The Charnel House in Copperfield Street
Page 23
‘We don’t have a key.’
‘So, what should we do – give up and go home?’
‘Request permission to force an entry?’
‘We certainly could do that if we like breaking down doors, but it would be better if we could obtain a key, don’t you think?’
‘Which could be under a flowerpot?’
‘Or?’
‘Ask a neighbour?’
‘Good.’
‘What about Lucien Green’s house?’
‘There are only so many hours in a day, Rummage.’
‘We could go there after we’ve been to the hospital.’
‘I have somewhere else I need to be at four o’clock, five o’clock and seven o’clock.’
‘Oh?’
‘All private.’
‘I see.’
‘You share something with me, like why you were lingering in the church and whispering to the vicar, and I might tell you where I’m going?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘There we are then. From the hospital, you can drop me off at White City tube station and I’ll go where I have to go from there. You drive back to the station, leave the car keys on my desk, and I’ll see you bright and bushy-tailed in the morning.’
‘Or I could drive you to where you need to go?’
‘Or I could take the car and make you catch the train?’
‘Your first suggestion was much better.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
As they approached the Aygo, they noticed a woman sitting on the bonnet of the car with her feet on the bumper. She was in her mid-twenties, thin with short bleached-white hair styled in a pixie cut, and she had a mischievous smirk on her face.
‘Why are you sitting on my car?’ he said to the woman. ‘Get off my car before I arrest you for criminal damage.’
‘I have information about your case, Inspector Quigg.’
He wondered how she knew that the Aygo was his car today, and where he‘d be at this time of day. ‘Have you been following me?’
‘You’re becoming paranoid, Inspector.’
‘Well, if you do have information about my case, I suggest you go to the police station and tell the officer at the front desk everything you know – I’m busy right now.’
‘I’m a reporter, I don’t give information away for free.’
‘A reporter! I don’t know you. Who are you? Which paper do you work for?’
‘My name is Justine Chevalier, I’m a reporter with the Chiswick Camera.’
‘You’re making it up. We haven’t even released the names of the victims yet, so how could you possibly know anything about my case?’
‘The victims’ names are Lucien Green and Miranda Marron.’
His forehead wrinkled up. ‘How do you know that?’
‘A confidential source.’
‘Well, I’d advise you to give me any information you have, unless you want to be charged with obstructing a police investigation, perverting the course of justice and anything else I can think of.’
‘I’m afraid my information falls under the umbrella of a protected source, which as you know means I can’t be compelled to tell you.’
‘Okay. Well, I can’t say it was nice talking to you. I have to be somewhere else right now, so get off my car and we’ll go our separate ways. But I reserve the right to sue you for criminal damage if I should find any dents or scratches on my paintwork.’
‘Give me an exclusive, and I’ll tell you what I know?’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘I’m only asking for two hours before you tell everyone else.’
‘How do you know what you know?’
‘As I said: an anonymous source – a friend of Miranda’s.’
‘Who wouldn’t be too difficult to track down, I expect.’
‘Be my guest. You know where to find me if you change your mind.’
‘I could arrest you.’
‘You could certainly try.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Chevalier.’
‘It’s the lead you’ve been waiting for, Inspector.’
‘That’s the thing with leads. You wait all day for one to come along, and then three arrive at the same time. I have numerous other leads to follow.’
‘I doubt that very much. This one will help you to discover who killed them.’
He needed a decent lead. The case seemed to have stalled. ‘Thirty minutes?’
‘Two hours.’
‘One hour.’
‘And hour and a half – my final offer.’
Rummage pulled a face. ‘You’re not going to make a deal with her, are you, Sir?’
‘She’s a slimy reporter, Rummage. Not the devil incarnate.’
‘That’s debateable.’
He stared at Chevalier. ‘An hour and fifteen minutes – take it or leave it?’
‘You promise?’
‘My word is my bond, Miss Chevalier.’
‘I’ll take it then. My source said that Lucien and Miranda were looking into sex magick – that’s m-a-g-i-c-k to distinguish it from normal magic.’
‘I think we can all testify to the magic of sex, Miss Chevalier. That’s nothing new.’
‘No, it’s more than that. Sexual magic is described as any type of sexual activity used in magical or ritualistic religious/spiritual pursuits – I checked.’
Quigg looked at Rummage. ‘Do you know anything about sexual magic in a religious context, Rummage?’
‘No.’
‘Take your time.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Not attended any orgies in pursuit of understanding on a higher plane of existence?’
‘I’m sure you’d know more about orgies than I would, Sir. Orgies were banned in Kent.’
Chevalier said, ‘It wasn’t simply sexual magic in general, but more specifically they were investigating sexual magic in relation to a sex cult called The Children, which is an offshoot of Ordo Templi Orientis, which means the Order of Oriental Templars. At one time the OTO was led by Aleister Crowley, described as the wickedest man in the world.’
‘Never heard of him. What does he do?’
‘He doesn’t do anything now – he died in 1947. He used to be a famous occultist and ceremonial magician . . .’
‘A magician – who did magic tricks?’
‘No, not that type of magician. He used high magic in ceremonies and rituals. He also founded the religion of Thelema and pronounced himself the prophet who would guide humanity into the Aeon of Horus.’
‘Ah! A crazy person. Well, it all sounds far too complicated for me, Miss Chevalier.’
‘I’m simply telling you what I know, Inspector. Aleister Crowley thought that sex was the supreme magical power. The fundamental principal underlying Thelema is: Love is the law.’
‘Love is the law! What does that mean?’
‘It means that, sexually – you can do whatever you want to do.’
‘Does that include murder?’
‘If it’s done in the name of sexual gratification, I suppose it does.’
‘And who are these Children?’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t need your help, I’d just go and write the story.’
‘Okay. Well, we have to go now. I won’t dismiss your information out of hand, but I’m leaning over the sceptical side of the fence.’
She passed him a business card. ‘An hour and fifteen minutes before you announce it to any other reporters.’
‘Only if your information leads me to the killer.’
‘That wasn’t the deal.’
‘I’m sure I made that quite clear. Anyway, we really do have to go now, but thanks for sharing, Miss Chevalier.’
‘You’re a bastard.’
‘Reporters are always so polite.’
Once they were in the car and heading towards Miranda Marron’s address Rummage said, ‘You never were going to keep your end of the bargain, were you?’
‘Do you think they do?’
‘In a word – no.’
***
She’d done four more confessions – DC Raymond Laidlaw, Constable Mathew Scott, DC Basil Murphy and Sergeant Bob Carlton; uploaded them to the YouTube channel and notified Ruth they were there, but she was fed up now though. There were eight snivelling captives and three dead bodies. She was beginning to feel like a cross between a fucking carer and a mortuary assistant.
Medusa still hadn’t said anything.
She knew that if the bitch ever got free, her life wouldn’t be worth living. After sitting there with the bodies of her two dead sisters lying on the floor in front of her for hours, she was not best pleased – to put it mildly.
‘Ready to talk yet?’ she asked, ripping off the duct tape.
‘Yes, of course. Go fuck yourself, bitch.’
She re-applied the duct tape, picked up the knife and pushed it slowly all the way into the top of her left thigh and then pulled it out fast.
Tears streamed down Medusa’s face, and blood began seeping from the leg wound and dripping on the concrete.
‘Every hour, on the hour, I’m going to push that knife into you unless you give me a sign that you’re ready to talk. Yes, you’re going to die, but you’ll experience a lot of pain before you do unless you talk.’
Medusa glared at her. If her look could really turn people to stone, then Lucy would certainly be a statue.
The bag of possessions that her father had given her contained a number of items that she laid out on the table. Two phones; a Gucci wallet with DCI Victor Thackeray’s personal documents inside – Warrant Card, driving licence, credit/debit cards, membership cards, a fading photograph of a blond-haired child, a hundred and twenty pounds in notes and some loose change; an old Rolex watch; a pair of gold and diamond cufflinks; a gold tie clip; an expensive-looking fountain pen; a police notebook; a bunch of keys; and a Kahr P380 pistol in an ankle holster.
She screwed up her face. Since when did senior police officers carry guns in ankle holsters? She was looking forward to getting her hands on DCI Thackeray tomorrow morning.
Next, she opened up the handbag. She didn’t know anything about handbags – had never felt the urge to carry one. This one looked expensive. It was made from a dark red crocodile skin, had nice shiny metal bits sewn on it and the tag indicated it was made by Hermes-Birkin. The bag was full of junk: Another phone; a matching purse containing the personal documents of Delilah Garrett – driving licence, credit/debit cards, a bunch of keys, membership cards . . . and an identity card for the IOPC:
Mrs DA Garrett MBE
Non-Executive Director
So, this was the connection between John Lupton’s death and DCI Thackeray – Delilah Anne Garret MBE. She was Thackeray’s inside man at the IOPC. She updated the organisational chart on the side of the van and took another photograph. Then, she stood there staring at what she had. It was comprehensive – there was no two-ways about it. A wry smile warped her mouth. Pretty soon, she’d be hard put to find an honest copper in London.
It was wrong through. The organisational chart definitely looked like a pyramid-shaped hierarchical organisation with DCI Thackeray in charge at the top, a few other senior officers below that, a number of Inspectors, then Sergeants and the sacrificial cannon fodder at the bottom. There were three ranks below him and seven above him, which simply wasn’t right.
It came to her then, that Thackeray might be the person who was running things on the ground, the public face of the criminal enterprise so to speak, but he was a worker bee like the rest of them. There was a person – or a group of people – above him, people who were much more powerful operating in the shadows, pulling the strings, calling the shots, running the great picture show. She sat down at the table, logged into her laptop and began searching for those people.
Chapter Nineteen
The door to the apartment on Birdcage Walk looked the same, but it wasn’t. It was still locked. The snapped key in the keyhole was exactly where he’d left it, but there was evidence that the door had been forced open using a micro adze, or something similar. He’d used one himself in the past, so he knew that whoever had gained access had come prepared – They’d known Thackeray and Garrett were in the apartment.
There was no other entry, so if he wanted to go back inside, this was the only way in. He put superglue on the broken edge of his half of the key and held it against the other half in the lock. While the glue was hardening, he took out his Glock-19, turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and stood with his back against the wall.
Nothing.
He’d half-expected an Improvised Explosive Device rigged up as a booby trap, or a hail of gunfire from people he didn’t know. He stepped inside, checking for tripwires – nothing.
Slowly, he made his way along the hallway, past the kitchen, through the living room and eventually into the bedroom.
Delilah was exactly where he’d left her.
Thackeray had gone. The wire that had been secured around his neck, and the ankle and wrist restraints had been cut and were lying on the floor by the side of the bed.
Delilah opened her eyes, stared at him and tried to communicate through wriggling and grunting.
He tore off the duct tape.
‘They came for him.’
‘They! They who?’
‘I don’t know. There were two of them, and they wore ski masks and carried guns with silencers.’
‘Were they friend or foe?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did he know them? Did he go willingly? Had they come to rescue him? Or was it something else?’
She thought for a handful of seconds. ‘I think it was something else. He went with them willingly, but they kept their guns on him.’
‘Why did they leave you here?’
‘I have no idea. One of them held a gun to my head, but the other one said, “Leave her, she’s the wife of a judge. We don’t need any more trouble than we’ve already got with him.” I thought I was going to die.’
‘You still might. “From the frying pan into the fire” springs to mind.’
‘You wouldn’t kill me now.’
‘Maybe not, but my daughter might have different thoughts on the matter.’ He cut her restraints. ‘Get dressed.’
‘I need to take a shower.’
He screwed up his face. ‘Make it quick then. We have to get out of here.’ He checked that the bathroom was empty and said, ‘Leave the door open.’
‘You could join me?’
‘I don’t think so. Get going.’
He went back through the apartment and checked everything more thoroughly – nothing. The two men had obviously come for Thackeray, but why? Who were they? Who did they represent? And how had they known where to look? Did he have a GPS chip like the Gorgon sisters? And why did they leave Delilah Garrett alive? Where was Thackeray now?
‘Come on, get a move on,’ he called to Delilah.
‘Keep your hair on, I’m coming.’
He was nervous. He’d never suffered from nerves before. There were unknown players in the game and he didn’t like surprises. Who the hell were they?
His phone vibrated.
A message from Lucy:
I’m moving our guests in the white van
Any ideas where I should move them to?
There are other people involved
DG is one of them
L
Yes, she was his daughter all right. What did she mean: “There are other people involved”? Who? Had she found something? He texted her back:
SW18 2DD
The Old Taylor Distillery
894537
Check all our guests for GPS chips
‘I’m ready,�
� Delilah said. She’d put on clean clothes, a touch of make-up and her hair was still wet. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘How about a distillery?’
‘I could do with a stiff drink about now.’
***
The house at 22 Glebe Street in Chiswick was a mid-terrace Georgian home with sash windows, a tired-looking wooden door and a weed-infested concrete front garden surrounded by a small brick wall.
They found the front door key under the middle one of three plant pots sitting on the sill of the bay window.
‘So, we don’t need to break the door down, Rummage,’ he said, putting plastic gloves on before he touched the key. ‘You can put your battering ram back in your handbag.’
‘Do you think this is a crime scene?’
‘We have no evidence to suggest that it’s not. When in doubt – err on the side of caution. What we do know is that the lay-by where the bodies were found was not the primary crime scene, so it could be here.’
‘Seems logical.’
‘I’m glad you approve. Have you got gloves?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put them on then.’
Quigg unlocked the door and led the way inside. As he edged along the narrow hallway, he realised he should have knocked first. He’d assumed that Miranda Marron had lived here on her own, but that may not have been the case.
‘Police! Anyone at home?’
He was glad there was no response. The last thing he needed was a dripping naked female clutching a wet towel to her ample breasts asking him what he was doing inside her house.
The hallway led into an elongated kitchen that looked out onto a concrete back garden surrounded by Japanese Acer trees. To the right of the hallway was an oblong magnolia living room with the front bay window at one end, and a dining table and chairs at the other. There was a cluttered floor-to-ceiling open shelving unit, which seemed to be the dominant feature in the room; an old television in the corner that had seen better days; and a three-seater sofa against the wall opposite an Edwardian Hawthorne black finish cast-iron fireplace upon which sat Miranda Marron’s decapitated head in front of an oval mirror.