The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard (Quigg)

  The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard

  (Quigg #6)

  (The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (A bonus Novella - Quigg #7) is awaiting you at the end of this book)

  Tim Ellis

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  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2014 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.

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  To Pam, with love as always

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  A big thank you to proofreader James Godber

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  Also, in memory of Dina (Vera) Mironovna Pronicheva (1911-1977), an actress of the Kiev Puppet Theatre, and a survivor of the mass murder at Babi Yar between September 29-30, 1941.

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  The last piece of advice which I'd have you regard

  Is, 'don't go of a night into Bleeding Heart Yard.'

  From: The House-Warming!: A Legend Of Bleeding-Heart Yard by Thomas Ingoldsby

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  Chapter One

  Monday, August 5

  ‘Mornin’ ‘spector Quigg.’

  He glanced at the government-issue clock on the wall – it was five past nine.

  ‘Hello, Mandy. How are you?’

  ‘Confused.’

  Mandy was the seventeen year-old trainee administrative assistant with numerous piercings in her left ear, her nose, her bottom lip and her belly button. She had changed her hair from a French mustard colour to a striped orange and purple concoction.

  ‘Oh! Why is that?’

  She sat down on the hard-backed chair in front of his chipboard desk. ‘Well, I know you’ve got the triples by someone called ‘A’ in that place near France that a few people call Canada; and someone said you had twins from somewhere; then this other person said that a woman called Duffy had a baby girl called Máire; and then there’s Cheryl and someone else you’re living with who are having your sprogs as well; and weren’t there another ‘spector who worked here that you got preggers? I was telling my mum about it, but I lost count of how many grunts you got. She thinks this place is better than Eastenders.’

  ‘Is it important? Are you doing your maths A-Level at night classes?’

  ‘Nah. I decided to wait a few more years until I do that. Ya know what I think?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think that with all the experience I’m gonna get working with you lot I’ll get a ‘tective’s job for sure. Seems to me that I gotta learn some important things afore I put me replication in.’

  ‘What things would they be?’

  ‘I gotta learn to fuckin’ swear like ‘tective Kline.’

  ‘You’ll never get a job as a detective unless you can swear like Kline, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Then I gotta learn how to sit down all day and drink a gallon of coffee, which could be a problem ‘cause I don’t even like coffee.’

  ‘Coffee’s a must, Mandy. Only the clerical staff drink tea.’

  ‘As well, I gotta learn to sleep with anybody who might be able to help me get on. I don’t see as that’s a problem ‘cause I sleep with people now for no reason at all, especially when I’m legless. Although, don’t tell my Wayne. He don’t know I sleep with those other people.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to prostitute yourself to move up the promotional ladder in the police force, Mandy. It’s an equal opportunities employer.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Ah well! My situation is slightly different. There are two types of people in this world. The first type grabs fate with both hands and tells her which way to go. Now, if you were that type of person you’d do your A-Levels, your degree and then you’d join the police force straight after you received your results. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’d be in control.’

  ‘I think so. So, if my Wayne says, “Get me a beer”. I say, “Fuck off, moron, get your own”?’

  ‘Something like that. Although you’d be more in control if you got rid of Wayne altogether.’

  ‘Oh, I think my Wayne would have something to say about that.’

  ‘The second type of person isn’t in control of their own life. Things just happen to them – they’re called victims. For example, you say that you’re simply going to carry on working here until you gain enough experience to get a job as a detective.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s relying on fate. You’re not in control.’

  ‘I thought I was. I’ve made the decision to stay. Don’t that put me in the driving seat?’

  He realised that he wasn’t in control of his own life anymore – he had become a victim. ‘I suppose it does,’ he said, wearying of the conversation.

  ‘So, which type of person are you, ‘spector Quigg?’

  ‘I’m the second type. Women seem to take advantage of me – I’m merely a puppet on a string.’

  She stood up. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Is that what you came in for?’

  ‘Oh no! Every time I come in here you keep me talking. I’ll be thinking you got an inferior motive. You got two postcards.’ She pulled the crumpled cards from the pocket of her smock. ‘The first one is a picture of the triples for real. Hey, you got some nice looking sprogs, ‘spector.’

  He held out his hand, but she ignored him.

  ‘On the back, it says:

  Evie, Ava and Noah send their love.

  You didn’t call me.

  Keep your heart safe!

  Ring me: 306-692-7375.’

  No, he hadn’t called Aryana. He was going to, and then something had happened to stop him. One thing led to another and then, of course, he’d forgotten all about ringing her. What did this message mean? He hated her cryptic messages. He’d have to ring her.

  ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘It’s from your mum. She’s in a Chinese takeaway called Ho Chi Minh City, and she says: “Have you sold my house yet, Quigg?” Are you learning to be a estate agent, ‘spector?’

  ‘Something like that.’ No – he hadn’t sold his mum’s house yet. He’d have to ring the estate agents to find out what the hold-up was.

  She finally passed him the postcards.

  ‘Thanks, Mandy. Have a nice day.’

  ‘You too, ‘spector,’ she said as she shut the door.

  He picked up the phone and called Emma McCurdy at the estate agents.

  ‘It’s Quigg.’

  ‘Your mother’s house?’

  ‘That’s right. Any news?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘That you’ve done your job and sold it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s a problem . . . In fact, there’s a number of problems.’

  ‘Don’t say that. My mother’s stuck in Vietnam without any money. Do you remember that scene from the Deerhunter where Christopher Walken is playing Russian roulette to make ends meet.’

  ‘Before my time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, that’s what my mother is doing to survive in the cesspits of Ho Chi M
inh City.’

  ‘Look, Mr Quigg – during the first buyer’s survey it was discovered that there’s a Roman Temple of Mithras beneath the house. Archaeologists have obtained a court order to prevent any sale for at least six months while they excavate the site. They’ve already found a bone phallus amulet, an oil lamp with a stag on it, a fragment from a wood writing tablet and . . .’

  ‘What are you saying, Ms McCurdy?’

  ‘I thought that was fairly obvious – no sale, no money.’

  ‘But it’s my mother’s house.’

  ‘Sorry – it’s the law.’

  ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘My hands are tied.’

  ‘Well, thanks for nothing.’ He slammed the phone down. What was his mother going to do now? He should try and contact her, but how? Was she still in Vietnam? Had she ran out of money yet? Maggie Crenshaw wouldn’t let her go short – would she? Did Maggie have any money? It was a bloody mess.

  He phoned Celia Tabbard.

  ‘It’s been five months since I’ve seen my daughter Phoebe,’ he said.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘So, what are you doing to find her?’

  ‘I’m a solicitor not a private detective. Finding your wife and daughter is your job.’

  ‘I thought it was yours.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, haven’t you got an international arrest warrant out for my ex-wife?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s just a bit of paper. If no one can find her, then there’s little chance of her being arrested. It’s not as if she’d public enemy number one.’

  ‘So you’re saying that I have to find her first?’

  ‘Come round tonight – we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘I have the feeling that’s the last thing on your mind.’

  ‘Did I tell you about the waitress uniform I’ve recently obtained.’

  ‘You want me to come for dinner.’

  She laughed. ‘If that’s what you want to call it.’

  He knew exactly what she had in mind. ‘I hope you’ve had some experience waiting-on in a busy restaurant?’

  ‘I’m sure it can’t be that hard, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll be round about seven.’

  ‘See you then.’

  He ended the call.

  Next, he phoned AS in Canada on his mobile.

  ‘Hello, Quigg.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘I’m a psychic, remember.’

  ‘Thanks for all the postcards.’

  ‘You’re welcome. You have a new case?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’m ringing you. Keep your heart safe! What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know – that’s all I have.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t be so cryptic.’

  ‘Seeing the future is an inexact science.’

  ‘Very helpful. Well, I have no choice, but to go where I’m sent and to do what I’m told.’

  ‘Be careful then.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Cold. There’s fifty feet of snow here at the moment.’

  ‘That’s a lot of snow.’

  ‘I have to go – Noah is eating us out of house and home.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ***

  ‘Hello, Coveney,’ he said to the head peering round his office door. ‘What brings you up here?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. I thought you all did a fantastic job at Grisly Park, and I plan to write a report to that effect as soon as I get a minute.’

  ‘I told her it wasn’t your fault, but she won’t believe me.’

  He felt like a psychotherapist. ‘Sit down and tell me what’s troubling you, Coveney.’

  She came into his office, closed the door and sat down in the chair recently vacated by Mandy. ‘Inspector Wright thinks that it was your fault the command centre broke in half and had to be disposed of.’

  His eyes opened wide. ‘I wasn’t even there.’

  ‘That’s what I said to her, but she’s blaming you anyway. Apparently, it’s decimated her budget. She says she’s going to be a million miles away from her target this year because of you.’

  ‘She can blame me if she wants to. I have broad shoulders.’

  ‘Well, that’s okay until you want another mobile command centre.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ll never get one again.’

  He half smiled. ‘She’ll give me one. She has no choice.’

  ‘She used phrases such as: “Not on my watch” and “Over my dead body”.’

  ‘She’ll give me one,’ he said again. ‘I have a way with women.’

  Coveney’s forehead creased up. ‘I’ve not seen any evidence of that, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the chart.’

  She stood up. ‘Chart? I don’t know anything about a chart. Anyway, I have to go now, but all the girls thought it was an interesting experience working with you – a bit like being a passenger in an open-top car while it’s raining.’ She opened the door to leave.

  ‘What’s that meant to mean, Coveney?’

  An enigmatic smile appeared on her face. ‘Have a nice day, Sir.’

  He’d have to go down and speak to Nichola Wright. Once he explained to her that he hadn’t even been there, that it was DI Caesar from CO19 putting bombs under the trucks, that the person disarming the bombs ran out of time, that Perkins’ truck had completely disintegrated and the shockwave had crippled her truck – if he explained all of that she’d be fine about it. Coveney obviously hadn’t explained it in enough detail so that Nichola could see that he was completely innocent of all charges.

  And while he was down in Operations he’d have to get to the bottom of that chart. Maybe he could see it, find out where everybody was on it, get a photocopy and study it in detail to see how he could improve his ranking. He still couldn’t believe that he was languishing at the bottom – there were a lot worse DIs than him – weren’t there?

  ***

  ‘They won’t give me a fucking pool car,’ Kline said as she burst into his office and started pacing in front of the desk.

  ‘Taking your bra off didn’t work this time, huh?’ he asked staring at the outline of her nipples through her white tank top.

  She grinned, pulled a light blue lace bra out of the back pocket of her jeans and put it on like a contortionist. ‘Bastards. Do you know what they wanted me to do?’

  ‘I have a sensitive disposition, you know.’

  ‘Yeah well. I told them to . . .’

  ‘So, we didn’t get a pool car?’

  ‘Nope. We’ll have to use your Mercedes. Hand over the keys. I’ll take it for a test drive to get the feel of it.’

  He laughed. ‘Never gonna happen, Kline.’

  ‘You drive like an old-aged fucking pensioner.’

  ‘I saw you, you know.’

  ‘Saw me what?’

  ‘Shoot DI Caesar.’

  ‘I don’t know how, when I didn’t.’

  ‘You were in that cavern. I saw you.’

  ‘I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Where did you get that Queen’s Diamond Jubilee tin containing the penises from?’

  ‘I found it in the tunnel on the way back to the Waterbury.’

  He didn’t pursue it. If she denied it, what could he do? In the end, it was his word against hers. Not that he was planning on telling anyone. He’d have to give her the benefit of the doubt. She must have had a valid reason, and he could understand her not wanting to admit she’d committed murder to a senior officer.

  He sat back and locked his fingers together behind his head. ‘We’ll leave it like that then.’

  He noticed her smiling too late.

  Her hand disappeared into the pocket of his lightweight summer jacket that was hanging on the peg behind the door. It reappeared with his keys.

  ‘I won’t go far,’ she said, slipping through the door.

 
He could have chased her along the corridor, rugby tackled her from behind and taken his keys back, but he was ninety-five percent confident that she was a good driver and he’d get his car back in one piece.

  ***

  The door to the Chief’s office was slightly ajar. He stuck his head through the gap.

  ‘Oh!’ He was genuinely shocked. He’d expected to see DCI Joanna Blake in the high-backed leather chair, but instead Walter Bellmarsh was sitting there as if he’d never been promoted.

  Admittedly, he’d been on unpaid paternity leave, so wasn’t up to speed with the comings and goings of the hierarchy at the station. Being a father was a full-time job. Apparently, it had been his turn to look after the twins.

  Lucy had, as usual, laid her cards on the table. ‘They’re your fucking kids, you look after them.’

  She was right, of course, they were his children. Lucy – through no fault of her own – had been picking up the slack.

  Duffy had been in hospital, and was now laid up in bed. The doctors had made the decision to do a caesarean section seeing as they’d had to open her up to repair the damage DS Jones’ knife had caused to her and the baby anyway. Even though Máire was about six weeks premature, the doctors had allowed Duffy to bring her home – she was beautiful. She did have a tiny scar on her left arm where the knife had cut her, but it would disappear – more-or-less – as she grew. As soon as Duffy suggested Máire as his daughter’s name he’d said, ‘Perfect’, and that was it.

  As well as being heavily pregnant, Ruth was sulking because Duffy had given birth first. Also, her ankles kept swelling up because of water retention, and the midwife had told her to keep her feet raised whenever possible.