The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You’re one of those fat cats, aren’t you?’

  He nearly choked to death laughing. ‘Yeah, you’ve got me dead to rights, lady.’

  ‘And stop calling me “lady”.’ She slapped a twenty pound note on the counter. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘I’m going to book my three weeks in Bali immediately.’

  ‘Have a nice time, you robbing bastard.’

  ‘I could throw you out on your skinny arse, you know.’

  ‘I’d like to see you try, hairball.’

  She found a vacant computer, created a free email account under the name of Fat_Mama, and hoped it didn’t come true.

  Hey, anybody there? She sent to Morticia.

  Who wants to know?

  Somebody.

  Yeah?

  Up**** G***.

  She took a bite of the salad roll and a slurp of coffee.

  Have you got problems with your *, UG?

  G***k****r has been murdered.

  Wow!

  Need your help?

  Doing?

  My computer was hijacked. Need to know who and how.

  Where are you?

  London.

  That helps! Tomorrow morning at ten. Paddington station – under the clock.

  I’ll pay.

  Five hundred.

  Okay. She wasn’t in the mood for haggling. What do you look like?

  Long blonde hair, big tits.

  Looking forward to it. She hoped Morticia didn’t have long blonde hair and big tits for Quigg’s sake.

  She logged out, finished the roll and coffee while she thought about her next move. Then went back to the counter and bought another salad roll and coffee.

  ‘And don’t spit in it this time,’ she said.

  ‘You could taste it in the last coffee, huh?’

  ‘Like crocodile shit.’

  ‘You must have had a difficult childhood.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  She returned to the computer and began her research on Hans Fröbel, who was born in Königsberg on November 17, 1984. It took time, because everything she found with his name on – and there was lots of it – was written in German, which then had to be fed through an online translator program. And to prove she wasn’t completely useless – after what had happened to her own computer – she hacked into the Bundeskriminalamt database and found a whole stack of goodies not just about Hans Fröbel, but also about his membership of the Order of the Black Sun.

  Now she was getting somewhere. Fröbel was a computer security specialist who had worked for the German Intelligence Services between 2006 and 2008. He was then photographed at a Neo-Nazi march in Dresden – the mourning march to remember those who had died during the bombing – investigated by his bosses, dismissed from his job and placed on a growing list of undesirables. Between 2008 and 2013 he was linked with a string of crimes including: arson, assault, murder, drug-running, harassment, extortion, rape, conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, cyber crime . . . the list grew longer by the day, but nothing could be proved.

  He was also linked with a Neo-Nazi splinter organisation called the Order of the Black Sun. The black sun was designed for Heinrich Himmler based on an old Aryan symbol, and as well as being full of swastikas and sig runes, it was also meant to mimic King Arthur’s round table. Each spoke of the sun wheel represented one knight – or officer of the inner circle of the SS leadership.

  She was getting excited – the Twitter names were the inner circle – the knights of the round table. And what was interesting was that Fröbel had twelve friends, who were also paid-up members of the Order of the Black Sun: Otto Liesche, Wolfgang Bramhoff, Thorsten Krämer, Martin Haber, Reinhold Kober, Siegmund Ehm, Thomas Figl, Holger Müller, Simon Glagla, Markus Hein, Ludwig Keil and Welhelm Quarg. Well, the thirteen had now been reduced to twelve

  It was unlikely they were using their real names on Twitter, even if the names were encrypted.

  Fucking hell! Her head hurt she was so brilliant – it was Lucy Neilson against King Arthur and the knights of the round table: Lancelot, Gawain, Geraint, Gareth, Gaheris, Bedivere, Galahad, Kay, Bors de Ganis, Lamorak, Tristan, Percivale and, of course, King Arthur – thirteen ready-made pseudonyms. She wondered which one Hans Fröbel had been, and who King Arthur was?

  There was still the issue of the ten messages, and it didn’t take a genius to work out that they probably contained all the answers to what was going on. But how was she going to get those messages decrypted now that Gatekeeper had been murdered? Other than getting somebody else killed, the only way she could think of was to get into Gatekeeper’s computer. She tried hacking into it, but it had been taken offline – hardly surprising. That Sean was a fucking idiot calling the police. Now, she was left with only one option – she had to go back to Gatekeeper’s house and access his computer.

  Fuck!

  It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.

  Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any tattooed German man mountains there this time.

  She logged off, deposited the plate and mug on the counter and said, ‘One hour fifty-five minutes if I’m not mistaken. I’d like a five-minute refund.’

  He pointed to a sign on the wall. ‘No refunds. Can’t you read, Madam?’

  ‘You robbing bastard.’

  ‘I’m glad Madam had an enjoyable experience in the Surfer’s Lounge.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll be coming back – ever.’

  ‘How sad. I’ll certainly be sorry to lose a valuable customer such as yourself – they’re so hard to come by these days.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Have a good day, Madam,’ he called after her.

  Next, she went to PC Zone and bought a Macbook Air 13 with all the trimmings, and then skulked into a Hawley’s Pharmacy like a shoplifter.

  ‘Yes, Madam?’ The middle-aged black woman in a white coat asked her.

  ‘A pregnancy test kit, please?’

  ‘We have a wide range of kits available such as: Early Response, Reveal It, Your Choice, Clear Stream . . .’

  ‘Does it matter which one?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘They all measure varying concentrations of human chorionic gonadotropin – hCG for short. This hormone is produced by the developing placenta as the embryo implants in the uterine wall, and . . .’

  ‘I have no idea what you just said.’

  ‘Some kits are better than others.’

  ‘I want the most reliable one.’

  ‘In which case you want the Early Response kit. That’ll be fourteen pounds, Miss.’

  ‘And what do I have to do with it?’

  ‘There are instructions . . .’

  ‘You tell me. I’m no good with instructions.’

  ‘Pee on it. You can either hold the stick in the stream of urine, or pee into a cup and dip the stick into the urine.’

  ‘Sounds disgusting.’

  ‘They say that giving birth is the most beautiful experience a woman can have. Personally, I think men just say that so that we’ll keep having their babies. You’re right – it’s disgusting.’

  ‘How will I know if I’m pregnant or not?’

  ‘Your clothes won’t fit.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘A line will appear in the window of the stick after a specified number of minutes. If no line appears, it means you’re not pregnant.’

  She passed the woman a twenty. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the woman said handing her the change back. ‘I hope you’re pregnant.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake – don’t say that.’

  ***

  The Chief was right – Kline and the professor would turn up. At least he hoped they would.

  When he stepped through the opening into the professor’s office the Chief, Dr Paxton and the Fire Officer had already left. In fact, there were only a few firemen making sure there was
no residual heat left that could re-ignite the fire.

  In the corridor, he brushed himself off as best he could. Under normal circumstances he would probably make a detour via Godolphin Road and put some clean clothes on, but he’d already lost a morning, and he didn’t want to lose the afternoon as well.

  He checked his notebook. The Chief knew some of what was going on with the case. Filling in the fine details would now have to wait until the briefing tomorrow morning. He’d re-scheduled the press briefing for four o’clock, which gave him nearly four hours – it was five past twelve.

  His throat felt like a shrivelled animal carcass in the desert, and he wouldn’t turn his nose up at a cheese and onion sandwich either. He made his way out to the quadrangle and was glad to breathe in some fresh air.

  The Jaguar was still there, but the hula-hula girl was missing from the rear-view mirror. Kline would kill him for losing that. Where the hell was it? He checked the doors, walked round the car to inspect the paintwork and peered through a rear window into the back of the car. Kline had specifically told him to look after her hula-hula girl. There was only one explanation – Lucy. He’d have to find a replacement from somewhere.

  He keyed in 74 Elms Avenue, Brent Cross into the satnav. It was going to take him thirty minutes along the A41. He set off, keeping his eyes open for a decent watering hole, and soon found Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.

  After parking the car, he wandered through a warren of narrow corridors and staircases, and eventually found himself in a very dark panelled bar with an open fireplace. Two male customers were huddled in a booth, and a pretty young barmaid with slicked-back hair and a nice smile stood behind the bar.

  ‘I’ll need a map to find my way back out,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone says that,’ she said, as though she’d heard it a million times already today. ‘My name is Jody. What would you like, Sir?’

  ‘Half a Guinness and a ploughman’s please, Jody.’

  ‘With Cheshire cheese?’

  ‘When in Cheshire . . .’

  She began pouring the Guinness. ‘I wish that one of these days someone would come in and say something original.’

  He was impressed with her slim naked arms, the symmetry of her full breasts and her hourglass figure. ‘With your looks and curves you could be a model.’

  She faked a yawn. ‘Where are you sitting, Sir?’

  ‘Can I sit here?’ he asked, wriggling onto a wooden stool.

  ‘You’re not going to make advances, are you?’

  ‘Are things that bad?’

  ‘Worse.’ She put his Guinness onto a beer mat.

  ‘I don’t think so. That’s no reflection on you, but I have some phone calls to make.’

  ‘Real phone calls?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Men sit there pretending to make phone calls – it’s pathetic.’

  He took a swallow of the Irish nectar. ‘Why . . . . ? Oh, I see. They pretend to be Detective Inspectors on the trail of a serial killer to impress you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how that might appear pathetic. Well, you can rest assured that I won’t be doing anything like that.’

  ‘So, what do you do, Sir?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m a Detective Inspector in the Murder Investigation Team at Hammersmith Police Station.’

  ‘Of course you are, Sir.’

  He took out his warrant card and held it out.

  She peered at it. ‘Mmmm! A very professional job if you don’t mind me saying so?’

  ‘That’s because it’s real.’

  ‘Of course it is, Sir.’

  He could see he wasn’t going to get much change out of this conversation, so he took out his phone and called Perkins.

  ‘Have you pulled a sickie, Sir?’

  ‘Do you live in a cocoon?’

  ‘Why – has something happened?’

  He told Perkins what had occurred overnight.

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘I’m a bit excited. I have something for you.’

  ‘Is it going to help me solve the case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘We took deep soil samples from between the cobbles in Bleeding Heart Yard.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘And found something very unusual.’

  ‘The Devil’s DNA?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but I remain hopeful.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Perkins’

  ‘We’re having trouble identifying the DNA.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, didn’t you tell me the same thing at Grisly Park?’

  ‘Yes, and look what happened there. We’ve decided to grow the cells in a Petri dish and see what materialises.’

  ‘Like they did at Jurassic Park?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What if your worst nightmares come true?’

  ‘I’ll be famous. Remember when they brought back King Kong?’

  ‘You’re crazy, Perkins. Is that it? I have work to do.’

  ‘I’ll let you know what crawls out of that dish, Sir.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  He ended the call, took a drink and tucked into his ploughman’s.

  ‘That sounded impressive, Sir,’ the barmaid said.

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘All of it. Especially the bit about the Devil’s DNA.’

  ‘It was all true.’

  ‘Of course it was, Sir.’

  Next, he found the number for Volcano Monthly and phoned them.

  ‘Paul Jenkins - Editor.’

  ‘Mr Jenkins. I’m Detective Inspector Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘My understanding is that you’ve commissioned Catherine Bernado to hike up the Icelandic volcano that erupted in 2010 and grounded all the planes to write a four-page spread with stunning pictures for your magazine.’

  ‘I don’t know where you’ve got your information from, but it’s definitely incorrect. We wouldn’t send someone up an active volcano for a story – especially someone who wasn’t a volcanologist.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jenkins. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  He ended the call.

  Jody the barmaid said, ‘Is that the best you’ve got?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Have a nice day, Sir.’

  ‘And you, Jody. Thanks for your company.’

  ‘Someone had to take pity on you.’

  He finished his ploughman’s, washed it down with the dregs of the Guinness and followed the arrows out to the car park.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They reached a dead end.

  Kline’s hand touched a metal ladder, which appeared to be bolted to the wall.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ she said.

  ‘Be careful,’ Emilia warned her.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’ At the top she shouldered a heavy wooden trapdoor open and scrambled through the opening. Then she leaned through it and whispered, ‘Climb up – hurry. I can hear them coming.’

  Emilia hauled herself up the ladder.

  Kline helped her through the opening, shut the trapdoor and slid a metal catch she found on the back into place.

  ‘Come,’ she said, taking hold of Emilia’s hand.

  Again, they were moving up a slight incline. She had no idea where they were going, but hoped it was towards the surface. Then what? She needed help. She needed a phone. She needed a car, a fucking plane to Rio de Janeiro.

  ‘You were in the barn.’ she prompted Emilia. ‘You wished you hadn’t woken up.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Emilia was silent for a time and then she said, ‘The farmer came to feed his sheep the next morning and found me.’

  ‘He took pity on you and . . .’

  ‘You are talking about the best of times, as Charles Dickens wrote..T
hese were the very worst of times, and they made men and women do some terrible things.’

  ‘He raped you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He offered to help – for a price.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘I had no other currency.’

  ‘But his wife was inside, wasn’t she?’

  ‘His wife and two small children.’

  ‘The bastard. I hate men.’

  ‘I gave him what he wanted . . .’

  ‘You didn’t? I would have . . .’

  ‘. . . Killed him?’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘Then his wife and children might have died.’

  ‘They probably did anyway.’

  ‘If they did, I had nothing to do with it. Also, if I had killed him, the German soldiers would have come . . .’

  ‘. . . And found you, and then you would have been killed?’

  ‘You would have made a good prisoner.’

  Kline gave half a laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He came in the mornings to feed the sheep. Each morning he brought me food and I had to let him do what he wanted me to do.’

  ‘The fucking bastard.’

  ‘One morning, he brought me a bowl of hot water, soap, a towel and some of his wife’s old clothes. I stripped off the rags I was wearing and washed myself. I didn’t care that he was there watching me . . .’

  ‘That’s what he wanted – the pervert.’

  ‘Men are what they are. I was a pretty young woman, he was a middle-aged man with a man’s desires. He was weak, as all men are. His name was Dimitri, and he had been left the farm by his father. At least he was being kind to me.’

  ‘Because he wanted sex.’

  ‘He could have simply taken what he wanted and thrown me away like a rag doll.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed myself with hot water and soap. I cried. For that moment in time, it was like soaking in a hot scented bath at the Ritz Hotel. He took the soap and washed my back.’