by Tim Ellis
‘It didn’t do her much good, did it?’
‘No, I suppose not. There are some things that money just can’t buy, and a long life is one of them.’
‘Very true.’
A man approached wearing a beanie pulled down low over his forehead, and a red cotton scarf covering the lower part of his face. The only feature that was visible were his brown eyes. ‘Ruth Lynch?’ he asked her.
‘I am she.’
‘Who’s that?’ he nodded in Duffy’s direction.
‘My assistant – Duffy.’
‘I said come alone.’
‘I’m not so foolish as to do that, Mister Fury. Duffy can be absolutely trusted.’
‘I used to be a copper myself,’ Duffy intervened. ‘But not for very long, because I got pregnant.’
The man looked around nervously. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If you want to tell your story, then Duffy and I are the people you can trust.’
‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
They began walking slowly around the room, past each of the exhibitions. Ruth was on his right, Duffy on his left.
‘I’d like to record our conversation,’ Ruth said.
He hesitated and then nodded.
She put her phone onto record. ‘What do you have to tell us, Mister Fury?’
‘Previously, cases of police corruption were referred to the Independent Police Complaints Commission by police forces, but the new Independent Office for Police Conduct has the power to initiate its own investigations.’
‘And how do you fit into it all?’
‘Let’s just say that I saw all the complaints that were referred to the IPCC and I also see those now being referred to the IOPC, but I won’t tell you in what capacity I have access to those cases.’
‘That’s all right for now, but at some stage I’ll have to know who you are.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I could go to jail just for talking to you now.’
‘I understand. Just so long as you know there’s a bridge to cross in the future. Please, carry on.’
‘Well, you can imagine that the process relies on police forces making incidents of corruption known?’
‘I imagine that the IPCC, and now the IOPC, couldn’t investigate cases they didn’t know about.’
‘That’s it exactly, but the legislation also asks forces to incriminate themselves.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s imagine that I’m in charge of a police station, and I learn that ten of my officers are taking back-handers from drug gangs to protect them – what should I do?’
‘Report them.’
‘If I do that, then I’m ten officers down. Also I have to suspend them; waste valuable funds, manpower and resources investigating them; and morale in the station suffers because I’ve turned on my own men. Besides that, the Chief Inspector down the road doesn’t have any corrupt police officers in his station, which prompts people to ask why I have so many in mine . . . Is it becoming clear now.’
‘You’re not going to report them and look bad, are you?’
‘No.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘What can I do? If I’m not going to deal with the corruption, then I have to turn a blind eye to it. And if I’ve ignored it once, I have to keep ignoring it. I convince myself I have plausible deniability if it ever becomes public knowledge.’
‘That’s terrible.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s human nature, Miss Lynch. Let’s not be naive – corruption is everywhere. Everyone has his or her price – even the three of us. Operation Tiberius found that the Met suffered from “endemic corruption” in 2002, and if anything, it’s become worse. Around three thousand allegations of police corruption were reported to the IPCC last year. Only a small percentage were investigated, but that’s another story about the police policing themselves. Three thousand cases sounds a significant number, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg. Many cases are simply ignored and go un-reported. If they were all reported and dealt with, we’d have no police force left, and an army of investigators investigating the police who would no doubt become corrupt themselves. Corruption begets corruption.’
Ruth thought for a moment and then said, ‘If cases of corruption are not reported, how do you know it’s only the tip of the iceberg?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘You know I can’t write an article quoting you as an inside source without proof.’
‘The only proof I can offer you is police officers being corrupt.’
‘Go on?’
‘I’ll contact you later, so that you have enough time to get into position. You can witness police corruption first hand.’
‘Where?’
‘In and around London.’
‘And I go there and do what exactly?’
‘It’s my understanding that you’re an investigative reporter. Do what you normally do – take video-recordings, photographs, voice recordings, notes and so on.’
‘It’ll be dangerous, won’t it?’
‘That goes without saying. Once you go to print, they’ll come after you. And we’re not talking about a few constables dipping their hands in the cookie jar either. The corruption extends across the crime spectrum to drug deals, planting evidence, tampering with evidence, giving false testimony in court, murder, police brutality, kidnapping, extortion, prostitution, sexual favours . . . the list goes on. I have no hard evidence, but I think a senior officer at the Met is coordinating the London effort. And if I’m right, then you’ll be investigating organised crime on a massive scale.’
‘My partner is a police officer – a murder detective.’
‘I did my research before contacting you, Miss Lynch. I know all about your complicated relationships and living arrangements. These people believe that if you’re not with them, you’re against them. You’ll be putting yourself and those you love in harm’s way. Police officers are in a unique position to operate on both sides of the law – one side feeds the other. If you threaten to expose them, you’ll be backing them into a corner. They’ll do everything in their power to keep their secret safe, which includes murder.’
‘Maybe I’m not the right person to expose them?’
‘Maybe you’re not. Only you can decide that. I’ll contact you later with the details of police corruption in action. If you decide not to pursue the story, I’ll understand and I won’t bother you again.’
With that, he left.
While they’d been talking to Mister Fury, they’d shuffled through Rooms 133, 134 and were now in Room 135. They’d passed Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s throne; the Great Bed of Ware; a dressing table from 1940s Basildon . . .
‘What do you think?’ Duffy asked her.
‘I don’t know. I’m wondering if this is the right project for me – for us. I have a lot to lose – we all do. Maybe I should find a nice story . . .’
‘A nice story! What type of story would that be?’
‘I don’t know.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’ve never written one.’
‘You’ll have to tell Lucy and Quigg.’
She bit her lip. ‘I know.’
Duffy put her arm through Ruth’s. ‘Come on, I suppose we’d better be getting back.’
Ruth opened her eyes wide. ‘We could have lunch first though, couldn’t we? When was the last time we went out for lunch?’
‘Never.’ Duffy screwed up her face. ‘Quigg doesn’t take us out anymore.’
‘That’s true. Well, there’s no law that says we can’t wine and dine ourselves, is there?’
Duffy smiled. ‘None at all.’
***
Detective Chief Inspector Victor Arnold Thackeray from Special Operations at New Scotland Yard, was standing at a second-floor window in the Victoria and Albert Museum above the main entrance to the museum on Exhibition Road. He watched as the two women exited the building and then turned right. One of his men stopped reading his newspaper,
pushed himself up off the wall he was sitting on, and began following them.
He withdrew his mobile from the navy-blue Samuel Windsor cashmere overcoat pocket and called a number.
‘Yes?’ a female voice said.
‘We have a problem.’
‘Three o’clock at the usual place.’
He ended the call. His heart rate was still slightly raised after talking to her. The “usual place” was an apartment on Birdcage Walk, overlooking St James’s Park, and within spitting distance of Big Ben. They’d have frenzied sex, and then a cigarette with coffee – get all of the vices out of the way first, and then she’d want to know what the “problem” was. He’d been in love with her ever since their first meeting, but she wouldn’t leave her husband for him. She’d made it quite clear that it was either scraps from the table, or nothing. Nothing wasn’t an option, so he had to resign himself to the meagre scraps she was willing to give him.
It had taken him some time to come to terms with his decision to take a bribe, but once he had there was no going back. He’d left university with a degree in politics and international relations, and an idealistic notion that he could make a difference in the world. Instead, he’d been tempted by the police graduate scheme that guaranteed promotion from Constable to Inspector in three years on the fast-track programme. In 1990, he’d been a new recruit during the Poll Tax Riots; was part of the gay slayer investigation in 1993; had been standing in the thin blue line during the Brixton Riot of 1995; had acted as second-in-command in 2001 on the Thames murder case; and in 2011 he was the Senior Investigating Officer on the Night Stalker case that had resulted in the conviction of Peter Moncrief. So, things hadn’t been all bad.
Although it was a conscious decision in 1998 to take the path less travelled by, it had made all the difference to his life. During his career, as well as amassing a considerable amount of laundered money in a Latvian bank for his retirement, he’d actually been a reasonably good copper. However, it could all have changed in 2002. Operation Tiberius – a secret undercover investigation carried out by supposedly “clean” detectives – found that organised criminals were able to infiltrate Scotland Yard at will by bribing corrupt officers. Thankfully, he’d been tipped off about the investigation and made sure that his name didn’t rise to the surface of the cesspit.
It had, however, focused his mind. His life wasn’t his own anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. He was merely a puppet to be controlled by the criminal gangs for paltry backhanders. They could destroy him on a whim with a word in the right ear. He’d discussed his concerns with the others and between them they’d agreed a strategy for change. The Police Commissioner’s “Total Policing” initiative meant something completely different to them from what had been intended. Instead of the gangs controlling the streets of London, the police would take over.
Oh, they should have been controlling the streets anyway, but instead they were shackled by waves of legislation, regulations, codes of practice, underfunding, lack of manpower, and then the bleeding hearts – clutching the 1998 Human Rights Act in their slimy hands, had made sure they were trussed up like pigs being led to the slaughter. The criminals had carte blanche to do whatever they wanted, and the police had to stand around and watch while they did it. There was the old adage: If you can’t beat them, join them. Well, their own government had made it impossible for the police to beat anybody, so he’d joined them . . . And eventually, he had become them.
They’d made it look like a gangland war, which was actually what it was, because there was a new gang on the block – the police. People had to die, complete gangs had to be eliminated. It was the natural order of things. After the dust had settled, the police were in control of every illegal money-making scheme imaginable. Out with the old, in with the new.
He smiled. The police policing themselves had become a reality. Many of the crimes they responded to and investigated were carried out by police officers.
Anyway, enough dredging up the past, he had work to do. He made his way downstairs, out into Exhibition Road and hailed a taxi to New Scotland Yard on Victoria Embankment in the shadow of the London Eye.
***
They didn’t have any scabby donkeys on the menu at the Hole in the Wall pub on Sutton Road North in Chiswick, so Rummage ordered the seafood grill and Quigg had the steak and ale pie.
‘So, what do you think, Rummage?’
‘About what?’
‘Two decapitated bodies.’
‘Well, they weren’t just decapitated, were they? They were also stripped naked, beaten, raped, sodomised, and branded with a cross. If it is anything to do with religion, then I have no idea what.’
‘I thought you were a missionary’s daughter?’
‘I am, but no Christian faiths advocate torture, rape or branding people with crosses.’
‘Maybe they were Christians who were persecuted for their faith?’
‘I don’t think Pontius Pilate and the Roman legions have returned. However, in sixteenth-century Germany, Anabaptists were branded with a cross on their foreheads for refusing to recant their faith and join the Roman Catholic church.’
‘The corpses don’t have any foreheads.’
‘No, and it’s not the sixteenth-century either.’
‘Could they have been Anabaptists?’
‘It’s possible, but unlikely. There are approximately four million Anabaptists in the world today – mostly in America. They believe that baptism is valid only when the person confesses their faith in Christ and wants to be baptised, which is called “believers baptism”, rather than the “infant baptism” that is usually practised.’
‘Not really worth killing someone for though, is it?’
‘No. I think we’re slightly more tolerant now.’
He grunted. ‘Not much more.’
‘I read recently that an MS-13 gang member in America, who practised the Afro-Caribbean Santeria religion, decapitated a man, stabbed him over one hundred times and removed his heart, because he thought it would protect him from the police.’
‘No cross?’
‘No.’
‘Did it protect him?’
‘No.’
‘Read it! Read it where?’
‘The Missionary Times.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘That’s hardly surprising.’
‘It’s not regular reading at the station then?’
‘No. I could lend you a copy, if you wish?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
The corner of her mouth creased upwards. ‘There are also some Indian sects that still brand people as part of a religious initiation.’
‘The corpses don’t look Indian?’
‘No.’
For a missionary’s daughter, she didn’t seem to know much about strange religious practices. ‘Could they have been executed?’
‘By Islamic Fundamentalists, you mean?’
‘It doesn’t have to be them, but they’ll do. I happened to watch a documentary recently, which stated that decapitation is still used as a punishment under Sharia Law in Saudi Arabia, Iran, Qatar and Yemen. Maybe it’s being used in Britain as well. I don’t know if you know, but there’s approximately eighty-five Sharia courts operating in mosques across Britain, which might explain the decapitation and the crosses?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. If Islamic Fundamentalists were going to brand Christian infidels with anything, it would probably be the star and crescent to symbolise Islam – the one true religion.’
‘What about human sacrifice?’
‘In Mayan culture, humans were sacrificed to appease the gods, but I don’t think there are any Mayan tribes living in Britain.’
‘No, I must admit, I haven’t seen any recently.’
‘People in remote rural villages in India still believe in the occult and human sacrifice.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t rural India, Rummage. Maybe they were victims of a S
atanist cult and branding them with a cross was part of a Satanic ritual?’
‘Satanists use a lot of symbols such as the pentagram, the alchemy sulphur symbol, or the double-headed axe. The only cross they might use would be an upside-down cross, which means blasphemy of Christianity and Jesus Christ.’
‘Any rituals you know about that might require two Christian sacrifices?’
‘The Hindu and Buddhist religions have Tantric rituals that involve unrestrained public sex.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I haven’t read any reports of unrestrained public sex taking place.’
‘That’s probably because they’re not permitted to do it here.’
‘That’s a shame. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do we?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘So tell me, what’s it like being a missionary’s daughter?’
‘The same as being anybody else’s daughter, I expect.’
‘I thought maybe you’d know something about religion.’
‘I do know something about religion, but a cross branded on a male and female torso is nothing to do with religion. In fact, probably the opposite.’
‘Which is Satanism, isn’t it?’
‘Is Satanism the opposite of religion?’
‘I thought it was.’
‘In one way maybe it is, but in another way it’s not. Satanism is simply another religion. The opposite of a belief system such as Christianity, is no belief system – Atheism.’
‘Yes, that would make sense.’
Rummage finished off her drink. ‘Maybe we should speak to a Vicar or a Priest about what the crosses might mean?’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea. We’ll call in a church on our way back to the station.’
‘I can’t imagine they’ll know any more than I know though.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
‘Exactly . . . Somebody said you lived in a church?’
‘It’s not a church anymore – it’s a converted church.’
‘And that you have three wives?’