The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘It’ll cost a fortune at this time of the morning.’

  ‘You’re a right fucking skinflint, Quigg.’

  ***

  He parked his car behind the office. As well as Sue Hutton’s clapped-out Fiesta and Peter Minshall’s Rover, he was surprised to see Deirdre’s Mini in exactly the same slapdash position as yesterday. It looked as though it hadn’t been moved at all, but how could that be? He switched off the engine and checked his face in the rear view mirror – he looked a bloody mess. There was a cut on the bridge of his nose, it was red like a drunk’s and both his lip and right eye were swollen.

  Julie Fotheringale had been a surprise. In fact, the whole night had been a surprise. He’d expected to be thrown out on the pavement with his few belongings like unwanted rubbish after Anastasia had left with her husband – fat, bearded Geoffrey, and was surprised to find he hadn’t been.

  ‘Lie down on the bed,’ Julie had said to him.

  ‘I’ll just . . .’

  ‘. . . You’ll just lie down on the bed like I told you to.’

  Naked, and with his cupped hands trying to hide his crown jewels, he attempted to lie down on the bed. He found that he could either lie down or cover his jewels, but it was impossible to do both – his arms weren’t long enough.

  She ran the end of the hand towel under the cold tap, sat on the edge of the bed, pushed him all the way down until he had no choice but to release his jewels and lay the cold towel on the right side of his face. ‘Leave it there for a while. It should reduce the swelling.’

  He tried to relax, but was finding it difficult without any clothes on.

  ‘Are you injured anywhere else?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’d better check. Before I entered the licensing trade with my ex-husband, I used to be a nurse.’

  ‘Oh! You have gentle hands.’

  ‘They insist on gentle hands. Gentle hands are the foundation of the nursing profession.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  She started at his extremities, but it didn’t take her long to reach his jewels.

  He didn’t think she would, but she did..

  ‘What about this?’ she asked, massaging his penis.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘It certainly appears to be in fully-working order.’

  He was embarrassed as his erection returned with a vengeance and he tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down again.

  ‘Looks can be deceiving though.’ She stood up and began taking off her clothes. ‘As my late mother used to say – God rest her soul – if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. I’ll give you a full physical, and then we’ll go from there.’

  As it turned out, she gave him five full physicals. She also brought him breakfast in bed, and said that he could come back anytime he wanted and make payment in kind.

  Yes, yesterday was a strange old day, but he wouldn’t have changed it for all the tea in China. He had the best job in the world – women couldn’t get enough of a private dick.

  As he walked round to the front of the building, the noise on Pennard Road assaulted his ears. He smiled and waved at Jenny Nolan – the young assistant in the tanning studio – and wondered, not for the first time, whether she was completely naked under her white coat.

  He was surprised to find the front door of Bulldog Investigations still locked. If Deirdre and the other two were inside – why was the door locked? Using his key, he unlocked the door and made his way up the stairs to the main office. Half-way up he began to smell something funny. What “funny” meant, he had no idea until he reached the top of the stairs and saw the bloodbath in the office.

  Peter Minshall was sprawled on the floor by his desk. It looked as though he’d been shot through the left eye. Most of the back of his head was missing, and Rodney could see the goulash of his brains. Sue Hutton was tied to a chair with her bra and tights. One of her breasts had been hacked off and lay in her lap. Her face was a bloody pulp, and her throat had been cut. His beloved Deidre had been nailed naked to the wall, and he was momentarily shocked to see how pendulous her breasts were – the nipples nearly reached her navel. Besides that, she’d been stabbed so many times she looked like a pin-cushion.

  Who could have done this? Someone had shot Minshall and tortured the two women – why?

  He phoned the police, and had the feeling it was going to be a long old day.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The alarm buzzed in his ear. It was half-past six and he knew he was going to feel like death warmed up for the rest of the day after only having two hours sleep.

  He’d told the Estonian taxi driver – that they’d flagged down in the middle of nowhere – to stop en route, so that he could extract money from a cash dispenser to pay him. He was a bit nervous about leaving Lucy in the car with the driver, because the man kept glancing at her in the rear view mirror, licking his lips and muttering something in Estonian neither of them could understand.

  ‘If he even turns round I’m going to push a 4GB memory stick in each fucking eye and twist it back and forth until he screams in agony,’ Lucy said, loud enough for the driver to hear.

  When he returned to the taxi, the driver didn’t seem to have any extra on-board memory lodged in his brain, so Quigg guessed he’d kept his lewd Estonian suggestions to himself.

  They arrived back at Godolphin Road at quarter to four.

  Lucy went on ahead while he was robbed of a hundred and ten pounds by the driver.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘It is European Union regulations,’ he said.

  ‘What – that you fleece me?’ He handed the driver a wad of twenty pound notes in anticipation of getting a ten pound note back in change, but he didn’t.

  ‘It means I can come over here to good old England and take your money, take your women, get four-bedroom detached house for all my relatives, free health care and education, not pay any tax or national insurance and then go back to Estonia a very rich man.’

  ‘There are English laws . . .’

  ‘Yes, to protect me not you. We used to look up to you English. You used to rule the world, but now you are a joke – ha, ha.’ He drove away.

  ‘Foreigner,’ Quigg shouted after him.

  Inside, he locked the front door and wandered down the corridor to Lucy’s room – the door was locked as well.

  He tapped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Quigg. Let me in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know why. You promised I could do anything . . .’

  ‘Yes, I remember saying something stupid along those lines, but that was before you became a liability.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘I let you come with me thinking that you’d be a help, or at least stay out of the way, but instead you were a fucking hindrance.’

  ‘I protest in the strongest possible terms. Please let me in.’

  ‘Go away, Quigg.’

  ‘What about the surprise you’ve got for me later?’

  ‘I’ll have to give it some thought.’

  ‘Please, Lucy.’

  She ignored him. He had to go back to Ruth’s empty bed and curl up on his own. He could have crawled in with Duffy, but she wasn’t allowed to have sex yet.

  He went into the bathroom, had a shave and took a cold shower, got dressed, called a taxi, and had some toast and an orange juice before it arrived.

  ‘Woodfield Drive in East Barnet, please,’ he said to the driver, who then had to call the dispatcher on his radio to find out where it was.

  Sitting back in the leather seat, he closed his eyes. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for talking. They’d been lucky to get out of the house without getting caught. And he was really disappointed with Lucy for going back on her promise. He thought they had an understanding. Oh well, today was another day, and maybe there was a surprise to look forward to later.

  Once
he retrieved his car, he’d go to the station. He needed to brief the Chief properly and check out the new secretary from the agency. An unwashed bag lady with one eye and crabs would be an improvement on Mrs Feltz. Also, the database queries on Frank Bernado and Anton Brodin would have finished, and he’d need to follow up on them.

  He told the taxi driver to drop him at the end of Woodfield Drive and then walked to where he’d parked his car. There was a uniformed officer standing outside Number 73, but other than that it was quiet. He climbed in his car and . . .

  There was a tap on the passenger side window.

  He pressed the button to open it and craned his neck to see who was outside. ‘Yes?’

  ‘DI Quigg!’ DI Raif Denktash from East Barnet Police Station said, smiling and peering through the window. ‘I had a feeling you’d be back for your car this morning.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘As I said, I had a feeling about you.’

  ‘Well, it was great talking to you . . .’

  ‘I’d like you to come to the station and explain . . .’

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole, Denktash. I’m running a murder investigation . . .’

  ‘So am I, Quigg, but you seem to be trampling all over mine. What can you tell me about the door of my crime scene being kicked in last night?’

  ‘Why would I know anything about it?’

  ‘Because your car has been sitting here all night.’

  ‘I had to leave it here because I ran out of petrol.’

  ‘You ran out of petrol outside my crime scene?’

  ‘Exactly. Now, if there’s nothing else?’ He turned the key in the ignition.

  ‘I’m coming after you, Quigg.’

  ‘Good luck with that, Denktash.’

  He pulled out without looking. A woman in a Saab nearly smashed into the side of his car. Instead, she screeched to a stop, beeped her horn three or four times and shouted: ‘You fucking moron.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, as well,’ he threw back at her.

  It wasn’t the smooth getaway he’d envisioned, that was for sure.

  He should have known Denktash would have been there waiting for him. They’d have run the licence plates of all the cars parked in the street to see what floated to the top of the cesspit. He could imagine the greasy bastard rubbing his hands with glee, and it didn’t take a genius to work out that he’d be back for his car. What the hell – Denktash couldn’t prove anything.

  It took him forty minutes to get back to the station. Without Kline, he had to make his own coffee. The two database queries were sitting in the printer tray.

  Anton Brodin was born on May 15, 1963 in Thatcham in Berkshire to Oscar and Gertrude Brodin. Gertrude Brodin née Stahl was a German national. Anton was educated at Dulwich College and then Oxford where he obtained a degree in European History 1939 – 1945. After a period of job-hopping he joined the British National Party (BNP) in 1993. He had three outstanding parking tickets.

  He phoned Nicky Wright in Operations.

  ‘Good morning, Nicky.’

  ‘You can’t make it on Saturday?’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘That’s what you’ve rung to tell me, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I’m looking forward to fulfilling my obligations. I rang to ask you to pick up Anton Brodin from ‘Flat 7 Endsleigh House, Tavistock Square in Bloomsbury.’

  ‘The MP with questionable politics?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Just tell him that he’ll be helping us with our enquiries in respect of an incident that occurred in the early hours of Monday morning.’

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be there on Saturday?’

  ‘I’ll be there. This morning I’m taking a trip to the Barbican Art Gallery, and then I’ll be back to interview Brodin.’

  ‘He won’t be happy about waiting.’

  ‘Good.’ He put the phone down.

  Frank Bernado – on the other hand – didn’t exist. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He had existed – in 1935 for about two days, and then died of childhood pneumonia. He’d then been resurrected in 1948 as a twenty-seven year old man who lived in London.

  After walking along the corridor to see the Chief, he found a very beautiful young woman sitting behind Mrs Feltz’s desk.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, licking his lips.

  She had shoulder-length blonde hair with a fringe, oval glasses, the body of a goddess trussed up in a pink plunging cardigan with tiny buttons all the way down the front, and a matching pink wrap-around skirt he felt an urge to unwrap.

  She smiled at him, and in his tortured imagination it was a smile that said, “Come and make love to me”. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘I’m DI Quigg.’

  She turned her head and shouted through the Chief’s barely open door.. ‘Chief! He’s here.’

  ‘Put Miss Tinkley down and get in here, Quigg.’

  ‘Miss Tinkley? Have you got a first name?’

  ‘QUIGG?’

  ‘Coming, Chief.’

  She wrote something quickly on a Post-it note and passed it to him. He didn’t have time to look at it, so he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Morning, Chief. I see you’ve got your coffee machine back.’

  ‘Leave Miss Tinkley alone, Quigg. Repeat after me: “Miss Tinkley is off limits”.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Chief. I don’t need any more complications in my life.’

  ‘Repeat.’

  ‘Miss Tinkley is off limits.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me why I’ve had a complaint about you from a DI Denktash at East Barnet for interfering in one of his investigations?’

  ‘The man’s an idiot, Sir. A family of three were murdered at 73 Woodfield Drive the night before last, and the tattooed man that murdered the family was shot . . .’

  ‘Who shot him?’

  ‘That’s a very good question.’

  ‘And what’s the answer?’

  ‘I have no idea, but Denktash seems to think I know something about the murders?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I asked for copies of the post mortem report and photographs of the tattoos on the man because I thought he might be connected to my investigation.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. The tattoos were all related to right-wing or Neo-Nazi groups, especially the Order of the Black Sun.’

  ‘You’re not still on about the SS coming back to haunt Bleeding Heart Square, are you?’

  ‘I realise you’re not keen on the idea of the Nazis being responsible for Catherine Bernado’s death, but the evidence is mounting up. What I didn’t tell you was that I found boot prints in the dust of the secret passageway at the university. Also, Perkins found a swastika tattoo on one of the two corpses in Razinsky’s flat . . .’

  ‘I was pleased to hear that neither of those two bodies were Kline or the professor.’

  ‘And me, Sir. Also, when we tie in the other clues – such as the bogus mounted police officer in Bleeding Heart Yard, the black sun ring he was wearing, the concentration camp number, Professor Razinsky’s involvement, Frank Bernado’s sudden appearance in London in 1948 and Anton Brodin’s affair with Catherine Bernardo – I think there’s a strong possibility that this Order of the Black Sun are responsible for Catherine Bernado’s death, for Kline and the professor’s disappearance and for the death of that family in East Barnet. What I can’t tell you at the moment is why.

  ‘All right, Quigg. I’ll go along with your crazy ideas for the moment, but don’t think that gives you carte blanche with my budget. There’s no money. Is there any part of that statement you don’t understand?’

  ‘I think I’m used to working on a shoestring by now, Sir.’

  ‘Music to my ears, Quigg. What’s your plan now?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the Germans to come back to us on the tattooed man’s prints. Hopefully, that will tell us who it is, and a lot more besides – he couldn’t tell
the Chief that because of Lucy he already knew the man’s name was Hans Fröbel and his background details. This morning, I’m going to the Barbican Art Gallery to find out a bit more about Frank Bernado, by which time Nicky Wright should have brought in Anton Brodin for questioning.’

  ‘Okay. Good job so far, Quigg. Now, I think you can give me the scrap of paper Miss Tinkley passed to you.’

  ‘Paper, Sir?’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten that I know everything that happens in this station. The one you put in your pocket.’

  He slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and took out the Post-it note. ‘Oh, you mean this one?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Chief held his hand out.

  Quigg opened up the paper. It had on Miss Tinkley’s first name – Christy – and a telephone number. He tried to memorise the number, but failed miserably. He gave the paper to the Chief.

  ‘If I find that you’ve forgotten the rule that Miss Tinkley is off limits, you’ll find yourself stacking shelves in the local supermarket, Quigg.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I don’t think you do. You can go now.’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’

  ‘Tinkley, get in here.’

  She looked at him as he left the Chief’s office.

  He shrugged. Looking at Christy Tinkley again, he had the feeling that the local supermarket was in for a new recruit.

  ***

  Standing at the breakfast buffet, which was filled with a whole hodgepodge of cheeses, meats, breads, egg dishes, fruits, cereals, sausages, potatoes, pancakes and much more, she was spoilt for choice. In the end, she put a few slices of bread on a plate, added a selection of cheeses, jam and marmalade, and a glass of orange juice. The one thing she wasn’t going to eat at breakfast was meat – meat was for lunch or dinner, definitely not for breakfast – yuk.

  Emilia was already sitting at a table with two men and a woman.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Emilia said.

  Everyone shuffled round to let her in.

  ‘Allow me to introduce . . .’ Emilia said, pointing at each individual in turn. ‘Yacob, Shari and Ariel. This is my very good friend Tallie Kline.’