The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I feel used.’

  ‘Or I could throw you out and pleasure myself? It’d probably be a lot less trouble.’

  ‘All right, you can use me as much as you want, Lucy Neilson, but once you’ve had your fill I have a favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘It’s probably better if I ask you when you feel satiated.’

  ‘You think I’m more likely to agree to the favour once you’ve fucked me stupid?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No, I’m less likely to agree to it, so you may as well tell me now?’

  ‘What do you know about ghosts and haunted houses?’

  ‘Fuck all.’

  ‘Will you do some research for me?”

  ‘Okay.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You will?’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘One good turn deserves another. Put that condom on.’

  ‘Or, you could put it on for me?’

  ‘Yuk! I hate those things.’

  ‘What about some foreplay?’

  ‘Maybe afterwards. Stick it in and let’s get going.’

  She had an orgasm almost immediately, and another two during the journey. God! Quigg knew how to fuck.

  ‘Beer?’ she said, dripping with sweat.

  He grunted. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  She handed him a bottle of Budweiser as she climbed back into bed and pulled the quilt up to her breasts. ‘So, what’s this about ghosts and haunted houses?’

  He told her about Mandy being thrown off the post, about his deal with Mrs Morpeth to get Mandy re-instated, and about his visit to 66 Copperfield Street in Southwark earlier.

  ‘Ghost hunting appeals to me,’ she said, taking a swig of beer.

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s probably why it appeals to you. If you thought there really were such things as ghosts you’d run for the hills.’

  ‘I’m not your average female, Quigg.’

  ‘I know that, but ghosts!’

  ‘Show me the pictures you took of the woman’s paintings.’

  He rummaged in his trouser pocket on the floor for his phone, found the photographs he’d taken and passed the phone to her.

  She flicked through the paintings. ‘That Regina Humblin is one crazy bitch.’ She slid out of bed naked, attached his phone to a USB lead to upload the pictures to her computer and scrambled back under the quilt.

  ‘Except she’s not. She appears as normal as you and I when you speak to her.’

  ‘You’re not normal, Quigg.’

  ‘Well no, probably not me, but certainly you.’

  ‘You’re a murder detective. You should know that you can’t always see crazy.’

  ‘I do, but when I talk with people face-to-face, I can usually tell if they’re crazy or not, and she didn’t seem crazy to me.’

  She pointed to the pictures. ‘Those aren’t normal. Someone who draws things like that is seriously deranged.’

  ‘She doesn’t know she’s doing it.’

  ‘You mean, she’s possessed when she draws them?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about possession, but she’s not herself.’

  ‘Then who is she?’

  ‘I’ve asked myself the same questions and received no answers, which is why I need a research assistant.’

  ‘Maybe this isn’t about ghosts at all, maybe we’ve stumbled into the fight between good and evil, heaven and hell, Beelzebub and God?’

  ‘Or maybe it’s simply about a sick woman?’

  ‘And you’d like me to be your assistant?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’m not wearing any skimpy uniforms, nipple tassels or anything like that.’

  ‘There’d be extra pay involved.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Negotiable.’

  ‘Maybe we could discuss it before I sign any contract.’ She threw the quilt off and handed him a condom. ‘Put the bag on your head. I don’t want you to see what’s coming.’

  ‘Going in blind is not something I like to do.’

  ‘That may be so, but it’s the safer option.’

  He slid the condom on his erection and she eased him into her.

  Afterwards, she said, ‘What’s the plan then?’

  He passed her the copy of the conveyance deed and plan. ‘That’s a start. You could also find out what you can about Regina Humblin née Morpeth, her husband Stanley and 66 Copperfield Street in Southwark. She has three children by the way – five-year-old Nellie, three-year-old Briar, and Baxter who’s ten months old.’

  ‘Children are often a conduit for poltergeist activity.’

  ‘The middle child – Briar – has an imaginary friend she talks to called Henry.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘The problem with that theory is that the happenings seem to be focused around Regina, and occur when the children aren’t even in the house.’

  ‘You didn’t find anything wrong with the house?’

  ‘No. It’s a very nice place. The decor is a bit old-fashioned for my tastes, but they obviously like it.’

  ‘Suddenly you’re an expert.’

  ‘I know what I like. You might also take a look at how to get rid of ghosts from haunted houses. It’s not just about finding out what the problem is, we also have to fix it, as well.’

  ‘I’m a bit excited.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s something out of the ordinary. I might also take a look into split personality . . .’

  ‘You can if you want to, but I’ll be speaking to Doctor Ingrid Solberg, the pathologist, to find out if she knows a psychiatrist I can talk to.’

  ‘Okay, well I’ll delve into possession and also see if there’s anything similar to those drawings on the internet.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. We’ll make a great team, Lucy. Especially if you could wear . . .’

  ‘You’re a fucking degenerate, Quigg. Has Ruth told you about her new project?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘She said she needs to get back into the game.’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘Investigative reporting.’

  ‘She has a child.’

  ‘And you think that being a mother prevents a woman from working?’

  ‘Well no, but children need to be taken care of.’

  ‘And what would you know about taking care of children?’

  ‘I’m digging myself into a hole, aren’t I?’

  ‘And it’s getting deeper by the second.’

  ‘So, what’s Ruth’s new project about?’

  ‘Police corruption.’

  ‘What! She can’t investigate the police – I’m a police officer.’

  ‘She believes that a free, well-informed press is a cornerstone of policing in a democracy . . . Those are her words, not mine. Me, I’ve never trusted the bastards.’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to her.’

  ‘You’re too late – a whistle-blower has already done that.’

  ‘A whistle-blower?’

  ‘You do know what one of those is, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do, but who? Where? When? Why?’

  ‘Do I look as though I give a shit? You’ll have to interrogate Ruth, or Duffy – she’s in on it as well.’

  ‘But she’s a mother and an ex-police officer. At least I can trust you, Lucy.’

  She handed him another condom. ‘You know the procedure.’

  That was last night. Now, wearing just her panties and swigging hot coffee, she was working in her capacity as Quigg’s research assistant. If anyone could get to the bottom of 66 Copperfield Street, it was Lucy Neilson – paranormal investigator extraordinaire. In the search engine she typed:

  HAUNTED HOUSES

  ***

  ‘Are you ready to rumble, Rummage?’

  ‘Did you think that up all by yourself, Sir?’

/>   ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Chiswick.’ He passed her the photograph of the two dead bodies that the Chief had given him.

  ‘They’re naked.’

  ‘They certainly are.’

  ‘They have no heads.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And are those crosses burned into their flesh?’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Someone from Kent would say that, but I think it’s a bit more than interesting, Rummage. Also, it depends on who you are whether you find two headless naked corpses interesting, or not. For example, if you were the next-of-kin . . .’

  ‘I was speaking from the perspective of a detective constable.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘Are there any more photographs?’

  ‘No. That’s all the Chief had.’

  ‘How did he get it?’

  ‘Someone must have sent it to him . . . Maybe, Perkins.’

  He passed her the keys to his Mercedes. ‘You drive.’

  ‘Chiswick isn’t in Hammersmith and Fulham, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s in Chiswick. It’s not far away though.’

  ‘Is this one of those cases that the Police Commissioner has told the Chief to give to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It took them ten minutes to travel the short distance along the A4 to the beginning of the M4 motorway in Chiswick.

  Uniformed officers had already cordoned off the lay-by with red and white crime scene tape tied to metal rods hammered into the ground, and a large white forensic marquee had been erected over the two bodies.

  They signed in the visitors’ log and donned forensic suits.

  The Head of Forensics – Carl Perkins, and the Home Office Registered pathologist at Hammersmith Hospital – Doctor Ingrid Solberg – were already inside.

  ‘Inspector Quigg,’ Doc Solberg said. ‘Glad you could make the effort.’

  ‘The Chief said I had to.’

  ‘And a new partner as well?’

  ‘DC Jezebel Rummage from Kent.’

  ‘Morning, DC Rummage. Are you only here from Kent for this case, or are you staying?’

  ‘Staying. Kent is far too quiet.’

  ‘Well, if you want noisy, you’ve come to the right place and from my limited knowledge of Inspector Quigg, you’re working with the right partner.’

  Quigg glanced at Perkins. ‘Hello, Perkins.’

  ‘Morning, Sir.’

  ‘You’ve met Rummage, haven’t you?’

  ‘While you were under the influence in Bethnal Green.’

  Quigg’s brow furrowed. ‘Yes, and I think the less said about that the better.’

  ‘Probably a good idea.’

  ‘So, what have you rustled up for us this time, Doc?’ he said.

  ‘A male in his early fifties and a woman in her early thirties. As you can see, neither is wearing any clothes. We also have no idea who they are. A half-inch cross, measuring twelve inches high by six inches wide, has been burned into their torsos using a branding iron. Clutched in each victim’s left hand is a clump of human hair. There are restraining marks around the wrists and ankles; various bruises on the bodies as if they were beaten; and both victims have been sexually assaulted by multiple perpetrators prior to death – the female front and back, and the male at the back.’

  ‘Any semen?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘A lot, but whether we have any DNA matches on the database is another matter.’

  ‘You’ll run the victim’s DNA through the database as well?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘I’d say they’ve both been dead for less than twenty-four hours, probably between midday yesterday and ten in the evening, but they weren’t killed in this lay-by, which provides an eight-hour window – between ten last night and six this morning – during which time the bodies were discarded here.’

  He turned to Perkins. ‘CCTV?’

  ‘I have people already working on it, Sir.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I’d like an update in the incident room at four o’clock, if that fits in with your schedule?’

  ‘I’ll be there, Sir.’

  Rummage directed a question at Doc Solberg. ‘What was used to remove the heads?’

  ‘At a guess, and subject to microscopic analysis of the wounds, I’d say a bow saw – eight pounds ninety-nine from all good do-it-yourself stores.’ She pointed to the jagged flaps of skin at the edges of the neck wounds. ‘A hacksaw, or an electrical saw, would have left smooth edges.’ She indicated an irregular bony shape at the centre of the male victim’s neck. ‘Also, look at the saw marks on the fifth cervical vertebra . . . Yes, a bow saw, or possibly a pruning saw – both tools have similar serrated teeth.’

  ‘Any identifying marks?’

  ‘The male has a four-inch scar with suture marks on his left shoulder, which suggests a surgical operation, but until I open him up I won’t know what type of operation it was, or whether it will help you. The female has given birth to one child in the past, which is evidenced by the stretch marks on her stomach and the dark brown areolae surrounding her nipples. I’d guess the child was at least ten to fifteen years old.’ Doc Solberg held up the female’s left forearm and pointed to a diagonal jagged white line. ‘She also has scar tissue on both wrists, which suggests that she attempted suicide in the past. The scars are white and glistening, but not hard and wrinkled, so I’d say that the suicide attempt occurred about six months ago. And that, as they say on Looney Tunes, is all folks.’

  ‘When are the post-mortems, Doc?’

  ‘Let’s say two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Any chance of doing them in the morning?’

  ‘No. People are queuing for my services.’

  ‘Queuing?’

  ‘In the prone position.’

  ‘Okay. Well, thanks anyway. Anything more you want to ask, Rummage?’

  ‘What was the cause of death?’

  Doc Solberg shrugged. ‘There’s no obvious cause of death. Oh, it would be easy to say the decapitation killed them, but without the heads I can’t say. They would have had to have been either unconscious or drugged when the heads were removed, and I don’t see any evidence of either. We might get lucky and find something during the post-mortem.’

  Quigg turned to Perkins. ‘Anything for us, Perkins?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘No.’ He stamped his feet. ‘Tarmac! No footprints, no tyre tracks. The wind is whipping up a storm outside, so no hairs, fibres or human fluids beyond those found on the body. There are small patches of blood on the ground, from which we’ve taken samples. However, we think it’s likely that the blood belongs to the victims. It’s a lay-by, there’s a considerable amount of garbage, which we’ve collected and bagged for analysis. There was also a litter bin, which we’ve emptied and transported the contents to the laboratory for examination. As you know though, without something to match any discovery to, it will be of limited value.’

  ‘You always know how to make my day, Perkins.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do, Sir.’

  ‘You do know a thing or two about ghosts and haunted houses though, don’t you?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘When you get a minute, I’d like to pick your brains.’

  ‘Always happy to talk about the metaphysical.’

  ‘We’ll have words later.’

  ‘Looking forward to it, Sir.’

  He squatted down to talk to Doc Solberg. ‘Do you know a good psychiatrist?’

  ‘All getting too much for you, Quigg?’

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  ‘How many times have I heard that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Well?’

  ‘Professor Alice Neuville.’

  ‘Will you ask her to give me a call?’<
br />
  ‘You don’t look too well. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Today would be good.’

  ‘I hope she’ll be able to get to the root cause of your problems, Quigg. In my experience, it begins with the mother.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me.’ He stood up. ‘Ready, Rummage?’

  ‘When you are, Sir.’

  They made their way out through the tent flap into the blustery November morning, stripped off the forensic suits, disposed of them in the plastic bin provided and walked to the Mercedes.

  He ignored the press and the requests for information. They’d get their pound of flesh soon enough.

  ‘Where to?’ Rummage said, as they climbed into his car.

  ‘Back to the station, I suppose. We don’t know the identities of the victims; we have no idea where they lived; or what they were doing before they were murdered. We also have no cause of death; no murder weapon; and no leads.’

  ‘All dressed up with nowhere to go.’

  ‘The story of my life, Rummage. We could stop off for lunch though. Are you hungry?’

  ‘I could eat a scabby donkey.’

  ‘Is that a delicacy in Kent?’

  ‘All the locals eat them.’

  ‘Let’s do it then.’

  Chapter Three

  Ruth and Duffy were standing in Room 133 of the Dr Susan Weber Gallery at the Victoria and Albert Museum on Exhibition Road in Victoria, waiting for a man wearing a red scarf and calling himself Fury.

  ‘He definitely said midday, didn’t he?’ Duffy said.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Because it’s now five past.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Fury won’t be his real name, will it?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘And you don’t know what he looks like?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What rank he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or which police station he works at?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We might be being set up.’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind. To get to the truth, investigative journalists must sometimes take risks.’

  ‘Mmmm! At least we’re in a public place. How long are we going to give him?’

  ‘Another five minutes.’

  ‘All right,’ Duffy said, staring at the eighteenth-century gold chair made specially for Marie Antoinette during her time at Versailles, and before the executioner removed her head with the guillotine. ‘It’s hard to imagine that the Queen of France sat in this chair two hundred years ago.’