Lost Children of Bethnal Green (Quigg #9) Read online

  The Lost Children of Bethnal Green

  (Quigg #9)

  Previously:

  The Twelve Murders of Christmas (Novella)

  Body 13

  The Graves at Angel Brook

  The Skulls Beneath Eternity Wharf

  The Terror at Grisly Park

  The Haunting of Bleeding Heart Yard

  Includes:

  The Enigma of Apocalypse Heights (Novella)

  The Corpse in Highgate Cemetery

  The Lost Children of Bethnal Green (Novella)

  Coming in 2017

  The Charnel House in Copperfield Street

  Tim Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2016 Timothy Stephen Ellis

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  __________

  Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.

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  To Pam, with love as always

  __________

  Monday, October 31

  (The Hallows Eve)

  ‘Hello, ‘Spector Quigg. How’re you? I ain’t seen you since the time of the flooding.’

  His head jerked up to find Mandy the trainee administrative assistant standing in his office doorway.

  She invited herself in and sat in one of the two dark-grey plastic chairs in front of his desk.

  ‘Flooding! Where?’

  ‘Mmmm! I think it could have been in Jeroboam.’

  With the quantity of gold and silver jewellery in the myriad of piercings in her left ear, nose, tongue, eyebrows, bottom lip and belly button, he found it hard to imagine how she could walk without rattling. Her hair colour had also changed from a checked black and white with FFC – for Fulham Football Club – shaved into the back of her head, to a white and red English flag.

  ‘Jeroboam!’ His face wrinkled up. ‘Oh! You mean Jerusalem?’

  ‘Is that what it’s called? I weren’t never any good at Geography, or History in school.’

  ‘What about Religious Studies?’

  ‘Me and my mate Ali used to bunk off those lessons, and go and flash the boys at the Grammar school just for fun.’

  ‘Well, I expect you’re talking about the biblical flood and Noah’s Ark?’

  ‘If you say so.’ She bent over, disappeared from view and said from underneath the desk, ‘You’ve got something here between the leg of your desk and the cabinet.’ She reappeared with what looked like a postcard. ‘Hey! It’s from the triples in Canada,’ she said, and passed it to him. ‘You must have dropped it.’

  He hadn’t dropped it. He hadn’t even seen the postcard. It was a photograph of three children wearing orange dungarees and cut-out pumpkins on their heads. He guessed the children were Evie, Ava and Noah, but they could have been anybody’s children for all he could tell. He turned the card over to find a message from the psychic Aryana:

  The three Pumpkinheads send their love.

  Listen to the missionary’s daughter and keep her safe.

  Find the lost children.

  Love Aryana

  XXX

  ‘You doing anything tonight, ‘Spector?’

  ‘What’s so special about tonight?’

  ‘It’s Halloween!’

  ‘I lock the door, switch the lights off and don’t make any noise.’

  ‘Do you like sitting in the dark?’

  ‘No. It’s so people think we’re out.’

  ‘The trick-or-treating people?’

  ‘Terrorists and psychopaths the lot of them. If I had my way, I’d lock every last one of them up in a dungeon and throw away the key.’

  ‘You’re a misery, ‘Spector. So, where you bin these last couple of weeks?’

  Where had he been? He’d had to re-write his report on the corpse in Highgate Cemetery and exclude any mention of blood-sucking vampires, psychic civilians sacrificing themselves to save him, and naked police officers copulating on an altar. When Chief Walter Belmarsh had been happy with his watered-down report, he’d been glad to take two weeks’ holiday. Duffy, Ruth and Lucy had wanted him to stay and help with the child-rearing, but he needed to locate his eighty-seven-year-old mum, who was pregnant, married to a Burmese native and running an English café in Bago with Maggie Crenshaw. He’d travelled to Burma, but after his guides had refused to take him through a jungle inhabited by the thirty-seven nats – spirits – he’d run out of time and had to give up and come home. Then, of course, there was still the ongoing saga of selling his mum’s house. The chartered surveyors had found a Roman Temple of Mithras beneath the foundations and the sale had been shelved while an architectural dig was undertaken. The estate agent said the dig would probably take in the region of two to three years, during which time he couldn’t rent out or sell the house. Caitlin – his ex-wife – was dead and their whole life together had been a complete sham. His daughter – Phoebe – was still missing and he’d given up hope of ever finding her alive. He had no idea how it had happened, but he seemed to have more children than Dr Barnardo’s. And what was worse, he’d returned to work to discover that the Chief had been unable to find him a partner – no-one wanted to work with him, so he’d been put on desk duty . . .

  ‘They call working with you a death sentence, Quigg,’ the Chief had said. ‘Getting DS Jane Dwyer killed was the straw that broke the camel’s back. So, I’m between a rock and a hard place at the moment, but I haven’t given up hope of finding that special someone to partner you.’

  Maybe he was cursed as Dwyer had said, although the inquiry into her death, and those of Constables McPhail and Wood, and the psychic Holly Hornsby had determined that he wasn’t culpable, which was a relief to say the least. He’d had visions of pounding the beat again.

  ‘I’ve been here, Mandy. You, on the other hand, haven’t. It’s certainly been a while since we’ve seen each other. Are you not delivering the post anymore? I mean, you’re here, but you haven’t brought me any post.’

  ‘Mrs Morbid – that’s not her real name – it’s Morpeth, but I call her Mrs Morbid, ‘cause she looks like an ugly dead body . . . You won’t tell her I said that, will you?’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew about me and Sergeant Wickes.’

  ‘I didn’t, but I do now.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to anyone. You were telling me about Mrs Morbid – Morpeth?’

  ‘So I was. Yeah well, she said I took too long delivering the post, so she took me off it and gave it to someone who takes twice as long.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I thought they’d sent you on a course, or something. What are you doing now?’

  ‘Making teas and coffees, tidying up the stationery store, emptying the shredder, keeping the kitchen clean, going here and there for this and that, you know . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I know. I miss our morning chats.’

  ‘Yeah, me as well. I used to know everything that was going on in the station . . . Now, I don’t know anything anymore.’

  ‘Do you want me to speak to Mrs Morbid?’

  ‘A
nd say what?’

  ‘To ask her to put you back on the post. I’ll tell her that postal runs just aren’t the same without your happy smiling face.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I don’t know if she’ll listen to me, but I could certainly try.’

  ‘That’d be ace, ‘Spector Quigg. You’re not really my type, but I could do things to you that’d make your eyes curl?’

  ‘Toes.’

  ‘You want me to do things to your toes?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s very kind of you to offer, but no payment is necessary, Mandy. Think of it as my good deed for the week.’

  ‘Maybe I could do you a good deed one day, ‘Spector?’

  ‘Maybe you could, Mandy. We’ll save it up and say you owe me one, but only if I can get Mrs Morbid to put you back on the post – okay?’

  ‘Okay. I heard what you did with Constable Gipson.’

  ‘It didn’t help much, Mandy.’

  ‘At least you’re back on the ‘Spectors’ Board – even if you are still last by a long way.’

  ‘That’s something at least, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I ain’t promising anything.’

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘That’s what I figured.’

  ‘QUIGG!’

  Mandy jumped. ‘Oh! He ain’t half got a loud voice.’

  ‘He has, hasn’t he?’ He stood up, stuck his head into the corridor and shouted back, ‘COMING, CHIEF.’

  Mandy’s face crinkled up. ‘That wasn’t much of a shout. I’d speak normally in the future if I were you, ‘Spector Quigg.’

  ‘Thanks for the critique, Mandy. So, I’ll have a word with Mrs Morbid, and you see if you can help me move up the Inspectors’ Board.’

  ‘Later, alligator.’

  He smiled. ‘Till then, penguin.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s not it.’

  ‘What about: Hasta manana, iguana?’

  ‘You’re a daft un, ‘Spector,’ Mandy said, walking off towards the Administration office giggling.

  ‘Quigg! Stop interfering with the clerical staff and get down here.’

  ‘On my way, Chief.’

  ***

  Christy Tinkley – the Chief’s secretary – was sitting at her desk. He smiled and licked his lips. She had shoulder-length blonde hair with a fringe, oval glasses, and the body of a goddess poured into a beige knitted dress.

  ‘Hello, Inspector Quigg,’ she said, but they both knew that’s not what she meant. The trouble was, the Chief was watching her as if she was his virgin daughter, and trying to get five minutes alone with Christy was like trying to find the lost treasures of El Dorado.

  ‘Hello, Christy. You’re looking beautiful . . .’

  ‘Quigg!’

  ‘Here, Chief.’

  ‘And get on with your work, Christy.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He made his way into the Chief’s office. ‘How are you today, Chief?’

  ‘All the worse for seeing you, Quigg. The inquiry into the fiasco at Highgate Cemetery missed an ideal opportunity to get rid of you. What the Commissioner and Mrs Belmarsh see in you is beyond me. You’re like a bad penny that keeps coming back to haunt me.’

  ‘Is that what you called me in here to say, Chief?’

  ‘A child’s been taken, Quigg.’

  ‘Taken! Taken where?’

  ‘From a home in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘And you want me to be part of the search team?’

  ‘There is no search team.’

  ‘No search team? There’s always a search team, Chief. You yourself have made it quite clear on any number of occasions that we have rules, guidelines, procedures, protocols . . .’

  ‘This is one of those cases where the Commissioner thinks your special talents for solving complex cases would be useful.’

  ‘He does? But I deal with complex cases involving dead bodies, not missing children.’

  ‘You deal with whatever the Commissioner tells you to deal with. Is that understood, Quigg.’

  ‘Of course, Sir. My mistake, Sir.’

  ‘I’ve told him that all your cases turn into disasters and that he’d be better off finding someone who’s less high-maintenance, but he won’t listen to my expert advice. I’m beginning to think you have some kind of supernatural hold over him, Quigg.’

  Quigg laughed. ‘If I had any supernatural powers at all, Sir, I’d be using them to move up the Inspectors’ board.’

  The Chief’s jowls shook. ‘That would take supernatural powers.’

  ‘So I’m finding out, Sir. Why is there no search team being assembled for a missing child then?’

  ‘She’s not the first. In fact, she’s the seventh.’

  ‘Seven children have gone missing?’

  ‘All from the Ragged Children’s Home on Old Castle Street in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘How is it that I’ve not heard anything, Sir? I mean, seven missing children! Surely there’d be a hue and cry about the police not doing their job, panic by residents throughout the borough, hysterical mothers beating their breasts, horror and outrage from members of the press . . .?’

  ‘You can stop now, Quigg.’

  ‘I have lots more, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure. You haven’t heard about any missing children, because they were assumed to be runaways, but now there’s some doubt about that assumption.’

  ‘Runaways! I see. And now they’re not runaways. Why is that, Chief?’

  ‘Do I look like a witness or a suspect to you, Quigg?’

  He wanted to say yes to both categories, but instead he said, ‘No, Chief.’

  ‘Then stop interrogating me.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief. Aren’t Brick Lane detectives responsible for that part of Bethnal Green?’

  ‘I feel like I’m stuck in a time loop with you, Quigg. And let me tell you that it’s not a very pleasant experience. If we assembled a search team now, the press would get wind of it . . .’

  ‘And then what I’d said before would come to pass?’

  ‘Exactly, which is why the Commissioner wants you to get your arse down there and find out what’s happened to those lost children.’

  ‘Just me? I thought you said I couldn’t go out on a case unless I had a partner?’

  ‘You do have a partner.’

  He looked around the room. ‘I do? Where?’

  ‘She’s outside.’

  ‘Oh?’ He hadn’t seen anybody outside. Maybe he’d been so entranced by Miss Tinkley that he’d not noticed anyone else.

  The Chief pressed the button on his intercom. ‘Send in DC Rummage, Christy.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  They both stared at the door.

  Eventually, it edged open and a woman in her early thirties shuffled in. She had long dark hair, perfect eyebrows, full lips and intense cerulean blue eyes that had shifting specks of light-grey embedded in them.

  ‘Quigg, meet your new partner: DC Jezebel Rummage.’

  He smiled a weak smile and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you DC Rummage.’

  ‘Likewise, Sir.’

  ‘You have lovely eyes, Rummage,’ he said. ‘And Jezebel is an unusual . . .’

  ‘Quigg!’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘DC Rummage has just been transferred here from Canterbury in Kent.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh!’

  ‘She comes highly recommended.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, Sir.’

  ‘I told her all about you, Quigg.’

  He turned to stare at Rummage. ‘And you still want to be my partner?’

  ‘I like a challenge, Sir.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Let me make this crystal clear, Inspector Quigg. Be left in no doubt that if you get Rummage killed, damage her in any way, lose her, or have sex with her, I’ll make sure you’re drummed out of the force in short order if it’s the last thing I do on t
his earth.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any ambiguity there, Chief.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Is DC Rummage my partner just for this case, or permanently, Sir?’

  ‘I’m hoping it’s permanent. Now, if there’s no more stupid questions . . .?’

  ‘Can’t think of any, Sir.’

  ‘Close the door on your way out, and don’t even glance in Miss Tinkley’s direction as you walk past her desk.’

  ‘It never even entered my head, Sir.’

  ***

  ‘How long have you been in the force, Rummage? It’s all right if I call you Rummage, isn’t it, Rummage?’

  ‘Rummage will make a nice change from some of the other names I’ve been called.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to tell you what those other names are, am I, Sir?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I’ve been in the force seven years and a detective for two years.’

  ‘What made you leave Kent?’

  ‘It was too quiet. I joined the police to make a difference, not sit around in the station watching the world go by.’

  ‘So you thought you’d come to the big city and spice things up a bit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go and see what this is all about, shall we? Can you drive?’

  ‘I can drive.’

  ‘And they have satnavs in Kent?’

  ‘They have satnavs everywhere.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, you can drive then.’

  ‘Okay.’ She held out her hands for the key.

  He hesitated. ‘It’s a Mercedes.’

  ‘Are Mercedes different from other cars?’

  ‘Well no, it’s just that it’s an expensive car.’