The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  ‘What about . . .?’

  She was going to ask about the two addresses, the timings, dates, details of what was going on, but the call ended. She’d been out of the game for so long that she’d forgotten how to be an investigative reporter. Fury was right, he’d opened the door a crack to a dark hidden world that lay on the other side of justice. Now, it was up to her to decide whether she wanted to step inside, or not. If she chose to follow the story wherever it took her, then she had no doubt it would be life-threatening. They’d not only come after her, but Duffy, Lucy and the children. They’d try and destroy Quigg. Was she willing to risk everything and everyone to get to the truth?

  She went back into the living room and told Duffy about her conversation with Fury. ‘I don’t know what to do, Duffy.’

  ‘You have to do what’s right.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Or you could hide in here and ignore what Fury has just told you. That would certainly be the safer option for all of us, but while we’re safe in here, other people are out there suffering and probably dying. You have the chance to make a difference. Isn’t that why you became an investigative reporter?’

  ‘It’s not until ten o’clock tonight. I have time to think about it, but if I don’t organise things now, it’ll be too late by the time I’ve spoken to everybody.’

  ‘Don’t forget, we have a fund that Lucy confiscated from those paedophiles – the Apostles – for things like this. We can buy-in protection like we did the last time somebody threatened us.’

  ‘Maybe we should do that first?’

  ‘Which is probably a good idea. I’ll arrange protection while you do what you have to do.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She called Dennis Ford, a man she hadn’t spoken to for over two years. She needed a cameraman – someone who knew how to capture evidence – visual and oral – on film at night, and Dennis was one of the best in the business.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Dennis, it’s Ruth Lynch.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right. Ruth Lynch slid off the face of the earth into the ether. If she hadn’t, she’d have called me, invited me to the farewell shindig, forced me to dress up for the funeral . . .’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re only calling me now, and saying sorry, because you want me to do something for you that’s dangerous, aren’t you?’

  ‘You always could read me like a book.’

  ‘Flattery will get you nowhere. So, what happened to the woman who stole my heart?’

  ‘The short version is: I met a police officer, he got me pregnant, we have an adorable boy called Luke, we live in a converted church and I’ve just got my pre-baby body back.’

  ‘You went over to the dark side?’

  ‘Some light still filters through.’

  ‘And now you want to get back into the game and you need my help to do it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re lucky, I’m between jobs at the moment. What have you got that will pay my heating and lighting bills?’

  ‘Police corruption.’

  ‘And the father of your child is the inside man?’

  ‘No, he knows nothing about it yet.’

  ‘Okay, but police corruption is nothing new.’

  ‘This is. The police aren’t working for the criminals anymore – they are the criminals. The police are running everything. Now the criminals work for the police.’

  ‘An interesting slant on things. Have you got proof?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you. I have a tip-off that something is happening tonight involving two police officers, and I need a man who knows something about cameras.’

  ‘Something! Like a whole lifetime of something, you mean?’

  ‘That will do for a start.’

  ‘I expect the police aren’t going to be happy about us filming and recording them, are they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  She told him what Fury had told her.

  ‘So, we get there early, find a vantage point, set up the equipment, record everything that happens, and then go home to get a good night’s sleep?’

  ‘Everything before the sleep.’

  ‘I knew there’d be a catch.’

  ‘They’ll be taking the money to a counting house – we need to follow them and collect more evidence.’

  ‘We’ll need a driver then?’

  ‘Yes. I was thinking of . . .’

  ‘Nate Cullen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The old team, huh?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘Do you want me to call him?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘And if Nate’s not available – Joe Hoyt?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I know he can be a temperamental bastard at times, but he’s a bloody good driver.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And you’re going to pay us?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘I want second billing on any output?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘If I add your name to anything we produce, you’ll become a target. I won’t forget you, but let’s see where this one goes first.’

  ‘I trust you’ll make things right when the time comes?’

  ‘Of course. Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘Well, if we’re dragging up past crimes . . .’

  ‘We’re not. Come and pick me up at eight o’clock.’ She gave him the address.

  ‘You still call it St Thomas’ Church?’

  ‘Whatever we call it, it’s still a church, so why change the name?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘See you at eight o’clock then?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The call ended.

  ‘I’ve got people coming within the hour,’ Duffy said.

  ‘People?’

  ‘I called Halycon Security. We’ve used them before, and they were pretty good. The last lot we used are missing two of their people because of us, so I thought they probably wouldn’t appreciate or accept another job from us.’

  ‘Yes, that was unfortunate.’

  ‘Exactly. So, three men are coming with a dog called Monty . . .’

  ‘I remember Monty. He was the German Shepherd, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. One man inside the house, and two outside with the dog. There’s a team of nine on eight-hour shifts, and another three on stand-by who can be here within seven minutes.’

  ‘Sounds reassuring. What about Monty?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Surely he’s not doing a twenty-four hour shift, is he?’

  ‘I didn’t think to ask.’

  ‘I’ll ask them when they get here.’

  ‘Okay. So, what’s happening tonight?’

  ‘You’re staying here, and I have two men picking me up at eight.’

  ‘Picking “us” up. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘We can’t leave Lucy holding the baby again.’

  ‘Quigg will be back, he can hold the baby. I’m coming with you and that’s an end to it.’

  ‘There’s no need for both of us to risk our lives.’

  ‘We both go, or neither of us goes.’

  ‘I suppose that’s settled then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Did you always want to be a police officer, Rummage?’ Quigg asked as they made their way to church.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No! I’m shocked.’

  ‘I wanted to be a missionary like my father, but something happened, which meant I couldn’t.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘You don’t need to know, Sir.’

  ‘It’s not about need, Rummage. It’s about you and me getting to know one another, so that we’re better able to work together as a team.’

  ‘No.’ />
  ‘No?’

  ‘Some things are private.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I won’t poke the elephant in the room, but we both know it’s sitting there in the corner now – watching, biding its time, waiting to pounce.’

  ‘Elephants don’t pounce.’

  ‘I’d say that was a good thing, wouldn’t you?’

  Rummage parked up outside St Ethelreda’s Church on Fulham Palace Road.

  They walked up the old flagstone path between the lop-sided eighteenth century gravestones and the ancient twisted willow trees. The hands of the church clock showed it was two fifteen.

  ‘Cremated or buried, Rummage?’

  ‘Buried.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. Cremation every time for me. I suffer from Necrophobia. The idea of lying in a coffin with a dead body makes me want to curl up and die.’

  ‘You have a fear of dead bodies?’

  ‘Since my mother made me kiss my father’s corpse goodbye at the age of eight.’

  ‘You’re either totally in the wrong job, or being a murder detective is about facing your fears through immersion therapy?’

  ‘It wasn’t a conscious decision. I sort of fell into it.’

  ‘And if you’re lying in a coffin dead, then I imagine that you’ll be the only one in that coffin, and because you’re dead you won’t be suffering from Necrophobia.’

  ‘It’ll never get that far, Rummage. Cremation all the way. There are a number of issues associated with being buried that makes me want to . . .’

  ‘Curl up and die?’

  ‘Exactly. Being buried six feet in the ground, for instance. I don’t know who’s idea that was, but it’s too far down to get out if you wake up.’

  ‘Which you won’t, because you’re dead.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. There was that case of a man waking up at his own funeral in Zimbabwe. It was in the Daily Mail, so it must be true. Also, there was the three year-old girl in the Philippines who started breathing again at her own funeral, and that was in the very believable Daily Mirror, so don’t tell me it can’t happen. They were just lucky they woke up before they were buried, but it makes you wonder how many people have woken up after they’ve been buried – you don’t hear about those cases. Can you imagine if they’d woken up after all that dirt had been shovelled on top of them? No, cremation is a must for me. And we won’t even mention the worms, centipedes and wood lice.’

  ‘You could wake up during cremation.’

  ‘If that happened, then death would be pretty quick, and warm. This cold gets right into my bones. I can imagine that the inside of a coffin, buried six-feet below ground, would be pretty cold in the winter, especially if all you have on is a suit and tie. No, I mean, if they said I had to be buried, I’d stipulate thermal long johns, thick socks and a fur-lined jacket . . . Maybe an Arctic sleeping bag and a hot water bottle for my feet.’

  ‘You should see someone, Sir.’

  They ducked under the gothic archway into the entrance alcove.

  ‘I see lots of people, Rummage. Right now, I’m going to see the vicar of St Ethelreda’s while you pray that I never get buried alive. Knock on the door.’

  Rummage turned the rusty handle and pushed the heavy wooden door open. ‘Churches usually stay open during the day.’

  ‘For sanctuary?’

  ‘For praying.’

  ‘Seems logical.’

  They walked down the central aisle, past the wooden pews, past the archways, past the statues looking at them from the walls, towards the enormous stained glass window overlooking the apse and chancel.

  There were a few people sitting at the front of the church who looked more like tramps than worshippers.

  ‘Praying for warmth, I imagine,’ he whispered to Rummage.

  A short, rotund, middle-aged vicar with a round rustic face and rheumy eyes, smiled and rubbed his hands together as they approached.

  Quigg pulled a face. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Vicar,’ he said, brandishing his Warrant Card. ‘DI Quigg and DC Rummage from Hammersmith Police Station. We’re not sinners, we’re here in search of answers.’

  ‘I’m the Reverend Maurice Golightly – Vicar of St Ethelreda’s Church, and God will provide you with all the answers you need, my son.’

  ‘I’m here to talk to you, not God. My partner will interrogate God while you’re telling me everything you know about crosses branded into the torsos of headless corpses.’

  ‘It’ll be a short conversation then – with me, not God.’

  ‘I have two dead bodies with no heads, but they do have a twelve-by-six-inch cross burned into their torsos, and a swatch of human hair clutched in their left hands – any ideas, Vicar?’

  ‘In a number of religions – Orthodox Jews, Sikhs and Muslims – for example, hair is seen as having its own unique spiritual power and energy. In the Christian faith, there’s the story of Samson and Delilah in Judges 16. When Delilah cuts off Samson’s hair, not only does he lose his strength, but he also loses his faith in God. As for decapitation, there’s the account in Mark 6: 14-29 of Saint John the Baptist being beheaded by King Herod of Galilee, which he then presents to Salome – the daughter of his mistress – on a silver platter, because she requested John’s head for criticising her mother’s marriage. In the Aztec religion, humans and animals – especially the quail – were decapitated and their blood sprinkled on the images of deities in an effort to control the annual rains for their crops. In the Hindu and Tibetan religions, human skulls symbolise that life is transitory. Death is a natural progression of life and everything moves in a circular fashion.’

  ‘What do you think, Rummage?’

  ‘I’m not getting a eureka moment.’

  ‘No, nor me. Have you finished praying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The vicar stared at her. ‘Does your faith remain intact, Constable?’

  Quigg interrupted. ‘She’s the daughter of an African missionary, Vicar.’

  The Vicar’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really?’

  Rummage pulled a face. ‘Yes. My father worked for the London Missionary Society, which is an evangelical organisation founded in England in 1795. It had missions in Africa and the South Pacific. I was born in Africa.’

  ‘Did you visit any of the islands in the South Pacific?’ Quigg asked.

  ‘Some of them – Easter Island, Tahiti, Bora Bora, the Solomon Islands and Palau, but mostly we travelled around Africa spreading the gospel.’

  ‘Tahiti! Isn’t that where the natives walk around naked?’

  The Vicar became animated and said, ‘No, no, no. You’re thinking of Bora Bora where they filmed the 1962 version of Mutiny on the Bounty with Marlon Brando.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about naked people, Vicar.’

  He laughed. ‘I know a lot about old films – I’m a bit of a film buff.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose we’d better get back to the station. Thanks for your insight, Vicar.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Inspector. I’m just sorry I couldn’t provide you with that eureka moment.’

  He began walking back towards the entrance, but didn’t hear Rummage following him, so he turned only to find her talking quietly with the vicar. ‘Are you coming, Rummage?’

  ‘I’ll be there shortly, Sir.’

  He shrugged, carried on walking out of the church and headed for the Mercedes.

  Rummage appeared a couple of minutes later and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘The station, Sir?’

  ‘Yes. What was that all about?’

  ‘Private.’

  ‘I’m not keen on all this privacy, Rummage.’

  ‘It’s still private whether you’re keen on it, or not.’

  ‘So, you were in Tahiti and Bora Bora?’

  ‘Yes, for a brief time.’

  ‘Did you walk around naked?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I was about six years old at the time.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ***

&n
bsp; As he inserted the key into the door lock of the apartment on Birdcage Walk, he knew he was five minutes late. It was very rare that he was late anywhere for anything, but today there had been some kind of delay on the underground. The train had stopped between stations for ten minutes with no explanation before, during or after the hiatus. There was nothing he could have done about it apart from exiting the train and walking along the tracks, but that was hardly an intelligent course of action for a DCI. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered about five paltry minutes, but he knew that Delilah Garrett MBE, one of the three non-executive directors of the IOPC and wife of Old Bailey Judge – Hunter Garrett, was waiting impatiently for him on the other side.

  He opened the door.

  She pounced on him. ‘You’re late.’

  There was no point in describing what had happened to make him late. She wasn’t interested in his excuses – only his body, or at least one small part of it.

  She wrestled him to the ground, undid his flies, sat astride him and pushed him into her.

  At no point in his life had he ever submitted to this kind of domination from a woman. In fact, in life generally, he was always the alpha-male in any relationship. There were two reasons why he allowed her to treat him like a sex slave. First, he loved her, and that alone gave her a get-out-of-jail-free card. Secondly, he needed her. She was his ally on the Board of the IOPC. Without her, he’d have no idea what was going on in the echelons of power.

  She still had her clothes on – a white-patterned Marc Jacobs dress that had cost over a thousand pounds, which she’d simply hoisted up to reveal a Bordelle webbed thong that had been shifted to the side, a matching suspender belt and nylon stockings. One hand was over his mouth, the other around his neck. The pressure wasn’t about to cut off his air supply, but he had to strain his neck muscles to keep his oesophagus from closing permanently.

  ‘Oh God!’ A spasm wracked her body.

  He ejaculated as well.

  She fell forward onto him, but he knew she wasn’t finished with him yet. It had been over three weeks since they’d last met at Birdcage Walk. She was hungry, and she was going to feed off him like a ravenous beast. Slowly at first, she brought him back to life until he was as hard as steel again, but then the pace quickened until she was riding him like a stallion that needed to understand who was in charge.