The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Quigg 1) Read online

  The

  Twelve Murders of Christmas

  (A Quigg Novella)

  Tim Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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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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  Christmas, the year before the Body 13 case...

  Chapter One

  Friday, 25th December

  Christmas Day

  Feeling excited, Quigg rubbed his sleepy eyes and picked up the phone. He glanced at his watch and noted that it was seven-thirty in the evening. The local Darby and Joan Club were hosting Christmas dinner for the elderly and his mum, Beryl, had gone there because he was on-call and she didn’t want to spend all day cooking just to eat alone, but this phone call was what he’d been waiting for.

  He hoped it was Phoebe, his daughter, calling from Italy. Caitlin and her new boyfriend – Bob the Builder – were spending their Christmas in the sun. He’d had to buy Phoebe an early present of a Barbie doll with the few pence he had left over after the Child Support Agency had robbed him blind. It had been a month now since Caitlin had thrown him out for putting the job before her and Phoebe, but it was just an excuse to get rid of him. The real truth was that she’d met Bob the Builder and fallen in lust with him. Now, he was back living with his mum, Beryl, and he hated it. He felt as though he was standing at a train station, but none of the trains were going where he wanted to go. In fact, he had no idea where he wanted to go.

  ‘Hello?’

  A deep familiar voice resonated in his ear. ‘Haul your ass over to 23 Pear Tree Lane, next to Cathnor Park, Quigg,’ Chief Superintendent Walter Bellmarsh said. ‘There’s been a murder. Sergeant Jones is already on his way.’

  He hated Jones with a vengeance, and the feeling was mutual. The Chief’s golden boy would rat him out at the first opportunity. 'How come you informed Sergeant Jones before me, Sir?’

  ‘Stop being a baby, Quigg. J is before Q in my phonebook.’

  ‘It’s Christmas Day, Chief.’

  ‘Well excuse me for interrupting your busy social life. Do you think all the nice murderers in Hammersmith are in their expensive homes enjoying a cosy family Christmas? Opening presents? Pulling crackers? Stuffing their faces with Christmas pudding and brandy sauce? They’re not, Quigg. Like you, they have nothing and no one. They’re sociopaths who go out murdering people for excitement. Get over there and stop complaining. It’s not as if you’re doing anything else, is it? Am I right? Have I interrupted a family get together? A Christmas party? A…’

  ‘I’m on my way, Chief.’

  ‘Excellent! Keep me informed.’

  ***

  The wiry Perkins from forensics was already at the crime scene. ‘I thought it would be you, Sir.’

  ‘A late Christmas present from the Chief,’ he said putting on the hooded paper suit, boots, gloves and mask. ‘Is Sergeant Jones here yet?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Debbie Poulson is upstairs examining the body. The murderer came in through the patio door. Either the door was open, or the victim let him in because there’s no evidence of forced entry.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘You’ll see when you go upstairs.’

  He followed Perkins upstairs, along the landing and into the front bedroom. Debbie Poulson stood hunched over the young woman on the bed. The victim was naked, had a large knife protruding from the left side of her chest, and the skin that used to be her face had been removed. The necrophobia had begun to kick in about half way up the stairs and he had to force himself the last few steps into the room. He knew the feelings of panic and dread were irrational, but he barely held himself together.

  ‘Quigg,’ Debbie said. ‘Confirmation that the Chief hates you, if you were unsure.’

  ‘I know he hates me, I just don’t know why. God, what a bloody mess, anything I can use?’

  ‘I’m still taking samples, but you might be interested in that,’ she pointed to writing on the wall above the bed in what seemed to be the victim’s blood.

  Pear Tree Lane was a typical middle-class road and No. 23 was a three-bedroom semi-detached house. The room they were standing in was the master bedroom. It was uncluttered, but not spacious. The double bed faced a large bay window, and the light green curtains were still open. To the left of the bed was a dressing table full of perfumes, nail varnish, creams, and a multitude of other beauty products; and a walk-in wardrobe behind a pair of pine slatted doors. To the right was a bedside cabinet, on top of which was a book entitled: Children of the Plantation by Faith Mortimer. Two things struck him. First, there was no colour scheme in the bedroom, which seemed strange especially for a woman. He wondered what that said about her as a person – if it said anything. Not that he was in any way an expert on interior design, but as far as he was aware there was always a colour scheme. Second, when you were murdered, your private life became public. Strangers found out everything there was to find out about you. If you had secrets you didn’t want people to know about, you’d better not get murdered.

  His brow creased. ‘A partridge in a pear tree.’ He looked into Debbie’s brown eyes and wondered if she had anyone to go home to this Christmas. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything about Christmas, Quigg?’

  ‘Not much, why?’

  ‘Today is the first day of the Twelve Days of Christmas. The song goes: ‘On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree.’’

  She stared at him.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. As well as the fear of dead bodies, he now felt as though he was on a quiz show, but didn’t have the million-pound answer. He shrugged.

  ‘This is Pear Tree Lane, the victim’s name is Judith Partridge – a partridge in a pear tree.’

  ‘You’re kidding me right?’

  ‘I wish I were.’

  ‘How does the song go?’

  Debbie began to sing in an angelic voice. ‘On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree; On the...’

  He held up his hand. ‘Okay, I get the idea, thanks.’ He was desperate to get out of the bedroom, so that he could breathe normally and stop his hands shaking. Standing there through a whole Christmas carol was not going to expedite his departure.

  ‘It’s not just a Christmas carol, you know,’ Perkins said loitering by the door.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s riddled with religious symbolism...’

  ‘Tell me downstairs, Perkins. Let me deal with the body first.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Quigg turned back to Debbie. ‘So, what you’re saying is, there’ll be twelve murders over the next twelve days, which will relate to the lyrics of this Christmas song?’

  ‘That would be my guess.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Debbie. Have you got no heart?
’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘I have a heart, Quigg, if you had time to notice. It looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next twelve days.’

  ‘As much as I like you, Debbie, I hope not. Find me something, so I can catch this guy.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but no promises.’

  ‘What about the knife?’

  ‘From the magnetic rack downstairs in the kitchen.’

  ‘I needn’t tell you we’re in a bit of a hurry...’

  ‘No, there’s no need to point that out, Inspector,’ she said with a slight edge to her voice. ‘They appointed me because I’m a forensic pathologist. I know exactly what’s required.’

  He’d put his foot in his mouth again. ‘”My true love gave to me...” What does that mean? Has he killed this woman for his true love? Who is his true love?’

  ‘That’s what I was trying to tell you, Inspector,’ Perkins chirped in again.

  ‘Go on then, I can see you’re itching to impart your knowledge?’

  ‘True love refers to God, and a partridge in a pear tree is Jesus.’

  ‘And how does that help me?’

  ‘The killer could have killed this woman for God.’

  ‘A religious fanatic?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘Merry Christmas one and all.’ The large frame of Detective Sergeant Mervyn Jones blocked the doorway.

  ‘Sergeant Jones! How is it that you were notified before me, but arrived after me?’

  Jones smirked. ‘It could be something to do with the ten foot of snow outside, or the fact that my damned car wouldn’t start.’

  Quigg noted that Jones didn’t call him “Sir”. In fact, he couldn’t remember Jones ever having called him “Sir”.

  He told Jones what Debbie Poulson had told him.

  ‘I see, so we can expect to be busy over the next twelve days.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever solved a murder, Sergeant, but I’d like to catch this lunatic long before he reaches twelve.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it sooner or later. Think of it as my Christmas present to you.’

  ‘You’re too kind, and I forgot to get you anything.’

  ‘You two boys should play nicely in the sandpit,’ Debbie Poulson said. ‘It is Christmas, after all. Why don’t you cease hostilities during the holiday period, like the Germans and the English did during the First World War? Play a game of footie to get it out of your system.’

  Quigg looked at Jones who was a couple of inches taller than him and half as wide. ‘I’m willing if you are?’

  Jones thrust out his hand. ‘Until 2nd January – A cessation of hostilities, not a football match, it’s too cold for football?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Deal.’

  They shook hands.

  Debbie’s eyes crinkled up above the mask. ‘There, that wasn’t too difficult was it?’

  ‘I’ll put you forward for a Nobel peace prize,’ Quigg said. ‘So, tell us about the body now that we’re both here, Debbie?’

  ‘Judith Partridge, aged thirty-two, divorced, two children who are with their father, stabbed with a kitchen knife in the heart. No evidence of anything sexual. A likely scenario is that the killer came up behind her, put a hand over her mouth, and stabbed her like this...’ She grabbed Quigg, spun him round, brought her right hand in an arc, and mimed stabbing him in the chest. ‘He’s right-handed because there’s a slant to the entry wound. He then cut a line round the edges of her face, tore it off, and took it with him. After that, he wrote the message on the wall using the blood on the face like an inkpot. I then suspect he left, but I’ll leave you to determine that.’

  ‘Post mortem?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘The morgue at two tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  ‘Hardly, but I suppose it will have to do.’

  What did she mean by that? Was she disappointed he hadn’t asked her out on a proper date? No, he must be misreading the signs. He was desperate, and desperation made people see and do the strangest things. Oh, he could imagine Jones laughing all over Christmas if he was a witness to Quigg making a fool of himself by asking Debbie out and getting refused. He’d then tell the Chief, and it would be the talk of the station once everyone returned to work in the New Year. No, best to leave well alone.

  ‘I’m a bit confused...’

  Jones grunted. ‘Only a bit?’

  He ignored the slur. ‘It’s now...’ he pulled back the left sleeve of the paper suit to check his watch. ‘...eight-fifty. Why is she naked? Also, why is she up here in the bedroom? How long has she been dead?’

  ‘I would say about three hours judging by the temperature of the body and the blood coagulation rate.’

  ‘So, she was killed standing up not lying down, and unless she decided to come up to the bedroom and walk around naked she was killed somewhere else, which I suspect was the kitchen.’

  ‘And she was wearing clothes when she was killed,’ Jones added.

  ‘Yes, but where are her clothes?’

  They looked around the room, but found no clothes beyond the wardrobe.

  Jones said, ‘Maybe they came up here, she got undressed for a bit of rumpy pumpy, and then he killed her?’

  ‘Rumpy pumpy? We’re not in kindergarten, Jones, use the correct terminology.’

  ‘I didn’t want to offend you, I know what a prude you are.’

  ‘I thought you two were operating under a flag of truce?’ Debbie said.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ Jones said to Debbie. ‘Long-term habits are hard to break.’

  ‘Let’s stay focussed, shall we?’ Quigg said. ‘That scenario would have the killer carrying the murder weapon upstairs with him – hardly a precursor to sex. Also, it would mean that the victim knew the killer intimately, and based on the killer’s message I believe we’re dealing with a stranger.’

  ‘No forced entry?’ Jones said.

  ‘The patio door was probably open.’ He pointed to the nicotine-stained fingers on the victim’s right hand. ‘She was a smoker, and probably hung out of the patio door to smoke. It wouldn’t take much for the killer to surprise her.’

  ‘What about footprints outside, and inside for that matter?’ Jones directed at Perkins.

  ‘Sorry, your lot came in that way. If there was any evidence to be had, it’s long gone.’

  ‘Don’t they teach these new recruits anything?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘Apparently not,’ Perkins replied.

  ‘Who called it in?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Anonymous,’ Perkins said.

  ‘The killer. You’ll get a copy and analyse it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, what about fingerprints, fibres, bodily fluids, anything to make our lives a bit easier Perkins?’

  ‘If there’s anything to find, my team will find it.’

  Quigg walked over to Perkins, pulled down his own mask and said, ‘You do know he’s probably going to kill again?’

  ‘Well yes...’

  ‘Jones and I are meeting in the incident room tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, I want you there with everything you’ve got. If you bring excuses with you I’ll be very annoyed, and I won’t give you your Christmas present.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have, Sir.’

  ‘I didn’t. You can tell us about the religious symbolism at the same time. It’s too late at night now to start speculating. Anybody got anything else?’

  Nobody said anything.

  ‘Okay, we’ll meet at the station tomorrow morning at ten, peruse what we’ve got, have lunch, go to the mortuary to see Debbie and the PM, then see where we go from there.’

  Jones and Perkins both nodded.

  ‘Except Jones... I’d like you to take a couple of the uniforms and do a house-to-house.’

  ‘And you’re going home?’

  ‘I’m going to phone the Chief after I’ve look
ed at the rest of the crime scene.’

  ‘I could...’

  ‘Just do it, Sergeant.’

  Jones stamped out shaking his head. God, he hated Jones.

  ‘I predict you two are going to have a wonderful Christmas together and grow a lot closer.’

  He’d much rather be having a wonderful Christmas with Debbie and getting a lot closer to her. ‘Thanks for that, mystic Debbie,’ he said as he followed Jones out.

  As he walked around the house he noted a number of things. Considering the victim had two children, every room appeared to be spotless – especially the children’s bedrooms. There were no festive decorations in any of the rooms, and no Christmas tree – artificial or otherwise. There were no stacks of presents, no torn wrapping paper in the waste bins and no Christmas turkey in the oven. This was a desperately unhappy house. The only acknowledgement of a festive holiday was a wreath hanging on the front door. In fact, he had the idea that the wreath was for the dead Mrs Partridge.

  ***

  He didn’t get home until quarter to eleven because of the poor driving conditions.

  ‘I’m in bed, Quigg, don’t wake me up,’ came from upstairs.

  ‘Okay mum, I wasn’t planning on having a party.’

  ‘You... a party? Don’t make me laugh, Quigg.’

  ‘I heard that.’

  ‘You were meant to. Have you found yourself a nice girl yet?’

  ‘I’m working on it, mum.’

  ‘I brought you a Christmas doggy bag from the Club, it’s on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Put it on a plate, and...’

  ‘Good night, mum, see you in the morning.’

  If he let her, she’d have him standing at the foot of the stairs all night talking. Well, it was hardly talking. She told him how disappointed she was in him, and he pretended to listen. God, he hated living with his mum. It had taken him years to find Caitlin, and earn enough money to get married and move out. Life was like a game of Snakes and Ladders, and he’d landed on a snake, which had taken him back to the start.