The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Murder? No one said anything about murder. Who am I supposed to have murdered?’

  ‘Catherine Bernado.’

  ‘No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. I love . . .’

  ‘If you’re not willing to talk to me . . .’

  ‘Look . . . I was a bit drunk all right . . .’

  ‘So now you’re prepared to talk?’

  ‘I was in the pub on the corner. I knew Catherine was having dinner with her step-mum – Nicola. The more I drank the angrier I got . . .’

  ‘Why were you angry? A woman has a right to end a relationship.’

  ‘You think it was that? No, it wasn’t that. She told me she was pregnant . . . and that it wasn’t mine. Can you believe that? We were in love, or at least I thought we were. We were going to get married . . .’

  ‘Did she tell you who the father was?’

  ‘No, she didn’t tell me, but I followed her.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I would never have hurt Catherine . . .’

  ‘It’s my understanding that you did.’

  ‘I know . . . I’m ashamed of what I did. I was drunk . . .’

  ‘So you said, but that’s hardly a defence.’

  ‘I deserve to be horsewhipped.’

  ‘Ah! You’re talking about the good old days, Mr Stine. So, you followed Catherine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The right-wing MP – Anton Brodin.’

  ‘You think he’s the father?’

  ‘Well, that’s where she stayed on the night I followed her.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m a photojournalist. I have photographs of them together.’

  ‘What was the address?’

  ‘Flat 7 Endsleigh House, Tavistock Square in Bloomsbury.’

  ‘Isn’t he married with children?’

  ‘Yes, but he keeps his family away from it all in Norwich.’

  Quigg stood up. ‘You’ve been more than helpful, Mr Stine. You’re free to go.’

  ‘You’re not going to arrest me?’

  ‘No, but stay local for the next couple of weeks, and . . . I’d like those photographs first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Copies? I have a living to make.’

  ‘Copies will suffice.’

  ‘So, you’re saying that the body in Bleeding Heart Yard was Catherine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He began to cry. ‘Why? Who would do something like that? Catherine was such a lovely person . . . and she was pregnant for God’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t have any answers for you yet, but I’m getting close, Mr Stine.’

  He nodded at Hutchinson and left.

  ‘Stine’s free to go,’ he said to Sandra Brady – the Duty Sergeant, and signed the custody book authorising his release.

  Next, he made his way up to the Chief’s office. With Cheryl in the hospital there was a woman sitting in her chair who resembled an old-style schoolmistress. There wasn’t a hair out of place on her head, her dress was high-necked with creases like razor blades, and the veins in her neck stood proud and throbbed as if they had lives of their own.

  He went to knock on the Chief’s door, but before he could she said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m here to . . .’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg.’

  ‘Sit.’

  ‘Normally, I just . . .’

  ‘Sit.’

  He sat.

  ‘I’ll see if the Chief Superintendent is available.’

  ‘He’s expecting . . .’

  ‘I’m sure, but there are certain formalities we must adhere to.’ She opened the door without knocking and closed it behind her. After less than thirty seconds the door opened again. ‘Chief Superintendent Walter Bellmarsh will see you now.’

  He pushed himself out of the easy chair and headed for the door.

  She barred his way. ‘You have ten minutes.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Her eyebrows moved upwards revealing the whites of her eyes. ‘Did I not make myself clear?’

  He swallowed. ‘Ten minutes?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Make sure you do, otherwise future visits and access to the Chief Superintendent will be subject to stringent conditions.’ She stood to one side.

  He shuffled past her into the office.

  The door closed behind him.

  ‘Hello, Quigg,’ the Chief said from behind his desk.

  ‘Hello, Sir. Who was that?’

  ‘You’ve met my new secretary, Miss Felicity Feltz?’

  ‘Not your usual type, Sir.’

  He leaned forward and whispered, ‘You have to get me out of here, Quigg.’

  ‘I’ve come to brief you.’

  ‘But then you’ll get me out?’

  ‘Can’t you just leave?’

  ‘No, no. She won’t let me.’

  ‘I thought you were the Chief.’

  ‘You don’t know what she’s like, Quigg.’

  He’d never seen the Chief like this before. ‘Anyway, is it all right if I tell you what’s been going on, because I’ve only got . . . well, seven minutes left now?’

  ‘She’s put a time limit on our meeting, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There you are – see. Who does she think she is?’

  ‘Well, go out there and tell her who’s the boss.’

  ‘I tried, but she took my coffee machine away.’

  ‘So, I’ve still heard nothing from DC Kline or Professor Razinsky.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?’ the Chief said, but Quigg could see that he wasn’t really focussed on the briefing.

  ‘I’ve got another lead: Anton Brodin the right-wing MP for Norwich East.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I interviewed . . .’

  The door clicked open.

  ‘It looks like your time is up, Quigg. Don’t forget . . .’

  ‘Inspector Quigg,’ seeped through the miniscule gap.

  ‘I have to go, Sir.’

  He opened the door, stepped outside and said, ‘The Chief would like to . . .’

  ‘Don’t you worry your Inspector’s brain about the Chief,’ Mrs Feltz said, leaning forward so that her face was only inches away from his.

  He could smell spearmint mouthwash.

  ‘I’ll be taking very good care of him. Off you go now. I’m sure you have important police work to do.’

  When he opened his mouth to reply, he found that her stare had paralysed his vocal chords. There didn’t seem much point in staying. She was right, he had important police work to do. The Chief could look after himself, anyway. He was a big boy now – in height, width and age. Mrs Feltz was certainly a dominant personality though – and a bit scary.

  He wandered up to his office. There were two tasks he still needed to do before he made his way home. Once he’d logged back into his computer – which had timed out – he keyed in two database queries – one for Anton Brodin, and the other for Frank Bernado – and left them running.

  Since learning about the Einsatzgruppen, one question kept rattling around inside his subconscious: What possible reason could they have to come to England? Initially, when he’d heard about the concentration camp number, he’d thought that it might be the reason they were here. Now though, he was wondering if Anton Brodin was involved, not just in Catherine Bernado’s murder, but in something much bigger that Lucy had stumbled on.

  ***

  They found themselves on Victoria Embankment – not far from Blackfriars Bridge and hailed a black cab.

  ‘Chancery Lane,’ Emilia said, as they climbed inside. ‘At the top end.’

  ‘Which block, ladies?’

  ‘Just fucking drive,’ Kline said, looking behind her to see if the skinhead had made it out of the water yet. ‘We’ll tell you which block on the way.’

  ‘Maybe I wa
s a bit hasty in my description of you two young women as ladies.’

  ‘Maybe I should arrest you for using your cab as a mobile whorehouse and making obscene suggestions to a police officer.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. So, shut the fuck up and drive.’ She was glad he didn’t ask to see her warrant card – everything had been in her jacket, which had probably been destroyed in the fire. She was also glad he hadn’t noticed the mess they were making in the back of his cab – there was water slopping about everywhere. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked Emilia.

  ‘My flat.’

  ‘That’s about the worst plan I’ve ever heard. They’re sure to be waiting for you there. We’ll go to the police station, find Quigg, tell people what’s going on and . . .’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Well, then we can . . .’

  ‘These people live in the shadows. The police won’t find them. They will wait until we are on our own, and then they will kill us’

  ‘But why? What’s it all about?’

  She glanced through the hatch at the driver. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Why are we going to your flat?’

  ‘There are some things you need to retrieve that will help us on our journey.’

  ‘I need to retrieve?’

  ‘As you said – they will be waiting for me, but they do not know who you are yet.’

  She glanced backwards to make sure no one was following them.

  ‘Which block?’ the driver repeated.

  ‘Dunstan Court,’ Emilia said.

  ‘Very kind.’

  Kline realised she didn’t have any money, and her credit card had probably shrivelled up in the fire. ‘Have you got money to pay?’ she asked Emilia.

  ‘Everything was in my handbag, which I left in the office. Do not worry though, we will have money after you come out of my flat.’

  The driver pulled in on the opposite side of the road to Dunstan Court and said over his shoulder, ‘We’re here, ladies. That’ll be twenty-two pounds seventy-five.’

  ‘You have not finished yet,’ Emilia said. ‘We will be going to Heathrow Airport.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m due to go off shift . . .’

  ‘We will make it worth your while – two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Two twenty-five.’

  ‘All right, two-fifty.’

  ‘We have a deal.’

  ‘I hear Heathrow Airport is lovely at this time of year.’

  To Kline she said, ‘I live in Raglan Court.’ She pointed up the road. ‘Number eleven on the third floor. Once you are inside, go into the bedroom, there is an air vent in the wall next to the balcony door. Take the cover off the vent. Inside, to the left, is a bag. Take it out, and then come back.’

  ‘What about your passport, spare clothes and . . . ?’

  ‘It is all in the bag.’

  ‘You were prepared for something like this?’

  ‘Yes, I knew this day would come.’

  She held out her hand.

  Emilia screwed up her face.

  ‘Key?’

  ‘In my handbag.’

  ‘Fucking great.’

  Sticking her head through the hatch she saw the driver’s licence stuck to the dashboard and said, ‘I’m going to be gone for about twenty minutes, Derek Miller. You’d better look after my friend and still be here when I get back. If you’re not, I’ll hunt you down and eat your eyeballs.’

  ‘I’m really glad you two ladies chose my cab. Up to now, it’s been a real joy.’

  ‘Keep thinking that way,’ she said, patting his shoulder. ‘And you’ll live to see another sunrise.’

  She got out of the car and ambled up the road to Raglan Court – one of a number of Victorian buildings that had been converted into a five-storey block of flats.

  The door was locked. She waited until someone came out, and then slipped inside before the door closed. It was no good going to the flat first, she needed something to help her get inside. She caught the lift down to the basement, which was full of locked storage cages – it didn’t take her long to access one of them. She had no idea what she might need, so she helped herself to a claw hammer, a long sturdy screwdriver and stuck a pair of pliers in the back pocket of her sodden jeans. Then, she caught the lift up to the third floor.

  Her luck was in. It looked as though the skinheads weren’t staking out Emilia’s flat.

  With the hammer and screwdriver, it didn’t take her long to open the door to number eleven.

  She pushed the door to and took a quick look around – there was no one there. Next, she went into the bedroom, spotted the vent, dragged a chair to the wall and climbed up onto it. She prised the vent cover off with the screwdriver, threw the hammer, screwdriver and vent onto the bed, and reached inside the vent to retrieve the bag. Eventually, after standing on tiptoes, her fingers hooked onto the strap and she was able to drag it out . . .

  ‘Hello.’

  She spun round, dropped the bag on the floor and made a dive for the hammer and screwdriver on the bed.

  One of the two skinheads got there before her and brushed them onto the floor at the other side of the double bed.

  She backed into the corner.

  ‘What have we here? Did you know Professor Razinsky was so young and pretty, Thorsten?’

  ‘No I did not, but now that we do know . . .’ He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his combat trousers and slid them down to his knees. ‘You take the front, Siggy. I’ll take the back.’

  He had an enormous penis. As it became engorged, she could make out “Heil Hitler” tattooed along its length.

  They came for her then, grabbing her by the arms and throwing her on the bed like a rag doll. Then they were kneeling over her – tearing at her clothes. Rational thought had been replaced by something primeval.

  She reached round into her back pocket and pulled out the pliers before they yanked her jeans and knickers down to her ankles. There was one chance, and one chance only.

  As they were concentrating on stripping her naked, she grabbed the skinhead’s erect penis with her left hand . . .’

  ‘The bitch cannot wait for it, Sig . . .’

  . . . Slid the open jaws of the pliers over the thick throbbing shaft and squeezed.

  ‘Oh God!’

  Everything stopped.

  Time seemed to hang in the air like a palpable fog.

  Gripping the pliers with both hands, she shuffled off the bed.

  ‘Please,’ Thorsten said, taking breaths in short gasps.

  To the other one she said, ‘You, lie face down on the floor with your hands behind your head.’

  He half-laughed. ‘Fuck off, bitch.’

  Pulling the skinhead along with her as she shuffled backwards, she squeezed the pliers tighter. Her top and bra had been ripped off, and her jeans and knickers were bunched up round her ankles.

  ‘Oh fuck . . . Oh . . . Do it, Sig . . . do it for fuck’s sake . . .’

  She kept squeezing the pliers.

  Siggy dropped to his knees, put his hands behind his head and fell forwards. ‘You’ll never get out of here alive, bitch.’

  Kneeling down, and keeping one hand gripped tightly around the pliers, she retrieved the screwdriver from the floor. Then stood up, and began shuffling forwards again, dragging Thorsten with her.

  When she reached Siggy lying face down on the floor, she closed the hand holding the pliers into a tight fist, dropped to her knees yanking Thorsten’s penis with her, and stabbed the screwdriver as hard as she could into the back of Siggy’s neck.

  Blood spurted from the Thorsten’s mangled penis onto her breasts and ran down her stomach. She’d expected lots of screaming from him, but he had turned a ghostly white and was struggling to breathe. She put him out of his misery by pushing the screwdriver through his temple.

  As the adrenaline began to dissipate, tears ran down her face. She wiped them away angrily, st
ood and pulled her knickers and jeans up, then kicked the limp bodies until her foot hurt. ‘Fucking bastards,’ she screamed. ‘Fucking, fucking bastards.’

  The terrible feelings that she’d experienced as a fifteen year-old girl came flooding back and threatened to engulf her. She fought them back with all her willpower.

  Taking a pillow case off one of the pillows, she retrieved the tools, stuffed them inside, wrapped them up and put them in Emilia’s bag. Next, she took off the second pillow case, slid her hand inside it, and began wiping everything that she’d touched. She soon realised that it was a pointless exercise. Perkins – or some other forensic knob – would find her DNA, match it to the sample on the database, and then she’d have to defend her actions – well, fuck them.

  She rifled through Emilia’s drawers and cupboards until she found a blue and grey abstract-patterned top that fitted her and looked half-decent, then she placed the bag by the front door.

  In the kitchen, she found a box of matches, which she took into the bedroom and set fire to the bedspread. She waited until the flames had taken hold, and then left the flat. On her way out, she broke the glass in the fire alarm.

  After sauntering back along the road and taking slow deep breaths, she climbed into the cab.

  ‘That is one of my tops,’ Emilia said. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Well, it’s the only thing you’ve got left. I had to set fire to your flat.’

  Emilia shrugged. ‘Possessions can be replaced.’

  ‘Where to next, ladies?’ the driver asked.

  ‘The police station house in Hammersmith,’ Kline said.

  ‘I know it,’ and he set off. The meter was at fifty-seven pounds already.

  ‘What happened in there?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Well, we have finished my story. It is your turn now.’

  ‘My turn? I don’t have a story.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do, Tallie Kline.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘The British Embassy in Calcutta. How can I help?’

  ‘Calcutta! Are you sure? I rang the number for the Embassy in Hanoi, Vietnam.’

  When he drove into his parking space at St Thomas’ Church on Godolphin Road, he thought he’d arrived at the wrong house. The garden had been transformed. There were different coloured flowers, greenery and shrubs all around. The weeds and accumulated rubbish had disappeared. Birds were washing themselves in the birdbath, which had been cleaned and the water replenished. A squirrel tap-danced on a strategically placed log. He had planned to make the phone call to Vietnam while he was sitting in his Mercedes, but decided to sit on the freshly-washed bench in the garden – become one with nature.