Authors: Paul Cornell
The Scene of Crime Officers of SCD 4 had extracted a very new-looking piece of paper from where it had been found folded up and wedged between two floorboards, and handed it to
them, properly bagged, for inspection.
Quill laughed out loud when, at the bottom of the same letter, he saw Rob Toshack’s signature. Putting all modesty aside, he called Ross over – with her younger eyes – to read
it aloud.
‘Dear Mora,’ she read out, increasing pleasure in her voice. ‘You’re not here, and I can’t find that door of yours. If it sweetens the deal, I’m bringing a
few of my lot over to your safe houses. You can have any of them you want, all of them if you like. Just talk to me, all right? Yours sincerely—’
‘Formal, in the circumstances,’ commented Sefton.
‘That’s him, all right,’ said Costain. ‘Proper, like.’ There was a horrified look on his face, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Was he
offering her . . . us?’
‘She might have had a bit of trouble with Mick and the boys,’ said Sefton. ‘Bloody hell, it’s like a backwoods-cabin horror movie. There must have been a whole family of
them for him to say that: loads of them across all these houses, if he thought they’d be able to ambush us. And he didn’t even bother telling us not to bring guns!’
That thought made the others pause, even as it settled down in Quill’s head and made itself at home. What the fuck were they dealing with here? ‘Hi ho,’ he said,
‘it’s off to work we go.’
Costain took himself aside for a few minutes, and thought about what he’d heard read aloud, and found that a little bit of bile had now entered his lovely day. But, what
the fuck, that was history now. Rob had been willing to sell him out to who knows what: well, that was how the world worked, and he’d got in his retaliation without knowing it. And now he
didn’t have to feel bad about anything. He shook his head and carried on.
Quill called a conference of all those still inside the house, and told them to concentrate on finding a hidden door. But none was found. The next time he looked up, it was
dark outside. The noises from out there suggested a major press presence and a crowd of onlookers on the other side of the police cordon, big television lights now heating the air. He phoned Sarah,
left a message just saying, yes, he was in the middle of what she was seeing on telly, and so, obviously, he’d be home late. She called back to say there was nothing bloody obvious about it
– then clicked off before he could reply.
Lofthouse arrived, relief showing on her face. She went around, touching walls and windows, as if she was considering buying the place. ‘Brilliant stuff, James. You reckon we’ll nick
her?’
‘I’m amazed someone out there hasn’t found her already.’
‘Quite a few say they’ve sighted her, but so far it’s just the nutters. We’ve put a watch on the West Ham pubs, and so on. The club are being . . .
fulsomely
cooperative.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘I should think they’ll burn her regular seat and salt the ground beneath it.’
Quill stopped her just before she went outside to conduct her press conference. ‘Ma’am, is this what . . .? I mean, you put such a . . . strange unit together. This has the ring of
insane genius.’
‘Flattery is always welcome.’
‘But I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is this really about . . .’ he chose his words carefully. ‘. . . corruption in Gipsy Hill?’
She looked for a moment to be choosing her words carefully. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Let’s find out. At least you’re thoroughly off the hook.’ And her
expression now urged him to leave it at that.
Lofthouse delivered her press conference out on the doorstep, the light drizzle reflecting the television lights. She didn’t speculate, but asked for the public’s
help, particularly from those who were West Ham supporters. She was asked about the matter of the child victims’ identity, and said that she couldn’t add anything on that subject, as
yet. Nor could she, for operational reasons (that was, protecting the UCs), offer a narrative that led from the Toshack investigation to this doorstep.
Quill watched it all from an upstairs window. He wondered how iconic that bare doorway was going to become. This was going to be a famous London murder house, like 10 Rillington Place or 39
Hilldrop Crescent. The neighbours, who’d been moved out and were currently being interviewed, hadn’t, thankfully, done the usual by saying that Losley was a pleasant neighbour
who’d kept herself to herself. (Always delivered in a tone of voice that suggested that, since keeping oneself to oneself was the single greatest thing one English person could do for
another, the suspect ought to be excused whatever psychopathic shit they’d visited on other people.) They just hadn’t seen her at all. A few of them had even thought that the house was
empty, which meant Losley had probably been absent for some considerable time. According to the internet, on the other hand, the holders of season tickets in seats near Losley, plus the
supporters’ club, were now queuing up to say she was a bloody paedo and to distance themselves from anything she’d done, from goal celebrations to using harsh language. Quill called up
West Ham and arranged to be sent a list of names and contact details for those season-ticket holders seated near to Losley, so he could call them in for interview.
‘We’ve heard from West Ham supporters,’ said a reporter with the BBC logo on her microphone, ‘that Mora Losley expressed particular hatred for those who scored hat-tricks
against the club. And there’s an urban legend about such players being murdered. Is there anything to suggest—?’
And the crowd goes wild, thought Quill, who’d been hoping nobody would make that connection. Lofthouse let the noise die down and started to do her best to quench that particular fire.
Sefton tapped Quill on the shoulder, and handed him the late-edition
Evening Standard
. That Losley season-ticket photo featured in it.
The Witch of West Ham
, said the headline.
Bang, that was what she was now.
‘Anything in there?’ Quill asked the SOCO with the magnetic resonance device, who was running it over the tub of soil. For the third time, because he’d
requested her to.
‘Soil,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Quill. ‘Have a biscuit. Anything else?’
‘No,’ sighed the woman, ‘as I
said
: a shaped pile of the West Ham soil, wet as you’d expect that club’s soil to be, and matching that found at Gipsy Hill,
with a layer of what looks to be local soil underneath. We’ve also sifted it and looked under the tub. Which is bloody heavy.’
‘Small bones? Needles? You’ve
completely
forensicated it?’
The SOCO just glowered at him and walked away.
At the end of their shift, the forensics team left the loft, heading off for a cuppa, and, in the gap before the next shift came on, Quill looked around and saw that it was
just the four of them in here now. Which felt kind of weird. For a while, there, they’d been back in the mainstream of police work. And with luck it was going to be like that from now on. It
would surely be the only sane thing for Lofthouse to draw some more personnel into her now highly successful spin-off. Yeah, the sane thing – so how likely was that really?
He called down to the outgoing SOCOs. ‘Here,’ he yelled, ‘can I touch that soil now? I mean touch touch, with no evidence gloves?’ Having examined every inch of the
cauldron in sight before Quill’s team had entered, they’d just taken it – and the skeletons contained therein – off to the lab.
‘You’re not the first,’ a female voice came back. ‘I’ve already had a feel. But, if for some reason you want to, you may.’
Quill took off his gloves, which felt a blessed relief. He reached out to the soil. His fingertips touched it—
Just as he suddenly realized that all the others should be shouting at him not to, warning that a giant and ridiculous potential had risen out of nothing in the very second he’d moved his
fingers towards the soil—
And he registered that he did actually hear them shouting, in a sudden concerted yell of fear.
Something gave a snap, between Quill’s flesh and the soil. Something shorted out. And everything changed.
Quill immediately knew that something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. He looked to the others. They appeared to be wondering what they’d just been so worried
about. ‘Did you say something?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Ross, ‘I just, kind of . . .’
‘. . . got worried about you doing that,’ said Costain hesitantly, as if he was suspicious of his own statement.
Quill looked around. Everything looked the same, except—
He’d suddenly thought how the walls looked different. Just for a moment, out of the corner of his eye. But, no, they were just the same. No, over there – was that a door? It was,
with a handle and . . .
No, it was just a shadow cast across the wall. Bloody hell, this was like the migraine or whatever that had mucked about with his vision in the interview room. He took a step back towards the
trapdoor. And he realized that all the others had retreated a step that way too. He wanted to ask them if they could see anything funny, but there was plainly nothing the matter. ‘We’re
way past our shift now,’ he announced. ‘We’re knackered and our eyes are playing up. Let’s get back to this in the morning.’ The others looked relieved, and there was
a slight alacrity about how they went for the ladder. Quill was last to move. That shadow where he’d thought a door had been . . . did he see something moving over there? Something small,
like a cat?
No, there was nothing there.
He went over to the ladder and headed down into the main body of the house, where lights and other people waited. He kept his eye on the shadow as he went.
The other three found a car able to take them back to the Hill. Quill briefed DI Farrar, from the local nick, who was going to be supervising the crime scene overnight, then
walked quickly out onto the street, past the huddled TV crews. He really was knackered, and his head was feeling weird. His head and his eyes. But he was too wound up to go home. Also he had some
unfinished business. He hit a button on his phone and waited until the familiar voice answered.
‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you fancy a pint?’
He had a couple in the rough Irish pub at the end of the street, while Harry drove over from the Hill. It was a relief that his colleague was willing to come at all. There was
a hurling match or something on the telly, torn-up seats and drinkers to match. Some of them looked as if they went home to the sort of rooms that were only one step up from sleeping rough, but
still they obviously liked a real pub rather than some shebeen. Quill occupied a snug on his own. This lot would have heard about what was going on down the way, and he no doubt smelt of copper.
Meanwhile, the shiny things in here were starting to hurt his eyes: washed glasses; whatever brass was displayed out of reach of grubby hands; the stone floor under the carpet polished smooth by
generations of leather. Did he maybe need glasses? Would that not explain a lot?
But there, to his relief, was Harry. Quill stood up, and was surprised to see another man, an older man, enter behind Harry, close enough that they looked to be together. He looked very like
Harry, actually: that same dourness round the eyes. Quill went to join him, and was pleased to see that familiar wry expression.
‘You’ve done all right tonight, haven’t you, Jimmy? Sodding serial killer, honey for tea.’
‘Can’t complain,’ said Quill. He looked to the older man. ‘And this is . . .?’
‘Because you left the rest of us to do the donkey work on Goodfellow, don’t rub it in.’
Quill wondered if the older man wasn’t with Harry after all. ‘What are you having?’ He addressed the question so that both could answer.
‘Mine’s a pint,’ said Harry. There was silence from the other, who didn’t go to get one of his own, but just stood there beside Harry, now looking as quizzically at
Quill, even as Quill was looking at him. Was this some homeless bloke who’d followed Harry in, and who Harry was now tactically ignoring?
Quill got the drinks in and headed back over to the snug with Harry. The older man came too, and sat down beside Harry. He was well dressed, elderly and looked as if he was retired. Didn’t
have the face of a loony. In fact a bit out of place in here. The landlady, who looked to be the kind who might, hadn’t objected to him not buying anything to drink.
Quill waited for a moment for some cue from Harry, found none forthcoming, and looked between them. ‘So . . .?’
‘He’s bloody enjoying this,’ said the older man to Harry, leaning over for a stage whisper into his ear, glancing at Quill as he did so. ‘Look at him. He’s called
you all the way over here just to gloat.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Quill.
‘What?’ Harry looked startled.
‘Who’s your mate?’
Harry glanced over his shoulder, then back at Quill. And now he had a smile on his face. ‘Oh, have you finally got through to Lofthouse, and got me seconded to your lovely spin-off
operation?’
‘That’s not what he means, son,’ said the man. ‘Don’t
ask
him about that. Don’t be so bloody
weak
.’
Quill couldn’t help it. After all, he’d had a long day. Maybe this bloke was old, but he was only going to grab him by the cardy and—
His hand went straight through. He fell forward, and had to catch himself on the table with his other hand. His arm was still, right now, sticking through the old man’s head. He could feel
what it was like inside. It was very cold. The man eyed him mockingly. Quill snatched his hand back.
‘Here,’ said Harry, ‘how many have you had?’
Sefton had felt too strung out to sleep, so when he got back to the Hill, he went on into London. He weighed the risks: no, it wasn’t being part of a non-undercover
operation now making him careless. The vast majority of those who’d known him in Toshack’s gang were behind bars, and any who weren’t wouldn’t be seen dead in the kind of
place he was going. Just a couple of pints, though. His head felt weird: flashes in the corners of his eyes, sudden colours appearing in the darkness outside the tube train and gone before he got a
good look at them. But, what he’d seen in that second . . . nah, that was his brain making something up out of shapes.