The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  Her father slung the woman over his shoulder and walked towards the warehouse.

  She raised the shutter and drove the Mercedes inside.

  Jack came in with the woman and dropped her on the floor. ‘Bring the bike in.’

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  ‘Not doing as she was told.’

  ‘A likely story.’ She went and got the bike and drove it inside the warehouse. In fact, she’d always wanted a motorbike. Maybe she’d keep this one. It was certainly a very nice bike.

  Jack pulled the roller shutter down.

  Lucy stood astride the woman and pulled her black helmet off. ‘Nice looking bitch,’ she said.

  She had long natural blonde hair past her breasts, an attractive face and the bottom half of her left ear was missing.

  ‘Any idea who she is?’ her father asked.

  ‘Nope. Never seen her before.’ She glanced up at Pratt who was staring at her. ‘What about you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘If she says you do know her when she wakes up you know what’s going to happen to you, don’t you?’

  Pratt shook his head more vigorously.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said, pulling the zip of the woman’s black leather motorcycle suit all the way down to her crotch. ‘Mmmm! No clothes, no underwear and no identity documents. But look at those tits, Pratt. I bet you’d like to get your grubby little hands on those?’

  Pratt shook his head, but she wasn’t convinced.

  ‘If I see any of you men get a hard-on, I’m gonna fucking zap you.’

  They all looked away.

  ‘I’ll leave you to string her up,’ she said to her father. ‘I’ll check the bike for anything she’s hidden.’

  Jack Neilson stripped the woman naked, restrained her to a chair, put duct tape over her mouth and wrapped a rope around her neck.

  Lucy checked the bike and found what she was looking for. Beneath the black leather cover of the seat, a hidey-hole had been hollowed out of the compressed foam. Inside the space was a mobile phone, a driver’s licence, fifty pounds in cash and a credit card. She slipped the money into her own pocket, which she regarded as confiscating the proceeds of crime. If the government could do it . . .

  She placed the items on the table in front of the woman and said, ‘According to her driving licence and credit card, her name’s Maria Krieger . . . Probably German with a name like that.’ She removed the SIM card and the battery from the phone and slipped the card into the reader connected to her laptop. ‘Well, well, well!’ She looked up at the organisational chart on the side of the van. ‘Guess whose telephone number she has in her phone?’

  ‘Thackeray’s?’ Jack said.

  ‘You could at least have made it appear as though it was slightly difficult.’

  ‘She’ll be a hired killer.’

  ‘Why was she following me?’

  ‘It’s Quigg’s car.’

  ‘But she could see that I was driving it.’

  ‘Maybe she thought you’d lead her to Quigg.’

  ‘You think Quigg was her next target?’

  ‘Seems likely.’

  Lucy pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Oh well! We’ll soon get the truth out of her – she’s coming round. But first . . .’ She picked up the stun gun, changed the batteries, jammed it into Constable Mathew Scott’s genitals and pulled the trigger.

  He jerked rigid and flopped sideways unconscious.

  She smiled at Maria Krieger. ‘He was getting a hard-on looking at your impressive tits.’ She ran the stun gun around the nipple of the woman’s left breast. ‘Sooner or later, you’re going to tell me everything I want to know. If it’s later, then you’ll be getting some of this. So, let’s start with an easy question first, shall we?’ She ripped the duct tape off the woman’s face. ‘How did you lose the bottom half of your left ear, Maria?’

  The woman spat in her direction.

  Lucy covered Krieger’s mouth with the duct tape again and said, ‘Spitting is disgusting.’ She pushed the stun gun into her right breast and pulled the trigger.

  Krieger’s physical reaction was the same as Constable Scott’s, and she urinated as well.

  Lucy looked around the other captives. ‘Anybody else got a hard-on?’

  There was lots of head shaking.

  Her father interrupted. ‘Have you finished with the surveillance van?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’m going to leave you to your little games then, grab Thackeray and bring him back here – probably when it gets dark, so I should be gone for a while.’

  ‘Okay. Have a nice time.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ He raised the roller shutter, drove the surveillance van outside and closed the shutter again.

  She heard him drive away.

  ‘What about you, Constable Valerie Cowley? Have you got a hard-on? Are you a lesbian?’

  Tears jumped into Cowley’s eyes.

  She ripped the duct tape off the woman’s face. She must have been in her mid-thirties, and although she still had some vague body shape left, her breasts were pendulous and there was a roll of flesh the size of a moped tyre around her waist. ‘Why are you mixed up with these fucking deadbeats, Valerie?’

  ‘I’m a single mother of two toddlers. I wanted to give my children a better start in life than I had. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but now I’m having second thoughts.’

  ‘Who’ll be looking after your kids?’

  ‘My mother.’

  She pulled the duct tape off John Binnington’s face. ‘What about you? Why are you here?’

  Binnington hesitated.

  Lucy jammed the stun gun into his genitals and pulled the trigger. She knew exactly why the men were there – to acquire money and live the high life. Women, on the other hand, were different. They were biologically wired to avoid conflict and to nurture their offspring. Women were givers; whereas men were takers. She went along the line, jammed the stun gun into every man’s genitals and pulled the trigger. ’Fucking men!’

  Maria Krieger groaned.

  ‘Ready to co-operate?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  She pressed the stun gun into the bitch’s breast again and pulled the trigger.

  With everyone unconscious apart from Valerie Cowley, she decided to look into Maria Krieger’s life.

  ***

  He’d briefed the Chief as planned, and the Chief hadn’t given him any indication that he’d found the slip of paper from Miss Tinkley that Quigg had dropped the previous morning, which was a good omen for his liaison with the object of his desires at ten-thirty.

  Miss Tinkley hadn’t been at her desk when he’d passed, so he simply knocked on the Chief’s door.

  ‘Come,’ the Chief bellowed.

  ‘You’re bereft of a secretary, Sir.’

  ‘Never mind where Miss Tinkley is, Quigg. You focus on what you’re employed to do, which is catch murderers. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re currently pursuing someone who has a penchant for torture, rape and decapitation?’

  ‘I am, Chief.’

  ‘So, how’s your pursuit going?’

  ‘Pursuant to our conversation yesterday, I think Rummage and I have discovered the identities of our two victims. Well, when I say “Rummage and I”, it was actually Sergeant Sage who’s filling in for Sergeant Morgana Pinkerton . . .’

  ‘Alopecia?’

  ‘So I believe, Sir.’

  ‘Terrible news. I mean, Sergeant Pinkerton wasn’t a catwalk model by any stretch of the catwalk, but now . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to be her?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘Anyway, Sergeant Sage . . .’

  ‘A good officer from all accounts.’

  ‘I’ve not had many dealings with her, but she found our two victims, so she can’t be all bad.’

  ‘I take it you’re not going to inform the press that you’ve identified the two victims?’

  ‘You take
it right, Sir. We obviously need to verify they are who we think they are first. Not only that, we don’t want to shoot ourselves in the foot by letting the murderer know what we know. DC Rummage is doing the groundwork now. Once I’ve briefed the press, we’ll be going to visit their workplaces and home addresses to try and construct a picture of their movements between going missing and when they were found in the lay-by.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan, Quigg.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Doctor Ingrid Solberg is carrying out the post-mortems this afternoon, so we’ll be at the hospital for those. I also expect the results of the DNA tests for the semen on the bodies, the human hair that was clutched in their hands and the victims DNA.’

  ‘Good work, Quigg. I’ll let Mrs Belmarsh know that you’re on top of things. She likes to keep abreast of your progress.’

  ‘Give her my best, Chief.’

  ‘So, why are you still here cluttering up my office?’

  ‘I saw DI Gwen Peters last night, Sir.’

  ‘In a dream?’

  ‘In the flesh. In the squad room.’

  The Chief crossed himself. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Her son . . . Our son – Joe, was abducted from above the police station on Walney Island last Sunday night.’

  ‘And she came all this way to tell you that?’

  ‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Chief.’ He leaned over, helped himself to the Chief’s Montblanc rose gold-plated Legrand ballpoint pen lying on the desk and wrote SEPTA SOL on the top leaf of the post-it notepad.

  ‘What’s this, Quigg?’

  ‘A card with that printed on it was found in the boy’s bed.’

  ‘Are you saying that foreigners took the boy?’

  ‘It’s an anagram of APOSTLES.’

  ‘What!’ The Chief examined the post-it note. ‘The Apostles are either locked away or dead, Quigg.’

  ‘I know. And yet, my son has been abducted.’

  ‘Do you want time off?’

  ‘No, Sir. There’s a DS Lindsay Hawking arriving from Barrow-in-Furness at ten-thirty. She’s in charge of the case, and until I spoke to DI Peters last night, she’d run out of leads.’

  ‘Where is DI Peters now?’

  ‘Gone back to Walney Island.’

  ‘Best place for her. She wouldn’t be permitted to investigate the disappearance of her own son anyway.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The same goes for you, Quigg.’

  ‘Of course. DS Hawking will still be in charge. She’s coming here to pick my brains.’

  ‘Not staying very long at all then?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking that because Rummage and I have our own case, DS Hawking could squat in a spare desk in the squad room and work under my direction to find out what’s going on with the Apostles.’

  ‘What’s your gut feeling?’

  ‘Maybe a relative, or a sympathetic paedophile. My guess is that whoever took Joe has been in contact with one or more of the Apostles in jail.’

  ‘And you need DS Hawking to do the legwork?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll sanction that. What about the Chief Superintendent at Barrow-in-Furness?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I’ll give him a call.’

  ‘Thanks, Chief.’

  ‘Did you know you had a son called Joe?’

  ‘I knew DI Peters was pregnant when she was transferred, but not that she’d given birth to a son.’

  ‘And yet the Apostles did.’

  ‘I’d already thought about that. There were very few people who knew what happened between me and DI Peters.’

  ‘Someone close to home?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking. I’ll compile a list for DS Hawking.’

  ‘Keep me informed, Quigg.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  He’d made his way down to the briefing room, which was full to overflowing – standing room only. And after waiting for silence, he’d given them the skimpiest of details, which apart from the identities of the two victims, was all he knew anyway. If he was being honest, he was eager to leave and make his way up to the photocopier room on the third floor. The divine Miss Tinkley was waiting for HIM, waiting to have sex with HIM. Today was the day and his mind kept straying, wandering, deviating . . .

  ‘Would you like to talk about police corruption, Inspector?’

  His thoughts had snapped back to the press briefing room.

  ‘Corruption! In the police! Preposterous. Who’s asking?’

  A hand went up. He picked Ruth’s face out of the melee.

  ‘I deal in murder, not corruption, Miss Lynch. I’m merely a simple police officer doing my job to the best of my ability. I suggest you speak to someone at the IOPC if you want to know about corruption. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. Same time tomorrow.’

  Ruth stayed behind.

  He took her by the elbow and ushered her into the station proper. ‘What are you doing at my press briefing asking me about police corruption, Ruth?’

  ‘This morning you wanted to talk about police corruption.’

  ‘I also wanted sex.’

  ‘You have no chance of that.’

  ‘I only asked you about police corruption because Lucy said you were investigating it.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is it because I won’t get a vasectomy?’

  ‘Everything is not always about you, Quigg. I am an investigative journalist who has been a kept woman for far too long. I have become a traitor to my feminist roots. A whistle-blower contacted me about police corruption. What was I to do – tell him to contact another journalist because I live in sin with a policeman?’

  ‘Yes. And don’t forget you’re the mother of my child.’

  ‘Let us go and have coffee in the cafe where we first met, and I will tell you what is happening?’

  He checked his watch – it was twenty-nine minutes past ten.

  ‘Unless, of course, you can’t spare five minutes to have coffee with the mother of your child?’

  He smiled, resigning himself to the brutal fact that Miss Tinkley’s divine body was beyond his mortal reach and said, ‘I’d like nothing better.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  After the librarian – Mrs Fairfield – had brought her a cardboard tube with the copy of the original blueprint for 66 Copperfield Street inside to the restaurant, Duffy thanked her and made her way out of the Henry Cole Wing to South Kensington underground station. From there, it took her twenty-five minutes on the District Line to reach the National Archives at Kew Gardens.

  She walked out of the station and over the bridge spanning Mortlake Road to the building housing the archives, which seemed to be all concrete and glass.

  Inside, she approached one of the three women standing inside the circular reception desk below the glass roof.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Mavourneen Duffy. Mrs Clare Fairfield called you from the Henry Cole Wing at the V and A.’

  ‘Ship’s Surgeon?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please take a seat. One of our helpers will come and assist you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She walked to one of the sofas in the lobby and sat down. Within five minutes an overweight man with long grey hair, a lopsided moustache and glasses that were too small for his face appeared. The first thing she noticed about him, besides the way he looked, was the large sweat stains under the armpits of his blue checked shirt and his rancid body odour. She had the feeling that finding Surgeon Superintendent Henry Gray was not going to be a pleasant experience.

  ‘Miss Duffy?’

  She stood and shook the outstretch hand. ‘Yes. Hello.’

  ‘My name is Geoffrey Sheridan. I’m the helper who’s been sent to help you. What is it you’re looking for?’

  ‘A Surgeon Superintendent called Henry Gray who was alive around 1850.’
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  ‘Okay. That should be easy enough. We have a searchable database called Discovery.’

  ‘And I understand you might have his journals and diaries?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly possible. If we find the surgeon you’re looking for, then any journals or diaries will be attached. Please follow me.’

  He led her into an enormous room with a low ceiling and found a free computer monitor and keyboard at a circular desk. He directed her to sit down, logged into the system and sat down next to her.

  ‘You want the online collections – Royal Navy and Royal Marines.’

  She navigated to the collection. Sixteen available guides appeared.

  ‘Try that one,’ Geoffrey said, pointing at the screen. ‘Royal Navy officers’ service record cards and files c1840-c1920.’

  The trouble was, when he lifted his arm she got a full whiff of his body odour and had to turn away. Lucy wouldn’t have put up with it. She’d have told him to go and send her someone who didn’t stink like a cowpat. She wasn’t Lucy though.

  She clicked on the link, filled in as much as she knew on the form and pressed “Search”. Shortly afterwards, a catalogue reference (ADM 340/39) for Surgeon Superintendent Henry Gray RN appeared, which contained:

  Name;

  Date of birth;

  Place of birth;

  Rank;

  Date of seniority and promotions attained;

  Training undertaken;

  Names of ships served on, with dates of joining and discharge from each ship;

  Period of time served;

  Home address.

  He was born in Newcastle on August 24, 1813; his home address was recorded as 66 Copperfield Street, Southwark, London; and he served as the ship’s surgeon on the following convict ships travelling between Southampton and Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania):

  Hoogbley (1853 – 1854);

  Diana (1855 – 1856);

  Bengal Merchant (1857 – 1858);

  Westmoreland (1858 – 1859);

  Waterloo (1859 – 1860).

  ‘It looks like you’ve struck gold, Miss Duffy,’ Geoffrey said.