The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Quigg 1) Read online

  He saw the blinking red light on the answerphone and listened to the message from Phoebe. He felt like shit. She must think he didn’t care. At the end of the message Caitlin told him not to bother ringing back and to, "Go to hell!"

  He rang the Chief instead.

  ‘It’s ten past eleven, Quigg.’

  ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Yes you did. You thought you’d piss me off by ringing at this time of night. Well, you’ve achieved your objective. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?’

  The Chief nearly had an apoplectic fit when Quigg told him there might be seventy-eight murders, but he didn’t care, it was the Chief’s fault he’d missed Phoebe’s call.

  ‘You had better find him before he reaches ten, Quigg.’

  ‘Why ten, Chief?’

  ‘Because that’s ten Lords a Leaping, and if ten lords of the realm get murdered, your career, and mine for that matter, will be finished.’

  Quigg didn’t understand the Chief’s logic. ‘I certainly hope to catch him before he reaches the tenth verse, Chief.’

  ‘You’d better, that’s all I can say.’

  The phone went dead.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday, 26th December

  St Stephen’s Day

  He arrived at the station at twenty to ten and found Detective Sergeant Lulu Begone in the squad room. He didn’t know much about Sergeant Begone except that she was on a two-year exchange programme from the South African Police Service, she worked for DI Scrivener on cold cases, and apparently was a real to goodness Zulu princess.

  ‘You do know it’s Boxing Day?’

  ‘Why do they call it that, Sir? Is there boxing on the telly today?’

  He could understand her, but she had a South African twang to her voice – if “twang” was the right word. Maybe it was “accent” or “lilt” or... ‘I have no idea, Lulu. They tell me you’re a detective, find out.’

  ‘I was finding out, I was asking you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit interested?’

  ‘No. Anyway, why are you here on a Bank Holiday?’

  ‘Is that because the banks are on holiday?’

  ‘Don’t start that again. What are you doing here, you’re meant to be off, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was bored.’

  ‘At ten in the morning?’

  ‘I woke up early.’

  ‘Haven’t you found a boyfriend to keep you warm in bed yet?’

  ‘I’m saving myself for the right man.’

  ‘I see. Did you get that hat for Christmas?’

  She laughed. ‘These are Bantu knots,’ she said touching the tight circular coils of hair on her head. They originated in the Zulu tribes of my homeland.’

  ‘Well, I have to go, I’ve got a murder to solve, but you have a wonderful Christmas.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘I always need help. I’ve only got...’ His mobile vibrated in his duffel coat pocket. ‘Quigg?’

  ‘I’m ill.’

  ‘Is that you, Sergeant Jones?’

  ‘I feel terrible. I must have caught a bug or something.’

  ‘Are you on your way in?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I’m ill. I have flu, or bubonic plague, and...’

  ‘What about the house-to-house, did you...?’

  ‘I’ve sent you an email.’

  ‘Well, you have a nice Christmas, and try not to die, you hear?’ His words of concern didn’t sound very convincing, but then they weren’t meant to be. He ended the call before Jones could respond. Now, he had to waste time logging onto the computer network to retrieve the email. He said to Sergeant Begone, ‘I was going to say, I only had Sergeant Jones, but I haven’t got him anymore.’

  ‘Good, I don’t like that loud-mouthed bigot. They used to kill people like him in South Africa. They would put them in Pollsmore Prison and torture them until they confessed.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Sounds like just the place for Jones.’

  Lulu smiled showing off her perfect white teeth. She was thin, petite, a soft chocolate brown. When he first learned she was a Zulu princess he expected her to be at least seven foot tall with a neck as long as his arm, and was surprised to find himself looking down instead of up.

  ‘I’ve got nothing better to do, so I can help you if you want me to.’

  ‘Excellent. What about a coffee to crank the old motor?’

  She passed him her mug. ‘Thank you. I drink Rosehip and Cherry tea. You’ll find it in the kitchen cupboard with Zulu Lulu written on it. It does wonders for my irritable bowel syndrome.’

  That wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but he needed the help, so he could stretch himself to making her a mug of tea.

  ‘Sugar and milk?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sir, it’s herbal tea. If you put S&M with it, it’d be no better than dishwater.’

  ‘I only asked.’

  Once he’d made the tea, they went into the nearest incident room.

  ‘I’m glad you made my tea, Sir. It means I can work with you. If you’d refused, I would have gone home.’

  ‘What, to South Africa? That’s a bit drastic.’

  She laughed again. ‘No, to my flat in Knightsbridge. How come I never knew you were this funny?’

  ‘I save up my humour for the holidays, the rest of the time I’m as miserable as Jude the Obscure.’

  ‘Thomas Hardy, I love his writing.’

  ‘Not at Christmas though?’

  ‘No, I like to solve murders at Christmas.’

  ‘Well Lulu, you’re in luck, we had a festive little murder last night.’ He told her what had happened.

  ‘You British never do things by halves, do you?’

  ‘Only the best for us.’ He stood up and dragged the whiteboard closer trying to make it more intimate considering that there were only the two of them. ‘Right, let’s see... Hang on... Perkins is meant to be here.’ He pulled out his mobile phone and called the Head of Forensics.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In forensics.’

  ‘Why are you there when you should be here?’

  ‘Oh, you want me to come down there?’

  ‘We could communicate by video-conference?’

  ‘Okay...’

  ‘I was being sarcastic, Perkins, get your arse down here before I send the heavies up to get you.’

  Inside a very artistic green cloud in the centre of the whiteboard he wrote, Judith Partridge, 23 Pear Tree Lane, Aged 32, divorced, 2 children. As he wrote he spoke. ‘Now, the two children were with their father apparently, but we still need to check his alibi...’

  Perkins came into the room.

  ‘I’m glad you could interrupt us, Perkins. Do you two know each other?’

  They shook their heads and introduced themselves.

  Perkins handed over a handful of crime scene photographs. Quigg selected a couple to put on the whiteboard, and Lulu rifled through them.

  ‘Where’s...

  ‘Flu.’

  ‘Oh. You’re not expecting me to go out...’

  ‘Are you a detective?’

  ‘In a way....’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Perkins. The very beautiful Lulu and I will be out and about detecting.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Lulu grinned.

  He turned back to the whiteboard. ‘As I was saying... We need to check out the father’s alibi this morning to eliminate him, but Sgt Jones and I both thought the murderer was a stranger. Where was she killed, Perkins?’

  ‘The kitchen.’

  ‘Not the bedroom?’

  ‘No, we found a microscopic trail of blood from the kitchen, along the hall, and up the stairs.’

  ‘Any trace of her clothes?’

  ‘None.’

  Quigg’s brow creased. ‘Nothi
ng, not even her knickers?’

  ‘There were clothes in the washing basket in the utility room, and although I can’t say for definite yet that she wasn’t wearing any of those clothes when she was killed, I’m about ninety-nine percent sure. There were fibres found on the edges of the wound, which suggests that she was killed when she had her clothes on, and those fibres do not match any of the clothes in the washing basket.’

  He wrote on the board. ‘So, she was killed in the kitchen, carried or dragged upstairs, stripped naked, and then dumped on the bed where he removed her face.’

  Lulu wrinkled her nose as she stared at a close-up photograph of the victim’s bloody face. ‘I’m not even going to ask why he took her face.’

  ‘That’s probably a wise decision,’ Quigg said.

  ‘But why did he take her clothes?’

  ‘I have no idea. A trophy taker might help himself to a ring, a necklace, or possibly her knickers, but I’ve never heard of a killer taking every item of clothing that the victim was wearing.’

  Lulu leaned forward. ‘He might have taken them because they had his DNA on them.’

  ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’

  ‘Yes, he could have masturbated and ejaculated on her clothes after killing her. For some men, murder is akin to sex.’

  ‘You’re too young to know about things like that, Lulu. How old are you?’

  She laughed, and it was like the sound of angel’s wings flapping in the twilight. ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘You should be out dating, dancing, and enjoying life at that age, not hunting serial killers.’

  ‘You sound like my mother: “Be a nice girl, meet a man, have babies, and settle down.” Yuk! I know about serial killers because I worked in a special unit in Pretoria, which the government set up to hunt down these types of people. We have a lot of murderers in South Africa.’

  ‘I certainly don’t want to sound like your mother, so I’ll treat you like a seasoned detective shall I?’

  ‘That would be good, Sir.’

  ‘Well, according to Debbie Poulson there was no sexual assault, and what you suggest might be the reason why.’ He wrote the suggestion on the board. ‘It’s all a bit strange that he strips her naked, carries her upstairs to the bedroom, doesn’t do anything sexual to her, but takes every item of clothing she’s wearing. That is odd behaviour even for a serial killer.’

  ‘No behaviour is odd for a serial killer,’ Lulu said.

  ‘I suppose not. The killer also left us a message on the bedroom wall using the victim’s blood as ink, and it’s the last part of the first verse of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Do you know the carol, Lulu?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sing the first line.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me to do that?’

  ‘Sing.’

  ‘On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... A Partridge in a Pear Tree.’

  He was surprised her singing voice sounded like two cats screeching to get out of a sack, especially when she had such a beautiful laugh. ‘So, that’s two of us who can’t sing. What about you, Perkins?’

  ‘I was in the church choir when...’

  ‘I’ll take that as a “no” then. We can, for the moment anyway, discount a sexual motive. Perkins believes that the carol has religious significance in that “my true love” refers to God, and “a partridge in a pear tree” is Jesus.’

  Lulu put her hand up. ‘Except, he’s only written the last part of the verse on the wall as you said, so God doesn’t really come into it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Why didn’t you spot that, Perkins?’

  ‘I was...’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Do the other verses have religious connotations?’ Lulu asked.

  ‘Yes, the...’

  ‘Let’s get to that in a minute, shall we? Did you find any forensic evidence to help us, Perkins?’

  ‘There were a few fingerprints, and we’re in the process of running them through the database. There were no bodily fluids, no meaningful footprints, but we did find three artificial white fibres.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘After you’d gone, I heard Sergeant Jones mumbling about Father Christmas, so I had an idea. I compared the fibres against Father Christmas’s beard and they were a match.’

  ‘I see, so you’re telling me that the murderer was Santa Claus?’

  ‘It sounds a bit weird when you put it like that, Sir. I’d say that the killer was a man wearing a Father Christmas disguise.’

  Quigg headed for the door. ‘Talk among yourselves for a minute.’ He walked along the corridor to his office, switched on his computer and logged onto the network. It reached the login screen fairly quickly, but he expected it was because there was hardly anybody in the station, and those that were weren’t engaged in work activities. He checked his emails and found the one from Sergeant Jones. No “Sir” again. All the message said was that a couple of the neighbours saw a man dressed as Father Christmas arrive around the time of Mrs Partridge’s demise. He was on foot, and because of the time of year they thought nothing more about it. He returned to the incident room and told his team what Jones had said in the email.

  ‘It’s a good disguise at this time of year,’ Lulu said. ‘Nobody would look twice at someone dressed as Santa Claus on Christmas Day.’

  ‘It also doesn’t help us,’ Quigg said looking disgruntled. ‘Putting out an APB for a man dressed as Santa Claus during the Christmas holidays would be similar to trying to find a man with one of those stupid hats with ear flaps and string ties on them at this time of year.’

  ‘You mean a Peruvian hat?’

  ‘I knew you’d know what they were Perkins, I bet you’ve got one, haven’t you?’

  ‘I might have.’

  Quigg grunted. ‘I thought so. Did you find anything else besides artificial beard hairs?’

  ‘I emailed a photograph of the message to a handwriting expert I know...’

  ‘And he said...?’ Quigg prompted when nothing more was forthcoming. ‘You’ve been sniffing the glühwein again, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes! No, I don’t drink. It’s a she actually, and her name is...’

  ‘Can we get a move on, do you think?’

  ‘Well, she said that the sample shows he’s organised, the crime was well-planned and thought out, he’s highly intelligent, but suffered separation or abandonment from one or both parents during his childhood, he’s white and aged between 25 and 55.’

  ‘All from one sample of handwriting.’

  ‘That’s what she does. Handwriting is an external manifestation of our personality and characteristics. Take for instance...’

  ‘Tell her thanks from me. Are we paying her? You know the Chief...’

  ‘No, she said it was a Christmas present.’

  ‘Excellent. The Chief loves freebies, especially at Christmas. Right, questions?’

  ‘Didn’t she have a boyfriend or something?’ Lulu said.

  ‘A boyfriend I can understand, but what do you mean “or something”? What type of something did you have in mind?’

  ‘You know, like a vampire or a demon, or something else along those lines? I hear they’re the latest craze.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You’re in the wrong department. The paranormal team is along the corridor and down the stairs, keep going until you reach a dark stinking pit seething with human flesh.’

  Lulu laughed again. ‘I can see I’m going to like working with you, Sir.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘What’s that, Perkins?’

  ‘Nothing, just clearing my throat.’

  ‘Mmmm... You’re just being charitable because it’s Christmas, Lulu. A good point though, but it’s unlikely she had a boyfriend because he would have been there on Christmas Day.’

  ‘He might have been working?’ Perkins offered. ‘You know, on the oil rigs, or in the Army, or...’

  ‘Did you see any photographs that weren’t of her two
children in the house, Perkins?’

  ‘Well no...’

  ‘You see, I’m a detective if you hadn’t noticed. While you were grubbing around in the bedroom on your hands and knees, I was observing and detecting. There were no photographs of men in the house or her purse – children only. Also, no evidence of male clothes in the wardrobe or drawers, only one toothbrush, only female hair shampoo, conclusion – no boyfriend.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘Have you finished with her mobile phone?’

  Perkins pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and slid it across the table. ‘No time to type it up properly yet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Her contact list?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And one of your team has checked the numbers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He unfolded the paper and found seven names and numbers. ‘Seven?’

  ‘That’s all there was.’

  ‘Seven?’ Lulu repeated. ‘I have over two hundred contacts in my phonebook.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Quigg said. ‘Can you hook it up to a computer and check to see if there have been any deletions recently?’

  ‘I’m sure we can, I’ll get Rudy onto it.’

  ‘Rudy?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘Rudolph Hintermeyer, he’s my computer whizz.’

  ‘Not one of Santa’s reindeers?’

  ‘I have no idea what he does in his spare time.’

  ‘So let’s summarise. We have a divorced woman of thirty-two years of age who has only seven contacts in her mobile phonebook. She has two children – a boy and a girl – aged seven and eleven who were spending Christmas with their father. She had no boyfriend, and as far as we can tell she was spending Christmas alone. A killer, possibly dressed as Santa Claus, entered the house through the patio door. There was no evidence of forced entry, so the victim either knew her killer, or left the door open for him to walk right in.’