The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

‘I’ll give it some serious thought, Mandy.’

  ‘You do that, ‘Spector.’

  She wiggled her backside at him and left.

  He opened the small envelope. Inside, was the slip of paper Christie Tinkley had passed him yesterday morning that he’d dropped in the Chief’s office:

  I can do your photocopying at ten-thirty.

  CT

  He didn’t need any photocopying doing. Mmmm! Maybe photocopying was the code word for sex. But that was yesterday. Did it still apply today? He called Miss Tinkley’s number.

  ‘The Chief’s secretary.’

  ‘Can I still get my photocopying done at ten-thirty today?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘I’ll bring everything I have.’

  ‘All right.’

  He put the phone back in its cradle. Finally, today was the day he’d consummate with Christie Tinkley.

  In the meantime, he had other things to think about and opened the file Sergeant Sage had given him. There were two Missing Person reports. The first was for a 53 year-old male called Lucien Green who had been reported missing by his sister last Friday afternoon. They’d arranged to meet for lunch on Wednesday, but he hadn’t turned up, and all her efforts to contact him had ended in failure. The photograph of him showed a grey-haired man with bags under his hazel eyes, a straggly moustache and sagging jowls. His date-of-birth was 17/06/64, he was six foot one inches tall and had a scar on his left shoulder from an operation to tighten his shoulder muscles following dislocation. He worked as a Market Research Consultant at Roland Marketing at 44 Fishers Lane in Chiswick; and lived at 37 Binden Gardens in Chiswick.

  The second report was for an attractive 33 year-old woman called Miranda Marron who was reported missing by a work colleague called Vincent Owens. She’s five foot six inches tall with green eyes. Her date-of-birth was 12/09/84. She had a child that she’d given up for adoption fifteen years previously, and had scars on both wrists from a failed suicide attempt six months ago. She worked as a Research Assistant in the Chamber of Commerce at 23 Dukes Avenue, Chiswick; and lived at 22 Glebe Street, Chiswick.

  Mmmm! Sergeant Sage seemed to have found their victims.

  He looked up as Rummage appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Good morning, Sir.’

  ‘Are you working part-time now?’ He glanced at the clock on his wall – it was nine-fifteen.

  ‘There was a bomb alert on the tube. I was stuck in a hot sweaty train for over an hour.’

  ‘They must have defused the bomb if you’re standing here talking to me?’

  ‘Defused the hoax, more like. There was no bomb. The call came from a woman who had an accent and shouted Allahu Akbar before she put the phone down.’

  ‘There you go then. Where bombs are concerned, you can never be too careful.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Anyway, while you were playing Candy Crush on your phone and taking things easy on the train, I’ve been working.’ He passed her the file. ‘Our two victims, I believe. Can you fax copies of the reports over to Doc Solberg at Hammersmith Hospital. I’ve got to brief the Chief in ten minutes, then I have a press briefing at ten o’clock, and another meeting for around half-an-hour – depending on my stamina – at ten-thirty. So, I won’t be available to go anywhere until eleven o’clock. But while I’m working my fingers to the bone, I’d like you to find out everything you can about those two. As far as I can see, there doesn’t seem to be any connection between them, unless it’s that they both did market research.’

  ‘Okay. Rumour has it that you have a new car?’

  ‘It’s a little red Toyota Aygo. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. My Mercedes was unavailable this morning, so I’m using the Aygo. It’s ideal for city driving.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were such an expert on small cars, Sir.’

  He stood up. ‘Don’t you have work to do?’

  She smiled and left.

  His phone jangled.

  ‘Quigg.’

  ‘My name is DS Lindsey Hawking, Sir.’

  ‘From Barrow-in-Furness?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Thanks for calling, Sergeant.’

  ‘I believe you’re the father of Joe Peters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have information that could help my investigation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be arriving at about ten-thirty.’

  ‘Ten-thirty?’ It seemed that dark forces were at work to prevent him from consummating with Miss Tinkley.

  ‘That’s right – ten-thirty.’

  ‘Make it eleven o’clock, and we have a deal, Sergeant?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose I could waste half-an-hour after getting up at four-thirty this morning, travelling for four hours across the country, making two changes and now subjecting myself to a half-hour journey on the London underground during the rush hour.’

  ‘Excellent. But you don’t have to waste the half-hour. When you reach the station, ask for DC Jezebel Rummage. During my absence, she’ll sort you out with the old files to look through and get you a coffee. I’ll come along at eleven and answer any questions you might have.’

  ‘That sounds more reasonable, Sir.’

  ‘We’re nothing, if not more reasonable in Hammersmith than other provincial police stations, Sergeant. I’ll see you at eleven o’clock.’

  He put the phone down.

  On his way to the Chief’s office, he told Rummage to get the old files on the Apostles out and to make DS Hawking welcome when she arrived.

  ***

  The proverbial was hitting the fan. People on the payroll were already ringing him up to ask him where their men were, and he had no idea. Pratt and his team were still out of contact, and the surveillance team were also missing.

  What the hell was going on? He kept asking himself that, but he really had no idea, which hardly imbued those who worked for him with any degree of confidence.

  He’d sent a squad car round to St Peter’s Church on Godolphin Road at eight-thirty on the pretence of conducting house-to-house enquiries relating to an incident during the night, and the officers had reported back that everything appeared normal. Well, that was if having a team of three people and a German Shepherd guarding your converted church with three whores and four brats inside could ever be considered normal.

  He would like to have dragged Quigg and the three bitches in for questioning, but he knew there was no way he could do that and still keep his distance. Already, he’d done far more than he should have done, and would have struggled to explain his actions if anyone had the temerity to have asked.

  If there was one thing he hated, it was being kept in the dark. Pratt and his team had been following Lynch and the news van to Churchill Gardens Road. The plan was to kill them and make it look like an accident, so why were the news crew still alive, and his team and their van missing in action? He could only think that they’d been intercepted and kidnapped, but by whom? Who had the expertise to take out a five-man special ops team? And not only that, they’d taken his surveillance team and the van as well.

  Special Forces came to mind, but he didn’t believe that. Could it be another police special ops team? Did the force know about him and his criminal empire? No, he’d have caught wind of it. He’d know. People would treat him differently. He’d already considered a resurgent gang, but they weren’t very sophisticated in their methods. They’d have simply killed everybody as a message to him to say that they were back.

  No, the disappearances had to be connected to Quigg and his harem, but how?

  He made a call on his second phone.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  Charlie Nunn was an Inspector, and one of his five contacts at the National Crime Agency in Citadel Place on Tinworth Street, who had high-level access to the HOLMES database.

  ‘I want to know everything there is to know about DI Quigg from Hammersmith, the investigative journalist Ruth Lynch-Guevara, ex-Constabl
e Mavourneen Duffy and the hacker Lucy Neilson. And this is urgent, Nunn. I want it by lunchtime.’

  ‘Understood, Sir.’

  ‘Oh! And while you’re at it, you may as well add in Dennis Ford – photo-journalist, and Nate Cullen – driver.’

  ‘Will do.’

  He ended the call and phoned Delilah.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We should meet at lunchtime.’

  ‘Twice in one week?’

  ‘There’s a problem.’

  ‘One o’clock. I’ll see you there.’

  He put the phone back in his jacket pocket.

  At least Lupton and Quigg were being dealt with. He expected to hear of Lupton’s death imminently. And then, Quigg would be next. After that, he’d send a team into the church. Hopefully, Pratt would have reported for duty by then, but if not, then he’d send in another team. Either way, Lynch couldn’t be permitted to compile her story on police corruption and make what Lupton had told her – whatever that was – public.

  He stood up, picked up a thick folder off his desk for his meeting on current police operations and left his office. After that, he hoped to hear from Charlie Nunn, and then he’d decide what needed to be done. How had it become so messy? Something wasn’t right, and he intended to find out exactly what that was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Henry Cole Wing of the Victorian and Albert Museum was originally constructed as the School of Naval Architecture in 1871, but it later served as the Royal College of Science and the Huxley Building. Henry Cole was the first director of the South Kensington Museum, which is what the V & A used to be called.

  Duffy stood on the opposite side of Exhibition Road looking up at the impressive building. It seemed to be all red brick, windows and arches.

  She crossed the road and walked through the entrance, which was also an archway on the far left of the building, and into the main lobby. Inside, she was amazed to see that it was all staircases, columns, balustrades and more archways.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a female voice said from behind her.

  Duffy turned to find a thin woman in her mid-fifties standing there. She had curly light brown hair, large brown-rimmed glasses and a ruddy complexion.

  ‘I have an appointment to see the librarian – Mrs Clare Fairfield.’

  ‘I am she. And you must be Lucy Neilson?’

  ‘No. I’ve come in Lucy’s place. Lucy has been unexpectedly called away. I’ll be taking over Lucy’s duties. My name is Mavourneen Duffy.’

  ‘Mavourneen is a lovely name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s Irish and means “my darling”, if I’m not mistaken?’

  ‘You know your names, Mrs Fairfield.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a hobby. You acquire strange obsessions working in a place like this.’

  ‘It’s a lovely building.’

  ‘It certainly is. Now, as I understand it, you’re here to find out who originally purchased 66 Copperfield Street in Southwark, which was designed and built by the architect Sir Horace Jones around 1850?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please follow me. You’re probably not aware, but the reason we require researchers to make appointments is that only members of staff are permitted to consult the records. To ensure their longevity, we must wear cotton gloves and treat the items with the respect they deserve. Sadly, paper-based records do not last very long at all. Paper deteriorates, because it’s mostly made up of cellulose fibres derived from plants, which contain acid and impurities, and these cause the paper to discolour and embrittle. Ah! Here we are.’

  There were framed paintings of famous architects such as Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Hubert Austin, and Sir William Emerson on the wall opposite a long row of what appeared to be shelving units that contained row after row of six-inch high drawers. On the end of one shelving unit was the name:

  Sir Horace Jones

  (1802 – 1850)

  ‘Did you know that he designed and built Tower Bridge, which was completed posthumously?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Although he designed Copperfield Street, it was mostly built by his son – Robert, who carried on the business after his father’s death in 1850. Robert was a good architect, but not an inspired architect like his father Sir Horace.’

  Mrs Fairfield led them down the aisle between two shelving units until she said, ‘Here we are – Copperfield Street.’ She withdrew a pair of cotton gloves from a pocket in her coverall, slipped them on and pulled the drawer out.

  Inside the drawer – lying flat – were maps, sketches, drawings, blueprints and other documents. Some were contained in plastic protective coverings. Lying on the top was a detailed list of the contents of the drawer.

  It didn’t take her long to find the purchase details for the houses on Copperfield Street. ‘Number 66 was bought by Surgeon Superintendent Henry Grey for the grand total of two hundred and seventeen guineas.’

  Duffy thought about Briar’s imaginary friend who was also called Henry, and wondered if there was any connection.

  ‘A guinea was a quarter ounce of gold,’ Mrs Fairfield continued. ‘In today’s market, depending on the year the guinea was minted and its condition, it would probably be worth anywhere between a thousand and ten thousand pounds. That would make the house worth between two-point-two million and twenty-two million pounds.’

  ‘Goodness me! It was a lot of money in those days.’

  ‘It certainly was. Copperfield Street was clearly a desirable place to live, and Sir Horace Jones was a sought-after architect. So, my dear, is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘Do you have a blueprint of the house when it was built?’

  She looked down the list. ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘Is it possible to obtain a copy? The current owners have a blueprint in their deeds, but it would be useful to compare it with the original.’

  ‘We can copy records, but we have to consult a conservator before we do. The conservator carries out a risk assessment and then, if they deem it appropriate, will copy it using an electrostatic copier.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It will cost you five hundred pounds.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes I’m afraid so.’

  ‘All right.’ She hoped she was doing the right thing.

  ‘You’ll have to wait approximately half-an-hour, but we do have a restaurant for visitors on the lower ground floor where you can purchase a cup of tea and a bun.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll need to take the money in advance.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She followed Mrs Fairfield to a small office and paid the five hundred pounds by credit card.

  ‘If you wait in the restaurant I’ll bring the blueprint to you . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘Say, at about quarter past eleven.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The librarian pointed to a small square black and white sign of a knife and fork attached to the wall. ‘Follow the signs.’

  ‘One last thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How would I find out about Surgeon Superintendent Henry Gray?’

  ‘Ah! You want the National Archives at Kew, my dear. In fact, you might even be lucky and find his journals and diaries there as well. They have a new series for researchers called ADM 101, which consists of the journals and diaries of Royal Naval surgeons and assistant surgeons who served on HM ships, hospitals, naval brigades, shore parties and on emigrant and convict ships between 1793 and 1880. I could ring them and get you in there this afternoon after lunch if you want me to?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’

  She made her way down to the restaurant. So far, she was enjoying being a paranormal investigator, but then she hadn’t met any supernatural beings yet.

  ***

  It was nearly lunchtime, which was a good job, because she was famished. She washed, brushed her teeth, threw on clean
clothes and walked along the connecting corridor.

  After showering with Duffy, which had included two orgasms, both for her and Duffy, she’d had a couple of hours sleep. Orgasms with women, or self-induced orgasms, just weren’t the same as orgasms with men. She liked the real thing, and in her view, the real thing was penetrative sex with a male penis. She’d tried everything from tongues, fingers, dildos and some weird-looking sex toys, but she always came back to the erect penis.

  ‘Hey, numbnuts,’ she said, as she passed the guard. He was reading a book by Louis L’Amour called Jubal Sackett.

  ‘Hey!’ he grunted.

  Duffy, she knew, was out at the Henry Cole Wing in South Kensington and she wondered how that was going. She stuck her head into Ruth’s bedroom, but it was empty. There was a vague recollection of a hair appointment in the back of her mind. The ankle biters were in the playroom with the nanny – Amanda Oliver, and Janet Thomas, the housekeeper, was keeping the house clean somewhere, because she could hear the vacuum cleaner humming.

  She made herself coffee and six slices of toast with butter and a large tin of baked beans. After she’d had her lunch, she made her way out to the Mercedes. There was more work to be done.

  On her way towards Vauxhall Bridge, she swerved into a petrol station and half-filled Quigg’s guzzler up. She also noticed that she was being followed by a woman on a black and green Kawasaki Z650.

  She called her father.

  ‘I’m asleep.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you. We have a guest. I’m being followed by a woman on a motorbike.’

  ‘Bring her in.’

  ‘Understood.’

  She carried on along Grosvenor Road, crossed over the River Thames, turned right onto the A3036 and followed Nine Elms Lane past the United States Embassy and turned into Cringle Street. She carried on right up to the roller door of the abandoned warehouse and stopped.

  In the rear view mirror she spotted her father come out of nowhere and disable the woman on the motorbike, which crashed to the ground.