Lost Children of Bethnal Green (Quigg #9)

by Ellis, Tim

  ‘I don’t see any children,’ Rummage enquired, looking around as if she was a qualified child-snatcher.

  Crybaby’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You interested in children, Jezebel?’

  Rummage pulled out her Warrant Card. ‘Not in any horrible way. We’re looking for several missing children.’

  ‘You police as well, Mr Quigg?’

  ‘Yes, but we’re the good guys.’

  Crybaby grunted. ‘Time will tell. Time always tells.’

  ‘So, where are the children?’ Rummage pressed him.

  ‘Don’t like children,’ Crybaby said. ‘They attract all kinds of trouble.’ He nodded in their direction. ‘Present company being a case in point. Children come and children go. I try to discourage them from hanging around as much as possible. I tell ‘em, this ain’t the place for them. I advise ‘em to make for the shelters, the town centres, the bright lights, and the shop doorways. The arches are for long-term residents. People with no other place to go; people with a past, but no future. Those kids got futures if’n they could get their shit together . . . pardon my pussy willows.’

  ‘A man we spoke to,’ Quigg said. ‘He was working at the Mission last Saturday. He said he saw a ginger-haired boy coming this way around five o’clock that evening – do you recall anything about him?’

  ‘The boy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ginger hair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old did you say?”

  ‘Nine years old.’

  Crybaby shook his head. ‘What that boy’s parents thinking about? Nine years old ain’t no age at all. Used to be a father myself in times gone by. Of course, that was before I chose a simpler lifestyle.’

  ‘His name was John Snyder,’ Quigg prompted Crybaby.

  ‘Yeah, I saw the boy. Just walked right in to the end arch as if he owned the place.’

  Rummage leaned forward on the crate. ‘And then what?’

  ‘Well, then nothing. My attention got taken away with something else. I don’t rightly know what, but that boy went right out of my head.’

  ‘Did anyone living in the end arch know what happened to him?’ Rummage said.

  ‘Ah! Now we get to what’s really happening. The finger-pointing, the blame, the accusations. Next, there’ll be people coming around here shouting and hollering, holding up placards, and throwing Molotov cocktails . . . It’ll be the end of us, Mr Quigg. They’ll say we did things to that boy. The newspaper and television people will want to know what we did with a nine-year-old boy, but they won’t be satisfied with the truth, which is that we didn’t do nothing to that boy. No, they’ll make their own stories up . . . Is that how it’s gonna go, Mr Quigg?’

  Quigg stared into Crybaby’s eyes. ‘I promise you, that’s not how it’s going to go. We don’t think that any of your people did anything to the boy. We’re simply trying to find him – that’s all.’

  ‘I hope that’s the gospel truth, Mr Quigg. I’d hate for you to throw our friendliness and hospitality back in our faces.’

  ‘It’s the gospel, Crybaby. Our investigation is not just about one boy, it’s about a number of missing children.’

  Crybaby stood up. ‘I ain’t heard nobody talking, but we can go and ask for ourselves.’

  They followed Crybaby to the end arch where there was another brazier crackling away and half-a-dozen tramps sitting around it on makeshift seats – a filthy easy chair that used to be green and once had stuffing; a passenger seat from a 1987 Toyota MR2; a park bench that had been patched up with wood from an old chair; a blue and white striped deckchair from Brighton beach; and a rocking chair that didn’t rock anymore.’

  ‘Ginger-haired boy about nine-years-old came in here last Saturday evening,’ Crybaby said to the people gathered around the brazier. ‘Got Mr Quigg and Jezebel here enquiring after him.’

  ‘I saw him,’ one of the men said. He wore an old German soldier’s helmet.

  ‘That’s Tin-Hat,’ Crybaby said to Quigg.

  ‘Any idea what happened to the boy?’ Rummage asked.

  ‘I saw him as well,’ a black man said.

  Crybaby moved closer to the brazier, put his hands over the flames and rubbed them together. ‘Tell ‘em what you saw, Black Bolt?’

  ‘Came walking in like he knew people who knew people who lived here. Kept his head down. Had one of those hoodie things on, but I saw the red hair sticking out. Can’t miss those ginger nuts. It’s like they got a flashing light on top of their heads.’

  ‘And me,’ a woman said. ‘He walked straight by me as if he knew exactly where he was going.’

  ‘That’s Deep-Throat Holly,’ Crybaby whispered in Quigg’s ear. ‘You can just call her Holly, but if you’re ever in desperate need, Mr Quigg – Holly’s the woman who’ll see you right.’ He said to Holly, ‘Tell ‘em what you saw, Holly.’

  ‘I hope you ain’t casting aspirations ‘bout me, Crybaby Tucker?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Holly.’

  ‘Yeah well!’ She wiped her dripping nose on her sleeve. ‘That boy carried on past me and went back there . . .’ She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Never seen him come back out cos I got to doing something else, so I might have missed him.’

  Rummage peered into the darkness at the back of the arch. ‘What’s back there?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ another man chipped in. ‘We sometimes go back there when the weather gets really bad. Only rubbish blowed up against the walls and . . .’

  ‘Don’t forget the gate, Jokestealer John,’ Holly reminded him.

  ‘Oh yeah! There be a gate back there. That’s mostly why’s we out here. Noise coming through that gate is something dreadful . . .’

  ‘Gives everyone the screaming meemies,’ another woman said.

  ‘That’s Moped Enid,’ Crybaby said into Quigg’s ear. ‘Used to have a moped, but ain’t got it anymore. Said it was stole, but everyone knows she sold it to pay for a boob job.’

  ‘Don’t think I can’t hear you, Crybaby,’ Moped Enid said. ‘I’ll give you something to cry about for sure, if’n you talk about my boobies to strangers.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Rummage said. ‘Where does the gate lead? And why does it give people the . . . screaming meemies?’

  ‘Lead?’ Enid said. ‘Expect it leads to the underground, cos you can hear the trains coming and going, but that ain’t all.’

  The others shook their heads.

  ‘It ain’t all, at all,’ Jokestealer John muttered. ‘It’s locked up tight. We ain’t never been through that gate. Don’t matter none though, we still hear the screams, the whispering and . . .’

  Moped Enid stood up. ‘I got a torch. You wanna see that gate?’

  They followed Moped Enid to the back of the arch. Behind Quigg, Rummage and Crybaby shuffled Tin-Hat, Deep-Throat Holly, Jokestealer John and Black Bolt.

  Even before they reached the gate they could hear the noise from the trains.

  ‘What line is that?’ Quigg said to no one in particular.

  ‘The Central Line between Epping and Ealing Broadway,’ Black Bolt said. ‘Used to ride the trains afore I laid my hat here.’ He pointed to the right. ‘A short distance north-east is Bethnal Green tube station.’ He pointed to his left. ‘In the other direction the next station is Liverpool Street. I don’t rightly know how it can be that we hear the trains on that Line through that there gate, because the Line don’t actually run ‘neath here. It runs under Weaver’s Field and crosses under the overground line over by Pedley Street, which is a good five-hundred yards in either direction. The only thing I can think of is that it’s one of those ghost stations people speak about through closed lips. The Edwardian builders dug out some tunnels and stations that they forgot to tell people about, and the noise from the passing trains is whistling through those forgotten caverns like wind up an alleyway.’

  They all heard another train pass by beneath them.

  ‘That’s definitely a
train, isn’t it?’ Quigg posed the question.

  ‘Sure is,’ Crybaby said.

  Then they heard a bloodcurdling scream followed by what sounded like lots of people all whispering together.

  ‘That ain’t no train for sure,’ Jokestealer John said, moving back a pace.

  ‘But if it wasn’t a train,’ Rummage mumbled. ‘What the hell was it?’

  ‘You got the right idea, lady,’ Moped Enid said. ‘That noise is coming from Hell itself for sure.’

  ***

  Quigg borrowed Moped Enid’s torch and moved up close to the gate. He pointed the light through a small gap in the elaborately-patterned wrought-iron bars, but the beam didn’t penetrate more than a couple of feet into the pitch blackness . . .

  ‘Where’s the lock?’ Rummage asked from behind him.

  He gasped and his heart skipped a beat. ‘Are you creeping up behind me for a bet, Rummage?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  He moved the light to where the lock should have been, but Rummage was right – there was no lock. In fact, there was no handle either. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he rattled the gate he could just about see the end of a ring handle on the other side, and he imagined that there must be a lock there as well.

  At no point were the gaps in the wrought-iron design large enough to put an adult hand through. There were also spikes that formed part of the pattern, so trying to wriggle a hand through a gap would have resulted in serious injury.

  ‘The handle and lock are on the other side,’ Quigg said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the person who put the gate here, because I didn’t receive a copy of the memo.’

  Rummage smiled. ‘A lock on the other side would suggest that the person who locked the gate is still in there.’

  ‘I have a picture in my head of a man over a hundred years old rattling a bunch of keys like a jailer now, Rummage. We know there’s another way out, because we can hear the trains.’

  ‘But why is it here?

  ‘That was also on the memo I never received.’

  ‘I mean, someone would have to be inside to open the gate, but inside where? What’s it for?’

  ‘All good questions that I’m sure a person from British Rail, or whoever owns these railway arches and this fancy gate, might have answers to, but I expect we’ll never find out now.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘Well, John Snyder obviously didn’t go through the gate, did he?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because there’s no way to open it from this side.’

  ‘Maybe someone opened the gate from the other side and let him through.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rummage.’

  ‘I think we need to open the gate and find out what’s in there.’

  ‘You’re a spy for the Chief, aren’t you? You’ve been sent to lead me down the garden path? To follow dead ends? To spend money, I know the Chief would never authorise? To . . .’

  ‘If he didn’t go through here, where did he go?’

  ‘He probably slipped out.’

  ‘But nobody saw him leave.’

  ‘Which is exactly what “slipped out” means. He’s a child. Small children are often not seen, or ignored. Maybe they did see him, but it didn’t register. Maybe their attention was diverted for a split-second and he slipped out unnoticed. There are any number of other plausible explanations than the impossible one of him leaving through a locked gate that can’t be unlocked from this side.’

  She stared at him.

  He stared at the gate. Why would the boy come to the railway arches in the first place? Why did he make his way back here if not to access the gate? Maybe John Snyder’s arrival was pre-arranged, and there was someone on the other side waiting to open the gate? Who? Surely that was the thinking of a crazy person? Rummage was right. They had to open the gate and find out what was on the other side, if only for elimination purposes. He could imagine what the Chief would say about him eliminating the impossible. That was the trouble with having an over-active imagination – he imagined all sorts of things.

  ‘Is that you Perkins?’ he said into the phone.

  ‘Who did you call, Sir?’

  ‘You’re meant to say something when you answer your phone, not leave the person calling to guess who’s on the other end.’

  ‘I’ll remember that in future, Sir. Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘I know it’s you now, but before it could have been anybody.’

  ‘Did you call for a reason, Sir?’

  ‘I’m at the railway arches on Brady Street.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘There’s a wrought-iron gate at the back of one of the arches that only has a handle and lock on the inside.’

  ‘On the inside?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And very odd?’

  ‘Odd is a good word for it, Perkins. I want you to organise some people to come down here and open the gate with an oxyacetylene torch, so that Rummage and I can take a look inside.’

  ‘And this has something to do with the case?’

  ‘Have I been by-passed for promotion?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Sir.’

  ‘Because for a scary minute there I thought I was working for you, instead of the other way around.’

  ‘I’ll organise a couple of men to come down there shall I, Sir?’

  ‘That would be good. And the sooner, the better. Remember, we’re dealing with missing children, Perkins.’

  ‘Understood, Sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The seeds.’

  ‘The seeds what?’

  ‘I’ve found out what they are.’

  ‘And you’re going to share that information with me?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  He waited. ‘Anytime you get the urge, Perkins?’

  ‘They’re seeds from the flower datura stramonium.’

  ‘Very helpful.’

  ‘In fact, the flower has a number of names: Jimson weed, devil’s snare, hell’s bells, moonflower, thornapple, devil’s trumpet, devil’s weed, Jamestown weed, stinkweed, locoweed, pricklyburr, and devil’s cucumber. It’s a member of the deadly nightshade family, and as well as it being used for medicinal purposes, it’s also a powerful hallucinogenic and deliriant, which is used spiritually for the intense visions it produces, but it’s really toxic. Careless use often results in death.’

  ‘And what’s your thoughts on the matter, Perkins?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘It depends on what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Devil worship came to mind when I discovered what the seeds were.’

  Devil worship! If memory serves, wasn’t the Devil your first thought when we found that dismembered body in Bleeding Heart Lane?’

  ‘I was only going off the stories people told of that place.’

  ‘Have you any other intelligent thoughts?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a massacre in Jamestown?’

  ‘Yes, there was, but it has nothing to do with that. It refers to a group of soldiers in 1676 who were sent to quell a rebellion in Jamestown, but after eating the weed in a salad they became stoned for eleven days.’

  ‘And what about the number of glass bottles in the boxes?’

  ‘Exactly two hundred.’

  ‘Two hundred! That’s nearly half of the four-hundred-and-fifty missing children, Perkins.’

  ‘I know. But don’t forget, the four-hundred-and-fifty is over twenty-six years – that’s only nearly eight children a year.’

  ‘One is too many.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How many had glass bottles in their boxes over past five years?’

  ‘Forty-seven.’

  ‘Inspector Wright is obtaining a list of children who have been found in the past five years from the
local authority. I want you to retrieve that list from her, cross-reference it against the names of the children who had glass bottles with seeds in the boxes and . . .’

  ‘Already done, Sir. None of the forty-seven were ever found.’

  ‘Jesus! Are you telling me that forty-seven missing children have never been found?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not all. We also cross-referenced the lists for the whole twenty-six years. None of the two-hundred children were ever found.’

  ‘And no one has identified this pattern before?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘It can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

  ‘I would say not.’

  ‘And all you’ve got for me is devil worship?’

  ‘Well, it was only because . . .’

  ‘Is Sergeant Sage there?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Put her on.’

  ‘But this is my phone.’

  ‘Stop being a baby, Perkins.’

  He waited a handful of seconds.

  ‘Sergeant Sage, Sir?’

  ‘Any news, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, Sir. Because it’s a Children’s Home, children come and go all the time. Nobody seems to take much notice. There’s a regular turnover of children. As one leaves, they’re quickly replaced by other children, because empty rooms don’t generate income. There’s also a high turnover of staff. The only people who’ve been here for a number of years are the Custodian – Ms Bellab Hickey; the secretary – Daisy Ostby; a carer – Dorcus Adero; and the janitor – Peter Kink.’

  ‘And they seem to be in the dark as well?’

  ‘So they say, Sir.’

  ‘You don’t believe them?’

  ‘I’m not the person to ask, Sir. I believed my husband when he said he’d love and cherish me, but that didn’t happen past the first couple of weeks.’

  ‘What about the boxes?’

  ‘Different members of staff pack them up, produce a list for the file and the Janitor takes it down to a storeroom. The glass bottles with the seeds inside are simply one of the items on the lists, they’ve not been added to a list by someone else.’