The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery: (Quigg 8)

by Tim Ellis

  Her brow furrowed. ‘You’re here to see Mr Dring?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Dring doesn’t see anybody.’

  ‘He asked me to come up and see him.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You can speak to him, but you can’t see him.’

  ‘I see.’ He didn’t see really. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘One-way glass.’

  ‘He can see me, but I can’t see him?’

  ‘That’s correct. Mr Dring has a thing about germs, so no one but me is allowed into his apartment.’

  ‘Are we not in his apartment already?’

  ‘No. We’re in the anteroom.’

  ‘Okay, but why the one-way glass’

  ‘He has a complex. He thinks people are staring at him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s not a pretty sight.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. Are you ready?’

  He screwed up his face. ‘Ready for what?’

  She clicked a switch and a light came on in a glass-panelled box, which measured about twelve feet long, three feet deep and had a glass door on the right-hand side. ‘Please step inside and take your clothes off.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve brought germs in with you.’

  ‘But if I’m not going into Mr Dring’s apartment . . . ?’

  ‘Do you want to speak to Mr Dring, or not?’

  He supposed he had to speak to Mr Dring. He needed to know what he should do about the detective agency. It didn’t look as though Mr Dring or Mr Amato would ever set foot in the office again, so who was in charge? Who had access to the bank account? Who had the authority to hire and . . . Well, apart from him, there was no one else left alive to fire, and they weren’t going to fire their only skilled operative. Although, if he didn’t get paid soon, he might have to look for another position. He stepped into the glass-panelled box and went to close the door, but Mrs Wishart followed him in and shut the door behind her.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘I’m a nurse. I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Not mine, you haven’t.’

  ‘Do you have anything different from other men?’

  ‘Well no, but . . .’

  ‘Clothes – off, Mr Crankshank.’

  It seemed that the one-way glass went all the way down to the floor. He wasn’t particularly happy, but what choice did he have? He needed answers to certain questions, and the only way to get them was to take off his clothes. Reluctantly, he removed his jacket, tie, his shirt, undid his belt and dropped his trousers . . .

  ‘Everything,’ Mrs Wishart said.

  He wiped the sweat backwards from his bald pate. ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything.’

  He had no idea what Mrs Wishart was meant to be doing in the glass-panelled box besides standing there inspecting his goods like a brazen hussy. It wasn’t as if he needed any medical or other type of assistance from a nurse. Thank goodness he’d worn clean boxers. Sometimes, although he wouldn’t admit it to another living soul, he wore boxers for two or more days when he was on a case. He slid his boxers down, kicked off his shoes and peeled off his Tuesday socks.

  ‘It’s Monday,’ Mrs Wishart said.

  ‘I couldn’t find my Monday socks, so I’m pretending it’s Tuesday.’

  ‘You can pretend all you want, but it’s still Monday.’ She turned and flicked a switch down behind her.

  A dry misty steam began billowing out from nozzles above him. Soon the glass-panelled box was thick with a murky cloud and he couldn’t see a damned thing.

  ‘I’ve heard good things about you, Rodney,’ a voice said.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Dring?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’s been saying good things about me?’

  ‘Deidre Fishlock – may she rest in peace.’

  ‘You’ve heard about what happened?’

  ‘Yes, Rodney. Why are you here?’

  ‘Well, there’s only me now, and I haven’t been paid for three weeks. There’s nobody manning the telephone or the office, there’s nobody doing anything except me and . . . well, I can’t do everything on my own.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Rodney. Just yesterday I appointed a Mrs Sandrine Dibble as the new office manager, but you’re in charge . . .’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re the senior operative.’

  ‘I’m the only operative.’

  ‘Which makes you the most qualified. I also contacted the bank and gave them your name as a signatory, so you can pay yourself.’

  ‘Do I get a pay rise?’

  ‘Whatever you think is reasonable. You’re the boss, Rodney.’

  ‘Hey! Thanks, Mr Dring. What about Mr Amato?’

  ‘Unfortunately, there were complications with his shingles. I’m afraid he passed away two weeks ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He felt a bit sad, but he’d only met Mr Amato once. ‘What about you – will you ever come back to the detective agency?’

  Mr Dring laughed softly. ‘My working days are long gone, Rodney. Now, it’s all I can do to open my eyes in the morning.’

  ‘So I’m really in charge?’

  ‘Yes. Keep the agency ticking over. Keep my money rolling in, and because I have no relatives worth mentioning, I’ve left it all to you when I die.’

  ‘To me?’ He didn’t know what to think about that.

  The mist began to dissipate.

  Mrs Wishart had a smile on her face, but was otherwise naked except for a pair of sheer nylon white hold-up stockings.

  He hadn’t realised that she’d had to remove her clothes as well.

  Out of the mist, Tippy Wishart glided towards him.

  For some reason, he backed away. ‘You’re not wearing any clothes, Mrs Wishart.’

  Mr Dring cleared his throat. ‘Think of it as a parting gift for you and me, Rodney.’

  She wrapped her fingers around his erection . . .

  ‘Rodney?’ DI Erica Holm said, nudging his elbow and dragging him back to the present.

  He refocused his eyes. ‘Oh sorry! I was miles away.’

  ‘So, as I said, you’re already working for DI Quigg. He’s paying you, which means I don’t have to. All I’m asking is that whatever you find out during your investigation you pass on to me.’

  ‘I suppose I could do that. Are you not investigating the murders anymore?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am, but my partner has disappeared on paternity leave.’

  ‘Strange times we live in.’

  ‘You can say that again, Rodney. So, will you help me?’

  ‘Are you married, DI Holm?’

  ‘Call me Erica. No, I’m not married, but I have a boyfriend.’

  ‘You’re lucky. Since they killed Deidre, I have no one. Yes, I’ll help you, Erica. Someone needs to pay for what they did to Deidre and the other operatives.’

  ‘Between the two of us we’ll bring them to justice, Rodney.’

  ‘I hope so, Erica.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘So, tell me about yourself, Dwyer,’ Quigg said as they walked down the stairs to the station car park.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to be working together . . .’

  ‘For one case only. After that, I’m going back to Vice, so you don’t need to know anything about me. I’d rather be sloshing about in the dregs of humanity than working with you.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong. What have I ever done to you?’

  ‘Nothing, and that’s just the way it’s going to stay.’

  Quigg’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You’re obviously in possession of some erroneous information about me – I’m one of the good guys.’

  ‘I know what you did to DI Gwen Taylor.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to her.’

  ‘First, you got her pregnant, then her boyfriend from Traffic kills h
imself, then you get her transferred to God only knows where . . .’

  ‘I admit to getting her pregnant, but she made me do it.’

  ‘Do you want to know how pathetic that sounds?’

  ‘Not really. It was hardly my fault her boyfriend killed himself, and I didn’t get her transferred to anywhere, she did that all by herself.’

  ‘Then there’s Heather Walsh, Tallie Kline, the Mobile Command Centre, the Forensic trailer . . .’

  ‘You see – none of that was my fault.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. People tend to die or get injured around you. You’re an accident looking for a place to happen – you’re jinxed, cursed, damned.’

  ‘Feel free to speak your mind, Dwyer.’

  ‘So, don’t start trying to chat me up, or attempt to befriend me, or calling me Jane . . . You’re the DI, and I’m the DS. Let’s do our work on that basis, solve the murder and move on with our lives.’

  He shrugged. ‘That suits me just fine. I’m already looking forward to getting a new partner.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But you’ve got the wrong idea about me.’

  ‘I’m not interested. And to be perfectly honest, I can’t imagine what women see in you. You’re not particularly good looking, your body is pathetically underdeveloped, nobody sings your praises about your performance in bed and you haven’t got a Christian name.’

  ‘Everybody has a first name.’

  ‘Go on then?’

  ‘I’ve never told anyone.’

  ‘As I said: You haven’t got a first name.’

  They reached his Mercedes.

  ‘I have. It’s . . .’

  ‘Are you driving, or am I?’

  He threw her the keys. ‘Show me what you can do.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’m not a performing monkey.’

  ‘Do you have to be so touchy all the time?’

  ‘No, I don’t have to be. I’m starting this working relationship how I mean to go on, so don’t mess with me, Quigg.’

  ‘It hadn’t even entered my head.’

  ‘Keep it that way.’

  Dwyer drove like a normal driver. It made a change from the ‘charabanc to Hell’ driving of Tallie Kline. He wondered how Kline was doing, and whether she was enjoying being a Mossad agent. Maybe she’d send him a ‘Wish You Were Here’ postcard.

  It should have taken around thirty minutes from the station to the cemetery, but even with the satnav taking them through alleyways, along one-way streets and over rickety bridges to avoid the roadworks, traffic cones and tortuous queues, it still took them over an hour to reach their destination.

  Highgate Cemetery had been taking in paid residents since 1839, but it didn’t come cheap – currently anywhere over £3,000 for a single internment. It was a Grade I listed park and garden of special historic interest, which was located on Swain’s Lane in Highgate, with the main gate on Oakshott Avenue. Not only did it accommodate over 170,000 human souls, but it was also a nature reserve and home to a multitude of birds, foxes and small animals.

  After entering the West Cemetery through the Gatehouse and Gothic-style Anglican Chapel on Swain’s Lane, they climbed a set of steps and proceeded up a steep wooded hill and along a winding path with ivy-clad monuments on either side. The cemetery had fallen into disrepair many years ago, but since the 1980s had been maintained in a state of “managed neglect”. Quigg had the feeling that he was stepping back in time – not merely to the Victorian era, but to a City of the Dead, which had been created for people who had lived in a totally different world from the one that currently existed.

  ‘Have you been here before, Jane?’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Sir . . . Well, actually I do. I asked you not to call me Jane. Dwyer or Sergeant will do. You don’t know me, you’re never going to know me, so let’s stop pretending that you will. I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you, and I never will like you. So, there we are.’

  ‘That seems to have brought some clarity to our relationship. One case and then we go our separate ways?’

  ‘Exactly. And no – I’ve never been here before. Cemeteries are for the dead, not the living.’

  They made their way through an Egyptian gateway flanked by a pair of massive obelisks. Inside, the avenue was lined on either side by tombs. The metal gates were wide open, and he wondered if they were locked at night to keep the living out, or the dead inside.

  Beyond Egyptian Avenue was the Circle of Lebanon, which had – at its centre – an ancient cedar tree surrounded by two circles of tombs.

  Next, they passed the Mausoleum of Julius Beer, which housed his daughter – Ada. The design was based on the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus – one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

  Eventually, they reached Perkins and his team of forensic people crawling through the undergrowth like ants in search of food; the pathologist – Doctor Ingrid Solberg – was crouched over the corpse like a scavenger, and the corpse seemed to be pointing the way towards the brick-vaulted Terrace Catacombs.

  Quigg shivered as he thought of the message on Aryana’s postcard:

  Beware the supernatural entity

  You need a sacrifice in the catacombs

  What was the “supernatural entity”? Was he going into the catacombs? He didn’t particularly like the claustrophobia of underground tunnels, especially if he was sharing those tunnels with his worst nightmare – dead people. And who was he meant to sacrifice in the catacombs?

  ***

  She didn’t expect a response to her tweet, but she received one anyway:

  @Dodo1647 to @Lucy: Lucy’s not going home!

  #Lucy’s going to die.

  It was obviously a joke – wasn’t it? Why would someone want to kill her? Oh, lots of people had wanted to kill her in the past, but she wasn’t doing anything to anybody now. She clicked on Dodo1647, but the account had already been deleted.

  She made a list in her head of the people who might have wanted to kill her, but all she could think of was the Nazi skinhead bastards. She’d killed two of them - Hans Fröbel and that crazy lesbian Morticia bitch – and thwarted their plans for selling Nazi art treasures. Maybe they wanted revenge.

  What was she going to do now?

  She should just go home. Quigg would look after her. She’d be safe in St Thomas’ Church on Godolphin Road in Shepherd’s Bush. But what if it wasn’t a joke? What if somebody really was trying to kill her? Maybe she should stay where she was. Nobody knew her current location.

  She’d rented an apartment on Buck Street overlooking Camden Market and had been chilling out considering her future, but she couldn’t make up her mind which direction to take. One part of her wanted to get as far away from Quigg as she possibly could, and she’d been looking at vacancies on whaling ships going to the Arctic circle. She was sure that distance would ease the tightness in her chest and tame the squirming snake in her gut when she thought of Quigg. Another part of her wanted to run right back to him, to hug and kiss him, to feel safe in his arms again.

  How long? If she stayed where she was – how long would it be for? How long before she could go home? Would it ever be safe to go home? If there was one thing she’d hated all her life, it was being told what to do. And whoever was threatening to kill her was trying to do just that. Well, whoever they were, they could just fuck off. Lucy was going home. She’d made up her mind that’s what she was going to do, and that was exactly what she was going to do. Nobody was going to stop her going home and being with Quigg again.

  After logging off and closing down her laptop, she went up to the counter and paid her bill.

  ‘You finished sucking the juice outta my free wifi, Luce?’ Hogwash said to her.

  She’d been coming in the cafe every day since she rented the apartment. She didn’t mind being on her own, but life was a lot better with the chatter of people around her.

  Hogwash was in his late thirties with a mess of dreadlocks stuffed into a Rastafarian Ta
m that his mum had knitted for him in Jamaican colours. Not that he’d ever been to Jamaica – he was born in Peckham and baptised at St Mary Magdalene Church on St Marys Road, but it was a persona that gave him an indirect link to Bob Marley and the Wailers, and who didn’t like them?

  ‘Yep, and I might not be back, either.’

  ‘Hogwash be sad.’ He pretended to wipe his eyes.

  ‘Me too. Thanks for your hospitality and company, Hogwash.’

  ‘You come back and see Hogwash soon, Luce.’

  ‘I will.’

  She returned to the apartment on Buck Street, packed her rucksack and left. The thought of terminating the contract and getting some of her money back crossed her mind, but she’d already paid three months up front, and having a place to run back to appealed to her, so she just locked the door and left everything as it was.

  Once she reached Camden Town tube station, her plan was to travel southbound on the Northern Line to Warren Street, switch to the Victoria Line to Oxford Circus, and then make a third change to the Central Line to reach Shepherd’s Bush. But she had to re-think that plan when somebody pushed her off the narrow crowded platform and into the path of the eleven fifty-seven to Morden.

  ***

  Rodney had a new love. Deidre Fishlock would always hold a special place in his heart, but she was dead. Sandrine Dibble, on the other hand, was very much alive, and very much the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with – however long that might turn out to measure. Unfortunately, there were a few obstacles in the way that he had to overcome, but what was a life without some trials, tribulations and danger?

  On that Monday after the triple murder of his colleagues and having seen Mr Dring, he’d gone back to the office.

  Mrs Dibble was already in full flow. The cadavers had long since been removed by the forensic pathologist, but there was blood and other human fluids everywhere. The place smelled like an abattoir. He hadn’t realised, but it was obvious if he thought about it for any length of time – that somebody had to clean up the mess left at crime scenes. The new office manager had called in Extreme Cleaning UK, and there were people in blue plastic forensic suits, masks, gloves and wellington boots everywhere.