Page 162 of The Mysterious Case of the Alperton Angels
Thanks, Ellie, you’re doing a fantastic job. Keep it between us, though. Please?
Ellie Cooper
Cross my heart
WhatsApp message from Ellie Cooper to me, later on 23 August 2021:
Ellie Cooper
The police officers were led to believe symbols in the warehouse were significant. The symbols were erased so their testimonies would be discredited. Social workers were told they were to blame. People from the local church still think they played a part in the cult deaths. All this draws the attention of everyone involved AWAY from who the baby really was.
IntCourier delivery card:
Sender:Judy Teller-Dunning
Message:You were out so we left your package in the blue bin
A neatly handwritten diary, US letter size. Loose pages stapled together:
10 December 2003, London
Excited and apprehensive. Heard a lot about the British police force, but got to clear my mind and experience this fresh. Hope the ne’er-do-wells and miscreants of London town aren’t planning a vacation. Remember Boston? The curse of Mark Dunning struck. It was the quietest night the department had ever known. Only two calls. A mis-dial and a shoplifter at a kiosk. Does that make me a lucky talisman or a hex?
If my next novel is set in London and Paris, I’ve got to see those cities. Not the tourist trail, but the underbelly. Is that even possible? So fucking false and strained. They’ll be on their best behaviour. I’ll be super polite and ever so grateful, guv’nor.
No one tells you how lonely research trips are. Me and my thoughts jus’ rollin’ along. Wish Judy was here. But with her writing commitments and Harrison’s new school …
Jonathan called. He’ll be at Alperton tube station, 8 p.m. Checked I had the dough. Bet no one knows he’s getting five hundred pounds sterling (yep, seven hundred bucks) for taking me out in his patrol car. Is it usual here that writers pay for a ride in a ‘panda’ car? One thing he was clear about: no cameras or recording equipment. I am to observe and absorb,only.
Been planning the tube journey. Buy a ticket in the ticket hall at South Kensington. Get on a Piccadilly Line train going west to Rayners Lane and get off at Alperton. The line splits in two and loops round at the end, so who knows? I could be back here at South Kensington by 8 p.m. I’ll allow two hours for the journey.
Sitting in my room, watching the clock tick its way to 6 p.m. It’s dark outside. It’s darkinsidebecause light bulbs seem to be rationed in London hotel rooms. It’s cold because the radiator isoff. It’s winter. I want a roaring fire, heat, rage, passion, excitement. Ijustwant something to happen tonight.
On a new page, in the same hand, yet less neat, spidery, changed somehow…
11 December 2003
Thank God, we’ve taken off. Switching flights was easy. Told them my mother’s sick, I’ve got to get back before it’s too late. It’s way too late. She died in 1977. Turns out I play an anxious, terrified, guilty man all too well. They got me on this plane. Never heard of the airline. It stops at Reykjavik and I have to change at JFK but, whatever.
I won’t forget last nightever– but feel I should document it. Who for? Me? Someone in the future who mightneedto know what happened? Why am I so uncool? This is what I hoped to find. Careful what you wish for, huh?
PC Jonathan Childs was waiting outside the station. Said to call him JC. Younger than he sounds on the phone. Sweaty, twitchy. If he hadn’t been in uniform, in a patrol car, I’d wonder if he really was a bobby. He drives me round the corner, parks in an unlit street and counts the bills from my envelope. Drops it in his lap, drives another few blocks without even fastening his seat belt. Leaves me on the back seat, locked in, while he dives through a doorway, cash in hand. He’s gone seven minutes. The place is dark, urban and depressed. It’s soon deserted. Word a police patrol is around travels fast.
Jonathan reappears, much calmer. We drive off. I ask my stock questions. How busy will it be? Which crimes are common in this area? What’s your worst call to date? Ever met the Queen?
We stop a car with a missing tail light. The driver promises he’ll get it fixed and is sent off with no charge. I help JC move a damaged hoarding off the sidewalk. A radio call sends us to a small house where neighbours heard raised voices. The couple inside swear they had the TV too loud. The man has a bruise on his face. Back in the car Jonathan says domestics are ‘the pits’ because ‘you can’t do anything’.
Around 11 p.m. we meet another patrol car, this one with two male officers in it. Jonathan smokes and laughs with them outside the car. I try to get out and join them. I’m locked in. They glance through the windscreen at me. Don’t ask who I am. They must already know as I hear them rib JC about driving ‘the most expensive taxi in London’. The guys get a call, rush off, blue lights and sirens.
JC drives me to a gas station and buys us coffee and what I assume is a stick-shaped cruller, like my grandmother would make. I take a bite, hungry for the sugar rush. It’s heavy goddamn pork meat in pastry! Not for the first time tonight I adjust my expectations.
Around midnight, we’re called to a street disturbance. Two gangs of men. A face-off. No weapons, just shouting in a foreign language. JC sighs, weary, describes them as ‘rival families’ who are ‘always kicking off’ but ‘usually pipe down before it gets nasty’. A few men on the fringes melt away at the sight of the patrol car, and more disappear when JC gets out. Still, there’s an air of tension. He heads straight for the leading men, talks to them. Without a figure to get behind, the remaining crowd disperses. Only a few left now. The lead guys calm down. For the first time I’m impressed by this young guy. I want to hear what he says.
I try the car door. It’s open. Another first. I get out. His back is towards me. Something instinctive moves my hand to my wallet, inside pocket, check it’s safe from light fingers. I spot the guy as he spots me, but his reaction is way over the top. He hollers, his face terrified. The other guy follows suit. It occurs to me, too late, they think I’m reaching for a gun.
JC spins round, waves me back to the car, but whoosh. The biggest guy sweeps him off his feet to the floor. The other uses his foot to keep him down, like JC is their ransom against getting shot by me!
So, these rivals are suddenly on the same side. JC almost gets up, is slammed down by a boot. He shouts into his radio‘officer down’. Yells at me to get back in the car. I put my hands up to show the guys I’m unarmed. Distant sirens close in from every direction.
