The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Yeah! Someone who hasn’t got a clue what’s going on would ask a stupid question like that. What fucking time do you call this?’

  ‘Twenty past nine. I’m a Detective Inspector, you know. Being a police officer is not a nine-to-five job where you clock-on and clock-off. I have responsibilities, cases, investigations and important things to do.’

  ‘You’re a moron if you think I believe any of that shit. You spend all your time shagging the female police officers.’

  ‘I’m shocked you would even think that. So, why have we got the guards and Monty back?’

  ‘While you’ve been sowing your seeds like a demented gardener, the shit’s been hitting the fan here. I’ve been trying to phone you all afternoon, but I may as well have called ET for all the good it did me.’

  He took out his phone. ‘Oops! I had it on silent. I was doing something important like I said, and I forgot to switch it back to normal.’

  ‘I’m gradually coming to the conclusion that you shouldn’t be let out on your own without a carer accompanying you. We should get you one of those harnesses that they put on toddlers to stop them running off. If you had a brain, it would be lonely.’

  ‘Sorry. Well, I’m here now, so you can tell me what’s been going on.’

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen. You can make me a coffee while I tell you what those idiots Ruth and Duffy have been up to.’

  ‘Okay. I could do with a coffee myself. Being a police officer is also thirsty work.’

  As they passed the guard on the way to the kitchen Lucy said, ‘Do you want a coffee, numbnuts?’

  ‘That’d be great.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m making it for you. Quigg’s the one who’s making it. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.’

  ‘Has he upset you?’ Quigg asked her.

  ‘No. You’ve upset me. I’m being nice to him.’

  ‘So, what have Ruth and Duffy done now?’

  ‘It’d be more appropriate to ask what they haven’t done. Ruth wants to get back into the newspaper game, so the two of them went over to the Victoria and Albert Museum to meet with a whistle-blower called Fury, which I doubt is his real name, who’d contacted her about a possible story.’

  ‘Oh! What’s the story about?’

  ‘Police corruption.’

  ‘WHAT!’

  ‘You heard me. And according to the whistle-blower, they’ve had no complaints of corruption against you.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not corrupt.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be unsurprised to learn that many of your colleagues at Hammersmith are.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Surely yes.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Any comment you make would be skewed in favour of your bent compatriots. Anyway, Duffy called Halycon Security, which pissed me off because I hate that mutt Monty and he hates me. Then, when they told me what they were doing, I thought I’d check that the CCTV system worked okay. It was then that I spotted a white Transit van at the end of the road with two men sitting inside the cab.’

  ‘They could have been anybody?’

  ‘Yes, they could. So, I played it by ear to start off with. First, I hacked into the V and A CCTV system and watched the meeting with the whistle-blower take place . . .’ She took the screen-grab of the other man’s face out of the back pocket of her jeans, unfolded it and held it out in front of him. ‘Any idea?’

  He examined the picture. ‘This is the whistle-blower, is it?’

  ‘No. That’s the man who witnessed the meeting and then made a phone call telling someone to follow Ruth and Duffy back here.’

  ‘Ah! No, I don’t recognise him.’

  ‘It was a long-shot. Next, I phoned a building company who specialise in panic rooms . . .’

  ‘A panic room! You’re becoming a bit paranoid, aren’t you?’

  ‘Paranoid huh! Well, I spoke to a very nice man who said that a panic room would be no trouble at all and he’d send one of his panic room engineers round to find out exactly what I needed, but guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He called me Lucy Neilson.’

  ‘That is your name.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t tell him my last name.’

  ‘So how did he know?’

  ‘For a Detective Inspector you ask some really good questions.’

  ‘It comes with practice.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to the building company at all.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Well, if they knew who I was without me actually telling them, you tell me?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘They’d intercepted my call and were pretending to be the building company.’

  ‘I see. So, who was the panic room engineer?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re a police detective? There are some people who pretend to go to work all day, but they sit in the park staring at passers-by, feeding the ducks, watching the single mothers and then they go home at the end of the day acting as if everything is normal. Are you one of those people, Quigg?’

  ‘I wish I was. That sounds like the perfect life.’

  ‘The panic room engineer was a copper.’

  ‘And you took him into your annex?’

  ‘Unlike you, I’m not stupid. I took him into Ruth’s bedroom.’

  ‘Good thinking. You didn’t mention the tunnel, did you?’

  ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t ask me that, so I don’t have to kill you. I told him what I wanted in my panic room, he did some drawings, took some pictures, planted two bugs and left.’

  ‘Two bugs?’

  ‘One in Ruth’s bedroom, so they’ll get a good view of her floppy tits and fat arse; and one in the toilet . . . I suppose they’ll get much the same view in there as well.’

  ‘I’m a bit confused.’

  ‘You have a knack for understatement.’

  ‘How did they find out that Ruth was investigating police corruption so quickly?’

  ‘My guess is that whoever the whistle-blower is, someone followed him to the V and A Museum where he met Ruth and Duffy, and then they in turn were followed back here. Once the police know where you live . . .’

  ‘They know everything about you?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I didn’t see a white Transit van when I drove in here, but then I wasn’t really looking.’

  ‘That’s because it followed Ruth and Duffy on their search for the truth about police corruption.’

  ‘They’ve gone out?’

  ‘You’re quick.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. I phoned the man who calls himself my father and we’ve come up with a plan. I’m waiting for a phone call.’

  ‘He’s going to kill police officers?’

  ‘No, that was my idea. His plan is to make them confess live on air and implicate all the dirty cops.’

  ‘I’ll be implicated by association.’

  ‘You know these corrupt cops?’

  ‘Well no, but I know you, your father, Ruth and Duffy. I’ll become a pariah, persona non grata, an outcast. People will shun me. No one will talk to me ever again.’

  ‘You’re a right wimp, Quigg. Would you rather be on their side or our side.’

  ‘Mmmm! Let me think. I’d like to know the benefits of being on each side before I make a decision.’

  ‘On their side you get to talk to as many people as you want to. On our side, you get to have lots of sex.’

  ‘Lots?’

  ‘More than you can possibly handle.’

  ‘No more talk of vasectomies?’

  ‘Not from me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He passed her two coffees.

  ‘Come and get it numbnuts,’ she shouted.

  The guard appeared.

  She pointed at the mug of coffee.

  He helped himself. ‘Thanks. Any chance the other two can get a mug?’

  She s
tared at him.

  He shrugged. ‘I guess not. I’ll give them each a sip of mine then, shall I?’

  ‘Will you fuck off? We’re trying to have a private conversation here.’

  The guard wandered out.

  ‘Okay,’ Quigg said. ‘So, where have Ruth and Duffy gone?’

  ‘Pimlico. She received a tip-off from the whistle-blower that two cops would pick up a bag of money at ten o’clock tonight and take it to a counting house, so she contacted a man she used to work with called Dennis Ford who arrived at eight o’clock with another guy – Nate Cullen – in a blue van to pick her up, and off they went with the Transit van following on behind.’

  ‘So you were right about the Transit van?’

  ‘Of course. I can smell trouble from ten miles away.’

  Quigg put his elbows on the worktop and stared into his coffee. ‘I suppose I’d better warn the Chief.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d keep your gob shut for the time being. I think we should see how this plays out before you go squealing to the Chief. I’m only telling you because Ruth thought they might try and get to her through you.’

  ‘Mmmm! You’re probably right.’

  ‘I am right. So, while Ruth and Duffy were making targets of us all, I was busy doing your research.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Follow me.’ She led him along the connecting hallway to her annex and pointed to the copy of the inventory map commissioned by the Metropolitan Board of Work in 1855 that she’d stuck on the wall next to the architect’s drawing she’d found with the Conveyance Deed. ‘I went to the Institute of Historical Research today. That map cost me fifty quid.’

  ‘I like old maps. There’s something antique and obsolete about them. Do you know that some people use them as wall hangings, like pieces of art? Are you going to get it framed?’

  ‘It’s an old map of Copperfield Street, Quigg.’ She pointed to the street. ‘Numbers 1 to 89, which is both sides of the street, were designed and built by an architect called Sir Horace Jones, who actually died in 1850, and was succeeded by his son – Robert. According to the person I spoke to, 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.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘So, I’ve got an appointment at the Victoria and Albert Museum tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’

  ‘To see the whistle-blower?’

  ‘You’re not paying attention, are you?’

  ‘It’s been a long day doing a lot of those important things I was telling you about.’

  ‘Forget about the whistle-blower, we’ve moved off that topic. Now, we’re talking about 66 Copperfield Street.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sir Horace Jones – the architect – remember him?’

  ‘He built Copperfield Street?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, he donated his records to the V and A when he snuffed it, which are stored in the Henry Cole Wing on Cromwell Road in South Kensington.’

  ‘And you’re going there tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What for again?’

  ‘To find out who originally bought the house. It should also give us some information about the land the houses were built on. Maybe they were built on the site of an old plague pit, or a Druid burial ground.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ve also submitted a request form to the Land Registry to find out the previous owners of 66 Copperfield Street, but that could take a week or more.’

  ‘Uh huh!’

  ‘I then checked out Regina and Stanley Humblin, but found nothing relevant on them, except the name Morpeth means “murder path”. There was nothing on the internet about Regina’s dark paintings either. And I also did some digging on imaginary friends. We need more information on Briar’s imaginary friend – Henry.’

  ‘More information?’

  ‘How old is he? Adult or child? What does he look like? What type of clothes does he wear? Does he ask her to do things? How does she contact him? That type of things. It might be that Henry is a ghost. There are some really spooky stories of imaginary friends being ghosts out there.’

  ‘So you were right all along?’

  ‘You should never have doubted me.’

  He leaned in and kissed her neck.

  She backed up. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought wrong. The children are asleep at the other end of the house, there’s a guard in the corridor and I’m waiting for a phone call.’

  ‘So all your promises of more sex than I can possibly handle . . .?’

  ‘People don’t have sex during a crisis, Quigg.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Because they don’t want to get caught with their pants down.’

  ‘I have news for you as well.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I had a phone call from the renowned psychiatrist Professor Alice Neuville.’

  ‘It’s about time you saw someone.’

  ‘We spoke about Regina’s dark art. I sent her copies of the pictures and she said she’d take a look at them and get back to me.’

  ‘We’ve made some headway today then?’

  ‘We have. Also, there’s this . . .’ He passed her the square card in the evidence bag that was left on Joe’s bed.

  She took it from him, stared at the two words and said, ‘You’re fucking joking?”

  He knew she’d decipher it straightaway. She had a brain like a computer, which was why she was so good with computers. ‘I was given that by DI Gwen Peters tonight. The woman who . . .’

  ‘So you said, but I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Well, she was waiting for me in the squad room. Someone abducted her son . . . our son, Joe last Sunday night from his bedroom above the police station on Walney Island in Barrow-in-Furness and left that on his bed.’

  ‘Langham’s dead and the rest of the bastards are still in prison, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m hoping I’ll have a Detective Sergeant from Barrow tomorrow, who conducted the original investigation, to help me search for Joe, but your help would also be invaluable, Lucy.’

  ‘That’s what we kept the money for, wasn’t it? You know I’m going to help you, Quigg. We’ll find out who these paedophile bastards are and get Joe back.’

  Her phone vibrated.

  ***

  Jack Neilson was sitting on the flagstone pavement with his back against a rusty metal fence along the street from 14 Churchill Gardens Road. Next to him was his metal shopping trolley that had all his worldly goods inside – plastic bags full of squashed metal cans; plastic bottles; clothes that people had left at the side of the steel clothes bank . . . Old packs of meat that he’d reclaimed from the bins at the back of the local supermarket, and which smelled like a rotting corpse. Even on a cold November night, it was attracting a lot of flies, and maggots had already taken up residence in the flesh. It would certainly deter anybody from looking inside his trolley, because underneath all the garbage was where he kept his Glock-19, sawn-off shotgun, spare magazines and other essential equipment.

  He saw Ruth and Duffy follow two men round the corner of Telford Terrace.

  ‘Any loose change for a meal, mister?’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Duffy handed him a five-pound note.

  He smiled, showing his blackened teeth. ‘May the angels smile on you, lady.’

  ‘Get food with it,’ she advised him. ‘Not drink.’

  He grunted as he watched them enter the grounds of St Gabriel’s Primary School. Even if he wanted to, there was no way he’d get much in the way of drink with five pounds these days.

  The white Ford Transit van pulled up further along the road. The headlights went off.

  He needed to
know how many were in the van, so he waited until they were heading towards him hugging the fence and hiding in the shadows. There were five men wearing balaclavas, black coveralls, bullet-proof vests with POLICE emblazoned on the front and back, and carrying a variety of handguns with silencers attached. As far as any passer-by was concerned, this was just another police operation – a regular occurrence in the East End of London.

  ‘Any loose change for a meal, mister?’ he said, holding out his filthy hand.

  The five men ignored him, but covered their noses as they shuffled past. ‘Jesus!’ one of them said. ‘Someone should put the fucker out of his misery.’

  He followed them silently, and had taken out the last two before they’d even reached the school fence. If this had been a sanctioned operation, they’d all be dead by now, but it wasn’t. He needed them all alive, so he was using a stun gun. It was quick and easy, but he had to get up close and personal. Not that he minded, but it was obviously that much harder and more likely to go wrong. As it happened though, nothing went wrong. They were so concerned with what lay ahead of them, they forgot to look behind.

  It took him some time to carry each of the five police officers back to the white Transit van. He threw them into the back and put restraints on their wrists and ankles, but eventually he’d completed the task.

  After recovering the unneeded military hardware from the shopping trolley, which he left chained to the fence, he climbed into the driver’s cab of the Transit van and set off in the direction of Dolphin Square.

  He turned onto Grosvenor Road, used Vauxhall Bridge to cross the River Thames, turned right onto the A3036 and then followed Nine Elms Lane past the United States Embassy and turned off into Cringle Street, which led to an abandoned warehouse not far from the loading dock. He drove the Transit van through a vehicular entrance into the warehouse and closed the metal roller door behind him with a clanking chain.

  The warehouse used to employ local people who made tractors and other farming appliances, if the faded sign above the entrance was to be believed. There were twisted pieces of rusting machinery and the air was damp with the industrial tang of oil, rust and metal. A few puddles of water lay on the concrete floor where the rain had penetrated the decrepit roof.

  Neilson switched the engine of the Transit van off, but left the headlights on to light what he was doing. He’d already found and arranged half-a-dozen old tubular chairs and a table earlier. Now, he opened up the back doors of the van and unceremoniously dragged each man out by the feet, sat them on a chair, taped their ankles to the tubular legs of the respective chairs using duct tape, and then put a rope around their necks that he looped over a metal beam and tied off. Any attempt at escaping from the chairs would result in a premature hanging.