The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  Lucy had much better computer equipment than she did, and a fast laser printer as well, so she decided to print off Henry Gray’s journals in her room. Lucy would probably scream at her and threaten her with torture and dismemberment, but she wouldn’t mean any of it.

  ‘You’re taking your life in your hands touching her computer stuff,’ Janet said.

  ‘I know, but my plan is to tell her it was you.’

  Janet smiled. ‘Why not? Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’

  ***

  What in God’s name had Lucy and her father done? Police officers didn’t murder innocent people. They must have got it seriously wrong, misread the situation, made two-and-two equal seven and a half. Well, they’d get things sorted at the family meeting. He didn’t call a family meeting very often . . . In fact, he’d never called a family meeting. Maybe that was the problem? Maybe they should have one every month, every week, daily! Just to make sure they all knew what everyone else was doing – especially Lucy. Lucy was a loose cannon. Everyone needed to know what she was up to. She was trouble – always had been, probably always would be. A time bomb with a clock that only worked some of the time.

  And what was DS Hawking’s problem? He wondered whether she was going to be more trouble than she was worth. Maybe he should send her back to Barrow-in-Furness and search for Joe himself. He had no idea whether she was even a good detective. To put the case of an abducted child on the pending pile after a week didn’t instil him with much confidence. He’d never met Joe, but the boy was still his son and deserved the whole shebang.

  And what about Miss Tinkley? Had he burned his bridges with her, kicked the ladder away, crossed the Rubicon? How many chances was she going to give him? With her looks, her body, her mind, she could have any man in the station, in Hammersmith, in London, in the whole world, and yet she wanted HIM. Why? He wasn’t anything special. In fact, some people thought he was an underdog, an also-ran, and a deadbeat. So why did she want him? Maybe there was something seriously wrong with her. Maybe she had an incurable disease that she wanted to pass onto him. Maybe . . . Maybe he’d had a lucky escape, and instead of feeling despondent, he should be counting his lucky stars that he’d come out of it relatively unscathed.

  ‘Why are you hunched forward and squinting through the windscreen like that?’ Rummage asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I need glasses.’

  ‘Glasses!’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I suppose you’d better pull over and let me drive.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t want to die in a ten-car pile-up caused by a blind man driving a funky red car.’

  He pulled over. His plan had worked like a dream.

  They swapped seats.

  She scowled at him. ‘You should go for an eye test.’

  ‘I should.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, I will. I’ll arrange an appointment as soon as I get a spare moment.’

  ‘Good. Perkins called me, by the way.’

  ‘Called you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he doing calling you?’

  ‘He knew what you’d say.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘There being no fingerprint match on the database.’

  ‘Not a single one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder why we have a forensics department.’

  ‘Which is exactly why he called me. Also, Gerald Bishop’s van – LT52 PCC – has been found.’

  ‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not particularly. It was torched. It’s of no evidential value at all.’

  ‘Are forensics examining it?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not optimistic.’

  ‘They never are. Do you know that they only employ pessimistic people in forensics? Pessimism is one of the behavioural traits they specifically look out for during the interviews. In fact . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘The implications of your disbelief are too awful to contemplate, Rummage. If I thought you were being serious, I’d have to report you to a higher authority.’

  ‘God?’

  ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’

  They arrived at 167 Eastfields Road, North Acton, which overlooked the playing fields and wasn’t far from the Consulate of Algeria. The house belonged to Lucien Green’s sister – Heather Drake, who had reported him missing last Friday, because he failed to appear for lunch on the Wednesday.

  Rummage pressed the bell.

  Quigg strained his ears. ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you should knock as well.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

  ‘I bow to your greater wisdom concerning the functioning of doorbells, Rummage.’

  They heard a scraping noise.

  Rummage turned and smirked at him.

  The door opened.

  A woman bordering on sixty with grey wiry hair and wearing an overcoat was standing there. ‘Oh! Who are you? I was just on my way out.’

  ‘Did you not hear the doorbell?’

  She grunted. ‘That hasn’t worked since 1983.’

  Quigg stepped forward and brandished his Warrant Card. ‘DI Quigg and DC Rummage. We’re here about your brother.’

  ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Can we come inside?’

  She pulled a face. ‘I suppose so.’ She stood to one side as they stepped past her. ‘Go straight through to the conservatory and take a seat.’

  She followed them in after closing the front door and removing her coat.

  ‘So, what does “possibly” mean?’

  ‘Two bodies were found . . .’ Quigg began.

  ‘The headless corpses in the lay-by?’

  ‘I’m sorry, yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as we can be based on the description you provided on the Missing Person report, but without a head . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘So, it might not be Lucien?’

  ‘He had an operation scar on his left shoulder. The post-mortem is this afternoon, and the forensic pathologist will be able to identify what that operation was for.’

  ‘Lucien used to play rugby. He could have turned professional, but for that left shoulder – it kept popping out.’

  ‘Have you any idea what he might have been doing prior to his disappearance? Why someone might have decapitated him?’

  ‘None at all. Do you know who the second body is?’

  ‘Does the name Miranda Marron mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Were they in a relationship?’

  ‘We don’t know. Is there anything you can tell us that might help us identify Lucien’s killer? Did he have any hobbies? Was he a gambler? Did he take drugs? Did he owe people money? Was he mixed up with the wrong people? Was he a member of any religious sect?’

  She pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I can’t really help you, Inspector. Last Wednesday would have been the first time we’d seen each other for over six months. Every now and then we’d meet for lunch to confirm both of us were still alive, talk about nothing in particular and then go our separate ways for another six months or more. Lucien and I weren’t particularly close. Mum and dad died within months of each other fifteen years ago . . . And now Lucien. I’m the only Green left, I suppose.’

  ‘Anyway, we’re sorry for your loss.’ He passed her a business card. ‘If you do think of anything that might help us, please call. We’ll be in contact should there be any significant breakthrough, or we find his head.’

  ‘What about his Last Will and Testament?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They made their way out.

  ‘Have you got any family, Rummage?’

  ‘No. My mother died of viral haemor
rhagic fever in the Congo a long time ago. My father was crucified for his beliefs in Onitsha, Nigeria; and I have no brothers and sisters. Oh, there’s my father’s sister, we call each other on birthdays and at Christmas, but no one else.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got enough family for the both of us.’

  ‘From what people at the station tell me, you’ve got enough family for the whole of Hammersmith and Fulham put together.’

  ‘I don’t suppose anybody has ever mentioned to you that none of it was my fault?’

  ‘No, nobody has ever said that.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thackeray was still restrained on the floor, and he’d left Delilah tied spread-eagled on the bed while he took a shower. The smell from the putrid meat he’d used as part of his disguise the night before still lingered on his skin and at the back of his throat.

  Delilah had been a welcome distraction. She was insatiable. No sooner had he ejaculated inside her than she was asking if that was all he had.

  He had to smile. All he had? No, that was not all he had, but there was no rush. There were another four or so hours until it would be dark enough to move her and Thackeray out of the apartment and transport them to the warehouse, so he planned to take his time. She wasn’t really his type anyway – too bony. Oh, she was holding onto the last vestiges of her youth as best she could, but the rot had already set in. Her breasts were small and firm, but they weren’t desirable breasts. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but her skin reminded him of the taut and chemically-treated skin of an Egyptian mummy.

  Not that he was anything to write home about – he wasn’t. At fifty-five, he was a good few years older than her. His body had seen much better days. In his twenties – during his time in the SAS – he’d looked like a Greek God, women had fallen at his feet, and one of those women was Lucy’s mother. Robyn Wren was young and beautiful, but Lucy looked and acted more like him than her.

  Lucy was right – as a father he’d been less than useless. His performance as a husband hadn’t been much better either. He thought more about killing than he did about loving. As a young man, he’d pretended that he could do both, but he couldn’t. In the end, each sapped energy from the other. All he was, and all he would ever be, was a wraith dwelling in a no-man’s land of indecision. So, he’d made his choice and left his wife and daughter – missing in action. Unfortunately, the details of the operation were covered by the Official Secrets Act and no further information was provided.

  He turned the water off, stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel from the shelf. Once he’d dried his ears, he heard his phone beeping – he had a message from Lucy.

  He smiled.

  He’d neglected to tell her that he’d booby-trapped the warehouse in case they received unwelcome visitors, so he didn’t need to hurry back – she’d be all right.

  ‘I could do with a shower as well,’ Delilah said when he returned to the bedroom.

  He pursed his lips and nodded. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sorry! I have to go out. I should be back later – maybe then.’

  ‘But . . . I need the toilet.’

  ‘Cross your legs.’

  ‘That’s helpful,’ she said, looking down at the plastic restraints securing her ankles to the bed posts.

  He folded up the wet towel, slid it under her backside and pushed some of it between her legs. ‘That should work well enough.’

  ‘You’re just going to leave me here like this?’

  ‘What did you expect? Let’s not forget that your boyfriend down there is involved in the attempted murder of some people I know, which happens to include my daughter. What your involvement in that is, has yet to be established, so don’t go getting the idea that we’re soul mates on a first date, or have a metaphysical connection to one another. Nothing could be further from the truth. As I said, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, so I’m availing myself of the opportunity, that’s all. You could be the cleaning lady for all I care.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘You bastard. You’re definitely not a gentleman.’

  ‘I’ve never professed to be.’

  ‘And you were a lousy fuck as well.’

  ‘Of course I was. In fact, I’m sure that’s exactly what I heard you moaning every time you had an orgasm.’

  ‘Fuck off. And don’t think I’ll be so accommodating when you come back.’

  ‘Oh, I think you will,’ he said, covering her mouth with duct tape. ‘From the little I know of you, I get the impression that you can’t get enough of a lousy fuck.’

  He put a clean pair of Thackeray’s underwear on that he found in a drawer of the wardrobe, and then shrugged into his old clothes. They were functional – he wasn’t going to church or out to dinner anytime soon.

  Before he left, he wrapped steel wire around Thackeray’s neck and secured the wire to the metal frame of the bed. ‘Just in case you get any ideas about trying to wriggle free. Anything more than regular breathing will decapitate you.’

  On his way out, he collected up all their possessions, placed them in a plastic bag and took them with him.

  He snapped Delilah’s key in the lock to prevent anyone else from entering the apartment during his absence and releasing them.

  Then he made his way back to the warehouse.

  ***

  Shit!

  Shit!

  Shit!

  She should have known everything was too fucking good to be true. Since when did she ever have an easy life?

  Never – that’s when. She picked up the stun gun, went along the line of captives and zapped all nine of them. The last thing she needed was for them to be conscious, released by the Gorgon sisters and given carte blanche for payback – she’d rather kill herself.

  Next, she grabbed the Uzi 9mm machine gun off the table, that they’d found in the back of Pratt’s Transit van, together with two full magazines of ammunition.

  She used her phone to text her father:

  HELP!

  Biker bitch has two sisters and a GPS chip in her arm.

  They’re here now.

  Standing perfectly still, she listened for any noise. She could hear the sound of barges moving goods up and down the Thames, and not too far away, an overground train rattled by. The Gorgons weren’t coming through the front door, because there was a creaking on the corrugated steel roof, and she thought she heard something at the back of the warehouse.

  She could kick herself – twice, with both feet. Not once had she taken a walk around the warehouse to imprint the layout onto her mind. She had no idea where anything was.

  There was a louder creaking sound on the roof, and then a section of the corrugated metal gave way and dropped towards her, followed by a woman dressed in a full-length black leather bodysuit like a superhero out of a Marvel comic.

  She dived to the concrete and slithered under the white Transit van as the roof section crashed to the floor where she’d been standing.

  Her ears hurt from the noise.

  Then the woman began firing a gun she had in her right hand.

  At first, Lucy thought the woman was firing at her, but as she lay there wondering what to do next, she got the feeling the bullets were going every which way. Slowly, she stuck her head out from under the van and looked up.

  The Gorgon was hanging in mid-air and spinning around – how?

  Then she saw the thin metal cord cinching her ankle.

  There was a look of agony on the woman’s face, but that didn’t stop her aiming the gun at Lucy and trying to kill her as she spun round and round on the wire like a high-wire acrobat.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ the woman shouted as she pulled the trigger.

  Lucy ducked back under the van, and wondered where the second Gorgon sister was.

  Just then, someone slid under the van next to her and her heart began thrashing about as
if it was dancing the calypso.

  ‘Are you trying to kill your own daughter?’ she said, staring at her father. ‘I thought I was having a fucking heart attack.’

  ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘You smell like a pair of whore’s knickers.’

  ‘I had a shower.’

  ‘About fucking time. I was ashamed of you. How many years has it been?’

  ‘She won’t be up there much longer. The metal wire was meant to be around her neck, not her ankle. I’ll have to take a look at my design and refine it slightly.’

  ‘I’m more concerned about where the second sister is.’

  ‘Don’t worry about her – she’s already dead.’

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘Yes and no. I forgot to tell you that I’d booby-trapped the warehouse in case we had unwelcome visitors, so I wasn’t worried for you.’

  ‘Well, I was fucking worried for me. You want to do something about that failing memory thing of yours.’

  Lucy heard a scream, and then the woman hit the concrete floor head first, followed by her foot. Blood and brains spattered on Lucy’s face and dribbled into her mouth. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ she said, spitting and rolling out from under the van.

  ‘I said she wouldn’t be up there for much longer,’ Jack said, following her.

  ‘You didn’t say she was going to nose-dive onto the concrete and drench me in blood and brains.’

  ‘Must be my memory again.’

  She looked around.

  All the captives were awake, with one exception – Valerie Cowley was lying slumped over with a bullet wound in her left cheek and the back of her head on the floor behind the chair. The fickle finger of fate, she thought. Of the nine captives, Valerie Cowley was the one person who probably deserved to live.

  She followed her father to the back of the warehouse and found the second Gorgon sister pinned to the wall with a wooden spike through her chest.