The Holiday Murders (2 page)

-2-

As John Simper
shaved the hard belly of the man on the table in front of him, he managed, just, to give the appearance of not really having been inconvenienced. In fact, tattooing someone’s belly was the last thing he wanted to be doing on Christmas Eve. This client, this lout, hadn’t done himself any favours from the outset.

Simper had been asleep in the stale-aired room above his shop in Smith Street, Collingwood, and had been woken by hammering on the door below. He’d expected to find a couple of drunken doughboys wanting bicep tattoos, but the man who’d stood in the doorway was no American soldier. He was tall and lean, with pale skin and brutally cropped blond hair. His eyes were a peculiar, pale blue — so pale that they seemed almost blind. He hadn’t waited to be invited in. He hadn’t exactly pushed Simper aside, but he’d moved past him and into the front parlour with an assertiveness that brooked no opposition.

‘I want a tattoo.’

John Simper, a sixty-year-old, was no physical match for this man, but attempted to stamp some authority on the situation by saying, ‘It’s Christmas Eve. I’m not working. You’ll have to go elsewhere.’

‘I’m here. You’re working. If you’re any good, it won’t take long.’

‘I told you, I’m not working.’

The man looked around the parlour and said nothing. He didn’t have to speak. He took off his shirt and placed it over the back of a chair.

‘I want the word “argument’ and the number “7” tattooed here.’

He drew an arc under his navel.

‘Argument 7, in plain letters. Nothing fancy, but clear, so you can read it.’

‘So who can read it? What does it mean?’

‘It means a lot, and maybe I’ll tell you about it when you’ve finished.’

Whatever ‘Argument 7’ meant, John Simper had already lost the argument about not doing the work.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Lie on that table. It’s going to hurt — you do know that? You’re not going to go crazy when it starts, and think I don’t know what I’m doing, are you?’

‘I don’t care how much it hurts. Do it. Argument 7.’

‘Did you have a particular font in mind?’ Simper said as he razored the belly hairless.

‘What do you mean “font”? That’s where they baptise babies, isn’t it?’

‘The letters. Did you have a style in mind?’

‘Simple. Like a newspaper headline.’

Simper carefully drew the outline of each letter on the skin and inked the needle. The man didn’t flinch as the needle bit and the ink took. He inked, wiped, inked, wiped, and very quickly he made it to the ‘u’. He stood back.

‘What’s up?’ the man asked.

‘Nothing. You want to see so far?’

‘Sure.’

Simper positioned the mirror.

‘Looks fine,’ the man said. ‘Hurry up.’

Simper suddenly realised that the man had no intention of paying him — he was going to get up off the table and walk out. That was when Simper decided to put an ‘e’ after the ‘u’. Someone would point out the spelling mistake later. There was no chance, he thought, that a person who didn’t know what a font was would know how to spell ‘argument’. Having inked in the ‘e’, he enjoyed the rest of the job.

‘It’s done,’ Simper said. ‘The rawness will settle.’

The man stood up, walked to a mirror, and examined his torso. There it was: ‘Arguement 7’, in reverse. Even in reverse, though, he knew what John Simper had done.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and put his shirt back on. ‘What do I owe you?’

His voice was quiet, and it made Simper nervous.

‘Call it a Christmas present,’ Simper said.

The man came towards him, and was suddenly behind him, placing both hands on either side of the tattooist’s head. With appalling ease, he twisted John Simper’s head and broke his neck.

‘Merry Christmas, you old cunt,’ the man said, and walked out into Smith Street.

-3-

Inspector Titus Lambert
and Sergeant Joe Sable came down the stairs. The corridor was now busy with the people whose job it was to dance attendance upon the dead. A couple of them recognised Titus, and responded to his signal to move upstairs.

‘Her name is Mary Quinn,’ Joe Sable said. ‘Her friend is Sheila Draper.’

Titus nodded; he didn’t want any more information for the time being. He liked to start with the bare bones, and it didn’t matter whether those bones were witnesses, suspects, or victims.

When they entered the room, they found Mary Quinn more composed than she had been earlier. The constable was standing at a discreet distance from her, and the only sound now was an annoying little sniff that was obviously a tic of his. Titus tipped his head to indicate that the constable could leave.

Mary Quinn sat with her hands clasped between her knees, and her head bowed so low that her thick, dark hair and its expensive curls fell across her face. Her friend had pulled a chair close. The difference between them, even if the value of their respective clothes hadn’t been immediately apparent (which it was), could be seen in their haircuts. Sheila Draper’s hair — a dull blonde colour, stripped of its shine by household soap — was fashioned into the ubiquitous and cheap long-short bob. Titus took this much in in a moment.

‘Miss Draper,’ he said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind accompanying Sergeant Sable to another room, he has some questions for you.’

Sheila Draper, who looked like she would startle easily, was startled.

‘It’s quite all right,’ Titus said. ‘It’s a normal part of the routine. I need to ask your friend Miss Quinn some questions as well.’

When Joe Sable and Sheila Draper left the room, Mary Quinn raised her head to reveal a face that looked familiar to Titus, despite the way it had been puffed up by her tears.

‘Do you feel able to answer some questions, Miss Quinn?’

‘Yes. I’m too exhausted to go on crying. Now I’m just sort of numb.’

‘You found both your brother and your father?’

‘Yes. I came home at about four o’clock. We only did one taping today, so I was able to leave early. I was going to listen to the show tonight with Daddy and Xavier.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Quinn, you’ll have to plug a few gaps for me.’

‘Of course. I’m an actress — not a profession that Daddy approved of. But I’m a good actress, and I’ve got a good part in a new radio serial on 3UZ. I was sure that when Daddy heard it, he’d realise that it wasn’t a grubby profession. Of course, he’d have hated the serial itself. It is awful stuff, really, but it’s going to be a success.’

‘
The Red Mask
, you mean?’

‘Yes. That’s it. Their advertising must be working.’

‘My wife is keen to hear it.’

‘It’s not Shakespeare, but it’s rousing enough. It’s all about dashing heroes, wicked Nazis, and damsels in distress, essentially. It starts tonight. Oh, I’ve already told you that, haven’t I?’

‘When was the last time you saw your father and brother?’

‘This morning. Ever since Mum died two years ago, we try to have breakfast together.’

‘Did either of them seem agitated?’

‘No, everything was perfectly normal. Xavier made some joke about my picture being on the cover of
The Listener-In
.’

Titus realised that this was why Mary Quinn’s face was familiar.
The Listener-In
sat next to his wireless at home.

‘I went off to 3UZ, recorded another episode of
The Red Mask
, and came home. I found Daddy first. When I came in I went up to the bathroom and …’ She stumbled at the memory of it. ‘… and then I ran through the house calling for Xavier. I don’t think I’ll ever get those awful sights out of my mind. I rang Sheila, and waited outside for her to arrive. I couldn’t bear to be in the house alone with, with …’

‘You were sure that body downstairs was your brother’s?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The face is covered with blood, and is swollen. Did you look closely at it?’

Mary Quinn’s hand flew to her throat.

‘I only glanced at it, from the doorway. I didn’t go all the way into the room, but I knew that it was Xavier. Do you think it might be someone else?’

‘I’m afraid he’ll have to be formally identified.’

‘But of course it’s Xavier. Who else could it be?’

‘We have to be sure.’

Titus wanted to be gentle with Mary Quinn, but something in him failed. She sat there before him, struggling to remain composed; she’d just been exposed to two horrifying murders. And yet Titus felt that he was observing the actress and not the woman. Perhaps this was her only defence against collapse, but Titus experienced a curious dampening of his sympathy for her. He didn’t for a moment think that she’d murdered her father and brother — whoever had done that had been physically powerful — but he didn’t feel that he wanted to protect her from the hideous circumstances of Xavier Quinn’s death.

‘You can wait until the body has been taken away and cleaned up, or you can help us now,’ he said, and immediately felt guilty when he saw that his callousness had struck her a like a slap. He waited. Mary Quinn rallied, and, with a small, exhausted vestige of defiance, told him that she would go into the drawing room and identify the body. Titus accompanied her into the corridor. There were two constables there now — one at the front door and one outside the drawing room.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ Titus asked her.

‘Quite sure.’

Inside the room, Martin Serong was gathering together his equipment, preparatory to photographing the bathroom upstairs. Normally, Martin would have paused to make a pertinent observation to Titus, but Mary Quinn’s presence constrained him. He shot Titus the subtlest of puzzled glances, and Titus saw Martin’s disapproval in that glance. He was telling Titus that no one who didn’t have to should be made to look at what had become of Xavier Quinn. Titus was slightly peeved by the reproach. He’d square it with Martin later.

Mary stood pressed against the wall near the door, holding a handkerchief over her nose and keeping her eyes closed. Titus watched her as she tentatively opened her eyes and looked towards her brother. He knew that it was the body’s nakedness rather than the violence that had been done to it that might lead to his being criticised for forcing this viewing.

‘It’s Xavier,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I don’t need to see his face. There’s an appendix scar and that small birthmark on his hip. It’s him.’

She uttered a choked animal sound and left the room. Titus followed a moment later and found her standing in the hallway, her face in her hands, her body shaking. Neither he nor the constable was quick enough to catch her when she fell to the ground.

In the room
where Joe Sable and Sheila Draper sat, a blowfly whined and threw itself against the window. It lowered the tone of an otherwise elegant dining room. A portrait of two children — Xavier and Mary Quinn, Joe surmised — hung above the fireplace. It wasn’t in pride of place, though; it was off to one side. From a large, framed print in the centre, Our Lady of Perpetual Succour gazed down upon a highly polished table where Joe Sable and Sheila Draper were sitting. Sheila’s hands were in her lap. She seemed composed, and began answering Joe’s questions without obfuscation. Of course, she hadn’t seen the bodies. Had she seen Xavier Quinn nailed to the drawing-room floor, her composure might not have been so steady.

‘Mary telephoned you at about four o’clock — is that right?’

‘Yes, she was distraught. At first I couldn’t understand what she was saying. She was sobbing, and only half-words were coming out. Finally, she managed to ask me to come round right away. I live in rooms close by.’

‘You and Mary Quinn are close friends?’

‘The closest. We went to school together. The Quinns were very kind to me when my parents were killed a few years ago.’

‘Do you mind if I ask you what happened?’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was a terrible time. We weren’t rich, Sergeant. My parents had scrimped and saved to send me to a good school. We didn’t own the house we lived in. Mr Quinn found rooms for me and helped with the rent for a while. He wouldn’t accept any payment.’

‘What line of work has Manpower put you in, Miss Draper?’

‘Manpower hasn’t got its fangs into me, Sergeant. I’m a tram conductress, and proud of it. It’s so normal now, I can’t believe the fuss that people made about it at first.’

‘I suppose people were just so used to men.’

‘Are there women policemen? That doesn’t sound right, does it?’

‘There are a few.’

‘I’m not brave enough to do a job like that.’

‘You must be pretty brave to get fares out of people on those crowded trams.’

Sheila Draper smiled at Joe. It occurred to him that her friendship, for anyone lucky enough to have it, would be a fine thing.

‘I have to ask you some difficult questions, Miss Draper. To start with, when you came to the house, what did Mary tell you?’

‘She was waiting for me outside. She’d calmed down a little. She said that Mr. Quinn had taken his own life and that Xavier had been murdered.’