The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Kline said as they set off along the road to find somewhere to eat.

  ***

  ‘Well?’ he asked Perkins when they returned to the crime scene in Flat 27/3.

  ‘Definitely no gaps that blood could seep through.’

  He wondered why Safari Tremaine would lie when her claim could easily be checked.

  The Nodding Dog pub wasn’t far along the road, and although it was full of vermin from the local area, that’s where they decided to eat. The food was as bad as some of the dishes Safari Tremaine had tricked him into eating, but it filled a hole and gave him and Kline the opportunity to talk face-to-face.

  ‘What did you mean when you said the chart was a wind up?’ he asked her.

  She laughed. ‘You’re like a fucking dog with a bone. Forget about the chart – it’s a wind-up.’

  ‘If you could just tell me . . .’

  ‘Nobody’s gonna tell you squat about the chart.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That’s the rules.’

  ‘Whose rules? You’re my partner . . .’

  ‘Yes . . . I’m well aware of that gargoyle on my back, but not for much longer.’

  ‘What! You begged me to take you on as my partner.’

  ‘That was before I found out some things . . .’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I’ve already said too much.’

  ‘You’re winding me up.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Come on, tell me what things. I promise I won’t say anything to anybody.’

  ‘What about the murder?’

  ‘I’m not telling you about the murder until you tell me about the chart.’

  She laughed. ‘Okay, I’ll go home then.’

  He had no choice but to tell her what he’d found out. She wasn’t going to tell him anything about the chart. In fact, it didn’t look as though anybody was going to tell him about the chart. Maybe it was time to forget about the chart before it became an obsession and took over his life.

  ‘The pathologist is missing as well,’ he said as they walked back along Toad Road to the high-rise.

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘She should be on her way here, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘And she’s not answering her phone.

  ‘This is turning into a weird case.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’ He didn’t tell her about Mara Ingatestone forcing him to have sex, the circumstances surrounding his lost phone, or about the tasting session with Safari Tremaine.

  They stood outside looking up at the massive monolith of Apocalypse Heights.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go back in,’ Kline suggested.

  ‘If we don’t, who will? We’re paid to investigate a murder, and that’s exactly what we have to do.’

  They caught the lift up to the twenty-seventh floor again, but this time without incident.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure there’s no way in hell that blood could have seeped through into the bathroom below?’ he said to Perkins.

  ‘One hundred and ten percent.’

  ‘Is that even a number?’

  ‘No, but it’s a figure of speech.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go downstairs and ask Miss Tremaine what she’s playing at.’ He glanced at Kline. ‘I want you to search the flat for anything relating to witchcraft, Satanism, cult members and so on. Up to now, we have lots of evidence but no leads. Find me some names, Kline.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He walked down the stairs to the twenty-sixth floor and knocked on Flat 26/3.

  The door opened.

  Safari Tremaine was standing there in her red “Kiss the Cook” apron, but her clothes were missing.

  His mouth dropped open like the drawbridge to a castle.

  She dragged him in and shut the door. ‘I knew you’d come back.’

  ‘I want to ask you some more questions. I want to know why you lied to me.’

  ‘You know the rules – you give me something and I give you something.’ She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

  He noticed two vertical jagged scars the size of his hand on her back and wondered how she had come by them.

  She began undressing him.

  ‘I hardly think this is necessary, Miss Tremaine,’ he said, but he didn’t try to fight her off. For some strange reason he felt powerless to stop her. Maybe he didn’t want to stop her. Subconsciously, maybe this was what he had really come down here for – to see her naked, to make love to her, to empty his seed into her. The kiss she had given him during his earlier visit was merely foreplay – an invitation to partake of something more physical. Her small firm breasts and hard flat stomach made him want her more – he had to have her.

  ‘Safari,’ she said.

  ‘Safari,’ he whimpered, struggling to force the name through his parched lips. ‘Haven’t you got recipes to write, spiders to catch, or brains to boil?’

  ‘No – you’re what I need, Quigg.’ She pushed him onto the bed and sat astride him.

  In his fevered state he thought he saw a pointed tail flick through the air behind her.

  ‘You’re mine,’ she said pushing down on him.

  Involuntarily, he thrust upwards to meet her, and felt as though a sliver of ice had pierced his heart.

  He shivered.

  She mistook the shudder for an orgasm. ‘No, no – not yet, my love. Together – that is the only way.’ She stroked his face with a hand that felt rough and hard. ‘Give me everything – everything you possess. Hold nothing back.’

  Just when he thought he would leap over the cliff like a lemming, she pulled him back. Until . . . he knew that he had to empty himself into her.

  Everything – he gave her everything. He held nothing back.

  She screamed and flopped on top of him like a sodden fish. ‘The next time will be even better, my love.’

  ***

  He was sprawled face down and half-naked in the corridor near the lift. His trousers were round his ankles, and his shirt and tie weren’t done up.

  Where was he? What had happened? Why was he out here in the corridor again? He remembered being at the crime scene, walking down the stairs and knocking on Flat 26/3 . . . then what?

  Why had he come down here in the first place? What was he doing? He felt drowsy, weak and he was sure clumps of cotton wool had been stuffed into his head to replace his brain. He was having trouble formulating his thoughts and recalling his memories.

  He struggled to push himself up the wall, pulled his trousers up and tried to button his shirt, but his eyes wouldn’t focus, his fingers wouldn’t work. God he was tired, and hungry . . . When had he last eaten?

  ‘Christ!,’ Kline said, rushing to take his arm and hold him up against the wall. ‘You look like shit. What the fuck happened? Have you been mugged?’

  ‘The beer I had in the pub must have been something more than just beer.’

  ‘I’ve a good mind to ring the drug squad and get them to raid that fucking place. Did you speak to that lying bitch in 26/3?’

  ‘Who . . . ? What . . . ?’

  ‘You were coming down here to find out why the woman in Flat 26/3 had lied about the blood seeping through gaps around the pipes in the bathroom upstairs.’

  ‘Was I? . . . Yes, I vaguely remember . . .’ What the hell was happening to him?

  ‘Come on,’ she said helping him towards the lift. ‘Let’s get you upstairs. Maybe a cup of tea with some sugar in it will sort you out. You’re skin’s all white . . . like one of those amnesiac people . . .’

  ‘Amnesia? Yes . . . I think I have amnesia.’

  ‘Maybe Perkins can give you an iron injection, or something.’

  ‘For amnesia?’

  ‘No, it’s not amnesia. It’s . . . anaemia, isn’t it? I hate words that sound the fucking same.’

  He held onto the handrail, and together they climbed the stairs back up to the twenty-seventh floor.

  She sat him in the kitchen and made hi
m a tea with three sugars. ‘Drink,’ she said pushing a steaming mug into his hands.

  He drank. Slowly, his head began to clear. ‘I’m feeling a bit better now,’ he said. ‘Thanks. I’m sure that if you told me about the chart, I’d be back to my old self in no time.’

  Kline smiled. ‘Yeah, you’re feeling better. So, tell me what happened down there.’

  He tried to piece it all together. ‘I knocked on the door . . .’

  ‘That’s a good start. Did the bitch open it?’

  ‘Yes . . . I went inside.’

  ‘Okay, good. Did you ask her why she lied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She denied lying.’

  ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Weren’t the two constables first on the scene? Didn’t they see the blood running down the walls?’

  Kline pulled a face. ‘Did you look yourself?’

  He couldn’t remember. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You stay here, I’ll go down there and get the truth out of her. She could be one of the killers.’

  ‘Take one of the constables with you – just in case.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  What the hell had happened to him in Flat 26/3? In his mind he had a picture of Safari Tremaine naked, but was that because he was fantasising, or did it actually happen? Could he have had sex with her? He couldn’t tell Kline that. It was time to go home, time to get back to the normality of his life. Ruth would be in her room with his new son – Luke, Duffy would be snug and warm in bed with Máire at her breast, the twins would be running riot around the house with the nanny threatening to kill the “little bastards” if they didn’t stop. Yes, a bit of normality was just what he needed.

  Perkins’ phone played the Pink song again. He was glad it wasn’t his phone. Where was his phone?

  ‘Is that for me?’ Perkins called from the living room.

  He was too tired to pander to Perkins’ paranoia.

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘Nobody answered the door,’ Kline said.

  ‘She must have . . .’

  ‘So, Byrd and me broke the fucking door down.’

  ‘You can’t . . .’

  ‘You need to come down and take a look.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just get your arse down here.’

  He finished the tea and made his way out of the flat, along the corridor and down the stairs.

  Kline and Byrd were waiting for him outside Flat 26/3.

  ‘Well? What’s so urgent that you’ve dragged me down here again?’

  They stood to one side. ‘Take a look,’ Kline said.

  He moved towards the door, but had to cover his mouth and nose. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Byrd shone a torch inside.

  ‘Are there no lights?’

  ‘Not working, Sir,’ Byrd said.

  He made his way into the flat. Paint was peeling off the walls and ceiling, the floor was littered with waste, and rotting food lay on the breakfast bar and in the half-open fridge. He wandered into the bedroom and pictured Safari Tremaine on top of him, but it was surely a fantasy – no one had made love in this filthy bed for a very long time.

  He scratched his head. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve been in this flat twice today. Both times I spoke with Safari Tremaine.’ He’d done more than speak to her, but had he? Was it all a figment of his imagination?

  ‘I don’t know where you were or who you spoke with,’ Kline said, ‘but nobody has lived here for a while. The door wasn’t open when Byrd and I got here, and there was no one in the flat to open it for you, so you couldn’t have been in here, which makes me wonder where you were and who you’ve been talking to.’

  ‘And me,’ he said. He looked in every room trying to make sense of the situation.

  It was dark outside now. Standing in front of the large window in the living room, he could see the lights of Hammersmith and the surrounding areas rolled out like a carpet before him.

  St Thomas’ Church on Godolphin Road in Shepherd’s Bush was somewhere down there. His children and the women he loved would be waiting for him. It was time to call it a day, time to get out of this crazy place. Maybe it would all make sense if he stepped away and looked at it objectively.

  ‘Let’s go home, Kline,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll go upstairs, let Perkins know what we’re doing, and come back refreshed tomorrow.’

  ‘Works for me,’ she said.

  ‘What about you, Byrd?’ he asked. ‘When are you off shift?’

  ‘Eight o’clock tonight, Sir.’ She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘But I have no idea when that might be. I expect the night shift will turn up when it’s time.’

  ***

  They left the flat and walked towards the stairs.

  ‘Not again,’ Kline said.

  Byrd looked at her. ‘What?’

  ‘No fucking stairs.’

  They all stared at where the stairs should have been, but there was just a bare wall.

  Byrd touched the wall as if her brain refused to believe what her eyes were telling her.

  Quigg shuffled back, pushed the button for the lift and pressed his ear against the metal doors.

  After a while he said, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Byrd asked.

  ‘Someone’s playing stupid fucking games,’ Kline said. ‘That’s what’s going on.’

  ‘How long did you have to wait for the stairs to reappear on the twenty-seventh floor?’

  ‘If I was ever on that floor. I don’t know . . .’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Probably about an hour.’

  ‘We’ll just have to wait here then,’ Quigg said.

  ‘I don’t see why we should have to stand around in the corridor if we do have to wait,’ Kline said.

  She went and banged on the door of Flat 26/2 like someone possessed. ‘Come on Mrs Sonia Pearcey – open the door.’ After waiting for less than thirty seconds she began kicking the bottom of the door and making enough noise to wake the dead. ‘Police – open up, or we’re going to break the door down.’

  Quigg slid between her and the door. ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You’re going to calm down. You’re a police officer, you can’t go round breaking people’s doors down without justification.’

  ‘She’s not answering.’

  ‘That hardly constitutes justification for forcibly entering a property. We’re not vigilantes or looters, we’re better than that. When we’re up to our necks in alligators, and everyone else is losing their head, we have to remember that we came here to drain the swamp.’

  ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

  He slid down the wall and sat on the floor. ‘It’s a metaphor. We have to keep calm under pressure.’

  ‘Or we could just break the door down.’

  ‘Go and knock on the other doors, Byrd,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out where everybody is.’

  Byrd wandered off along the corridor.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Kline asked. ‘There should be people all over the place.’

  ‘Phone Perkins – find out what’s going on at his end, and tell him what’s happening to us.’

  Kline made the call.

  The phone in Quigg’s pocket rang.

  ‘Fuck,’ Kline said. ‘You’ve got Perkins’ phone.’

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and began trawling through the phonebook. ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Perkins knows some people.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The police commissioner, the Mayor of London, then there’s someone called Chastity, a Mistress Serenity and a Lady Jane Darke.’

  ‘Interesting. Call one of them . . . the women, that is.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He found an innocuous name and tried to call, but there was no dialling tone. ‘No signal.’

  Kline tried to call peopl
e in her phonebook. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Where’s Byrd?’ he asked.

  ‘BYRD?’ she shouted down the corridor.

  He put his hands over his ears. ‘Do you have to make so much noise?’

  ‘No answer.’

  ‘You’d better go and find her.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I don’t feel too good.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ She wandered off along the corridor after Byrd.

  What was going on? He was getting tired of asking himself that question. He was a detective inspector, wasn’t he? He should know what was going on. Was Perkins right? Was this about aliens? How could stairs disappear and lifts stop working? What about the residents – where were they? What had happened to Safari Tremaine? What had happened to her flat? What had happened to him?

  A murder had taken place on the floor above, a terrible murder involving a witches coven or a Satanic sect. They’d cut Lance Flowers up, drunk his blood, removed his heart and his intestines as part of their crazy ritual, and stupid blundering Quigg had no clues as to who might have done it.

  God, he was so tired. His hands were shaking and his mouth felt like the Gobi Desert in the summertime. He was running round in circles and getting nowhere. Had Kline found anything in Flowers’ flat? Where was Kline? Shouldn’t she be back by now?

  ‘KLINE?’ It was a weak shout, but loud enough.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Where’s Byrd?’

  ‘That’s a very good question. Where is Byrd?’

  ‘You’ve lost her?’

  ‘Me? You lost her. I was trying to find her.’

  ‘But where’s she gone?’

  ‘I’ve got this sneaking suspicion that I have justification for breaking down some doors now.’

  ‘She’s really not down there?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did you . . . ?’

  ‘She’s not down there.’

  ‘Okay, I was only asking.’

  ‘Well, ask someone else.’

  With difficulty, he pushed himself up. ‘We’d better try and find her then.’

  ‘You look closer to death than you do to life.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Kline knocked on 26/4 – no answer. The names on the brass plate were Mr & Mrs J Moore. She kicked the door in.