by Mick Finlay
We stood by Waterloo Bridge as he pondered what to do next. The stars were out, though you could only just make out a twinkle here and there through the smoke above South London that night. ‘I can’t stop thinking about those women we freed from the warehouse,’ he said, starting to walk back to Coin Street. ‘What the hell was Capaldi doing with them?’
‘Must be something to do with his cat-houses.’
‘Yes, but why imprison them like that? Did they refuse to work for him? Had they gone to the police? That man is evil, Barnett. Out and out evil. He’ll be looking for S’bu by now and it won’t take him long to find where I live. We must take him to Lewis’s.’
Lewis and the guvnor had been friends since they were kids, and though he was a filthy monster to look at, he was one of the kindest blokes I knew. A year ago he’d taken Willoughby in after the Catford case, and we knew we could rely on him to shelter S’bu. He answered the door in his dressing gown, a scarf tucked in the collar, a woollen nightcap on his head. He was the same height as the guvnor, also portly, also a glutton, but he had only one arm to the guvnor’s two.
‘My goodness, William,’ he said, a troubled look on his face. ‘You thought this was a day for your yellow suit?’
‘A bit of an accident with my other one. I’ll tell you about it later.’
Lewis looked past us to S’bu on the pavement. ‘Another stray, my friend?’
Arrowood stood aside. ‘He’s called S’bu. He doesn’t really speak English.’
‘Pleased to meet you, S’bu,’ said Lewis with a smile.
‘Good day, sir,’ said S’bu.
Lewis pointed at himself. ‘I’m Lewis.’ He pointed at S’bu. ‘You’re S’bu. I’m Lewis. Good day, S’bu.’
‘Good day, Lewis,’ said S’bu.
Lewis smiled. ‘Come in, my friend. Get out of the cold.’
Willoughby was sitting by the fire in the parlour, warming his feet. He leapt up as we walked in, shaking my hand and the guvnor’s, a smile of utter joy on his face.
‘You come to see me, Norman?’ he asked. ‘You come to sit with us?’
‘’Course we have, mate,’ I said. Willoughby, who was a little weak-minded, worked at Sidney’s stables, and you could smell it on him. His nails were splintered and black; it looked like his jumper hadn’t seen a mangle in months. Lewis wasn’t a good influence on Willoughby’s self-cleaning.
Willoughby looked at S’bu. ‘What’s your name?’
‘S’bu,’ I told him. ‘He’s African. He don’t talk English.’
‘Don’t talk?’
‘He does, but not like us.’
After the guvnor’d explained what had happened, Lewis nodded. ‘Of course we’ll have him. It’s Christmas. The more the merrier.’ He looked at S’bu. ‘You. Stay here. Yes?’
‘Yes?’ said S’bu, low and tight-lipped. He wasn’t sure about it all, you could tell.
Lewis made a sleeping sign, his hand flat against his tilted head. ‘Sleep. Yes?’
S’bu nodded.
‘How about a little brandy for the cold?’ asked Lewis, already pouring from a bottle by his chair. He filled four tumblers, then paused. ‘How old are you, S’bu?’
S’bu looked at him, not knowing what to do. He looked at the guvnor.
‘About fourteen,’ said Arrowood. ‘Old enough.’
Lewis passed round the drinks. My side was smarting again, so I swallowed down another couple of Black Drop with the brandy.
‘How are things at home, William?’ asked Lewis.
The guvnor sighed. ‘The babies are ill,’ he said at last. ‘The doctor thinks it’s…’ His nose flared and he shut his eyes.
‘Typhus,’ I said.
‘No.’ Lewis looked at me, his eyes wide. ‘But… but not both?’
‘Both,’ I said. ‘They’re really not well. Isabel might have caught it too.’
‘Oh, my Lord. I’m so sorry, William.’ Lewis stepped to his old friend and grasped his arm. ‘But they might recover. Lots do.’
‘Lots do,’ said the guvnor with a sad smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll come through. Look, you couldn’t loan me forty shillings, could you? They need it for medicine.’
‘I wish I could, William, but I’ve pawned anything of value. The bank own my stock. Until business picks up, I’m getting by on tick.’
‘I know. I had to ask.’
Lewis patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll find you something to eat, though,’ he said, and waddled out to the kitchen. ‘Fetch S’bu some blankets, Willoughby.’
S’bu stepped over to the corner of the room and picked up the concertina that had been gathering dust there for the last few years. He sat on the stool, rested it on his knee, and began to play a jig. His eyes were shut, his lips moving like he was singing each note. Willoughby returned with the blankets and set them out on the couch, his head bobbing with the music.
When the tune finished, S’bu opened his eyes. We clapped. Then he seemed to remember Musa and his face crumpled.
Lewis came through with a dirty bowl of bacon rind and cold potatoes. The guvnor grabbed a bit before his friend had even set it down. Willoughby followed and then the guvnor took another for good measure. Lewis offered the bowl to S’bu, who shook his head. When I got to it there were only a few grey spuds left.
‘You need to trim your whiskers,’ Arrowood said to his friend. ‘It’s as if you don’t have a face.’
‘Ach,’ growled Lewis, waving him away. He put his hand to his chin and smoothed the mess down as best as he could. ‘I’ve been too busy.’
‘Too busy? You sit in that damp shop all day. There’s a barber down the road. Or Willoughby’ll cut it for you, won’t you?’
‘I cut it, Lewis,’ said Willoughby.
Lewis nodded. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. We’ll see.’
S’bu yawned.
‘Are you tired, mate?’ I asked him. I pointed at the couch and then at him. I pretended to yawn. ‘You. Sleep?’
‘S’bu sleep?’
‘Yes.’ I pointed at the couch. ‘You. Sleep there.’
He went to the couch, checking with me it was what I meant, then lay down with his head on the pillow. I set the blankets on top, while Willoughby took the brandy off him and swallowed it down himself.
We sat down for another drink while Lewis asked about the case. As we talked, S’bu just lay there under the blankets, watching us. He knew we were talking about him and Thembeka and Senzo, and I felt sorry he didn’t understand.
‘Capaldi’s dangerous,’ said Lewis when we’d told him all we could.
‘Yes,’ nodded the guvnor, taking a great swig of brandy and coughing. His eyes watered, his face went red, his hand went to his heart. ‘His men killed Mr Fowler, but we just don’t know who killed Musa and Mrs Fowler. The men might have returned later, we just don’t know. Napper’s convinced Senzo and Thembeka killed her, but good heavens it would have been difficult. She wasn’t in the building the day before so they’d have to go, find her and then bring her back. Two Africans. Not easy to do without being seen.’
‘Perhaps she called on them?’ said Lewis.
‘But she had no coat. And how did she know they were there? And why on earth tie her to a chair after she was dead? No, I don’t think they killed her. Whoever did it wanted us to think it was them. That’s the only conclusion I can come to.’
‘What about the older one?’ asked Lewis. ‘Why would they bash out his teeth?’
‘That’s another puzzle. Perhaps they wanted information?’
‘What information?’
‘About the raid in South Africa, that’s all I can think. But who knows? Thembeka’s hiding something. She didn’t want us to know they went to meet the princess.’
‘What about Madame Delacourte?’ asked Lewis. ‘Was she involved?’
The guvnor blew his nose. ‘We can’t rule her out. Polichinelle was one of the men, but he knows both her and Capaldi.’
For a few moments, we thought it over
. What a bloody tangle it was. And nobody was paying us either.
‘I hope you still have my pistols?’ asked Lewis finally.
‘Ah, yes,’ muttered the guvnor. ‘Well, we’re not quite sure, but don’t worry, old friend. We’ll get them back.’
Lewis slapped his forehead. ‘I knew I should never have lent them to you! You’ll have to pay me for them.’
‘We’ll get them back, Lewis,’ said the guvnor, grabbing the last spud just before Willoughby got to it. ‘I promise.’
Chapter Thirty-One
We parted at St George’s Circus. The guvnor was on his way to the Hog, where he planned to play cards and take a mug of brandy and hot water.
‘Don’t stay out all night, William,’ I warned him. ‘We’ve too much to do, and I’ve had enough of rescuing you from a pool of your own piss.’
‘Norman!’ he exclaimed. ‘What an unpleasant thing to say.’
‘Listen to me. Please. This case is too difficult for one of your bank holidays. S’bu’s in danger and Thembeka and Senzo’ll be convicted if we can’t solve this case. And your family need you sober, whether you know it or not. Those babies need you fit and able.’
He gripped my arm. ‘Don’t worry. What do you think I am?’
‘I know what you are. You’re the type of man who needs to hurt himself sometimes.’
‘I need to think on the case, and I do my best thinking in the Hog.’
I didn’t want to be his nanny tonight, so I watched him toddle up Waterloo Road towards Bankside. It was just gone ten when I gained the Pelican, Saturday night and the crowd in there was at their loosest and noisiest: a red-haired lad played the fiddle in a corner while folk talked and laughed and swayed like they had no troubles in the world. Whole families were in there, babes in their mothers’ arms, kiddies whispering to each other and snatching gulps of their parents’ booze, hunched old women with gammy eyes tapping the jig with fingers that weren’t good for anything else. I spotted Molly working the counter. She was red-faced, hair tied back, her brown dress splashed with the gushing porter, while folk all around tried to get her eye and call out their drinks. Banging down a couple of mugs for a big-limbed lad who couldn’t seem to get his money out his pocket, she leant over the counter and dug in there herself. He tried to catch a kiss as she counted out a few coins and put the rest in his hand.
A Welsh couple started dancing a jig in front of me: I pushed past them and found an empty space at the end of the bar. When she noticed I was there, Molly’s eyes narrowed.
‘Seven ales, beautiful,’ said a bloke in a striped suit. He was Irish.
‘What’s up, Molly?’ I asked as she poured them out.
‘Thought we were going for cakes,’ she said, her eyes on the barrel.
‘Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. We’ve been working. I couldn’t get away.’
‘Couldn’t send a message?’
I scratched my head. ‘I forgot. But only ’cos of the case.’
Her eyes were brown, her neck strong and white, and I had a hunger for her that night. Starting to pour another, she looked up at me. ‘At least you’re honest, Norm.’
She didn’t say it with a smile.
‘It’s not that I didn’t want to. There’s been three murders.’
She handed over a mug and started pouring another.
‘I want to see you tonight. When d’you finish?’
She poured two more afore she answered.
‘Couple of hours, Norm. But you better make it up to me.’
‘You can take your davey on it, Moll.’
At last she smiled. I leant over the counter and gave her a kiss. Her taste was all cheese and gin, but I couldn’t think of anything better.
The guvnor was late next morning. I waited with Delphine in the lobby of Scotland Yard, listening to the bells of Westminster calling Sunday service. Not much was going on in the station that early, just a few dirty old sods being released with sick on their trousers. The desk sergeant was a fellow I hadn’t seen before, a thin, wiry bloke with a long, upturned moustache. Every five minutes, he blew his nose in a horrible, stained hanky, then wiped his lips on the back of his hands. I tried to have a chat with Delphine, but she was irritated with having to wait and answered each of my questions with a just a word or two. I gave up. It didn’t bother me: I was tuckered out and floating in a cloud of Molly’s joy. I thought maybe I even loved her. She was so like Mrs B in some of her ways, and there were moments last night, in the dark of her room, in the warmth of her body, that I felt I was with my old girl. It was the way she smelt, the feel of her arse on my hand, her hair on my chest.
Maybe that wasn’t fair. As I sat there in the reception of Scotland Yard, arms crossed against the cold, I promised myself I’d try not to think like that. Molly was her own person, with a big heart and a wild soul. She deserved to be seen as she was. I wondered what Mrs B’d think about me taking up with her oldest friend. I hoped she’d be happy about it: I certainly needed a bit of warmth in my life.
About eleven, shouting arose from behind the door of the superintendent’s office. The desk bloke stepped back and opened it a bit to have a listen.
‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Farmerson!’ came the deep voice of the boss. ‘You think I’ve forgotten what you did at the Asiatic Seamen’s Home?’
‘But that wasn’t my fault, sir. It was the Oriental went for me, sir!’
We couldn’t see them, but I knew from the voice it was the other desk sarge, the one who’d had a go at the Hindoo the day before.
‘Don’t answer me back! And even if he did go for you, how the hell did he end up in that state?’
‘I explained it all back then, sir.’
‘And promised it’d never happen again! But you have done it again, haven’t you?’
‘I swear I didn’t touch the African, sir. I swear it on the Holy Bible. I never even went in his cell. Somebody else did it.’
The wiry desk sarge stepped away from the door quick, just before the superintendent appeared in his spotless blue uniform. His long face was flushed, the eyebrows hooked savagely. He stopped in the doorway, looking back into the office. ‘Mr Nyambezi says it was you, Farmerson.’
‘He ain’t used to white folk, sir,’ came the other voice. ‘Happen he can’t tell us apart.’
‘He’s from Nataland, you imbecile. Of course he’s used to white folk.’
‘He got it wrong, sir! I never touched the prisoner.’
‘PC Mabaso spoke to him after you’d locked him up. He confirms the story. You’re suspended, sergeant. I’ll have to bring charges.’
‘No, sir. Please. I never touched him.’
‘And I thank God you didn’t go in the African woman’s cell. Heaven knows what you would have done to her!’
‘No, sir! I’d never touch a woman!’
‘Go home and stay there until I call you. Now, get out!’
Moments later, Sergeant Farmerson appeared. He was bigger all round than the bloke on the desk this morning: a round belly, legs about a foot too long, his head pale and completely bald. He clutched his helmet in his hand, his worn overcoat over his arm. His eyes were cast down. The superintendent went back into his office and slammed the door.
The desk sarge patted Farmerson’s back as he passed through.
‘Be good, Jack,’ he said.
‘Fuck him,’ muttered the suspended copper. He looked up at the desk sarge. ‘Help me out, will you, mate?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Still shaking his head, Jack stormed out the door.
The superintendent poked his head out the office. ‘Do not get involved, sergeant,’ he said. ‘It was him, all right. You know what the man’s like.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The super stepped back into his office and shut the door.
‘What’s he been up to, sarge?’ I asked the bloke at the desk.
‘You a newspaperman?’
‘No, I’m helping Detective Napper
with the African case. Barnett’s the name. I’m with Mr Arrowood.’
He looked at Delphine.
‘She’s with us, translating,’ I said.
He rubbed his thick moustache and picked up a pen. ‘Someone had a go at the African in the cell, that’s all I know.’
‘Is he hurt?’ I asked.
‘Just a few broken fingers and a smashed tooth. He’ll survive.’
‘That sergeant did it, did he?’
‘You heard what the super said, didn’t you?’
‘Appalling,’ Delphine whispered to me when he was back reading his paper again. ‘They’re just like the police in South Africa.’
The street door opened again and the guvnor stepped in. He was a pitiful sight: his step was unsteady, his nose swollen and red, the grey bags under his weepy eyes spongy and peppered with grit. He’d come direct from the Hog, that much was clear, and the wind as came in with him smelt so bad of beer I thought he must have slept in a barrel.
With a groan, he capsized onto the bench aside Delphine.
‘You’re an hour late, sir,’ I said.
He burped into his hand and glanced at Delphine. ‘Morning, miss.’
‘It’s usual to apologize, Mr Arrowood,’ she answered.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ he whispered.
Her nose wrinkled. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Yes,’ he mumbled, burping again. He stared at the floor. ‘Bless you.’
I sat back and chewed my lip. He’d poisoned himself again. Here we all were at the Yard, and I didn’t know if he could work. I was so tired of his weakness.
Minutes passed as he sighed and burped and shifted in his seat. Delphine looked at me again and again, but I could offer her no reassurance. He looked like a badly slaughtered pig. Even his bowler was suffering. I took out my box of Black Drop and put a couple of pills in his hand.
He shut his eyes. ‘Thank you, Norman,’ he mouthed, then placed them on his tongue.
I stood. ‘Could you wait with him a moment, miss?’ I said. ‘I need to get him some coffee.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he rasped, trying to swallow the medicine. He coughed a pill up into his grubby hand.
Ten minutes later I was back with a bit of bread and marge and a mug of coffee. The guvnor’s head rested on the wall, his eyes closed. Half one of the pills I’d given him lay snagged on his beard.
