by R. N. Morris
Quinn’s calculations turned out to be correct. The lock was turned from within, the door opened and a tall, thin man in silk pyjamas and dressing gown appeared. Simon Symington rubbed a hand through his already tousled hair and stood blinking on his threshold. ‘I say, what the devil is going on?’ He took in the three detectives with an untroubled sneer, reserving a look of wounded rebuke for the concierge.
That worthy individual defended himself with an imploring whine: ‘These gentlemen are policemen, Dr Symington.’ As if to say, what do you expect me to do if you will be bringing policemen here?
Quinn held up his warrant card to confirm the concierge’s statement. ‘DCI Quinn, Special Crimes Department.’
‘Special crimes?’ Symington gave an effete giggle. ‘Oh, well, in that case, I suppose you’d better come in.’
Symington let the detectives in, gleefully closing the door on the disloyal concierge. He showed them into a sitting room that was tastefully furnished but layered with the debris of a disordered life. Unwashed crockery, discarded clothes, upturned bottles and broken glasses littered the floor and even the furniture. An ashtray had been kicked over, scattering ash and cigarette butts all over the carpet. Symington showed no sign of embarrassment, nor made any effort to tidy up. The air was thick with the fug of the previous night’s indulgences.
‘Now what’s this all about?’
‘The concierge called you Dr Symington?’ began Quinn.
‘A misunderstanding on his part. My friends call me “doc”, you see. Old Barker got the wrong end of the stick, I suppose. It’s just a nickname.’
‘Why do they call you that?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose because I … am …’ Inspiration came to him. ‘Always a tonic when they see me.’ He giggled appreciatively at his own wit.
‘But you’re not actually a doctor? And never have been?’
‘No.’
‘And you never thought to put Mr Barker straight?’
‘What is this about?’ Symington forced out an incredulous laugh. ‘I told you, it’s just a nickname. I have never claimed to be a doctor.’
‘We have a witness – a very reliable witness – who is quite prepared to go on record to testify that you are regularly to be found dealing cocaine at a certain gentlemen’s club.’
‘What of it? It’s not against the law.’
‘You are not aware of the 1908 Pharmacy Act then, which classifies cocaine as a poison which may only be sold by a registered pharmacist? You are not a registered pharmacist, I think?’
Symington was on the verge of answering but thought better of it.
‘Perhaps if we were to have a look around now …?’
Macadam and Leversedge tensed at Quinn’s side, like bulldogs straining at the leash.
‘Well, to do that, you would need a warrant, I believe.’
‘Actually, no,’ corrected Quinn. ‘As I said, we are from the Special Crimes Department. Given the nature of the crimes we were established to investigate, the warrant I have already shown you gives us the right to conduct a search wherever we deem necessary.’
Symington shrugged as if this was of no concern to him, although he was unable to suppress a deep, agitated sniff. The chaos evident in the room seemed to reflect a disorder in Symington’s mind. He began to twitch and fidget, as if the cravings that ruled his life were beginning to make themselves felt. The thought of losing the means to satisfy them was no doubt a cause of deep anxiety.
It was time for Quinn to play his hand. ‘There’s a way to make this all go away, Mr Symington.’
Symington’s face opened up with desperate hope.
‘Did you ever deal cocaine to Sir Aidan Fonthill?’
‘Fonthill?’ Symington seemed genuinely surprised. He thought for a moment before shaking his head decisively. ‘No. I – he may have dabbled once or twice. I sometimes give my friends little gifts. Samples, you might say.’
‘In the hope that they will become addicted, no doubt.’
Symington did not deny it. ‘It never took with Fonthill.’
As soon as the major-domo at Pootle’s had told Quinn of Fonthill’s association with an alleged drug dealer, he had entertained the theory that Fonthill’s need for money stemmed from an addiction. Symington’s emphatic denial put paid to that idea.
‘No, powder was not Fonthill’s vice, more’s the pity.’
‘He did have one, however?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ Symington’s gaze as it took in Quinn was like a chill shadow passing across him. ‘Even policemen have vices. Don’t try and deny it. I have experience in these matters, remember.’
‘What was Sir Aidan’s?’
‘Nothing too vile. Quite innocent, in fact. He liked to gamble.’
‘Did he ever get into debt over his gambling?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Recently?’
Symington drew a hand over his face. He was becoming increasingly agitated. ‘I don’t know!’ His voice was suddenly petulant. ‘Recently? I suppose so. It must have been. I can still remember it.’ He gave a high-pitched giggle.
‘You were there?’
‘Yes, we were all there. Me, Lucas, Fonthill. Soapy was there too, I seem to remember. And some other fellow. Porter, Potter or something. He was there as someone’s guest, I think.’
‘Where was this? At Pootle’s?’
‘The party started at Pootle’s. And then we went on somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark. It took an age to get there. It was a filthy rotten room in a filthy rotten house. Belonged to a filthy rotten man.’
‘What man?’
Symington gave a high nervous laugh. ‘The man.’
‘The man Fonthill owed money?’
‘I’ve said too much as it is.’
‘How much was the debt?’
‘Oh, come on! Who do you think I am? Datas, the Memory Man? Do you think I care enough about Aidan bloody Fonthill to remember every detail of his sorry life?’
‘We need you to remember as much as you can, Mr Symington. Otherwise we may be forced to take action on that other matter after all.’
‘Other matter?’ Symington frowned and then remembered the threat to search his apartment. He screwed his face up, wincing in concentration. There was an element of performance to it, especially when his face brightened as the memory seemingly came back to him. ‘I remember now, it was a lot. Fonthill was in a funk about it. He begged us all to chip in. The chap he owed … let’s just say, he’s not the sort you want to get on the wrong side of.’
‘Who was it? Who was the man?’
‘Don’t remember his name.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘No.’ The answer came quickly, without any attempt at recollection. Symington was almost certainly lying. He was also growing increasingly restless.
‘Whose idea was it to go there?’
‘Listen, all these questions … questions … questions … they’re frying my damned brain, you buggering bastard.’
‘You watch your language!’ warned Macadam.
‘Perhaps you would like a moment to refresh yourself in the privacy of your bedroom. We’ll wait here for you.’
Symington pointed a finger at Quinn. ‘I like you. You’re a good man. Very understanding.’
As Symington slouched off, Quinn gestured for Macadam to follow. ‘Get him with the gear in his hands. Don’t let him take any. Just grab him with it and bring him back here.’
Alone with Leversedge, Quinn felt the other detective’s critical gaze on him but did not turn to meet it. ‘Do you have something to say, Inspector Leversedge?’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, guv, that’s all.’
‘Really? Wouldn’t it suit you better if I didn’t?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But Leversedge’s answer had been a beat too slow in coming.
Shouts of protest erupted in the other room. Macad
am marched a sullen-looking Symington back in. He held up a green leather pouch, tied with a draw string. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, this is cocaine.’
Symington wriggled beneath Macadam’s hand on his shoulder. ‘I thought you said I could refresh myself? I thought you were a decent chap.’ He gave a recriminatory pout.
‘I’m saving you from yourself. Sergeant Macadam, I think you know what to do with that junk.’
Macadam started to move but was detained by Symington’s howl. ‘No-o-o-o! Have you any idea what that’s worth? Listen, listen, listen … I know what you policemen are like. I know what you’re after. Can’t we come to some arrangement? Let’s say, three per cent. Each.’ To Quinn, he added confidentially, ‘Four per cent for you, as you’re the boss.’
‘Are you trying to bribe us?’
Symington appeared on the verge of tears. His bottom lip stuck out like a petulant toddler’s. ‘I don’t know what you want of me.’
‘Who was it? The man Fonthill was in debt to?’
But Symington closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. Then a huge sob exploded from him and he began weeping in earnest.
‘You do know him, don’t you? You know him very well. Is he your supplier? He’s the kind of chap who can get hold of large quantities of cocaine quite easily, I imagine.’
Symington’s flinch was all the confirmation Quinn needed.
‘Was it you who introduced Sir Aidan and the others to him?’
‘You don’t understand. He’ll kill me.’
‘I won’t let him hurt you.’ Even as Quinn said them, he knew they were empty words, given what he had in mind. Even so, that didn’t stop him adding, ‘I promise.’
Symington sniffed loudly.
‘Let me make this easy for you. If you help us, you can have that.’ Quinn nodded at the pouch in Macadam’s hand. ‘We’ll even let you stay in business. If you don’t help us, you’re going to jail.’ Quinn waited for this to sink in. Then took a gamble that he hoped would tip Symington over the edge. ‘And we’ll let it be known that you were the one who fingered Tiggie Benson.’
‘You know! You already know!’
So Macadam had been right. Quinn saw the beam of satisfaction on his sergeant’s face. The mysterious Mr Toad was none other than Tiggie Benson.
‘Yes. And we can easily put it about that we found out from you. I dare say Tiggie Benson has friends on the inside. One or two of them probably owe him a favour. None of them will look too favourably on a snitch.’
‘Why do you need me if you already know?’
‘That will become clear in the car.’
‘In the car?’
‘Yes. You’re going to take us to Tiggie Benson. I have no doubt you know perfectly well where to find him.’
The terror that showed in Symington’s eyes was not feigned.
But Quinn let out a deep sigh and nodded to Macadam, who reluctantly handed the leather pouch back to the desperate addict. Symington’s face went into a reflexive spasm, as a series of loud, involuntary sniffs anticipated the imminent relief of his cravings.
FIFTY
Symington was squeezed in the back of the Model T, between Quinn and Leversedge. He was seated bolt upright, staring straight ahead, his right knee jerking up and down compulsively. The junkie had calmed down a little since Quinn had allowed him access to his bag of powder. That is to say, his terror of Benson had abated, to be replaced by a belief in his own invulnerability, which Quinn had exploited. An electric energy pulsed in him, which was as likely to burn him up as power him forward.
He appeared to be capable of anything, except understanding the situation he was in.
As usual, Macadam was driving too fast, taking too many risks, and leaning on the horn too much. But Quinn could hardly blame him.
As they hurtled along the streets of the East End, Quinn was aware of a growing sense of déjà vu. It was not so surprising. He had often sat in the back of this car, to be driven at speed towards the denouement of an investigation by DS Macadam. But the presentiment sharpened into something precise and irrefutable. He identified it as a sense of impending doom.
‘What makes you think the boy will be there?’ said Leversedge, speaking across Symington. His tone was interested rather than challenging. There might even have been a hint of respect in it. As always with Leversedge, it was hard to tell for sure.
Quinn turned to face his questioner. ‘We now have a positive link between Sir Aidan and Tiggie Benson. Fonthill owed Benson money. Perhaps when he heard about Fonthill’s death, Benson considered the debt still outstanding and decided to take John Fonthill in lieu of the money.’
‘Good God! For what purpose?’
Quinn looked into Leversedge’s eyes, as if the answer to that question lay there. ‘Who can say?’
‘Do you think Benson killed Sir Aidan?’
Quinn chose to evade the question. ‘At the moment, my priority lies in recovering John Fonthill alive.’
Beside him, Symington continued to jiggle his right leg frantically. Quinn felt it bumping against his own. He reached out his left hand and clamped it down tightly on the offending limb. Under the pressure of Quinn’s hand the leg stayed still, but the rest of Symington’s body began to quake. His face gradually turned bright red as he clamped his jaw shut. A moment later, he threw back his head, his mouth gaped open and an animal howl filled the car.
Macadam pulled up outside Shadwell Police Station at Leversedge’s suggestion. ‘We can’t go in without back-up,’ he had argued.
To Quinn’s mind, Leversedge was showing himself to be too much of a stickler for procedure, perhaps because he had a reputation for playing fast and loose with such niceties during the earlier part of his career. He didn’t want Leversedge crashing in with a troop of big-booted bobbies, ruining everything. ‘Remember, DI Leversedge. Softly softly.’
Leversedge nodded impatiently as he got out of the car. ‘You’ll wait for me here?’
‘No,’ replied Quinn bluntly. ‘We don’t have time.’
Leversedge hesitated with the open door in his hand. He glanced at the quivering wreck of a man next to Quinn. ‘This is insane.’
Quinn did not disagree.
‘What if …?’ But there were so many ways of ending that sentence that Leversedge left it at that, merely shaking his head in despair.
Macadam gunned the engine. Leversedge gave a grim nod and threw the door away from him.
The Model T lurched away.
Symington took them to an unmade street of rundown, terraced houses.
‘You’re sure this is the place?’ said Quinn, taking in the broken windows and missing roof tiles of some of the houses in the street. The feeling of déjà vu had intensified. So too, his dread.
A large, ostentatious car with gleaming gold paintwork was parked up in front of one of the houses, which had its curtains drawn. The car actually looked like two models that had been welded together, or a motor car joined to a horse-drawn carriage with facing seats. The front was a boxy compartment with open sides and a hard canopy, while the rear, which stuck out like a beetle’s behind, had a folding hood for touring. Whatever the effect, it was at odds with the air of poverty that prevailed in the street.
‘You see that car?’ said Symington, sniffing frantically, as if it was the only way he had of keeping his panic inside him. ‘Who do you think that belongs to?’
‘Benson?’
Symington nodded energetically.
Macadam turned round in the front seat. ‘I say, sir. You know where we are, don’t you? It was night when we last came here. But there was a full moon, I seem to remember. And I’d recognize the place anywhere.’
A chill passed through Quinn as he remembered the details of the earlier case. It was the smell from the buckets of blood in the cellar that came back to him most vividly, so strong in his nostrils that he almost believed the street was flooded with blood. ‘It’s the same house.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.�
��
Quinn nodded. His earlier feeling of impending doom made sense now. ‘How many men will there be in there?’ he demanded of Symington.
Symington shrugged. ‘Varies.’
‘Between what and what?’
‘Hard to say.’
Macadam chipped in. ‘That’s a 1912 Praga Grand. It will seat two in the front and four comfortably in the back – five or six at a squeeze. That’s a maximum of eight, with the possibility of a couple of extra men on the running boards. That could mean we’re looking at as many as ten. Possibly even more, if others came here by other means. On the other hand, it may just be one, if the driver is here on his own.’
‘Thank you, Macadam,’ said Quinn drily. ‘That was very helpful.’
‘Do you think we should wait for Leversedge and the locals?’
Quinn sighed. ‘The longer we wait, the more chance there is of something happening to the boy.’ He turned to Symington, whose sniffling was nonstop now. ‘As long as you stick to the plan, everything will be fine. You remember what we discussed?’
But Symington stared at him with vacant eyes.
Quinn ran through the details one more time. ‘You want to talk to him about a deal. A big deal. A very big deal. There’s a man you want him to meet. A man from out of town by the name of …’
‘Quinn!’ cried Symington excitedly, pleased with himself for remembering something.
‘No. Not Quinn. You don’t use my name. Any name but mine. Let’s say …’ But strangely, Quinn found it impossible to think of a suitable name. Until it suddenly came to him. ‘Moon. Mr Moon. Mr Moon from out of town. Mr Moon is very wealthy. Mr Moon has society connections. Mr Moon can shift a lot of product. You tell him he really should meet Mr Moon. Mr Moon could be very good for business.’
‘Who’s Mr Moon?’
‘I’m Mr Moon. I’ll be here in the car waiting.’ Quinn glanced out at the rubble-strewn street. A gang of ragged children, malnourished and filthy, ran about, screaming for all they were worth as they played out their angry, unfathomable game. Quinn noticed that they kept their distance from the golden touring car. No doubt they knew who the owner was. Perhaps they were keeping an eye on it for Benson. They could even be watching the street. In which case, they’d almost certainly raise the alarm the moment the local police turned up. They may have had outlying detachments in the adjoining streets who would pass the word along.
