The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  The stories she read made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. All she knew about Briar’s imaginary friend was that his name was Henry. She needed to find out more about him. Was Henry an adult or a child? What did he look like? Did he speak to Briar? Did he ask her to do things for him? Yes, there was a lot more she needed to know. Maybe Henry was simply an imaginary friend, but maybe he was a ghost.

  Her eyelids began to feel like barbells, so she stretched out on the sofa and drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  He made his way up to the squad room to collect his duffel coat and put the Missing Persons file on his desk. There was nothing he could do with the information now, and he decided to not even open the folder. He should have been home some time ago.

  The place was dark, eerie and quiet, but he was only going to be there a minute, so he didn’t bother switching a light on. He wasn’t used to being in the squad room at this time of night, especially when there were no other people about. The job was already hard enough without working more hours than you were getting paid for. He had a life outside of work, a family . . . Well, could he call what he had a family? He guessed that families came in all shapes and sizes these days. The limited notion of a family being a married couple with two children – a boy and a girl – where the man was the breadwinner and the woman the housewife and mother, was a throwback to a past that had long since gone. Now, so long as no laws were broken, a family could be whatever people said it was, which was probably a good thing for him, because his family certainly didn’t conform to societal norms.

  ‘Hello, Quigg,’ a female voice slithered out of the darkness.

  His heart skipped a beat. ‘Who’s that?’

  The woman stood up and stepped into the dim light knifing through the window.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said, at the shadowy sight of DI Gwen Peters – if she was still a DI. ‘What do you want? Have you come back to rape me again?’

  ‘You always were a drama queen, Quigg. I didn’t hear you say “No” once, or “Stop”, or anything else for that matter. In fact, you were the most unsatisfying shag I ever had. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that I haven’t recommended you to any of my friends.’

  ‘You’ve got friends! That does surprise me. So, why are you here lurking in the dark like an assassin? You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  She passed him a photograph.

  He pressed the switch of the Anglepoise light sitting on Rummage’s desk and held the photograph under the beam. It was of a blond-haired toddler, aged about eighteen months old and smiling a mostly toothless grin for the camera.

  ‘That’s my son – Joe.’

  ‘Our son, you mean?’

  ‘Biologically, I suppose, but you’re not recorded as the father on his birth certificate.’

  ‘I’m pleased he’s fine.’

  ‘He was when the picture was taken, but he’s not fine now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She burst into heart-rending sobs. ‘Someone took him a week ago.’

  As much as he disliked her, he wasn’t a monster. He pulled Rummage’s chair out from under her desk and sat Gwen Peters down. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘I was transferred to the police station on Walney Island, Barrow-in-Furness when I left here.’

  ‘Nobody seemed to know where you’d gone. I suppose if I’d been really interested I could have found out, but I wasn’t interested. And if I’m being honest, I was glad you’d been transferred.’

  ‘I know. I was a bitch.’

  ‘Was?’

  She half-laughed. ‘All right, I still am.’

  ‘So, what do you mean: Someone took Joe a week ago?’

  ‘Joe was upstairs in bed. It was between quarter to and half-past nine on Sunday night. I was dealing with a domestic abuse case downstairs in the station . . .’

  ‘You live in the police station?’

  ‘Yes. It’s located in the middle of a row of terraced houses. In 1880, two of the houses were converted into a police station. Downstairs, there’s the front desk, an office, two cells in the back, a kitchen and a toilet. Upstairs is the living accommodation.’

  ‘Is there just you?’

  ‘Living upstairs – yes, but I have one Sergeant and three constables who live locally. Two constables were on days off, one was out doing his rounds and the Sergeant works days.’

  ‘So, you were downstairs working, one constable was out on the island pounding the beat, and Joe was upstairs asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were downstairs dealing with the domestic abuse case for about forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Constable Montgomery Sadler returned from his rounds; I made arrangements for the domestic abuse victim to be taken to a women’s shelter in Ulverston; and then I went back upstairs. I stuck my head into Joe’s bedroom to check on him, which is when I discovered he wasn’t in his bed.’

  ‘Is there always someone in the station when Joe’s there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happens if you get a call-out?’

  ‘There are women in the row of houses who get paid to come and stay with Joe if there’s ever an emergency.’

  ‘Okay, so between eight-forty-five and nine-thirty last Sunday night somebody came in and abducted Joe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did they get in?’

  ‘Through an upstairs window using a ladder.’

  ‘A ladder! They brought a ladder with them?’

  ‘No. It belonged to a man three doors away who kept it lying next to a side wall.’

  ‘Unsecured?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t get a lot of crime in Walney.’

  ‘Except domestic abuse and child abduction? You don’t think Joe could have wandered off by himself?’

  ‘He’s eighteen months old, Quigg.’

  ‘So, what did you do then?’

  ‘I called the main station in Barrow and they sent a Detective Sergeant and a forensic officer.’

  ‘They pushed the boat out for our son then?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget I’m a Detective Inspector as well.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be permitted to get involved with investigating the abduction of their own child.’

  ‘No, but I could offer advice at the crime scene.’

  ‘A distraught mother offering advice! It doesn’t bear thinking about. So, DS . . .?’

  ‘DS Lindsey Hawking and Paul Rowntree – the forensic officer – arrived within twenty minutes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, there was an investigation, but everything was a dead end. No fingerprints, footprints, hairs, fibres, DNA – nothing. Except for this placed on the bed where Joe had been sleeping. She passed him a square piece of card sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag with two words printed in capital letters on it:

  SEPTA SOL

  ‘DS Hawking thought it might be Spanish, but she didn’t really know. The forensic people said that SEPTA was a dividing wall or membrane, and that SOL was a monetary unit of Peru – none of which helped us to find Joe.’

  He stared at the two words and his stomach did a somersault. ‘No, that can’t be right,’ he said. ‘Those who aren’t dead are in prison.’

  ‘You know what the words mean?’

  ‘Yes. It’s an anagram of APOSTLES. They were a paedophile ring of twelve high-profile men that Heather Walsh and I took down eighteen months ago, but you must have known that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. After DS Hawking said she had no clues or leads to follow, and that the search for Joe had been scaled down until they received new information, I thought of you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Regardless of the fact that I hate your guts, I remembered that you were a half-decent detective.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Also, Joe is your son.’

  ‘I
wish you hadn’t left it a week before contacting me.’

  ‘What could I do? There was an investigation underway. Not only that, I’ve been a bit distraught – my brain hasn’t been working effectively.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘So, you think it’s something to do with these Apostles?’

  He held up the card. ‘I think that’s fairly obvious, but there are two problems. First, I don’t know how they could possibly have linked you and Joe to me. The person who might have known – Sir Peter Langham, who used to be the Chairman of the Independent Police Complaints Commission, committed suicide after he’d shot and killed Heather Walsh. Some stupid mortuary assistant had placed his body in the same freezer as the woman he’d just killed – my partner, so I know he was dead. Second, the other Apostles are all serving life sentences in prison.’

  ‘Maybe one or more of them has escaped?’

  ‘I’d have heard about it. You’d have heard about it.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t catch them all?’

  ‘We caught them all. There were only ever twelve of them – like the Twelve Apostles. They even used to call themselves by the original apostle’s names – Thaddeus, Bartholomew, James and so on. Anyway, they were all accounted for.’

  ‘Maybe they have family or friends who are seeking revenge?’

  ‘I can’t rule that out.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing tonight. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m not staying anywhere. I caught the train here earlier and I’m on the sleeper back to Barrow-in-Furness at ten o’clock from Paddington station.’

  ‘Oh! I thought you’d be able to help me?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Okay. Well, you know I’ll do what I can. If there’s a way to find Joe – I will. A week is a long time though. It makes me feel sick when I think of the possibilities and what those people might have done to him in a week. If I find out anything, I’ll be in contact.’

  ‘Maybe DS Hawking can help. I mean, it’s her case. And she said she’d re-activate it if new information became available. Well, this is new information, isn’t it?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  ‘Maybe she could do the legwork.’

  ‘I could certainly do with some help. Ask her to give me a call tomorrow morning. If you hit any walls, let me know and I’ll speak to the Chief here.’

  ‘Still teacher’s pet?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Please find our son, Quigg.’

  ‘You know if I can, I will.’

  She made her way out of the squad room.

  He didn’t follow her immediately, because he didn’t want to walk with her, and he imagined the feeling was mutual. In a way, he was glad she had to get back to Walney. Working with Gwen Peters was not something he ever wanted to do. DS Hawking would help him find his son . . . And Lucy, of course. The Apostles obviously had someone on the outside helping them. Well, he’d find them and make them pay for taking his son. He shrugged into his duffel coat and made his way towards the stairs.

  Chapter Ten

  Nate Cullen parked the van in Telford Terrace, which was just round the corner from Churchill Gardens Road.

  Dennis carried his beloved Canon XF300 camcorder and Nate hefted the heavy aluminium case containing the additional lenses, tapes, memory cards, filters and such like.

  Ruth and Duffy brought up the rear.

  They skirted past a foul-smelling tramp sitting on the pavement next to a metal shopping trolley that was chained to rusty railings. ‘Any loose change for a meal, mister?’ he said, holding out a filthy hand.

  Duffy handed him a five-pound note.

  ‘May the angels smile on you, beautiful lady.’

  ‘Get food with it, not drink,’ she replied.

  They climbed over the fence into St Gabriel’s Primary School. It was two stories high, had a flat asphalt roof and looked down on 14 Churchill Gardens Road, which already seemed to be a hive of activity with regular comings and goings of both males and females.

  There’d been no chance to reconnoitre the school beforehand, so they had to make it up as they went along.

  Nate passed the aluminium case to Duffy and took the lead. As an ex-burglar and an ex-guest of Wormwood Scrubs, he had a fair idea of what he was looking for. Eventually, he found a way up at the back of the kitchen, which had plastic bread baskets, steel tray trolleys that he lay on their side, and metal wheelie waste bins with brakes on the wheels. He created a set of steps that led onto one of the lower flat roofs. From there they jumped up onto the higher roof at the front of the school, which provided a vantage point they were looking for that overlooked 14 Churchill Gardens Road.

  Dennis set himself up, so that he was half-hidden behind what appeared to be a water storage tank and began checking his equipment.

  Nate moved back, so that he couldn’t be seen from the road, and had a smoke.

  Ruth and Duffy sat down behind the water tank to wait.

  It was half past nine, and they had half-an-hour until to the two corrupt police officers showed up.

  Of the five orange street lights along that part of the road only two were still working, which was good in one way, because there was less chance of being seen by the guard standing outside the house they were filming. For Dennis, however, it wasn’t good. He couldn’t make up his mind whether to use his infra-red lens or not, so he had to carry out lighting tests. Also, because the school was set back from the road, and there were trees every fifteen feet lining both sides of the road, he also had to carry out a sound test.

  ‘It’s not ideal,’ Dennis said to nobody in particular. ‘This wind will play havoc with the sound control.’

  ‘How many times have I heard those words come out of your mouth?’ Ruth said in response.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever said that.’

  ‘You say it every time we’re on an assignment.’

  ‘You make me sound like a right whiner.’

  ‘In England, don’t they say: If the cap fits?’

  ‘I don’t wear a cap.’

  ‘With that bald patch, I think you should.’

  ‘You had to mention my bald patch, didn’t you? Especially when you know how sensitive I am about it.’

  Eventually, a black Range Rover with smoked windows arrived and parked outside the house.

  Dennis began filming.

  ‘Have you got the number plate?’ Ruth said to Dennis.

  ‘Don’t worry, I know what you need.’

  Two men got out and walked up the path to where the guard was standing outside the door.

  He nodded and let them in.

  ‘They’ll be coming out soon,’ Ruth said. ‘You’d better go back down and bring the van round to the front, Nate. We don’t want to lose them.’

  Nate nodded. ‘Will do.’

  ‘You go as well, Duffy,’ she said. ‘I just want Dennis to get a full-frontal of those two men coming out of the door carrying the money, and then we’ll be following you.’

  ‘Okay. Be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  Duffy followed Nate.

  Soon enough, the two men came out.

  Dennis had a clear view of both men, and the money – if it was money, because they couldn’t actually see what was in the plastic shopping bag one of them was carrying.

  ‘Not very high-tech, is it?’ one said to the other.

  ‘The trouble with high-tech,’ the other said. ‘Is that it can be traced by more high-tech. Nobody knows about a cash-in-hand transaction, especially the taxman. I had a builder come to my house a few weeks ago, because you know I’m getting a Norwegian granny annex built for the wife’s old man?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, he was quite happy with cash-in-hand, which is good because – like you, I suppose – I’ve got a lot of cash lying around that I can’t put in a bank?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m thinking of travelling to the Isle of Man and op
ening up an account there under a different name to get rid of it.’

  ‘Might be the way to go. Anyway, this builder I was telling you about said he’d been taking cash-in-hand for twenty-seven years . . .’ He laughed. ‘Now that’s what you call a hardened criminal.’

  ‘Must have defrauded the taxman out of millions.’

  ‘But then you have to ask yourself whether that’s really a crime. I mean, the taxman! For fuck’s sake! Those robbing bastards are worse than the Russians in that house.’

  ‘Yeah . . . I hate those bastards. The more you earn, the more they take off you. What’s that all about? I mean, here we are trying to make ends meet, and all they want to do is take it off you and give it to the rich.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got one over on them now.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’

  The two men climbed back into the Range Rover.

  Dennis and Ruth scrambled off the roof, made their way to the front of the school and climbed over the fence to the van, which had pulled up with Duffy hanging out of the side door.

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure did,’ Dennis said.

  Nate set off in pursuit of the black Range Rover.

  ***

  There was a knock on the living room door.

  ‘I’m trying to sleep, numbnuts?’

  ‘There’s a man outside calling himself Quigg, says he lives here.’

  She wondered whether to deny Quigg entry. It was quarter past nine for fuck’s sake. Reluctantly she said, ‘Yeah okay, let him in.’

  After a short while he appeared. ‘What’s going on, Lucy?’