The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

by Tim Ellis

  He approached and examined the head more closely. The eyes were closed, the hair had been brushed, make-up and lipstick had been applied. There was no blood on the head, at the neck or on the fireplace.

  ‘Give Perkins a ring,’ he said. ‘Tell him where we are and to get a team down here. Also, he should send a second team to 37 Binden Gardens. If Miranda Marron’s head is here, then it’s likely that Lucien Green’s head is sitting on his fireplace also. Not only that, but we still haven’t found the crime scene.’

  ‘Okay, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll check the other rooms.’

  She nodded.

  He made his way into the kitchen, out to the concrete rear garden, back inside, up the stairs to the two bedrooms and into the bathroom. The house wasn’t especially tidy, but it was clean and lived-in. He didn’t find any evidence that the murders had occurred in the house, or that heads had been decapitated with a bow saw in the bath.

  ‘Take a look at these, Sir,’ Rummage said when he returned to the living room.

  She was pointing to a lower shelving unit.

  ‘What are they?’ He squatted and peered at occult paraphernalia. There were two red candles shaped like penises; a curved gold-plated dagger; a yellowed skull inscribed with what appeared to be magical symbols; plaited twists of yarn with keys, charms and stones attached; and a gold necklace from which was hanging a pendant with a male and female having sex in the middle of a pentagram. There were also a few books stacked between two bookends that depicted Ares – the Greek god of war, and Aphrodite – the goddess of lust, sex and physical beauty:

  Demonic & Sexual Magick by Carl Nagel;

  Hell Portal Magick: Creating and Using a Doorway to Hell by S Rob;

  OTO: Rituals and Sex Magick by Theodor Reuss & Aleister Crowley;

  Magia Sexualis by Paschal Beverly Randolph;

  Sex Magick by Aleister Crowley;

  The Book of Lies by Aleister Crowley.

  ‘None of this proves anything.’

  ‘I think it proves you’ll have to keep your end of the bargain with Justine Chevalier, eat your words and make the call.’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions again, Rummage. It might be that she was keeping them safe for a friend; or that they were already here when she bought the house and she decided to keep them for posterity; or . . . Anyway, there could be a million and one other reasons why these items are sitting on her shelf. Did you phone Perkins?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘Good. Okay, let’s stop playing guessing games in here and make our way to the hospital. We’ll be late for the post-mortems if we’re not careful, and then Doc Solberg will give me an earful.’

  It took Rummage twenty minutes to reach the hospital.

  As they walked down to the mortuary, Quigg’s Necrophobia began to activate. His heart rate increased, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and his breathing became laboured.

  Rummage smiled at him. ‘You’re crazy, Sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Rummage. It’s nice of you to say so.’

  ‘Why don’t you do something else?’

  ‘Because this is all I ever wanted to do.’

  ‘Even if it kills you?’

  ‘Even if it kills me. That’s what people do, isn’t it? They risk their lives all the time in pursuit of thrills, the adrenaline rush, for money, a sense of duty, fulfilment, for God . . . The list is endless. Let me ask you this: Why did your father do missionary work if he knew there was a likelihood he could be killed? Why did he not only risk his own life, but also the lives of his wife and daughter? Both your mother and your father died doing missionary work.’

  ‘My father had a calling, and my mother went with him out of love.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice. I was born in Africa.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. When your father was crucified for his beliefs, where were you? What happened to you? Did you escape unscathed?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Ah! More secrets that you’re keeping from your partner? I’ll take that as a “no” then. One can only speculate about what happened to you in Nigeria. Was that what you were secretly whispering about to the vicar?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘I’ll find out, Rummage. I’m a detective. Finding out things that people try to hide from me is what I do. As the scorpion said to the frog: “It’s in my nature.”’

  Doc Solberg had nearly finished the two post-mortems.

  ‘I was wondering where you two were.’

  ‘Wonder no more, Doc.’

  ‘Time has been kind to me today, Quigg. I was able to begin the post-mortems two hours earlier than scheduled, because someone I was meant to meet did not appear for the meeting.’

  ‘Was that good or bad news?’

  ‘Good. My father has come all the way from Sweden. I was not looking forward to seeing him.’

  ‘Did he get lost?’

  ‘It is not a topic I wish to discuss.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I should tell you that we’ve just found Miranda Marron’s head sitting on the fireplace in her lounge.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And we’re beginning to think that they were murdered as part of a sexual magic ritual.’

  ‘Sexual magic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah! There is some academic debate about whether the first person to bring the magical use of sex and sexual fluids to Western Europe was from America or Sweden, because a form of sexual magic was practised in Sweden as part of folk tradition long before Paschal Beverly Randolph wrote Magia Sexualis. The problem, of course, is that he travelled extensively in Europe and could have passed his ideas on to the Swedish people.’

  ‘Sexual fluids?’

  ‘You do not want to know, Quigg. Let us just say, that using sexual fluids for magical ceremonies leads to sticky situations.’

  ‘I can imagine. I don’t suppose you know anything about sexual fluids do you, Rummage?’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do.’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question about sexual fluids – nothing more, nothing less. So, anything for us, Doc?’

  ‘I received the Missing Person reports that you faxed to me, and my comparative analysis of the victim’s DNA confirms that they are who you think they are – Lucien Green and Miranda Marron. That conclusion was also supported, certainly in Lucien Green’s case, by the surgical scar on his left shoulder, which was the result of an open capsular shift operation to tighten the shoulder joint. There was also secondary evidence of a Bankart tear following a traumatic shoulder dislocation.’

  ‘Rugby apparently,’ Quigg said.

  ‘Yes, traumatic shoulder instability is a common injury in rugby.’

  ‘What about the woman?’

  ‘We analysed the victim’s DNA. There was no match for the man, but we did find a familial match with the woman’s DNA.’

  ‘The child she gave up for adoption fifteen years ago?’

  ‘Yes and no. It is not her child, but her daughter’s child.’

  ‘But surely Miranda Marron’s daughter is only fifteen.’

  ‘You seem surprised, Quigg. The UK has the highest teenage birth and abortion rate in Western Europe. Rates of teenage births in the UK are fifteen times higher than they are in Sweden, and we invented sex.’

  ‘Astounding.’

  ‘Anyway, the child has been put up for adoption.’

  ‘Like mother, like daughter.’

  ‘We could jump to that conclusion, but we don’t know the social or environmental circumstances surrounding the birth or adoption.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘We analysed the human hair that was clutched in their hands and discovered that both samples were from the same female who died at the very least fifty years ago.’

  ‘The hair came from a fifty year-old corpse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you say a
corpse . . . Do you mean that the hair was removed from a dead body fifty years ago and stored for later use? Or that it was recently removed from a corpse and placed in the victims’ hands?’

  ‘There is no way of knowing. The hair, like the corpse, was dead.’

  Rummage said, ‘Is it true that the hair and fingernails continue to grow after death?’

  Doc Solberg shook her head. ‘No. It is an old wives’ tale. Both need to be supplied by energy. This comes from the burning of glucose, which requires the presence of oxygen. Once the heart stops pumping oxygen round the body, all growth stops – everything dies.’

  Quigg pulled a face. ‘Does that answer your question, Rummage?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Good. So, what you’re saying is that the killer has access to a fifty year-old corpse?’

  ‘Or head of hair,’ Rummage suggested.

  ‘Good point, Rummage. A decapitated head with the hair still attached?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘Interesting.’ He glanced at the Doc again. ‘And there’s no way you can tell me when the hair was pulled from the corpse’s head?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Doc.’

  ‘I have one other piece of information.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We analysed the DNA of all the semen found on and inside the bodies.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We found another familial match.’

  ‘The straw that broke the camel’s back.’

  ‘Or the key that unlocks the mystery?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that.’

  ‘The familial match belongs to a Lisa Abraham whose maiden name is Underhill. Her DNA is held on the database, because she has twice been arrested for driving under the influence and possession of cocaine.’

  ‘Why does that name ring a bell?’ Rummage asked.

  ‘She’s with the singing group the Rhubarbs.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The DNA from the semen found on the bodies belongs to her brother – Anthony Underhill. I have an address, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Are we interested, Rummage?’

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to visit Mister Underhill and ask him how he’s involved.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right. Okay, Doc. What’s the address?’

  She passed it to Rummage. ‘I will never understand the English humour.’

  ‘Don’t the Swedish have a sense of humour?’

  ‘It gets lost in translation.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s too cold in Sweden to be funny. Right then, unless there’s anything else, Doc?’

  ‘No, you have everything I have.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, but we’ll run with it. I’m backed-up until about eight o’clock tonight now. Come on Rummage, time to go.’

  ‘Did Professor Alice Neuville contact you?’ the Doc asked.

  ‘Yes she did, thanks. I’m on my way to meet her now.’

  ‘Be careful what you say and do, Quigg.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She has a way with her. You will understand once you meet her.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for the warning.’

  They made their way back out to the car park.

  Quigg called Inspector Wright, gave her Anthony Underhill’s address, asked her to send a squad car to arrest him on suspicion of murder and then lock him up in a cell for the night.

  ‘I could . . .?’

  ‘Yes you could, Rummage. But instead, I want you to find out everything you can about Anthony Underhill, especially who he has orgies with.’

  ‘And then I could . . .?’

  ‘Yes you could, but you won’t. We’ll both interview Mister Underhill together first thing tomorrow morning after he’s had a night to consider his options, and a forensic team has ransacked his house – clear?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Excellent. Right, take me to White City station. I’m already running late.’

  ***

  The old Taylor distillery had been built by the side of the Thames at the far end of Wandsworth docks in 1887 by Colonel EH Taylor – once commanding officer of the 23rd London Regiment – who went on to become Mayor of Putney. The distillery closed in 1986 when Colonel (Retired) Edward Harradine Taylor died at the ripe old age of 102. It had subsequently been purchased for redevelopment in 2009 by a company called Minster Holdings, that nobody knew anything about, and that same year they had put any redevelopment on hold due to the stagnant economic climate.

  She keyed the number her father had texted her – 894537 – into the keypad.

  The electronic gate clicked open and slid sideways. She drove the white Transit van inside the twelve-foot security fencing and the gate closed behind her.

  Once she’d begun looking into DCI Thackeray and Delilah Garrett’s phone and financial records she became nervous. She didn’t normally get nervous, but then she didn’t normally stumble over a group of people who ran London like their own personal fiefdom.

  It became clear that there were a group of people above DCI Thackeray who called themselves the Board of Directors, and with a Board of Directors the organisational chart she’d created on the side of the van made much more sense. She’d discovered eight directors:

  Sir Lionel Campbell, Chairman and CEO of the Thames Redevelopment Group;

  Muradija Ahmed, CEO of GreyMatter Technologies;

  Andrew Pottsboro, CEO of Cheetah Risk Management and Security International;

  Martin Goodacre, CEO of Lancelot Public Relations;

  Lord Sylvester of Rugby and Deputy Head of the Civil Service;

  Dame Zoe Corrigan, Special Parliamentary Advisor;

  Delilah Garrett, Non-Executive Director of the Independent Office for Police Conduct;

  Dr Lionel Blackman, Second Secretary to the Treasury.

  All eight were big hitters, influential people, serious players who had a stranglehold on London’s criminal enterprise. And when she examined their movements going back over six months, it was clear that they all met once a month – for lunch and then probably a Board Meeting – in the Chives dining room on the 38th floor of the Gherkin building on the second Thursday of every month.

  It was easy enough to get to the grunts on the ground – the constables, sergeants and inspectors – but the higher up she went, the less there was to grab hold of. Document trails petered out into nothing; money trails disappeared into black holes; security footage was sanitised until she wondered if it was all in her head. She had eight names, but zero evidence. These people knew how to operate behind a veil of secrecy and they had the wherewithal to be able to do it as well.

  Thackeray’s second phone had one Board Member’s number in it – Delilah Garrett’s. Her phonebook had Dame Zoe Corrigan’s number. They were operating as a chain, and there was only ever a direct connection to one other person in that chain.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. She’d found a hidden SIM card inside a gold charm that resembled a book on Delilah Garrett’s key ring with other names on it as well, names of people who didn’t live in the UK, who weren’t even English, who seemed to have their fingers in the pie. The whole operation wasn’t simply the police taking over from the criminals, it was an international conspiracy of epic proportions.

  She’d brought the chairs, tables and ropes with her. She lifted those out of the back of the van first, and positioned them under a salmagundi of metal pipes emanating from three rusting vats. The fading grey light came in through metal-framed windows, some of which were cracked and broken. Metal steps led up to a fenced balcony that overlooked the vats. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it would do.

  Once the eight captives began to wake up from being zapped with the stun gun, she made them climb out of the van and positioned them on the chairs again, making sure the restraints and ropes were tight. Due to the cold, lack of food and sleep, some of them were in a pretty bad way. Medusa particularly, was beginni
ng to fade due to loss of blood. The knife protruded from her thigh. Lucy had stabbed her five times so far, but she still hadn’t said anything. She was beginning to look like a lost cause.

  She pulled the tape from her mouth. ‘Ready to talk yet?’

  ‘You may as well kill me now, because I’m never going to talk.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lucy stabbed her in the heart. ‘Right, let’s get the rest of the confessions out of the way. Once they’re done I’ll order in a takeaway, get a pack of beers and we’ll be set for the night. Detective Sergeant Pratt – I think it’s your turn now.’

  Chapter Twenty

  On the way back to Godolphin Road, they discussed how the police might respond to the impending revelation relating to the endemic corruption in the Metropolitan Police Service.

  ‘They’re not going to take it lying down,’ Nate said, always the voice of reason and pessimism.

  ‘What can they do?’ Ruth said, but she knew very well what they could do.

  ‘Arrest us. Confiscate our equipment and phones; freeze our bank accounts, search our houses . . . And in the end, they’ll use whatever powers they can muster to throw us all in a cell and lock down the story until they can publicly manage the situation, or sweep it under the rug. In the interests of national security is always a good one – the Americans use that a lot.’

  Dennis nodded his head like a dog in a car rear window. ‘I must admit, it’s been on my mind. If you poke a grizzly in the eye with a stick, he’s going to get angry. And I’d say, after poking our grizzly in the eye with a big stick, he’ll be frothing at the mouth.’

  ‘All right,’ Ruth said. ‘Let us make contingency plans. Drop me off at home, then you and Nate find somewhere they won’t be able to get to you, lie low while you edit the trailer and send it off to the news channels. We will upload a copy of everything we have to the cloud server, so that they can’t find or destroy it. I will wait for the police to arrive. The hidden CCTV we have will record their actions, and I will also contact my solicitor – Lisa Giles – to come and rescue me and speak on my behalf.