The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Do you have copies of the pictures?’

  ‘On my phone.’

  ‘Send them to me on this number.’

  ‘All right. I’m no expert . . .’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘But I was thinking it might be a split personality.’

  ‘So, you don’t want my help?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Surely not if you’ve made a diagnosis already.’

  ‘Well, no. It was merely an educated guess.’

  ‘You stick to murder, Inspector Quigg. Leave the mind games to me.’

  He decided he already didn’t like her. Too full of her own self-importance for his liking. ‘Will do, Professor.’

  ‘Once you’ve sent the pictures to me, I’ll take a look at them and we’ll go from there. It might very well be that I’ll have to meet this woman in person, but I’ll know more once I’ve seen the pictures. I’ll be in contact.’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ he said politely.

  The call ended.

  He sent her the pictures one at a time – it took him ten minutes.

  It was bound to be a split personality. What else could it be?

  Chapter Eight

  She printed off the questionnaire. What features did she want in her panic room? There was a long list of suggestions. All she had to do was tick the relevant boxes and the world could be her panic room.

  Not that money was an obstacle, but guide prices would have been useful. She felt like a child given a free run in a sweetie shop. However, there were some things that were essential requirements such as internal bulletproof fibre-glass walls, ceiling and shutters for the windows; soundproofing; plumbing; the ability to remotely control the rest of the house from the panic room; internal CCTV surveillance with monitors; armoured cabling for a separate phone line; a generator; ventilation; an air-filtration system; oxygen and masks; drinking water – a gallon per person per day was the guide; food; weapons; first aid kit; torches and batteries; ham radio equipment; sanitation supplies; blankets; condoms . . .

  Yes, her shopping trolley was overflowing. If she kept everything she wanted there’d be no room for her, Duffy, Ruth and the ankle biters. Quigg could make his own fucking arrangements. And then there was the escape tunnel. If everything else failed, they needed to be able to get out. The worst feeling in the world was being trapped with nowhere left to go – she’d had experience of that and she didn’t want to go there again.

  She checked her watch. Randy Gerber would be here soon with her doner . . . It hit her then like a smack in the face with a wet fish. She’d never told Hugh Ambrose her second name. She replayed their conversation back in her mind, but the closest he’d got to her last name was when she gave him her email address. No, she’d never actually said – Lucy Neilson, so how had he known?

  Her call must have been intercepted – it was the only answer. She thought she was talking to Hugh Ambrose from Formby Building and Joinery, but instead she was talking to someone – probably a police officer – sitting in the van at the end of the road. The bastards had reeled her in hook, line and sinker. Randy Gerber – probably another police officer – would arrive imminently with her doner kebab and double chilli sauce; she’d welcome him into her home, her sanctuary; tell him all the house’s intimate details; he’d make drawings; take photographs; measure everything; identify the weaknesses; the bastards would know the exact layout of the church when they came in to kill them all . . . Fuck’s sake!

  The question now was: What the fuck was she going to do about it? If she didn’t let him in, they’d know something was wrong and she wouldn’t get her doner kebab. She also couldn’t give him an excuse such as a family emergency, because they were at the end of the road watching . . . No, she had to let him in, play along, discuss her panic room requirements. She’d already told them she was expecting uninvited guests, but she hadn’t said who or when. It wasn’t too late to play that down; provide a reason to delay the modifications for a week or so. She certainly couldn’t let them come in tomorrow and start working on her panic room – that would be stupid.

  She left the annex and walked along the corridor to the lobby. ‘Hey, numbnuts!’ she said to the security guard slouched in the chair opposite the front door.

  He grunted.

  ‘Tell your mate on the gate that I’m expecting a Randy Gerber from Formby Building and Joinery soon, and to let him in. He’ll have an offering of a doner kebab with double chilli sauce, which belongs to me. So I don’t expect anybody to start poking or fingering my kebab – get your fucking own.’

  She walked through the lounge – it was empty, so she continued on to Ruth’s room and let herself in.

  ‘Closed doors are for knocking on,’ Ruth said, stretching.

  Lucy took a running jump and bounced on the bed. ‘They’re also for opening.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Time to listen with Lucy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a van at the end of the road with two men – probably police officers – sitting in the cab, and I’m betting a few more pigs in the back. Or, maybe there’s another van full of communications equipment somewhere close by.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Yes. Just listen. It’s likely they already knew about the whistle-blower, followed you and Duffy back here from the V and A, and now know who you are. There’s a man coming here with a doner kebab soon, so we haven’t got much time. I thought I might turn my annex into a panic room, so that we’d be safe in the event of a police raid, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain that when I called a building company to talk about the possibility, the call was intercepted. Of course, I didn’t know at the time, so I agreed that someone could come round to discuss what was needed . . .’

  ‘And he’ll be a dirty police officer?’

  ‘Now we’re talking the same language. Anyway, I don’t want him to see the annex, so that he can get the layout of the place, I want to bring him in here . . .’

  ‘Where will I sleep while the building work is going on?’

  ‘They say that having a baby makes you stupid.’

  ‘What . . .? Oh! You’re just pretending this is your annex?’

  ‘Exactly. If they ever get into the house, they’ll come in here, but we’ll all be in my annex safe and sound.’

  ‘I should stop doing what I’m doing, shouldn’t I?’ Ruth said. ‘With a baby, you, Quigg, Duffy and the children, I can’t do these type of stories anymore, can I?’

  ‘It’s too late for that now. You met with the whistle-blower. They might or might not know what he told you, but they do know he told you something. They know who you are, what you do and where you live. They also know that Lucy Neilson lives here, so I’m guessing they already know everything about us. Whatever the whistle-blower told you is obviously true, otherwise they wouldn’t be staking out the place and intercepting my phone calls. And anyway, we have an advantage.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They don’t know that we know they know.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re going to play along with the man from the building company?’

  ‘Yes. When you leave at eight o’clock tonight, my guess is that they’re going to follow you. If they do, I’ll make a phone call.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that. I have a plan. But in the meantime, you need to shift your fat arse out of my annex. Go and slob about in the living room, or the kitchen, while I stuff myself with doner kebab and explain to my guest exactly what features I require in my panic room.’

  ‘I haven’t got a fat arse.’

  ‘Your arse is exactly the reason I make Quigg wear a condom.’

  Ruth’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’ve been having sex with Quigg?’

  ‘Me? No! You must be confusing me with the dancing girls he gets in from time to time.’

  There was a knock on the bedroom door.

  ‘What?’ Lucy called.

&nb
sp; ‘There’s a Mister Gerber here with a doner kebab for Lucy,’ a man’s voice said.

  ‘Coming, numbnuts.’

  They made their way out of the bedroom.

  Ruth went to the kitchen.

  Lucy welcomed Randy Gerber at the front door.

  He was a blonde-haired man in his late thirties with bright blue eyes, a wide smile, a briefcase in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.

  ‘I take it that’s my doner kebab with double chilli sauce?’ she said.

  He handed it over. ‘You take it right.’

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, leading him through the living room and into her temporary annex as she unwrapped her kebab and took a bite. God, all this skulduggery had made her bloody famished.

  ***

  Rummage came in and sat down at the table. ‘Inspector Wright had a squad car near 14 Berrymede Road in Bedford Park, so they made a detour and we connected via bodycam. Gerald Bishop’s wife said he’s been in hospital for over a week with a badly broken femur playing Sunday football. The hospital confirmed that he’s in no fit state to go anywhere under his own steam. His wife also said, that because there’s no parking outside their house, her husband is forced to park the truck in a side road, so neither of them noticed it was missing.’

  ‘So, the one lead we had has come to nothing?’

  ‘That’s right, although I have initiated a search for the van.’

  ‘Okay. You can go home now, Rummage.’

  ‘Oh! And Inspector Wright asked if you could go and see her.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘Are you going home as well?’

  ‘Soon. I need to pop into Missing Persons first, and now I also have to see Inspector Wright.’

  Rummage stood up. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Sir.’

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  She left and shut the door behind her.

  He checked his watch – it was five-to-five. Nichola Wright probably wanted to update him on her trip to the doctor’s, so he’d pay her a quick visit before he went to Missing Persons. If Sergeant Sage had her way, paying the balance of what he owed her could take some time.

  On his way down the stairs, he wondered what had happened with Miss Tinkley. Had she been able to recover the slip of paper from the Chief’s floor? Or had the Chief found it and read it? Surely the Chief would have called him into his office if he’d found the piece of paper, wouldn’t he? Or would he? He had no idea what Miss Tinkley had written on the paper, so he had no way of knowing what the Chief would do. Maybe Miss Tinkley had written her message to him in code and the Chief hadn’t been able to decipher it. If that was the case, why did Miss Tinkley nearly have a heart attack when he said he’d dropped it in the Chief’s office? He guess he’d find out in the morning when he went to brief the Chief before the press briefing.

  He knocked on Nichola Wright’s door and went in.

  ‘Quigg!’ she said. ‘It’s about time you came to see me.’

  ‘I’ve been busy – a murder. In fact, two murders . . . and no leads. What did the doctor say at the check-up?’

  ‘He was astounded. Wants to document the case and write a peer-reviewed journal article.’

  ‘I mean, how are you – physically and psychologically?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. I feel like a woman half my age.’

  ‘You look like a woman half your age. So, he was quite happy with your progress?’

  ‘Definitely. I had a scan.’

  ‘And was the baby all right?’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘Yes – the baby? I mean, you are having a baby and not an alien, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes! I’m having a baby, and they were all in excellent health.’

  ‘Good . . . All!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does “All” mean exactly?’

  She grinned like the cat who had stolen all the cream. ‘Five babies – quintuplets.’

  Quigg flopped into the chair in front of her desk. ‘Five!’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Five! How is that even possible?’

  ‘You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re not going to do anything. As for me, I have some savings, and I’m going to take early retirement to become a full-time stay-at-home mother. Also, I’ll get Child Benefit, and I’ve been investigating sponsorship from some of the baby companies – clothes, milk, toys, cots and so on.’

  ‘I can help.’

  ‘The only help I need is for you to come to my house at ten o’clock on Saturday morning to do some odd jobs.’

  ‘Odd jobs?’

  ‘Odd jobs will be a thing of the past soon.’

  ‘Ah! So, how many weeks are you?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Nearly two months.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When do you have to stop odd-jobbing?’

  ‘Eight months, three weeks and six days.’

  ‘We have a bit of time yet then?’ He stood up. ‘Look after yourself and the babies, Nichola. If you need anything – other than odd jobs – you know where I am and what my number is.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And I’ll see you on Saturday at ten.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting with the odd job list.’

  He made his way to Missing Persons. Five babies! Quintuplets! Where did they come from? As far as he knew, there was no history of multiple births in his family, not even twins. And yet, Edie Golden had given him the twins – Lily-Rose and Dylan; Aryana in Canada had given birth to the triples – Evie, Ava and Noah; and now Nichola Wright was having quintuplets. Whatever next? Or, how many more next?

  He tapped on the stippled glass and tried the handle, but the door was locked.

  ‘In here, Inspector,’ Sergeant Ada Sage called from behind him.

  ‘Oh!’ He turned and walked back along the corridor to what had previously been an empty office. ‘What’s going on, Sergeant?’

  ‘Rentokil.’

  ‘Is he still in there?’

  ‘No. He went ages ago, but he said the chemical spray would take twenty-four hours to do its work, and pregnant women shouldn’t be breathing in any residue.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, you’re here just in time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To prevent me from passing your outstanding debt onto a debt collection agency. The time limit on the quickie has expired and the full balance is overdue – interest is accruing.’

  ‘I’m here to pay the full amount – accrued interest included.’

  ‘Good, because I plan to count every last halfpenny. I don’t want to feel as though I’ve been short-changed, ripped-off, or fleeced as soon as you walk out of the door.’

  ‘I won’t cheat you of your just desserts, Sergeant. I always pay my debts in full. Sometimes, I even leave a tip. Did you find out anything on my two murder victims?’

  ‘There’s a file on the desk behind me, but we have to go via the Emergency Mattress Store to get to it.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She locked her new office, led him to the mattress store, pushed him inside and closed the door.

  He put his phone on silent.

  A fractured dull light entered the room through the stippled glass window in the door, and he noticed that two mattresses had been laid on the floor one on top of the other in preparation for the payment of his debt – and accrued interest.

  ‘Take your clothes off.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm.’

  He stripped off. ‘Socks as well?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  The socks went.

  She disrobed.

  They were both standing there naked.

  He was impressed by her hourglass figure. It was a bit early for any baby-bump.

  ‘I see you’ve come prepared,’ she sai
d, taking him in both hands.

  ‘Dib, dib, dib.’

  ‘You might even get an activity badge for this.’

  ‘Something to aim for.’

  She pushed him backwards with her little finger and then fell on top of him.

  The first time was a bit hurried, but no less satisfying for all that. The second and third times were slow, rhythmic and intense. They had a little nap between three and four, and the fourth time was the best of all.

  ‘Debt paid?’ he enquired.

  ‘You do realise it’s a recurring debt, don’t you?’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Monthly?’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘I’m sure I could split the difference and pay fortnightly without bankrupting the treasury.’

  ‘Fortnightly would be acceptable?’

  ‘In here?’ he enquired.

  She nodded. ‘Nobody knows about this place, and I do have a key.’

  The thought of it made him hard. He flipped her over, entered her from behind and massaged her breasts.

  ‘Is this the tip?’

  ‘I have in mind to give you slightly more than a tip,’ he said, thrusting deep inside her.

  Afterwards, he happened to glance at his watch and saw that it was twenty to eight. ‘I think it’s time we both went.’

  ‘I need a shower,’ she said. ‘We could both go to the ladies locker room. You could scrub my back and I could scrub yours?’

  ‘The last time I did that, somebody brought a case of sexual harassment against me, and I’m still paying the price.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’