London Falling (9 page)

That indicated a certain lack of confidence, as if Quill still thought this might be about something other than the obvious. Like catching out Costain? Costain himself didn’t really think
this could still be about that situation in reverse. This wasn’t about Lofthouse suspecting Quill. He’d been wondering if she would pop up again, reassure him again, give him something
else to go on as to why she wanted him involved in this. There was one particular thing which could still have him – have him badly. It was what he’d thought of as his exit strategy.
But here he was, hanging on, even getting interested in how the pieces were coming together.

Costain had grown up in Willesden, and it hadn’t bloody changed much. There were a lot of For Sale signs, a lot of boarded-up shopfronts, chain stores that now hid behind sheets of wood
instead of bullet-damaged windows. All these neat little houses with individual gardens were from when this had been a posh suburb, decades before he was born. They’d also driven past one of
those marooned churches, with a big sunny graveyard, from when this had been a separate village. At one point there had actually been pilgrimages that led people here. Costain remembered
deciphering the shopping street at the end of this very road when he’d first walked along it as a copper, his new training considered sufficiently in place. It included honest greengrocer
with West Indian produce outside, paying protection; a furtive newsagent with something that looked like a pillbox on his roof . . . That remained there from when that same corner shop had been the
entrance hall to an art-deco club where the Charleston was played, back when it took an adventurous train ride to get you to this fashionable suburb. There had been kids on mountain bikes riding up
to catch the baggies of coke as they were thrown from that vantage point above. The only difference now would be that they’d ride scooters, and the set of guys chucking the bags would have
changed about twenty times in the meantime. Back then he’d actually wondered if there was anything he could do there on his own, and reported this activity when he got back to his nick. There
had been posters up for black comedy nights, representing traces of community. There had been black grannies who kept those sociable gardens nice, and owned their own houses. A few doorsteps where
people sat outside in the evening. There had been life in the ruins then, green shoots that were signs that the place might resist the creeping gentrification of nearby Hampstead.

From what he’d seen this morning, though, in the last decade the character of the place had tottered from being rotten black and Irish to theme-pub black and Irish, and then reverted to
rotten again, without ever having quite been decent black and Irish at any moment in between. God, it was as if the future was dead. As if nobody could imagine now what might come next. He seemed
to have fallen into being a copper again, as if someone had handed him a different hat. And that took some getting used to.

They’d met the local uniforms last Friday, and had received a briefing from a sergeant. The place was a typical house in a typical residential street. Nothing on the books, but a couple of
incidents nearby this year: a mugging and a pub fight, neither connected. They’d driven just once past the house before they’d parked, Costain being the one allowed to glance idly at
it. Bare garden, a little snow still melting in the shade. In fact, it looked a lot like the everyday houses Toshack had dragged them round. Except this one had very dark windows. Heavy black
curtains, maybe? But not so much as a West Ham pennant on display.

Mora Losley didn’t show up in any official records, other than police ones. It seemed that she didn’t use any local services, didn’t answer to any landlord; the ground plans
were mysteriously absent, and she’d somehow avoided taxation. The council had said, embarrassed, that she must be in the system somewhere, but they hadn’t yet come back with anything.
It was actually an unprofessional level of secrecy; even international terrorists paid their council-tax bills. The strangeness was astonishing. Not the sort of thing Toshack usually did.

Quill now got on the radio to the sergeant in charge of the uniforms. That same morning, he’d given a briefing about looking out for traps. Maybe there was going to be a scene, and
spitting, and that weird taboo thing of an elderly woman swearing at you.

They got out of the car at exactly the same moment as the four uniforms got out of the van: two women, two men. There were two more already round at the back door. Quill opened the gate and led
them up the garden path. He pulled the warrant and search notice out of his pocket, along with his warrant card. He knocked heavily on the door. If there was no reply, they’d move in the
squad with the breaking device.

The door suddenly seemed to give way under Quill’s knocking, as if it had been standing open, resting against the frame. It swung open an inch or two. Only darkness was visible beyond.
Quill looked ill at ease. Costain hadn’t heard anyone moving inside. He found himself taking a step back, the UC part of him already anticipating gunfire blasting through that door.

‘Police officers,’ Quill called into the darkened gap. ‘I am Detective Inspector James Quill. Ms Losley, we are here with a warrant to search your premises in connection with
the death of Matthew Howarth.’

No reply.

Quill pushed the door gently with his foot until it was fully open. He stepped inside, the uniforms quickly following him, then came Costain and the others.

Costain found himself taking a deep breath as he went in. This was different from the others: the inside of the house was pitch black. That thin carpet again, though. That bare granny’s
house feeling. The little window panel beside the door had been painted on the inside with something that looked black and sticky. That was different too.

And on the newel post at the top of the banister there sat something that couldn’t quite be made out, but that looked organic, animal origin and long dead. It could only have been fixed
there.

Ross’ voice sounded tremendously calm. ‘Is that the skull of a baby?’

Costain stepped forward and now saw what she meant. And, at that moment, the smell hit him. And the others, too, if the coughing was anything to go by.

Quill immediately called for back-up, containment and an Armed Response Unit.

Costain felt the sense of triumph from the coppers around him, and something inside him finally started to relax. This was why Toshack had come to this house on his own. ‘Serial killer
house,’ he said. ‘Excellent.’

It took them several hours to move into the house properly. First the Armed Response Unit had swept it thoroughly. Then Forensics and Explosives had gone through in turn.
Costain hadn’t known what to do with himself in the meantime. When he’d been a UC, scene-of-crime had been more of a
before
routine for him than an
after
. More and more
police vans arrived outside, a lot of uniforms needed for crowd control as locals and the press started massing. Finally, the house was declared clear, and Quill’s team were allowed in.

They found some West Ham paraphernalia, and a scarf left over a chair in the kitchen. Quill got hold of a magistrate, and put out a new warrant for Losley’s arrest in connection with the
Howarth murder. Even assuming that someone else was doing the killing, such as a family member she kept under the same roof, finding her should eventually lead to them. He also gave orders that all
the other houses Losley had inhabited were to be searched.

The tiny skull on the newel post turned out to be fixed in place by purple wax. ‘No,’ corrected Sefton, ‘
claret
-coloured wax.’ A West Ham serial killer – how
huge was this? Costain found himself smiling. He was now part of a successful operation and, for a bonus, not as a UC. The guys back home would have a fucking fit. This justified everything
Lofthouse had done. She was right to have put him here, if this was the pay-off. This was the
juice.

‘I would hate,’ he said, ‘to be doing PR for that football club tonight.’

‘Obvious she’d have to be West Ham,’ remarked Quill. ‘Just one stop away from Barking.’

They gradually explored every room. Upstairs was worse than down below. The bedroom was just a soiled mattress, the stink of ammonia so strong that none of them could linger
there. Every inch of the walls of the upper floor was daubed with patterns, symbols and writing. Costain found player lists of what the internet confirmed were old West Ham squads, and what seemed
to be maps of geographical features with labels in Latin. The smile was now constantly fixed to his face: he was a detective again. He saw Sefton glance in his direction, so he made sure to smile
wider. Yeah, he’d made it all right, no thanks to posh boy over there. Ross brought up a translation on her phone. ‘The Latin looks like it might be a legal paragraph, a very old one,
about the right, or otherwise, of the monarch to enter a private citizen’s dwelling.’

‘And they called her eccentric,’ said Quill.

Nothing they found there suggested to Costain that the place had been inhabited by anyone other than an old lady.

There was a trapdoor leading to a loft. The armed officers and forensics people had closed it again after they’d done a search up there. As Quill reopened it with a hook
on a pole, a puff of stale air from inside made everyone cough. Quill insisted on going first, and who was Costain to deny him that? He climbed up the stepladder that the uniforms had brought with
them, and cautiously stuck his head through the gap. A moment later, he called for the others to follow. He sounded excited once again.

The loft had been converted into one big room. It had been roughly boarded-out at some stage, and over the boards had been thrown a variety of dirty rugs. They’d been drawn on, too, in
sticky black: lines, diagrams and tiny writing. It was even colder up here. The room was filled with West Ham memorabilia: scarves, hats, really old posters that were more like theatre bills,
annuals and a copy of a team sing-along album sitting beside an ancient gramophone to play it on. There was one huge central feature: a wooden tub about six feet across. It didn’t have an
original purpose in the loft, and it couldn’t have fitted through the trapdoor. It must have been assembled up here.

It contained only a huge pile of soil, the surface shaped into a familiar spiral. The room smelt of it, and it looked fresh and uncontaminated.

‘What’s the betting,’ said Quill, ‘that this soil’s the same type used to form the other spirals?’

‘Jimmy.’ Sefton was holding up a plastic sack gleefully. On it was written:
Original West Ham Turf. Take the Irons spirit into your garden!
There was a tightly folded roll of
other such sacks stashed under a bench.

‘Here’s what Forensics were talking about.’ Ross’ voice sounded different. She was leaning over an iron cauldron.

They all went over to see. In the cauldron lay three small human skeletons, arranged in a rough circle, head to toe. There were still the tiniest fragments of meat on the bones. Smaller bones
lay scattered across the bottom of the vessel.

Costain felt himself relax completely. Thanks to Lofthouse’s mad hunch and some good police work, he was once again on the up. ‘Yeah,’ he repeated, ‘serial killer
house.’

Ross made sure she kept working, knowing the coppers were more used to this. They had a work culture to support them. She’d been quite surprised that Quill had asked her
to come along, but, as he’d said, this operation was bizarre to start with, and ‘she’d pine away if left all alone in that Portakabin’. Which was, she guessed, the result of
him noting the desperation she’d been trying to hide. From now on she’d have to get used to being operational, he’d said, too. And that had certainly felt better than the
alternative.
Until this
. If she even stopped to think about what had happened here . . . so she wouldn’t. Had Toshack known about the child murders? Maybe, yeah. He’d have been
the kind willing to turn a blind eye, all right.

‘As long as it wasn’t on his own doorstep,’ said Costain, catching the expression on her face. She looked away. She didn’t like people being so close to her old world
– or making guesses at what she was thinking.

And there was . . . the other thing. The thing that, incredibly, this house was making her think about for the first time in years. She could do that if she had to, deliberately not think about
stuff. It was . . . just a coincidental thing, just an association. Children in a pot: that just made your mind go to a certain place, and that was a place she shouldn’t go. She got out her
laptop and carried out a Full Business Objects Search, on the Crime Recording System. She could find only two unsolved missing-children cases for this part of London in the last three years, and
both of those turned out to involve older individuals.

‘Has it really gone that far?’ said Quill, when she told him. ‘Bloody
three
children go missing, and nobody calls it in?’

‘These two modes are really different. Possible poison that leaves no trace . . . and kids cooked in a pot. What sort of narrative has she put together for herself that connects those? She
kills the former away, and these at home, probably.’ She slapped her hand on the wall, over and over, feeling more alive than she had since Toshack had been killed, and also feeling a little
alarmed at the intensity of it. ‘It’s as if we’re seeing the outlying features of something more complicated. As if there are different killers with different MOs . . . or
something. We’re in this house, but we’re still not seeing . . . what’s in the middle.’

‘If anyone finds a ripe, rosy apple,’ said Quill, ‘don’t touch.’

‘You reckon those three are Dopey, Grumpy and Sneezy?’ said Costain, indicating the cauldron.

Ross put it out of her mind again. She understood the context of these copper jokes: it was what people who dealt with horrors did. She’d once been shown round the paramedic control centre
in High Barnet, and they’d put
cartoons
up of their call-outs – what they called their ‘shouts’ – with the highest body count. She wished she had it in herself
to join in. For her there was even a little jolt now as she looked at Losley’s photo, even though she did it to reassure herself. This Losley woman was a complete stranger to her. But what
had previously been bland had now certainly become sinister. No dead-eyed Myra Hindley, this one, that calm look on her face maybe saying: Ooh yes, if you had any to spare, she might be persuaded
to snap up just one or two of your children.