairs is limited, but I do know that the Andrews estate was put into trust and is managed by a firm of solicitors in Hammersmith called Pequod, Bone and Turnkey.’
‘What about the fire, Doctor? Did he ever admit to burning down the family house and killing his parents and siblings? And why was he admitted here shortly after the fire?’
‘He committed himself here in 1951, and no, he has never spoken about the fire. The police questioned him at length on the matter, but without evidence they were unable to charge him with anything. Successive doctors have tried to raise the subject, but he resolutely refuses to speak about it.’
‘When he committed himself, was he diagnosed with a mental illness?’
‘Now they call it post-traumatic stress disorder, but the disorder wasn’t formally recognised until 1980. In 1951 it was called a psychiatric disturbance.’
‘So he wasn’t insane?’
‘We don’t use the term "insane" anymore, Inspector; it has certain unpleasant connotations. Mentally, Ruben was not normal. He felt he couldn’t cope with life outside the confines of the hospital.’
‘It sounds like Mr Andrews has been using Stone House as a hotel, Doctor.’
‘The hospital began taking in private patients in 1971. Ruben became a private patient at that time.’
‘His parents must have been extremely wealthy.’
‘I have no idea, Inspector. Is that it?’
‘Yes, for now, Doctor, but I must admit to being confused by the whole situation. Why would a boy of thirteen lock himself inside a mental hospital, and then stay there for fifty-nine years? I can’t even imagine such a thing.’
‘Which suggests that Ruben has been mentally ill all of his life, Inspector.’
They followed Dr Harrelson along a corridor with bare green walls and dark green linoleum on the floor. On the left the doors Quigg passed were closed; on the right he could see through the sash windows that it had started snowing again. Soon, they came to an open door, and the noise of daytime television filtered out into the corridor.
‘Ruben, you have visitors,’ Dr Harrelson said as he stepped into a large room with a hospital bed against the centre of the back wall.
Quigg and Walsh followed. A plump, middle-aged nurse in a white uniform with blue piping around the collar and elbow-length sleeves was sitting in an easy chair by the window and looked up from her magazine as they came in.
A thin, skeletal old man with wisps of grey hair and dark brown liver spots on his scalp was sitting in a high-backed chair facing a large plasma television. He wore blue and white striped pyjamas, a maroon dressing gown, and had a green blanket wrapped around his legs. Ruben Andrews had sunken eyes and an expressionless face. He didn’t turn to look at them.
Dr Harrelson signalled to Quigg to approach Ruben and ask him a question.
‘Can the television be switched off, please?’ Quigg asked.
The nurse used the remote control to mute the sound, then said, ‘Ruben doesn’t like the television switched off. It’s his only connection with the world outside.’
Quigg nodded. ‘Mr Andrews, I’m Detective Inspector Quigg.’
Ruben didn’t acknowledge him.
Maybe shock treatment might work, he thought. ‘We found the crypt where your parents and sisters were buried.’
There was no recognition in his eyes.
‘We think Rose was moved from the crypt and buried near Angel Brook shortly after the fire in 1951.’
At the mention of his twin sister’s name, he looked down at the shaking hands in his lap.
‘There are twenty-three graves, Ruben. We think Rose is buried in the first one. Do you know who might be killing these children?’
Ruben had moved his head back up to stare at the muted television screen.
‘Did you start the fire, Ruben?’ Can you tell me what happened?’
Ruben still refused to respond. Quigg looked at Dr Harrelson, who shrugged. He stood up. ‘It looks like it was a wasted journey.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I did warn you. He has consistently refused to discuss anything to do with the fire.’
Quigg turned to go, but at the door he turned as Ruben Andrews spoke.
‘It was my father’s fault. It started with Rose and me, then he moved on to Porsche, and that night it was Emma’s turn. I had to do something to save little Emma.’ Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘My mother knew about it, but she couldn’t do anything. In those days it didn’t exist, especially in families like ours. I was the only one who could do something. Yes, I started the fire. It was the only way I could think of to stop it happening over and over again. My sisters and I lived in a nightmarish hell. Each night my father visited one of us, as if we were his personal harem. Rose and Porsche knew they were going to die that night, but we didn’t tell Emma. It was agreed that I would be the one to start the fire and then kill myself, but I couldn’t. I was a coward at the end.’ He sighed. ‘Instead, I chose a living death in here.’
‘Have you any idea who has been killing these
children, Ruben? You are the last link to that house. We think it has something to do with Rose.’
‘Rose was beautiful. Everyone loved Rose. In the house we had servants: a butler, two maids, a cook, an assistant cook and a chauffeur. I remember some children, but not their names.’
‘Do you recall the names of the servants?’
‘Mr Putney was the butler and Mrs McLeish was the cook. I don’t remember any other names.’
‘No first names?’
‘Sorry, Inspector.’
‘Would you mind if I spoke to your solicitors in Hammersmith to see if they have anything that might throw some light on the case?’
‘I will ring to let them know you’re coming.’
‘Thank you. One last thing: the family crypt is in Barnes Old Cemetery. The cemetery has been abandoned and the crypt is overgrown. Your parents and sisters are there, and there is a space for you.’
‘My father would like that - to complete his harem for all eternity. No, that space will remain empty forever.’
‘At the moment, we are not sure whether the body in Rose’s coffin is actually Rose or another child, so if you are considering doing anything with the crypt or the bodies, I will let you know when we have finished examining them.’
‘I hope you find the killer, Inspector. This has gone on long enough.’
‘Thank you, Ruben - thank you for telling us the truth.’
In the corridor Dr Harrelson said, ‘Well, that was worth waiting for. Now we know what it was all about.’
‘How sad,’ Walsh said, ‘that a man can destroy the family he created.’
‘It’s happening now all over the world, Walsh. And it certainly isn’t confined to families or history.’
They shook hands with Dr Harrelson and returned to the car. It was three forty-five, and the slate grey sky was heavy with snow.
***
Quigg drove back to the station and dropped Walsh off in the car park next to her rusty Renault Clio. He waited while she switched the engine and heater on, and then helped her clear the snow and ice from the windows.
‘Remember, Father Paidraig is due in tomorrow morning, and I won’t be in until probably ten thirty.’
‘Where are you going, Sir?’
‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you, Walsh.’
‘So, you’re not going to tell your partner?’
‘No.’
‘I hope you have nightmares about the dead bodies in that crypt tonight.’
‘You don’t mean that, Walsh. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Goodnight, Sir.’
Once she had reversed out of her parking space, he followed her out of the car park and flashed his lights as she went straight on at the roundabout, and he turned left. The clock on his dashboard showed five twenty-five.
He was looking forward to getting home and having a long soak in a hot shower. Maybe Duffy would join him. Maybe Ruth was still there and they could both join him. What about that psycho Lucy, though? He hoped Ruth had spent the day depositing her in a flat somewhere she couldn’t get to him.
Dr Harry Harrelson was right: Ruben Andrews telling Quigg what had happened after all these years was a major surprise. After the Body 13 case, nothing surprised him anymore about the depravities of men. His own father used to beat him and lock him in the cupboard under the stairs. It was hardly surprising he had so many fears. Maybe he should see a therapist. What did the information mean in terms of the case? He now knew for definite the killer wasn’t Ruben Andrews. It would have been convenient if the butler, Mr Putney, had done it, but he hadn’t. He would be long dead. The cook, Mrs McLeish, would be dead also. Which only left the possibility of the children Ruben had mentioned - but the children of whom? He might be lucky and find that one of the two people he had names for had produced the children, but they could just as easily have been the children of the chauffeur, the maid or the assistant cook, and he didn’t have names for them. But what if the first body wasn’t Rose Andrews? Where did that leave them? If there was no connection to Rose Andrews, then he had been chasing a dead end for three days. Then there was the firm of solicitors, Pequod, Bone and Turnkey. They sounded Dickensian, but maybe there were records of the servants’ names and addresses, and any children they might have had, for that matter. A headache was beginning to mushroom behind his left eye. He’d take two tablets, have a shower, get a takeaway and have a quiet night in. He hoped Duffy wasn’t planning on partying New Year’s Eve away. She may be twenty-one, but he felt like thirty-five going on sixty tonight.
He let himself in. It was six twenty. Loud male voices pulled him towards the living room. Duffy was squashed between three large men on the sofa. An older man was sitting in a chair, and another one was standing in front of the television. Had he walked in on an orgy? Was he expected to join in? What the hell was going on?
‘Hello, Sir,’ Duffy said.
‘Will you listen to yourself, Mavourneen,’ one of the men on the sofa said. ‘He’s got you trained good and proper. I wish llene would call me, Sir.’
‘You wish, llene would call you at all, Ruark,’ the man standing in front of the television said, and the other men laughed.
‘It’s my father and four brothers, Sir,’ Duffy said. ‘They’ve come to take you out to wet the baby’s head.’
He felt as though he’d walked into a parallel universe. He’d known Duffy’s father was still alive, and that she had four brothers, but why were they here drinking his beer. Wet the baby’s head! ‘Don’t they do that after the baby’s been born?’ he said.
Duffy’s father pushed himself up out of the chair. He stood beside Quigg, put an arm around him and gripped his shoulder with the shovel attached to his thick wrist. ‘Quigg, I believe? A good Irish name. Well, Quigg, we can wet the baby’s head anytime, and tonight seems a good night when there’s no work for anyone tomorrow.’
‘But…’ Quigg wanted to tell him that he had work; that he had a case to solve, and children to save; that going out and getting smashed didn’t really feature in his plans. What he really, really wanted to do was have a quiet night in with Duffy.
‘No buts and no thinking when there’s drinking to be done. Mavourneen can’t come because of the baby, but she’s given her permission for you to accompany Odran Duffy and his four sons out on the town.’ Odran pointed to the brothers one at a time. ‘Dagda here is the eldest.’ Dagda raised the can of beer he was holding, took a deep swallow and crushed the can like a peach. ‘Next is Ruark. You’ve met him.’ Ruark smiled. ‘Then comes Shamus, and the baby is Taggart. Mavourneen sits between Shamus and Taggart.’ Shamus and Taggart hugged, squeezed and tickled Duffy.
Wriggling free and standing up, Duffy remonstrated with her two brothers. ‘Are you trying to kill me, you fools?’ She turned and came close to Quigg. ‘I’m sorry, Sir - they mean well. You’ll have to go with them, but don’t try and match them drink for drink, or you’ll kill yourself. They could drink Satan under the table.’ Standing on tiptoes, she kissed Quigg on the lips. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Sir.’ She turned to her father. ‘You’d better bring him back alive, da.’
God, he thought, where are they taking me?
‘Don’t worry, Mavourneen. He might need some major surgery, but his heart will still be beating.’
The brothers surrounded Quigg and hustled him out of the living room, down the hall, and out through the front door. Outside, a taxi was waiting for them.
‘Kavanagh’s bar in Kensington…’
Chapter Seven
Bartholomew watched the eleven men arrive. Although some had chauffeurs in their employ, tonight they drove themselves. Some of the men arrived alone. Some came in pairs. As a smokescreen, some were married and had children, but tonight families had been left at home. This was the last day of the month and tonight they would celebrate the Last Supper, as they did on the last day of every month. This night, however, was special, because it was also the last day of the year.
‘Good evening, Bartholomew,’ James said as he entered through the large arched doorway of the Edwardian house on the outskirts of Richmond-upon-Thames with a man Bartholomew had not seen before. The house was set back from the road and hidden behind a trimmed eight-foot leylandii hedge. It was set in its own grounds, and although there were neighbours, they were too far away to be of concern. Tonight, Bartholomew had hired a security company. Eight men, like bodybuilders on a country outing, had appeared two hours before the others were due to arrive. He had walked the grounds with their leader, a shaven-headed Mr Riddler - which, he surmised, was not his real name, but, then, Bartholomew didn’t care as long as they did their job and kept them safe from prying eyes. The security guards were confined to the grounds only and were not permitted inside the house. Once the meal was over, only the Apostles would remain inside the house with, of course, the entertainment that he had organised.
‘Good evening, James.’
They were standing in the atrium. A lit twenty-four-arm crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the glass dome above them. A sweeping staircase led up to the twelve locked bedrooms, each with en suite bathrooms and a small package for the Apostle who was allocated to the room. Bartholomew had secured the packages in the bedrooms himself – nine girls and three boys. They had arrived from Eastern Europe in an unmarked white van in the early hours of the morning. He had made sure they were fed, watered and, most of all, clean. None of them spoke English, but they begged him to release them in their own language. Bartholomew was sympathetic to their plight, but the Apostles had desires which these children would fulfil. He had gone to considerable trouble and expense to arrange the entertainment for tonight, and he wasn’t about to acquire a conscience.
‘This is Phillip,’ James said, indicating the man that had entered with him.
Bartholomew extended his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Phillip. I hope you enjoy the evening.’ He knew Phillip was not the man’s real name, no doubt he would discover who the real Phillip was during the course of the evening. The previous Phillip had died in the fire at Mugabe Terrace, and this man, having paid £500,000, was his replacement. The Apostles now had twelve members again.
