by Ellis, Tim
‘Sergeant Sage will be there with her officers in about fifteen minutes.’
The call ended.
He didn’t mind odd-jobbing for Nicky Wright – she was an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, but looked a lot younger with her short dyed blonde hair, athletic figure and the staying-power of a long-distance runner.
***
While DC Rummage and Ms Hickey organised a staff member to act as liaison, and arranged five rooms for the interviews of the staff and children to be conducted in, Quigg went to the main entrance to await the arrival of Sergeant Ada Sage and her four officers.
It wasn’t long before there was a banging on the door. Acting like the concierge at the Ritz, he let Sergeant Sage and her four officers in, and then explained what was going on.
‘Do you think the staff are involved, Sir?’ Sergeant Sage said. She was young for a Sergeant, maybe late twenties with a pleasant face, good teeth, symmetrically-plucked eyebrows and rosy cheeks. She wore a wedding band on her ring finger, and he could imagine that she wouldn’t be short of male suitors.
‘I don’t know, but something’s not quite right here, Sergeant. How are those glass bottles with the five black seeds inside finding their way into the children’s boxes? Do the children leave the bottles behind? Or are they being put into the boxes after they’ve disappeared as a kind of marker or something like that? Is there one person who packs the boxes? Or do a number of staff members do it? I mean, let’s work on the conservative side and say that two hundred of these boxes have screw-cap glass bottles with seeds in them – where did the bottles and the seeds come from? Someone here must be involved, Sergeant?’
‘And you want me and my team to get to the bottom of it?’
‘That’s why you’re here.’
‘And where will you be while we’re doing your job for you, Sir?’
‘The railway arches on Brady Street.’
‘Where the homeless people sleep?’
‘Yes. The Janitor here – Mr Peter Kink – informed us that he caught a glimpse of a missing child there on Saturday evening, but the boy disappeared again.’
‘What if we finish interviewing the staff and children before you return?’
‘Give me a call and let me know if you’ve discovered anything.’
‘The wireless signal around the railway arches isn’t very good. What if I’m diverted to voicemail?’
‘You can knock off.’
‘That’s fine. Oh!’
‘Was there something else, Sergeant?’
‘I heard about your adventures in the ladies’ locker room, Sir.’
He felt his face heating up, and wondered whether the thermostat in the Home had broken down. ‘Now’s neither the time, nor the place.’
‘I understand that, but I have another time and place in mind where we can discuss your sexual harassment of my officers.’
He grunted. ‘Sexual harassment! I think if you speak to the three ladies in question you’ll discover that it was the other way around.’
‘That’s not what PC Constance Willard has told everybody.’ She pointed to one of the four uniformed officers shuffling about near the main door. ‘It also begs the question: Why were you in the ladies’ locker room in the first place?’
He glanced at PC Willard, but he didn’t recognise her with her clothes on.
She gave him half a smile and a surreptitious wave.
‘Constance said that you took advantage of her and the other two officers in question while they were taking a well-deserved shower after a hard day’s work. Apparently, as the story goes, you caught the three of them between a wall and something hard. So, before I lodge a complaint of sexual harassment with the Chief, I think I need to be in full possession of the facts, which requires me to investigate PC Willard’s claims for myself.’
‘I see. It’s like that is it?’
‘It’s exactly like that, Sir.’
‘Aren’t you married, Sage?’ he said, jerking his head towards the gold band on the ring finger of her left hand.
‘Married!’ She rolled her eyes and made a noise with her lips. ‘I have a slob of a husband who’s about as much use as a concrete parachute in all the areas that matter, and will soon be the ex-Mr Sage.’
‘And you think I can fill the gap?’
‘I’m not looking for another husband, Sir. And if I were, I wouldn’t be looking in your direction. I’m simply investigating a case of sexual harassment, and I’ve heard that you might have some hard evidence in support of my officer’s claim. As soon as I’m in possession of said evidence, I probably won’t need to bother you again. Unless, of course, there’s some discrepancy with the purported facts of the incident. In which case, I might have to re-interview you. You wouldn’t want me to go to the Chief half-cocked now, would you, Sir?’
‘No, that would never do. You’ll let me know when I’m required to provide you with this evidence?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from you then, Sergeant.’
***
Rummage joined him. They made their way out of the Ragged Children’s Home and climbed into his car. Due to roadworks, the one-way system and the time of day, it would probably have been quicker to walk, but walking was for uniformed officers, not detectives – they drove cars.
‘What’s your thoughts on the investigation, Rummage?’ he asked her, as they were sitting in a greasy spoon on Three Colts Lane having lunch.
‘There’s something going on, Sir?’
‘Very astute. You’ll make a fine detective one day.’
The corner of her mouth creased upwards. ‘I’m wondering why we’re investigating missing children, Sir?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, I thought we were murder detectives.’
‘And we are.’
‘But there’s been no murders.’
‘That we know of.’
‘Also, aren’t we stepping on other people’s toes? I’m not overly familiar with London yet, but I didn’t think Bethnal Green was in Hammersmith.’
‘You’re right. Bethnal Green is in Tower Hamlets, but you’re forgetting about the puppet master.’
Rummage raised an eyebrow. ‘The Chief?’
‘No, he’s a puppet like the rest of us. A fatter puppet with better mechanical workings and strings, but a puppet all the same. I’m referring to the Commissioner.’
‘Isn’t he a puppet as well?’
‘In the realms of politics I suppose he is, but to us he’s the puppet master. When a complex case comes along – regardless of where it is in the Metropolis – the Commissioner points his bony finger in our direction, the Chief winds up our inner-workings and we become his all-singing all-dancing marionettes. Of course, I’ve tried ducking, hiding behind walls, sliding under beds and so forth, but all to no avail. The puppet master’s minions always seem to find me no matter where I skulk in the shadows. So, in the end, we’re similar to smokejumpers who parachute into remote areas to combat wildfires.’
‘And the lost children of Bethnal Green are a wildfire?’
‘I would say so – wouldn’t you? Can you imagine if somebody emptied out all the seeds from inside those bottles and placed them side-by-side next to each other?’
‘It’d be a lot of seeds.’
‘It certainly would. Children have been going missing, as far as we’re aware, for twenty-six years. Some might very well be runaways, but eighteen children disappearing from the same children’s home in one year needs to be investigated. I can imagine that a multitude of sins could be hidden under the term “runaways”. Even if we’re conservative with our estimates and say that two thirds – twelve – are actually runaways, what about the other six? If they didn’t runaway, where are they?’
‘It’s scary, isn’t it, Sir?’
‘Scary is a good word for what’s happening here, Rummage. My immediate thought is child-trafficking for the purposes of sexual exploitation. We could have stumbled on
to a network of child-traffickers camouflaged within the layers of local authority bureaucracy.’
‘Yes. I was surprised when Ms Hickey said that the children weren’t brought back to the home by the police.’
‘Exactly,’ Quigg said. ‘There’s no clear trail that anybody could follow. We have no idea how many of the children who are reported missing are ever found, where they were and what happened to them while they were missing.’
‘It seems that the only reason we’ve been asked to investigate the case is because Ragged Children’s Home lost seven children in one month.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘One or two a month seems to be unremarkable. When someone labels a missing child a “runaway”’, no one seems to care.’
‘Well, we care, Rummage.’ He took out his phone and called Nicky Wright.
‘I don’t normally like to provide too much on credit, Quigg.’
‘You know I’m good for it.’
‘That’s beside the point. If word gets out that I’m in the bartering business, they’ll all be knocking on my door with their bits-and-pieces, odds-and-ends, and bottom-of-the-barrel offers wanting to swap it all for my personal favour.’
‘There’s only you and I who know about our little quid-pro-quo.’
‘You’d better keep it that way. So, what do you want to swap for odd-jobs this time?’
‘I’ve told you about the lost children?’
‘You have. I’m sympathetic in a curious sort of way. I don’t actually like children, but I know you’re a father many times over.’
‘Accountability for the children appears to have got lost in the layers of local authority bureaucracy. When a child goes missing from the Ragged Children’s Home, they’re assumed to have run away and reported to the police as runaways. Names, photographs and relevant details are distributed to officers on the beat and in squad cars. My assumption is, that some of the children are picked up . . . and here’s where it gets messy. The children aren’t taken back to the Children’s Home, because their rooms have been re-allocated to other children in need of care, but Local Authority Social Workers find them another place – wherever that might be.’
‘So, you’re saying that nobody is cross-referencing the missing children with the found children?’
‘I’m saying exactly that. Or at least that’s the way it appears. It might be that the Local Authority are matching up the two lists, but if they are they’re keeping it close to their chest. I need to know the names of the missing children who have been found in the last five years. As far as I’m aware, no one really knows the scale of the problem – or even if there is a problem. We have the lists of the runaway children who have been reported to the local authority, Perkins and his people are identifying the children’s boxes that contain a glass bottle with seeds inside, and now I need a list of the children who were found.’
‘And then you’ll marry the three lists up?’
‘That’s what I have in mind.’
‘You’ve got the idea that none of the children with glass bottles in their boxes have been found, haven’t you?’
‘It’s strange how we’re beginning to think alike, Nicky.’
He heard her guffaw. ‘Don’t get even the sliver of a thought that we’re a couple, Quigg. I’m in complete control of what’s happening. We’re not soulmates, you can’t share my bed any time you feel like it, I’m not cooking for you, and I’m definitely not having your babies. As far as I’m concerned, you’re an odd-job man – nothing more, nothing less.’
‘That suits me just fine.’
The call ended.
***
The railway arches on Brady Street were just around the corner from The Good Shepherd Mission on Three Colts Lane. The railway line that rumbled over the arches ran into Liverpool Street overground station. It was only when the express trains sped by that the noise became unbearable, but they were few and far between. The majority of trains were either picking up, or dropping off, passengers at Bethnal Green station.
‘How did you get a name like Jezebel, Rummage?’
‘I suppose much the same way as you got your first name.’
‘Parents have a lot to answer for.’
‘What is your first name, Sir?’
‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’
‘It’s bad, is it?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember what it is anymore.’
‘You could look on your birth certificate.’
‘Lost.’
‘Tax form.’
‘You’re assuming I pay tax.’
‘Personnel file.’
‘Washed away in a flash flood.’
‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’
‘I’ve lost enough partners this year.’
Due to the cost of acquiring land and buildings in and around London, and the surge in economic growth in unexpected places, most of the railway arches had been appropriated for numerous uses including cars, bars, theatres, gyms, car washes, manufacturing units, music practice venues and tourist attractions. Brady Street was one of the few that hadn’t been sold off, but a sign above one of the arches read ominously:
Railway arches acquired for re-development
in 2017
by
Interim Holdings
They headed for the burning brazier under the second of the five arches. There was a homeless man of indeterminate age wearing a filthy trench coat over layers of other clothes. On his head was a woollen hat, which resembled a knitted tea cosy, and around his neck a thick knitted scarf.
Quigg stood by the brazier and held is hands out towards the flame as if he lived there, or at least was a regular visitor.
Rummage copied him.
‘Weather’s turning,’ the man said.
‘I think of it more as a slippery slope,’ Quigg said, like a meteorologist with questionable credentials. ‘You’re sitting on your sled, it has no brakes, and you’re sliding towards the worst winter there ever was. You keep pulling on your brake, but nothing seems to happen. In fact, if anything, you seem to be going faster. You can see the frost, icicles, snowmen and snowstorms up ahead in the distance, but there’s nothing you can do to stop your inevitable fall into the frozen wastes of December, January and February.’
The man looked quizzically at him through rheumy eyes, and then shot his hand out. ‘Crybaby Tucker.’
Against his better judgement Quigg shook the hand. ‘Pleasure to meet to meet you, Crybaby. I can imagine there’s a tale or two behind the name.’
‘You bet.’
‘I’m Quigg, and this young lady is Jezebel.’
Crybaby held his hand out towards Rummage. ‘I used to know a Jezebel in a different time and place.’
Rummage shook Crybaby’s hand as if she were picking up barker’s eggs with her bare fingers.
‘Of course, that wasn’t her real name. I think it was Hilda, or something like that, but that’s what people used to call her . . . Yeah! They’d say, “There goes that Jezebel”.’
‘Jezebel is my real name,’ Rummage said.
‘Get away? Who’d call their child Jezebel knowing what we know about people called Jezebel?’
‘What do you know?’
‘Me? I don’t know nothing.’
‘That’s right,’ Rummage said. ‘You don’t know anything about me. A name is just a name.’
‘Gotcha. Forget I ever mentioned it.’
Quigg squeezed Rummage’s arm to stop her talking. ‘You been living here long, Crybaby?’
‘Five years this has been my home, but not for much longer by the looks of things.’ He pointed upwards. ‘You see the sign?’
‘We saw it.’
‘Ain’t nowhere soon an honest tramp will be able to rest his weary head. Those people with money come around and buy it all up, destroying the natural beauty of London. Railway arches are a part of Britain, part of who we are as British people, part of living
on the streets.’
‘Well, we’re not people with money, you can be sure about that. I haven’t got two beans to rub together. What about you, Rummage?’
‘Not a cent.’
‘I could tell by looking at you that you had no money,’ Crybaby said. ‘You thinking of moving in here?’
‘Just looking,’ Quigg said. ‘Any chance of you showing us around?’
‘Sure. I show people around for a small commission. This is Crybaby Tucker’s estate – everybody knows that. Five years in a place, you get to know the nooks and crannies, and the people. The people come and go though. Ain’t easy living on the street. ‘Specially with winter coming around the corner like she does. I certainly knows what you mean ‘bout that slippery slope, fella. I think this winter is gonna be a hard one for sure. So, you ready for the grand tour?’
Quigg could have stood in front of the brazier all day. The heat had warmed his cockles through and through, and if he’d had the unnatural ability to sleep standing up he would have done. ‘Ready when you are, Crybaby.’
***
Crybaby Tucker guided them through the five railway arches on Brady Street and introduced them to the people who inhabited the homeless community. There was The Swede who came from Denmark; Ponytail Doug who had a few strands of hair left of a once bushy ponytail; Sausage Patty who had a bit of a reputation, but it kept her alive; Prostate Dave who had to pee a few painful drops of urine every fifteen minutes or so; Drinky Drunky Tom; Cherry Sherry; Dora the Explorer; Jethro Tull; Thunderpants Max . . . They all appeared like fully-formed characters who had walked out of a storybook.
‘What do you think, Mr Quigg?’
‘I think you’ve got yourselves a real nice place here, Crybaby.’
They ambled back to the brazier.
Crybaby added a few sticks and some other rubbish from a pile against a wall to keep the brazier burning. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, indicating half-a-dozen upturned plastic crates. ‘Shame those money-people gonna make these arches into soulless places that stand around empty twelve hours a day just so someone who don’t need it can make a few quid. Here we already are. We’re living here twenty-four hours a day. This place got a heart, a soul, a face. They gonna rip the guts out of what we got here. Yeah – a real shame. Gotta start thinking ‘bout where we gonna move to.’