The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  He ejaculated first this time.

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ she hissed as she shuddered like an electricity pylon in a hurricane. Sweat dripped down her face, ran into her cleavage and drenched her dress. Breathing heavily, she flopped on top of him.

  After a handful of minutes she said, ‘In the shower,’ and pushed herself up.

  He followed her, stepping over the clothes she’d simply dropped on the floor, and adding his own. They both had a change of clothes in the bedroom wardrobe.

  The shower was hot, just how he liked it.

  She put her hands on the tiled wall, opened her legs and closed her eyes while he soaped her. At thirty-nine, she wasn’t in the first flush of youth, but her body was still lithe and hard, her small breasts firm and her arse free of cottage cheese pitting.

  It didn’t take his erection long to find a foothold again, and once it did he took her from behind. This time though, he was in control, but only because she allowed him to be.

  Afterwards, when they were in bed, she sat cross-legged half-way down facing him and took a drag of the cigarette he’d lit for her. ‘What’s this problem you dragged me half-way across London for?’

  ‘I didn’t hear any complaints about you being dragged here kicking and screaming a moment ago.’

  ‘That was then, this is now. Let’s not confuse work with pleasure.’

  ‘I thought that’s exactly what we were doing?’

  ‘There’s a clear dividing line. Don’t ever forget that, Vic.’

  He took a drag of his own cigarette. She wasn’t going to give an inch. Was his love reciprocated? He had no idea. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, and maybe it was merely about the sex. She’d made it quite clear where he stood in the pecking order by refusing to leave her husband. And if their relationship was ever made public, he had no doubt she’d stay with the Judge if he’d still have her.

  ‘John Lupton.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  Lupton was the Clerk to the Committees. Everything went across his desk. He was the central cog at the IOPC. Without him, it would all grind to a halt. Of course, he had a deputy – Andrea Hicks – but she was paddling like crazy just to keep her head above water. John Lupton was the one person who saw everything that was worth seeing. If there were any dots to connect, then Lupton was quick and intelligent enough to do it.

  ‘As a precaution, we monitor his phone calls.’

  ‘That’s illegal.’

  He smiled. ‘I know, but we do it anyway.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He arranged to meet a women at the V and A, said he had something for her.’

  ‘And you were there?’

  ‘Yes. Two women turned up.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I’m waiting for a phone call. One of my men followed them.’

  On cue, his phone vibrated.

  He picked the phone up from the bedside table. ‘Thackeray.’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this, Sir,’ Pratt said.

  ‘Try me?’

  ‘After the two women had lunch, I followed them to a converted church called St Thomas’ on Godolphin Road in Shepherd’s Bush. One of them is called Ruth Lynch, and she’s an investigative reporter; the other one is Mavourneen Duffy, who used to be a constable at Hammersmith Police Station until she got pregnant and left.’

  ‘So, what’s not to believe?’

  ‘I haven’t got to the good part yet.’

  ‘Go on then?’

  ‘They live there with another woman – a hacker – called Lucy Neilson and between the three of them they have four children.’

  ‘No man?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station.’

  ‘Quigg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. The Police Commissioner thinks the sun shines out of his arse because he’s solved a couple of difficult cases.’

  ‘All cases are difficult.’

  ‘The proverbial nail on the head. So, he lives at this converted church in a commune with three women and four kids?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Are all the kids his?’

  ‘I expect so, but without running DNA tests . . .’

  ‘Sounds like a right crazy bastard.’

  ‘Doesn’t he? Anyway, I’m standing outside the old church like a sinner who’s afraid to go in, and guess what?’

  ‘Just tell me, Pratt.’

  ‘Oh, okay! Well, a black transit van with Halycon Security plastered on the side pulls up and out jump three security guards with a German Shepherd. They’re guarding the place now – one at the entrance with the dog, one walking the grounds and one inside.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘They didn’t spot you following them, did they?’

  ‘You know me better than that, Gov.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He wondered whether it was connected to what Lupton had told them, or something else entirely.

  ‘What’s the plan then, Sir?’

  ‘Get a couple of guys to relieve you. If Lynch leaves, I want to know where she goes, who she sees and what she’s up to. Also, you’d better tell your relief to bring some wheels. If she leaves in a car, they’ll be buggered if they can’t follow her.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘We have a tap on singing Charlie’s phone, so if he calls her we’ll know.’

  ‘Wait . . . Jesus!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A young female has just turned up and she doesn’t look happy. I’m guessing that it’s the hacker – Neilson. The dog looks as though it wants to tear her limb from limb . . . I’ll call you back, Gov.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Well?’ Delilah asked.

  ‘Lupton must have connected up some dots and decided to become a whistle-blower.’ He told her what Pratt had said.

  ‘I’ll try and find out what Lupton thinks he knows,’ she said.

  ‘You’d better make it quick, because we’ll have to silence him before things get out of hand.’

  She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Maybe we could find something incriminating on Quigg.’

  ‘Maybe we could, but it doesn’t eliminate the problem of Lupton, does it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. You’ll make it look like an accident, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. It’ll be a bit more difficult with Lynch and Duffy, but we’ll work something out.’

  ‘You always do,’ she said, stretching her leg out and massaging his penis with her surprisingly supple toes. ‘In the meantime, we have unfinished business.’

  ‘Do your worst, Delilah Garrett,’ he said, lying back on the silk pillow.

  ***

  Lucy eyeballed the man dressed in black coveralls, military boots and an un-shaped black beret perched on his head like a tea cosy. ‘Who’re you?’ she aimed at him.

  His lip curled up. ‘More to the point, who’re you?’

  ‘Never mind who I am. Last time I checked this wasn’t a police state. So get the fuck out of my way, and you’d better hold on tight to that scruffy mutt as well.’

  ‘He seems to like you.’

  The dog bared its teeth and growled at her.

  ‘Yeah, I can see that. I hate fucking dogs.’

  ‘So, if you want to come in here, you’ll have to tell me who you are.’

  ‘I live here, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  He unhooked the radio from his military-style canvas belt and spoke into it. ‘I’ve got someone called Lucy here.’

  ‘Wait out,’ came back to him.

  The guard stared at her, licked his lips and proffered a false smile.

  ‘Does she swear a lot?’ the disembodied voice asked.

  ‘Like a navvy.’

  ‘Okay, you can let her in.’

  He hooked the radio back onto h
is belt and yanked the dog back. ‘We have to let her pass, Monty. I know you don’t want to, but that’s what we have to do. I understand exactly what you’d like to do to her, and given half the chance, I’d be joining you, but rules are rules and we get paid for following the rules.’

  ‘Is that dog called Monty?’

  ‘After the Field Marshall not the golfer.’

  ‘And you’re from Halycon Security?’

  ‘Famous at last.’

  ‘I remember that fucking mutt, not you. I called your company in the last time we had trouble. But why are you here now? And why have you brought that fucking mutt with you?’

  ‘The simple answer to your question, is that we’re guarding you. Any explanation beyond that is above my meagre pay grade. Monty obviously remembers you, so you can feel reassured he’s on your side and will do his utmost to keep you safe in your bed at night. Won’t you, Monty?’

  Monty snarled at her.

  ‘That fucking mutt should be put in a high-security kennel. Just make sure you keep it on the lead and away from me.’ She edged round the dog, made her way to the front door and let herself in.

  Another man – unshaven, with a corrected hair-lip and short spiky hair – stared at her, but didn’t smile or say hello.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she spat at him.

  He grunted under his breath.

  ‘Somebody has some explaining to do,’ she called as she made her way into the living room.

  ‘Hello, Lucy,’ Duffy said.

  ‘Don’t “Hello, Lucy” me. What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘Come and sit down and I’ll tell you.’

  Lucy sat next to Duffy and listened to what they’d been doing all morning and what they were planning to do later.

  ‘You’re fucking crazy.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Does Quigg know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘He’s going to go ape-shit! I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw you both out on your ears. I’ll have the whole place to myself – peace and quiet at last. And I can’t believe you asked those wankers from Halycon Security to come back, and that you let them bring that fucking mutt Monty with them.’

  ‘Ruth is doing a good thing, Lucy.’

  ‘She’s going to get us all killed.’

  ‘She’ll need money.’

  ‘To pay for our funerals, no doubt.’

  ‘We’ll be all right.’

  ‘We’ll all be dead.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘She’s not happy,’ Duffy said to Ruth.

  Ruth pulled a face. ‘Is Lucy ever happy?’

  ‘That’s not a nice thing to say.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. She’s just . . . No, it’s not about Lucy – it’s about me. I don’t know whether I should take this story on, or not.’

  Duffy stared at her. ‘Haven’t I heard you say that you have to go where the stories are?’

  ‘It sounds like something I would say. I’m sure I used to believe passionately in that, but I don’t just have myself to think about anymore, do I? There’s you, Quigg, Lucy and the children . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘Not to mention Janet and Amanda. I always wanted to report the truth and hopefully bring about positive change. If I can’t do that, then there doesn’t seem to be much point in being an investigative journalist. If reporters aren’t willing to take the risks anymore, then it’s a betrayal of all those who have died searching out the truth, and evil will have won, won’t it?’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me, Ruth. I believe you . . . we should do it. I joined the police force to fight evil, but if I can’t do it as a police officer, then I can join your fight. And police corruption seems like the type of evil I should be fighting against.’

  ‘We have everything ready for tonight. Dennis and Nate will be arriving at eight o’clock in the van; we know where we’re going; the security guards are here and have been told not to let any police officers inside except for Quigg; Lucy will be here in case any of the children wake up; and we should let Quigg make the final decision – we’ll speak to him when he comes home.’

  Duffy pulled a face. ‘If he arrives home in time. Yes, Quigg has to decide. I expect, once they find out who we are, they’ll try and get to you through Quigg, so he’ll need to know what we’re doing.’

  Ruth stood up. ‘I’m going into my room to get some rest before tonight.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Duffy said. ‘I might do the same.’

  In her room, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes, but sleep was a long way out of reach. In the end, she decided to get up and do some preparatory research on corruption in general and more specifically on police corruption. Was Fury right? Did everyone have their price? On the face of it, the question appeared straightforward – if you offered someone enough money, would they eventually agree to act dishonestly? But the question wasn’t straightforward at all, because “price” didn’t necessarily mean financial gain. If the question was: “What do people desire?”, then the price could be anything. For example, sex, medical treatment, a hard-to-come-by drug, a place on a course . . . The possibilities were endless.

  And if everyone had their price, did that mean humans were inherently greedy and dishonest? Was corruption endemic in society, and as a natural consequence was every organisation corrupt, which included the police force? Or, were there just a few bad apples in the barrel?

  She began to make notes and map out how she might approach a series of articles about police corruption. It wasn’t simply a matter of writing about the police corruption in action she would be a witness to – there was a lot more an investigative reporter needed to think about other than the bare facts.

  Sitting at her computer, she carried out a simple internet search for “police corruption” and found a long list of examples. These included – handling stolen goods; fraudulent overtime claims; stealing money during a search; taking bribes; sexual assault; non-sexual assault; irregularity of evidence; perjury; improper disclosure of information . . . the list went on and on. It was hardly a “few bad apples” in the barrel. People would do anything for the right kind of inducement. She was surprised that the Metropolitan Police Service had any officers left to police the capital. Many of those accused of corruption appeared to have been suspended on full pay while the allegation of corruption was being investigated, or they were permitted to retire without any further action being taken. Not only did police corruption appear to be endemic as Fury had said, but the process of investigating each allegation was costing the taxpayer a fortune.

  What made police officers, with previously spotless records, begin to engage in unethical and immoral behaviour? What caused them to be tempted by the dark side? How did they rationalise this behaviour with who they were as a person, and the high standards they were meant to be upholding in their jobs?

  According to the literature, people used various strategies to justify their actions. For example, because there was no victim there was no crime; they were forced to do it by others or circumstance; nobody was hurt, so there was no crime; minimising their behaviour by comparing it to others’ more serious behaviour; they did it for the greater good; it was the victim’s own fault; the victim isn’t one of us, so therefore it’s all right; and everybody is corrupt – if you can’t beat them, join them.

  She suspected that there was no simple answer. People were complex and multifaceted. There were probably as many answers to the question as there were people. Traditional corruption was defined by personal gain, but there was also something called “noble cause corruption” where police officers acted unethically or illegally for a just cause – the means justified the ends.

  Based on what Fury had already said, she doubted very much that they were acting for the greater good. Moving the proceeds of a trafficking and prostitution racket to a central counting house smacked of personal gain to her. Over the fullness of time “helping others” appears to have transmogrified into “helping themselves”.

>   Corruption appeared to lie on a scale from small to large, with endemic corruption being the result of weaknesses inherent in an organisation or process. Was that the problem? Was the police force an organisation where corruption was the rule rather than the exception? Organisational weaknesses included conflicting incentives; discretionary powers; lack of transparency; low pay; and a culture of impunity.

  In the end, it started with the individual. As Simon Wiesenthal had once said: “For evil to flourish, it only requires good men to do nothing.” Well, she wasn’t a man, and neither was she going to do nothing. Here was a story – a wrong that needed righting. If she didn’t write it, somebody else would. Danger was simply a facet of the job. She’d known that when she’d signed on the dotted line.

  Her eyelids were heavy. She lay down on the bed again and closed her eyes. This time, Hypnos – the Greek goddess of sleep welcomed her with open arms.

  ***

  ‘I’m going to Missing Persons, Rummage,’ Quigg said. ‘While I’m there, I want you to carry out a database search for any murders that involved decapitation and/or branding. Also, try to find out from somewhere if there’s a record of attempted suicides during the previous six months in Chiswick.’

  ‘Somewhere! Where?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Where do attempted suicides go? Use your initiative.’

  ‘The hospital, I suppose.’

  ‘Start there then.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Are we briefing the Chief?’

  ‘I’m briefing the Chief at three-thirty. You’ll be doing what I’ve asked you to do, and then preparing the Incident Room for our meeting with Perkins.’

  ‘At four o’clock?’

  ‘You’ll make somebody a fine secretary one day.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  He made his way down to Missing Persons. Due to the cut-backs, austerity programme and habitual belt-tightening, it was now tucked away at the end of a corridor full of storerooms and empty offices on the second floor, which used to be a thriving metropolis, but now resembled a ghost town.