by Tim Ellis
‘Bigamy is illegal in Britain, Rummage. I was married once, but she’s dead now.’
‘So you live in sin with three women?’
‘Do people still believe in rubbish like that?’
‘I take it you’re not religious?’
‘And I take it you are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it going to be a problem working with a sinner, Rummage?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ He stared at her. ‘You’re an attractive female, surely you must have done some sinning in your time?’
She pulled a face. ‘I can’t make up my mind whether that question discriminates on the basis of sex, religion, or an entirely new discrimination you’ve just thought up.’
‘We’re having a conversation over a meal in a pub. I’m not interviewing you for a job.’
‘Would I get the job if this was an interview?’
‘No. Candidates are meant to answer the questions put to them, and you didn’t answer my question, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t, did I?’
‘Are you ready?’
‘To rumble?’
‘No, we’ve done that already. Maybe we’ll go and do some praying instead.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Well, while I’m interrogating the Vicar, you can pray for both our souls.’
Chapter Four
Haunted houses! There were overnight ghost hunts; a long list of real haunted houses; guided tours of the most haunted places in London and paranormal courses to become an investigator, which she thought seriously about for all of three seconds.
She didn’t believe a word of it. However, belief was not a pre-requisite for the public’s gullibility, paranormal investigators, or their attractive assistants.
What gradually became clear, as she read the different stories, articles and accounts, was that there were some common factors for why houses became haunted, and it was mainly to do with human pain and suffering – bad events or situations; violent deaths, cruelty or abuse; suicides; unhappiness or betrayal – which prevented people from passing over to the other side.
Ghosts became attached to a house, or something in the house. Sometimes, it had been their house and they still thought they retained ownership – in a ghostly sense, of course. Renovating a house was a major cause of ghostly activity and could easily awaken a ghost who became confused, frustrated and angry.
She thought about what Quigg had told her regarding the old couple dying in bed, and then the builders moving in to refurbish the house before the Humblin’s bought it. If she believed any of the rubbish she’d been reading, which she didn’t, then renovating the house could easily have upset a resident ghost. She could imagine that there was nothing worse than builders traipsing into a person’s house with their muddy boots on and renovating it without so much as a by-your-leave, kiss my arse, or anything, especially if the ghost was still living there.
Without knowing the history of 66 Copperfield Street, she was stumbling around in the dark. There seemed to be two main strategies to researching the history of a house – the architectural history, and who had occupied the house since it was built. She imagined that both strategies would be important in gaining an insight into what was going on.
First, she interrogated the Victorian County History website maintained by the Institute of Historical Research at the University of London, but the only two articles they had online referred to Devonshire House in Piccadilly and Westminster Road Semaphore, neither of which were relevant to her research. Inputting a database query for “Copperfield Street, Southwark” under “People and Communities” produced articles on Dummer Probate Material in Southampton, Medway Towns Censuses; The jailbirds, brawlers, vandals, drunkards, swearers and poachers in Basingstoke . . . There were pages and pages of unhelpful material. It seemed that going to the university and banging a few heads together was the only answer.
After showering and putting on clean clothes, she phoned Ruth.
‘Hi, Lucy.’
‘How’re things?’
‘Duffy and I are having lunch.’
‘Very nice for you. How did the whistleblowing go?’
‘I’ll let you know later.’
‘Okay. Well, what I really called for was to tell you that I’m going out myself, so Amanda will be here looking after the rugrats and Janet is busy keeping the house clean. Oh! And I saw Pansy Potter in the garden earlier as well.’
‘We won’t be long. Where are you going?’
‘Research at the University of London, Senate House on Malet Street – Russell Square tube station.’
‘We’ll see you later then?’
‘Yeah.’
She told Amanda and Janet that she was going out, and that Ruth and Duffy wouldn’t be long.
Talk of lunch had made her hungry, so on her way to Goldhawk Road tube station, she bought and consumed a cheeseburger with fries.
At the station, she caught a train on the Hammersmith & City Line to King’s Cross St Pancras, and changed to the Piccadilly Line for the single stop to Russell Square. The journey took her thirty-five minutes. There was no way she was going to climb the five million steps up to ground level again. The last time she’d tried that, a porter had to scrape her off the concrete at the top. Instead, she joined the queue for the cattle lift and went up that way.
It was only a short walk from the station to Senate House Library. She wasn’t easily impressed, but the place was seriously big and overwhelming. However, libraries had definitely had their day, she thought. They were an anachronism, and more like museums – full of antiquities that had outlived their usefulness. What was the point of a book when people could carry thousands of them around in a pocket-sized electronic device? Well, there was no point, was there? Oh, there were those who loved the feel and smell of a book, but they were just addicted to dust mites and silverfish droppings.
‘Yes, Miss?’ the young man at the library counter asked her. He had a matted bush of brown hair on top of his head, thick-rimmed square glasses, and wore corduroy trousers with a sleeveless jumper over a checked shirt.
‘Institute of Historical Research, please.’
Behind the glasses his eyes resembled saucers. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘We don’t have many people asking for the IHR.’
‘Because?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been able to ask those people who don’t ask for the IHR.’
‘Okay, well I’m asking for it now, so where is it?’
‘Third floor basement.’ He pointed to the left. ‘The lift is over there.’
‘In the basement! Are you sure?’
‘Definitely. I remember the senior librarian taking me down there eighteen months ago when I first arrived. You seem surprised.’
‘I thought it was a school of advanced study.’
‘Well, it is. They’re certainly at an advanced stage of their studies, but they’re researching the past, aren’t they?’
‘History is important, isn’t it?’
He leaned down and propped his elbows on the counter, glanced sideways to make sure no one was eavesdropping and said, ‘I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past. People aren’t interested in history anymore. There’s so much going on right now. You can feel, taste and see the future up ahead. There’s also a common belief that the future started yesterday, and we’re already late. Are you interested in coming to a meeting tonight?’
‘About what?’
‘The future, of course.’
‘Who’ll be there?’
‘Well, there’s three of us so far, but we’re growing exponentially.’
‘Three of you?’
‘We call ourselves The Society of the Future – catchy huh? The meeting’s in my dorm room, what do you say?’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
‘Think about it. If you do decide to come, bring your own beers and ask for Norman.�
�
‘Nice talking to you, Norman.’
‘And you . . .?’
She headed to the other side of the library and caught the lift down to the third floor basement. It wasn’t a plush lift. In fact, she imagined it was more for maintenance staff, shifting trolleys full of books, equipment and such like, and for an army of cleaners with their cleaning materials rather than visitors.
The lift opened out into a narrow corridor with red lead paint on the concrete floor. There was no daylight three floors below ground level, only fluorescent light.
Except for some rattling pipes, she couldn’t hear anything.
‘Hello?’
‘Down here,’ a male voice came from her left.
She walked towards the voice.
A bald head appeared from the doorway of a room. ‘Yeah, we’re in here.’
‘I can’t believe they’ve put you in the basement.’
‘It’s only temporary,’ the man said. He was in his mid-thirties, gangly with a goatee beard, and wore a short-sleeved yellow shirt with a dark green tie.
Universities should teach students to dress properly before they’re allowed to start their courses, she thought. ‘That guy upstairs on the desk said differently.’
‘Norman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Likes his little joke, does Norman. About the size of his brain.’
‘Bastard.’
‘We’re usually in the North Block, but it’s being refurbished at last. Should have been done two years ago, but they ran out of money. We’ll be back there soon enough, I’m sure. So, what brings you down here?’
‘A haunted house.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Your database sucks.’
‘It cost us ten thousand pounds, you know.’
‘You were taken to the cleaners.’
‘You don’t know what you don’t know.’
‘Well, I think we both know that random, indiscriminate and unrelated documents aren’t supposed to appear when you type in a search term.’
‘Defeats the object of having a database.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, after experiencing the delights of our database, you thought you’d come down here and ask a real person?’
‘Yes.’
‘Address?’
‘It’s in Southwark – 66 Copperfield Street.’
‘Any more information?’
‘It was built in 1850.’
‘Victorian then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Follow me.’
‘I’m Lucy, by the way.’
‘John Palmer. I’m half a postgrad student, and half employed by the IHR. In December of 1855 the Metropolitan Board of Works was established. Before they could get themselves organised, they commissioned an inventory of the roads, parks, bridges, buildings and so forth that they’d inherited in each of the five civil parishes of Southwark. These inventories were exceptionally detailed, and provided a snapshot of Southwark in 1855.’ He reached a metal door and opened it to the teeth-grinding screech of metal on metal. ‘Sorry for the noise – needs oiling. Maintenance rarely come down here. I must admit, I’ll be glad to get back upstairs. It’s a bit like being in one of those . . .’
They were in a large room full of half-open cardboard and plywood boxes.
‘Don’t worry, it looks a tad disorganised, but I know where everything is. There’s method in my madness.’ He walked to a slim plywood box, leaned into it and began rifling through a stack of maps and drawings that were sealed in clear plastic envelopes and stored upright. ‘Copperfield Street was located in the civil parish of St George-the-Martyr, if I’m not mistaken . . . Yes, here we are.’ He withdrew an old yellowing map, laid it out on top of an unopened box and began moving his index finger over it as if it was a divining rod. ‘There’s the workhouse on the north side of Mint Street and . . . there’s Copperfield Street. Numbers 1 to 89, which is both sides of the street, were designed and built by architect Sir Horace Jones, who actually died in 1850, and was succeeded by his son – Robert. Now, large houses, such as those on Copperfield Street, weren’t built for just anybody to move into in 1850, they were specifically designed and built for upper class patrons who paid so much in advance for the privilege of owning a house that had been built to their individual specifications.’
‘Does it say who first owned the house on that map?”
‘No, you’d have to examine the records of Sir Horace Jones.’
‘And where will I find those?’
‘The Henry Cole Wing of the Victoria and Albert Museum on Cromwell Road in South Kensington – it’s free, but you have to make an appointment. Do you want the number?’
‘Please.’
He gave her the number. ‘No time like the present, I suppose.’
She called and made an appointment for ten the following morning.
‘Any chance of getting a copy of that map?’ she said, pointing to the map of the civil parish of St George-the-Martyr.
‘Fifty pounds.’
‘Daylight robbery.’
‘Talking of which, did you know that Dick Turpin once called himself John Palmer to hide who he was for a while?’
‘No, I didn’t know that, but I’m sure he’d be very proud of you.’
‘That’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me all afternoon.’
‘Any other visitors besides me?’
‘No.’
He made a copy of the map, rolled it up, stuffed it into a cardboard tube with plastic stoppers at either end and passed it to her at the same time as holding out his other hand for the money.
‘Do you take luncheon vouchers?’
‘No – cash only.’
She gave him two twenties and a ten, and helped herself to the cardboard tube. ‘Thanks for your help, John.’
‘My pleasure, Lucy.’
‘I can give you a name if you want someone to sort your database out for you.’
‘Thanks, but we’ve got it covered.’
‘No problems. Good luck with the move back to the North Wing.’
‘And you with your haunted house research.’
She made her way back along the corridor, up in the lift to the main library and out into Malet Street. Norman wasn’t on the desk, which was probably what saved his life.
***
No sooner had she and Duffy returned home and closed the front door, than her phone played Hasta Siempre, Comandante, which was the musical reply to Che Guevara’s farewell letter when he left Cuba.
‘Ruth Lynch,’ she said to the unknown caller.
‘It’s Fury.’
‘Why are you using a different phone?’
‘I bought a Pay-As-You-Go on the way back here. I keep hearing odd clicks and echoes on my other one, so I thought it’d be prudent to cover my tracks.’
‘Good idea. I suppose I’d better do the same if we’re going to continue with this relationship.’
‘It can’t do any harm. Do you have a pen and paper handy?’
‘Just a moment.’ She didn’t want Janet or Amanda to hear her conversation with Fury, so she went through into the bedroom, shut the door, sat down at her dressing table, and retrieved the pen and small notebook she carried everywhere from her handbag. ‘Yes, go on,’ she said.
‘Ten o’clock tonight at 17 Churchill Gardens Road, which is an apartment block in Pimlico. A Russian gang run a prostitution and trafficking racket from there. Two police officers will arrive, collect a bag of money and transport it back to a central counting house.’
‘Will they be in uniform?’
‘No. They may be corrupt, but they’re not stupid.’
‘I only have your word that they’re police officers then, don’t I?’
‘Check them out if you don’t believe me – 42157 Sergeant Richard Pollack and 85977 Constable Ryan Irwin. They’re both from Belgravia Police Station.’
‘Okay, but I don’t understand. If you know so much about wha
t’s happening, why don’t you arrest them?’
‘They’re untouchable. Not only that, they carry weapons.’
‘Some police do.’
‘The weapons they carry are not police-issue, they’re from a cache that were meant to have been destroyed in 2015, but instead have been recycled. And let me make this clear. If you get caught filming them – they’ll kill you, so don’t get caught.’
‘So, the Russian gang don’t work for the Russian mafia anymore?’
‘Yes they do, but the Russian mafia work for the police.’
‘And the two police officers are collecting the weekend takings of this prostitution and trafficking racket and transporting the money to a central counting house?’
‘Correct.’
‘And where is the counting house?’
‘Random locations across London to prevent anybody getting any ideas. The two police officers don’t even know where they’ll be going until they report in.’
‘We’ll need to follow them then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else I need to know?’
‘You have everything you need to write an article on police corruption.’
‘It could simply be two rogue police officers?’
‘Yes, it could. But correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you meant to be an investigative journalist? I’ve opened the door a crack into a different world. It’s up to you whether you want to go through it and see what’s on the other side, or not. I have two other addresses to prove Pimlico is not a one-off – 44 Conduit Mews in Paddington at midnight tomorrow night, and 8 Gunterstone Road in Hammersmith at three o’clock on Thursday morning.’
‘Hammersmith!’
‘You didn’t think Hammersmith Police Station was corruption-free, did you?’
‘But Quigg works there.’
‘I can tell you that I’ve had no complaints of corruption against DI Quigg, but there are a number of serving officers at the station who appear to be corrupt.’
‘Oh God!’
‘And that’s your proof. Once I see an article appear in a tabloid newspaper, or maybe even a Panorama television documentary, then I’ll contact you again and provide you with much more, but until then . . . I’ll remain anonymous.’