The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights: (Quigg #7), Page 2

  He shuffled forward, perched on the edge of the sofa and put milk and sugar in the mug.

  She sat down sideways on the sofa next to him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. It was the worst coffee he had ever tasted bar none, and left a deposit on his tongue.

  Her perfume was making him feel light-headed.

  ‘People are saying he deserved it.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Lance Flowers from 27/3.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s just what people are saying.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask why?’

  ‘It’s none of my business.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘A man’s been murdered a couple of floors beneath the high-rise you live in – surely that’s everyone’s business?’

  ‘You learn to keep your nose out of the things that don’t concern you when you live here.’

  He could certainly understand that.

  ‘Is your husband at work?’

  ‘We don’t have much time.’ She took his mug and put it down on the tray. ‘Follow me.’

  She glided out of the room.

  Much time for what? Follow her! Follow her where?

  The only way he was going to get an answer to that or any other question was if he did follow her.

  She led him into the bedroom.

  Her summer dress fell in a crumpled heap at her feet and he gazed at her nakedness. There was no evidence that she’d had any children, but her hips were wide enough to accommodate such a course of action. She reminded him of ‘Andromeda’ by Peter Paul Rubens.

  He should have spun on his heel and ran for the hills, but he didn’t. ‘I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong idea . . .’

  She began pawing at his clothes.

  He tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t be denied.

  Drool glistened on her lips, her eyes flashed red as a spear of sunlight pierced through a gap in the window drapes, and there was a strange burning smell tickling his nostrils.

  ‘Hurry – time is running out.’

  He had no idea what she was talking about.

  As he fell backwards onto the waterbed, she sat astride him and guided him into her. The temperature plummeted, and he felt the frozen caress of a Siberian winter.

  Was her husband due home? That’s all he needed – to be caught in flagrante with another man’s wife.

  What the hell was going on? How many times had he asked himself that question in the last couple of hours?

  ‘I have a partner, children . . .’

  ‘And I have needs.’ She grabbed his hands and forced him to knead her breasts – the nipples were as hard as nearly-ripe cherries.

  She was breathing heavy. Guttural sounds escaped through her barely-parted lips.

  Denying her seemed futile and petty now. He began moving to the rhythm of life. As she pushed down, he thrust up. They were like two parts of a well-oiled machine – in-out, in-out, in . . .’

  They erupted in a cataclysmic mingling of lava.

  Maybe the machine had been too well-oiled, he thought.

  Sweating like a mountain goat, she flopped on top of him. ‘Just in time,’ she said.

  The strange burning smell was stronger now, and he was sure he could hear mocking laughter.

  ***

  He was sprawled in the corridor outside the lift when he woke up. How had he got there? The last thing he remembered was sailing the seven seas on a waterbed with Mara Ingatestone. Had she dressed him, dragged him through her flat and dumped him in the corridor? Or had it been someone else? If he’d fallen asleep in the bed, why hadn’t he woken up when he’d been moved? It all seemed very strange.

  Before he stood up, he checked that he was decent, and that he had all his possessions – his wallet and the fifty pounds inside it were still there, so he hadn’t been robbed, but his mobile was missing. It must have dropped out of his pocket during the voyage.

  He could hear the lift clunking and whirring like a lift. Had the engineer arrived and repaired it?

  Fixed on the wall was a small plastic sign of a little green man running down some stairs and a green hand pointing to the right. There was no way he had missed the sign before – it simply wasn’t there. Someone was obviously playing stupid mind games with him – but who?

  His phone was a priority. He couldn’t do his job effectively without a phone. He returned to Flat 35/4 and banged on the wood.

  A dishevelled bleary-eyed man in striped pyjamas and a hairy dressing gown opened the door. ‘Is there a fire?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of?’

  ‘So why the fuck are you trying to break my door down?’

  ‘Sorry. And you are?’

  ‘Leonard Ingatestone.’

  ‘Could I see the lady of the house, please?’

  The man laughed. ‘The lady of the house?’ he repeated. ‘Yeah, Mara would love that one. Mara’s certainly no lady, and she won’t be home until about six tonight.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At work.’

  ‘She’s just left?’

  ‘Works in a florists near Whitechapel tube station from nine to five. Who the hell are you, anyway?’

  He showed Ingatestone his warrant card.

  ‘You’re here about the murder in 27/3?’

  ‘Yes. And your wife is at work today?’

  ‘I’ve just said that, haven’t I?’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Haven’t left the flat at all today. I was made redundant two weeks ago, so I’m in-between jobs.’

  He was struggling to wrap his head around what the man was telling him. Mara Ingatestone had just taken advantage of him, and yet she hadn’t been here. How was that possible? As far as he was aware, there had been no man in the flat. And yet, here was her husband. It must be a scam of some sort. ‘Could I come in and take a look around?’

  ‘Sure,’ Ingatestone said. ‘I’d like to know why you’re interested in Mara though, and what you think you’ll find in my flat.’

  He pushed past the man and went into the bedroom – the bedding had been changed, but that was hardly surprising considering what they’d been doing. He poked the bed with his index finger just to check it was a waterbed – it rippled.

  ‘Did I wake you up?’

  ‘No, I’ve been up for a while. I was checking for jobs online.’

  He couldn’t ask Ingatestone if he’d found his phone. The man would want to know how Quigg’s phone had found its way into his bed – two and two would obviously equal four.

  ‘Can I use your phone?’

  ‘You’re not calling Australia, are you?’

  ‘No, a local call.’

  They went into the living room.

  Mr Ingatestone pointed to the phone.

  It was the same black leather suite, the same coffee table and the same magnificent view through the window – it was the same room, but it wasn’t the same room.

  He picked up the phone, perched on the edge of the sofa and surreptitiously checked down the side and back of the seat where he’d previously been sitting – there was no sign of his phone. Next, he dialled his own number hoping that it wouldn’t ring to embarrass him – it didn’t. He walked through into the bedroom, along the hallway and out into the corridor with Ingatestone’s phone against his ear – nothing. Where the hell was his phone? Maybe they’d switched it off. But why?

  The coffee! Of course – the coffee had been drugged. It was the only explanation. That’s why he’d lost consciousness, why he’d had sex willingly when he didn’t want to, why he hadn’t woken up when Ingatestone had dragged him out of the flat and dumped him in the corridor. But the coffee didn’t explain the lift, the missing sign and stairs, or the lack of contact with Perkins, Kline and Duffy.

  ‘Thanks for letting me use your phone,’ he said, passing the handset back to Ingatestone.

  ‘No problem. Can I get back to my job-hunt
ing now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  The door shut.

  It had to be a scam. Maybe they were going to blackmail him. Maybe digitally-enhanced photographs of him enjoying the delights of Mara Ingatestone had already gone viral on the internet. Maybe the Chief would ring him soon and ask what the hell he was playing at – or he might have done if Quigg hadn’t lost his damned phone. He was meant to be here solving a murder and all he’d been doing was having sex. Crap – he hadn’t even seen the body yet.

  Considering the problems he’d had with the lift the last time he climbed aboard, he decided to walk down the stairs. He checked his watch, but it seemed to have stopped. No phone, and now no watch. He was like a blind man wandering in the wilderness searching for the seeds of understanding.

  Talking of which – sex always made him thirsty and hungry. He was hoping Perkins might have brought sandwiches and a flask with him. Under the pretext of inspecting the evidence he’d snaffle a butty and a drink. He hoped Perkins had something decent in his sandwiches like cheese and onion, egg mayonnaise or some such fayre.

  He shouldered his way through the swing doors and began descending the concrete steps. Eight floors – that was a lot of steps. He peered over the handrail and looked into the gap – it was a long way down. He felt sick and dizzy – he hated heights. In fact, he was beginning to hate Apocalypse Heights. Aryana’s words came back to him: “If you go in, you might never come out,” which made him think of the song by the Eagles – ‘Hotel California’, and then there was that creepy vision of the sleeping child telling him not to come up here. He shivered at the thought – two warnings not to come up here, which he had ignored with resulting consequences.

  Step by step, floor by floor. Eventually he reached the twenty-seventh floor. He hadn’t heard or seen anyone walking up or down and felt completely disorientated. Where was everyone?

  He spilled into the corridor. It was exactly the same as the corridor on the thirty-fifth floor – except there were white-suited forensic officers standing, kneeling and crawling on all fours. How could Kline have missed them?

  ‘Where’s Perkins?’ he asked a kneeling form.

  The person pointed along the corridor.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He found Flat 27/3. Two uniforms were on guard outside. After struggling into a paper suit, mask, gloves and boots he walked inside.

  ‘Perkins?’ he called.

  ‘In here, Sir.’

  He walked through into the main bedroom. ‘Have you brought sandwiches and a flask?’

  ‘They’re in the truck.’

  ‘What’s on the sandwiches?’

  ‘Crabmeat.’

  ‘You had to do it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Spoil my day. I thought you might have spread something normal on your butties. What about the drink?’

  ‘Ovaltine made with soya milk.’

  ‘You’re disgusting. Where’s Kline?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not here.’

  ‘That’s crazy. She came up here hours ago.’ He held out his hand. ‘Lend me your phone.’

  Perkins scrabbled in the white jumpsuit to get to his phone. ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Lost it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Are you interrogating me for a reason?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  He phoned Kline.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Never mind where I am. Where the fuck are you? I’ve been trying to contact you for ages.’

  ‘It’s a long story’

  ‘And why are you pretending to be Perkins by using his phone?’

  ‘Another long story. So, where are you?’

  ‘I’m on the twenty-seventh floor.’

  ‘That’s where I am. I’m here with Perkins.’

  ‘Something weird is going on, Sir.’

  ‘I’m on my way to the lift. Stay on the phone and meet me there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He left the flat, walked along the corridor and stood outside the lift. ‘Right, I’m here. Where are you?’

  ‘Standing outside the lift.’

  ‘Are you winding me up, Kline?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, but I’m not.’

  ‘Maybe you went into one of the other blocks by mistake.’

  ‘You saw me get into the lift and travel up to the twenty-seventh floor of this block.’

  ‘All right, let’s try something else. Meet me in the lobby and we’ll start again.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The lift isn’t working.’

  He sighed. ‘What about the stairs?’

  ‘I’m not walking down twenty-seven flights of fucking stairs. I may be fit, but I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Are the stairs there?’

  ‘Where else would they be?’

  ‘Check.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he said.

  ‘What the fuck have you done with the stairs?’

  ‘You’re right – something weird is going on.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ Perkins said from behind him.

  He jumped. ‘For Christ’s sake, Perkins – you nearly gave me a coronary.’

  ‘Sorry. Do you want to know what I think?’

  ‘Do we want to know what Perkins thinks, Kline?’

  ‘It depends on what he thinks.’

  ‘Go on then, Perkins – amaze us with your insight.’

  ‘Aliens.’

  ‘How did I know you were going to say that?’

  Kline snorted. ‘Did he say aliens?’

  ‘He’s an avid alien hunter.’

  Perkins shrugged. ‘Scoff if you like, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been increased alien activity around Hammersmith today.’

  ‘Increased alien activity!’ He laughed. ‘An increase on what? You make it sound as though there’s a normal amount of alien activity to start with.’

  ‘They’re here among us, you know. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.’

  ‘You’re a man of science, Perkins. You should be telling me that there’s a rational explanation for what we’re experiencing.’

  He glanced behind him to make sure nobody was listening and then leaned closer. ‘I just have. Aliens are scientific fact. The group I’m a member of have acquired evidence of a massive government conspiracy.’

  ‘Get back to your work, Perkins. Are you still collecting evidence?’

  ‘Oh yes, we’ll be here for some time.’

  ‘What about me?’ Kline asked him.

  Where was she? Surely, it was all a gigantic hoax – but why? Why would somebody go to these lengths to fool them into believing – what? None of it made any sense.

  ‘Are you sure you’re on the twenty-seventh floor?’

  ‘This is where the lift brought me, and that’s what it says on the walls and doors.’

  He scratched his head. ‘While I was trapped on the thirty-fifth floor I knocked on a couple of doors and asked some questions – you could do that.’

  ‘There are seven flats on the floor . . .’

  ‘As there are on all the floors.’

  ‘. . . I’ve knocked on every door. I didn’t get any answer from six of them.’

  ‘And the seventh?’

  ‘A crazy woman called Jenny French who lives in 27/1, rustles when she moves and wears a pointy tin foil hat on her head. She wouldn’t talk at the door, and I wasn’t going into her flat – there were no lights on in there and the place reeked of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.’

  ‘I have nothing else,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe Perkins is right.’

  ‘And maybe you need to get yourself a pointy tin foil hat.’

&nbs
p; ‘Maybe we both do. We’re in the same block, on the same floor, outside the same lift, and yet we can’t see each other – we’re talking on the telephone for fuck’s sake. How do you explain that?’

  He couldn’t, so he said nothing.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you should sit down and wait until the lift starts working again, or the stairs reappear.’

  ‘Have you heard what you’re saying?’

  ‘You need to get a hold of yourself, Kline. You’re beginning to sound a little crazy as well.’ He grunted. ‘Regardless of what Perkins is suggesting, there’ll be a rational explanation.’

  ‘It’s fucking spooking me out. Anyway, let’s say the lift starts working – then what?’

  ‘Let me know, and we’ll meet outside.’

  ‘What if . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t think we need any more speculation. Call me when the lift is working.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The call ended.

  He walked along the corridor to 27/1. Engraved on the brass name plate was “Miss Jennifer French”. He knocked on the door.

  A woman’s voice filtered through the wood. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘DI Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station.’

  ‘Hold your ID up to the keyhole.’

  He did as she said, and it seemed to take an age until the door eventually opened a tiny amount.

  A woman – probably in her mid-thirties – with dark shoulder-length hair, a haunted look in her eyes and a muscular tic on the left side of her face had wedged herself into the gap between the wall and door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know if you know, but there’s been a murder in Flat 27/3 . . .’

  ‘Has somebody said something about me?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I’m knocking on all the doors on this floor . . . Do you mind if I come in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Well, do you know anything about the murder . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  The door slammed shut.

  He hadn’t been able to see into the flat, but she wasn’t wearing a pointy tin foil hat and he didn’t think she had rustled when she moved. Maybe she’d removed the layer of tin foil from beneath her clothing, and maybe she’d put the hat on a table behind the door – he doubted she’d done any of that. It was a slightly different Jenny French.

  Where the hell was Kline? He’d asked that same question when she disappeared at Grisly Park. At least here he was able to talk to her on the phone.