by Ellis, Tim
Were there children living in the park? If so, what were they doing here? Maybe they knew something about the murders. He needed to find them if they were living here. Where could they be? How long had they been here? Maybe he could ask the park security to grab one for him to question.
This case was like a maze, and he didn’t even know where the start point was. What did he have? In fact, it would probably be more appropriate to ask what he didn’t have. He had eight murders, but he had no bodies, and at the moment no physical evidence that any murders had actually taken place. He didn’t have a crime scene, a suspect, a murder weapon or a motive. And now, he didn’t have a partner either.
He only really knew who one of the victims was. Who were the other seven? He’d assumed one of the victims was Cora Jiggins, but she didn’t exist – in this time period anyway. The woman who had booked herself in under that name obviously knew the history of the asylum, but why would she tempt fate by calling herself that? And who had killed her?
He finished his lukewarm tea, left the restaurant, and headed outside to the command centre.
‘Have you all eaten?’ he asked the three ladies as he shut the door of the truck.
‘Thanks for asking, Sir,’ Coveney said. ‘We all bring a salad with us.’
‘Rabbit food.’
Amies laughed. ‘I only have to look at a fried breakfast and I put on a stone.’
Quigg felt it was the better part of valour not to comment. Amies was a few pounds and more overweight and had obviously been staring at a lot of fried breakfasts.
‘I need one of you to finish off interviewing the remaining guests and staff, I’m . . .’
‘I’ll do that,’ Hanson volunteered standing up.
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’ll get me out of here for a while.’
‘Thanks. Are you all right with that, Coveney?’
Coveney put her chin on her balled fist. ‘As long as you understand that there’ll be a delay in fulfilling your earlier instructions.’
‘I think that goes without saying.’
‘How’s it going, Sir?’ Hanson asked, as she was packing up her handbag. ‘Are we going to be out of here by the weekend? Only, I have a wedding to go to?’
‘Put it this way, Hanson, I wouldn’t buy a new hat for the occasion. Do you recall those small metal puzzles that you used to get in crackers at Christmas and spent ages trying to disentangle the different pieces?’
They all smiled and nodded.
‘This case is a bit like the hardest puzzle you ever tried to pull apart. Even if I had the instructions, I don’t think they would help.’ He told them all about the theft of the DNA, the carpet being lifted in Room 13 and the stain on the floor.’
‘DC Kline might be right about it being connected to the past, Sir,’ Amies said. ‘Where is she, by the way?’
‘Don’t tell Kline she might be right, we’ll never hear the last of it. And as for where she is, I wish I knew. I haven’t heard from her since she left this morning and I keep getting diverted to voicemail. I’m going to kill her when she gets back.’
He briefed Hanson on the interviewing, told her what she needed to do, and she left.
‘So, anything for me, Coveney?’
‘The judge has granted you access to the medical records from 1973. I’m waiting for the warrant to be hand-delivered.’
‘Excellent. We might get somewhere with this case now. Where are the records?’
‘When the asylum closed in 1973 the patients were transferred to Shenley Mental Hospital, and the records went with them.’
‘Who’s going to go . . .’
‘Shenley closed gradually between 1992 and 1998. The patients were transferred to smaller hospitals . . .’
‘And the medical records?’
‘Transferred with them.’
‘I’m not going to like this am I, Coveney?’
‘It will take us forever to track down all the patients and their records from 1973, but I have an idea.’
‘Go on?’
‘The head of psychiatry in 1973 was Dr Alexandra Hudson. She’s eighty-eight now and is living in a warden-controlled home fairly close by. She still has all her faculties, so the warden – a Mrs Irene Miller – says . . .’
‘You’re suggesting I go and talk to this Dr Hudson and pick her brains?’
‘I don’t think you have many other options, Sir.’
‘No, it’s a good idea, Coveney.’ He rubbed his stubble and thought about it. Old people suffered from short-term memory loss, but usually their long-term memory was intact. It might just work, but he needed to go armed with memory prods. ‘I need a plan of the asylum as it was in 1973 and a list of the patients who were transferred to Shenley. With Dr Hudson’s help, I might then be able to place the patients in the rooms and find out what was wrong with them as well. What about a list of staff?’
She slid a stapled list across the worktop. ‘That was fairly easy.’
‘Good.’ He was feeling mildly excited. ‘This will probably work a lot better than wading through masses of case histories, so long as Dr Hudson still remembers everything. Anything else?’
‘I phoned Mr Jenkins from Sanctuary Holdings. He looked through the files relating to the site and identified a couple of things that might be relevant. Shortly after the asylum closed in 1973, a headless body was found in the sewers when they were preparing the groundwork. The body was dressed in clothes that had come from the asylum, but there were no reports of any of the staff or patients missing. The police thought the body had been in the sewers for at least five years. Also, did you know there was a graveyard?’
‘Why?’
‘Patients died. In many cases bodies were unclaimed by relatives, so they buried them in the grounds to save money. Also, local residents didn’t want the criminally insane buried in their churchyard.’
‘Do we know where the graveyard was located?’
‘Behind the hotel, but it’s been landscaped over.’
‘This place just keeps getting better and better. Not only is there a graveyard, but the asylum was built over a plague burial site.’
‘Some of the patients used to be employed as gravediggers apparently, and there’s a story of a mute patient called Old Joe – he was called that because nobody knew his real name – who used to take his cap off at the graves and weep for each patient he buried even though he didn’t know them personally. When he died, he was seen by everybody weeping at the side of his own grave.’
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Coveney?’
‘I do,’ Amies chipped in, swivelling round to face him on her chair. ‘The day after my mum died she came to visit me. I saw her plain as day.’ She shivered. ‘It was real creepy.’
‘And did your mother give a reason for her visit?’
‘She didn’t have to. I knew she’d come to say she loved me.’ Amies dabbed at her eyes.
‘A load of bollocks,’ Coveney said. ‘What about you, Sir?’
‘I’m a bit of a sceptic like you, I’m afraid.’ He stood up. ‘Okay . . .’
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
He sat back down.
‘Mr Jenkins hasn’t got copies of either the blueprints or the manager’s safe key, but he was concerned that Mr Frye wasn’t here. He wanted to know who was running the hotel.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I said the inmates were running it.’
He laughed. ‘That should calm his nerves.’
‘You wanted the names of the two women Carl Morgans raped and murdered.’
‘I did.’
‘Annika Whitworth and Jody Alcott.’
‘Not much help. I take it you’ve got some more details?’
‘They’re not much help either. I know I thought there would be a connection to this investigation, but I’ve been through the case files and if there is a link I can’t see anything.’
‘Maybe the connection is Morgans himself. Oh w
ell, it’s something else crossed off the list. I’ll have a look through the files later when I’m wondering what to do next.’
He stood up.
‘I’ve saved the best for last.’
Sitting down again he said, ‘You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you, Coveney?’
Amies snorted like a pot-bellied pig trying to stifle a laugh.
‘You’ve noticed.’
‘They don’t call me a detective for nothing, you know.’
‘We found out the name of the woman who was murdered in Room 13 in 1973.’
‘It’s top secret, and you can’t tell me?’
‘Cora Jiggins.’
He slapped the table with the flat of his hand and the two women jumped. ‘I knew damn well you were going to say that.’
‘What’s going on, Sir?’
‘I wish I knew, Coveney. I wish I knew.’
***
‘Do you get that a lot?’ Goldie asked Dunkin and Wingnut when they were a safe distance away from the man.
‘Not a lot,’ Wingnut said. ‘Just sometimes.’
‘He was looking for his daughter,’ Dunkin said. ‘If it weren’t for that he’d have never even noticed us.’
‘S’pose,’ Goldie said. ‘Anyway, I got to dump the stuff in my rucksack. If I got caught with this lot they’d lock me up and throw away the key for sure.’
All the underground attractions had air vents, which were useful for circulating air and breathing, but also for moving stuff from the top to the bottom in the shortest possible time without having to hump it all underground. One air vent emptied straight into Sanchez’s room, which was probably why he chose it.
They made their way back to Count Orlok’s Labyrinth.
The attractions that had been taken out of commission were hidden behind twelve-foot advertising hoardings. On the hoarding hiding the labyrinth were adverts for a very expensive BMW, new three- and four-bedroom homes in South Acton, Motor Oil, Heart FM radio and Life Insurance.
There was also a map of the park – one of many scattered around – so that people wouldn’t get lost, but they still did. Count Orlok’s Labyrinth was wedged between Salem’s Fun House and the Judas Torture Chamber.
Access to the labyrinth was by lifting up the corner of a hoarding board that had been pulled away from the nails holding it down. It was a tight squeeze – especially for Sanchez – and they had to wait until there was no one about before slipping through the opening, but eventually they were all on the other side.
Beyond the hoardings the grass was overgrown, litter had accumulated in the wind traps, and everything had fallen into disrepair through lack of use and maintenance. It was also a sanctuary for wild animals, and Goldie had taken to feeding a red squirrel that lived in a hole half-way up an oak tree.
‘Goldie,’ she shouted down the air vent, so that Sanchez would know it was her dropping the stuff down. Everyone was particular about making sure Sanchez knew exactly who was giving him what.
Wingnut shrugged off his rucksack. ‘We ain’t got as much as you, but we may as well offload as well.’
Dunkin followed suit.
‘Wingnut.’
‘Dunkin.’
‘Are we really goin’ into that Slaughterhouse 8?’ Goldie said as they walked back to the exit.
‘I’ve said you don’t have to come with us if you’re scared,’ Dunkin told her.
‘I ain’t scared, I was just askin’ is all.’
Dunkin winked at Wingnut, and Wingnut winked back.
‘What you two winking at each other for?’
‘Somethin’ in my eye,’ Dunkin said.
‘That’s it, I ain’t comin’. I don’t know what you got planned, but I know I ain’t gonna like it.’
‘We ain’t got nothing planned, Goldie,’ Wingnut said.
‘Well, I still ain’t comin’.’ All she’d been looking for was an excuse to wriggle out of going to Slaughterhouse 8. She didn’t like the idea of a place that slaughtered animals, it sounded like her worst nightmare. She had no idea what had made her say she wanted to go in the first place. If it weren’t for Dunkin she’d have pulled out long ago.
They squeezed through the gap into the park again.
‘We’re still going,’ Dunkin said.
Wondering which way to go, Goldie looked first left and then right. ‘I’m really glad for you,’ she said, and shot off along the path towards The Cube.
‘Goldie?’ Dunkin called after her. ‘Don’t be like that.’
She didn’t turn round. She wasn’t being like anything. She was just glad she wasn’t going, and that was all there was to it. A great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Now though, there was still lots of thieving to do, and she skipped along the path watching for opportunities.
***
He wandered into the hotel, and sat on the sofa in reception. How could three murder victims from 1903, 1973, and 2013 be called Cora Jiggins? Unless it was a family thing. Was it a family thing? Was history repeating itself like groundhog day? The Waterbury opened in 1898, and the first victim . . . In fact, was Cora Jiggins the first victim in 1903? It was five years after the asylum had opened. Were there any other murders between 1903 and 1973, or between 1973 and 2013?
It hadn’t escaped his notice that the year in which the murders had all taken place ended in a “3” – why? Was it relevant? If it was, why those particular years? Or, were there other murders that they knew nothing about? If the “3” was relevant, then someone could have been murdered every ten years. He shook his head. That would be ridiculous – wouldn’t it? In fact, he didn’t want to think about any more murders. Eight was quite enough for one investigation.
Why were eight people murdered this year? The previous two murders had been a single woman each time supposedly called Cora Jiggins. Admittedly, one of the eight this time might also have called herself by that name, but why? Why was the modus operandi this year different from 1903 and 1973?
Maybe the original murdered woman from 1903 was Cora Jiggins, and someone was paying the others to call themselves that. But how could someone be paid to enter an asylum in 1973 and end up dead in the same basement room? In 1973 there were rules in the asylum, locks on the doors, staff not afraid to use physical force. Maybe they needed to find out who the original Cora Jiggins was, who killed her and why. If, as Kline believed, the past was the key to this investigation, then they’d better find out about the past.
‘Would you like a coffee, Inspector?’
He hadn’t noticed Magdalena approach him. Now was the time to ask her about that errant earring, but he thought he’d wait until she brought his coffee before he asked the question, otherwise he might not get his coffee.
‘A coffee would be lovely, Maggie. Thank you.’
She left to fulfil his request.
It didn’t take long for her to return with a mug of coffee. She passed it to him and then perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘I have a question,’ he said.
‘Only one?’
‘To start with, but I reserve the right to ask more should the need arise.’
She smiled.
‘What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in a hellhole like this?’
‘When people aren’t getting murdered, this is a good job.’
‘Aren’t there rules about fraternising with guests?’
‘You’re talking about last night?’
‘Am I?’
‘You’re not a guest.’
It was true, he wasn’t. ‘What about last night?’
‘You don’t remember?’
Ah! He’d backed himself into a corner where there was only a rock and a hard place. If something did happen, wasn’t it supposed to be memorable? A woman comes to his room, makes mad passionate love to him, and then he forgets all about it – some lover he was.’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘Then you’ll also remember how special it was.’
‘Of cour
se.’
She touched his hand, and then returned to the reception desk.
Special! Why couldn’t he remember? Something obviously happened, but he had no recollection of it. It sounded like he’d performed to his usual high standard, but surely he should remember that he’d climbed Mount Fujimoto during the night. Why didn’t he? He closed his eyes and re-ran last night in his mind. He’d switched the light off and gone to sleep. There had been no tap on the door, no naked Magdalena, no torrid sex. He sighed. Nothing came to him. As far as he was concerned it had been a regular night’s sleep. Could she be lying? Why? What about the earring?
After finishing his coffee, he put the mug on the reception counter and walked along the corridor to the security office. There were two female staff in the office called Donna Paxton and Clair Weedall, who both knew about the children in the park, and they agreed to set up an operation the following day to catch one of them for questioning. He thanked the two women, and decided to go and see how Perkins was progressing in Room 13.
Chapter Nine
Before reaching reception he changed his mind about annoying Perkins in Room 13. Kline was obviously being stupid, but he remembered what had happened to Walsh and didn’t want to take any chances.
He obtained the addresses of Paula Roberts and Daniel Frye from Wendy Bradshaw in reception – Magdalena wasn’t there for some reason. He still couldn’t believe that she’d come up to his room, had sex with him and he couldn’t remember a damned thing about it.
‘You’ve got a car, haven’t you, Coveney?’ he asked her as he climbed back into the mobile.
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Who’s asking and why?’
‘You know who’s asking. I have to go and find Kline.’
