by Andy Emery
‘Yes, Jack. That must be it. But if he was a drunk and a fantasist, how might he be able to help us?’
‘Well, not much was made of it at the time, but he claimed that he knew someone on the inside of the operation. The gang was not only trafficking girls across the channel, but trapping them into working in private clubs in London, forcing them into all sorts of perverted sexual practices. I’ve looked back at the records, and there are similarities between the disappearances then and now. I think all this has been going on longer than we’ve thought. Taken together with the mention of Musgrave in Frowde’s notebook, I think we now have to take our former snout more seriously.’
‘How do we find him?’ said Gedge.
‘That’s the problem. His former rooms have been let to new tenants. We’re canvassing the area, especially the pubs, but we haven’t come up with anything yet.’
24
After the policemen left, Gedge and Rondeau discussed Musgrave.
‘He seems to be a key witness,’ said Gedge. ‘But how do we move forward if we can’t find him?’
‘We do have another chink of light. The letter young Simeon brought here, before I sent him for Jack? It is from Harry Frowde. He is alive.’
‘Thank goodness!’ exclaimed Polly.
‘I wanted to tell you earlier, but I needed to know what Inspector Cross had on Musgrave first.’
‘But this changes things! Now we may be able to get to Musgrave through Frowde. What was in the letter?’
‘He was expressing regret for disappearing, though heaven knows he was justified in doing so. He wants to meet me, but he is terrified of being spotted by Ackerman’s men. He has suggested a rendezvous at a location that’s very familiar to you, Lucas. The Admiral Jervis.’
‘Why there?’
‘Apparently, he used to drink there when he worked for a local paper in the East End, before graduating to Lloyd’s Weekly. He says the bar owner Frank Hoyte will remember him, and asks if we can get him to let us in before opening time, at 6 o’clock this evening.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult.’
Following a light lunch with the Rondeaus, Gedge took his leave and walked back towards The Admiral Jervis. He would see Rondeau and Polly there just before six, then they could all hear what Frowde had to say. Gedge hadn’t spent much time at the inn lately, merely going back there to sleep and then heading out again early each day. He was looking forward to catching up with Frank Hoyte.
When Gedge arrived, the barman was cleaning the downstairs windows. They went inside, and Gedge asked about Frowde.
‘Him and a few others from the paper used to come here. With their funny hours I sometimes used to let them in the side door, through the kitchen. That’ll be the best way in tonight, if he doesn’t want to be seen.’
‘Good. My friends from White Lion Street can come in that way as well, if that’s alright. Frank, I wanted to ask you, have you had any more contact from Bacchus?’
Hoyte’s face darkened. ‘Yes. Mr Matthew Bacchus has issued a warning. He wants another payment and I can’t do it. Just haven’t got it. He says if I don’t pay up he’ll burn the place down. It’s probably just bravado. It’ll be alright. I don’t want to worry you, Lucas. You need to concentrate on finding your daughter.’
‘I must admit, I’d thought my run-in with Creek and his mate might have persuaded Bacchus to look elsewhere for his protection money. But obviously that’s not the case. This place is your livelihood, Frank. We’re not going to let some young hooligans ruin that. And in any case, if they do burn the inn down, where am I going to lay my head? They must have given you a deadline?’
‘Yes. A couple of days from now.’
‘And do you know where Bacchus is based?’
‘He doesn’t make much of a secret of it. He’s got a converted railway arch that he uses as a warehouse and office, under the mainline to Liverpool Street.’
‘Try not to worry about this. I’ll sort it out for you.’ He winked at Hoyte, who smiled.
Since there was little for him to do but wait for the evening meeting, Gedge went up to his room in the eaves and lay on the bed to rest. After a few minutes he was sound asleep.
He was untroubled by dreams, but awoken by a commotion from the street below. He got up, rubbing his eyes, and looked out of the window. It was dark, but in the light cast by the gas lamps he was shocked to see Polly hurrying Rondeau along the pavement towards the inn, the two of them being pursued by a gang of half a dozen young boys, shouting abuse and laughing.
One of the boys picked up a stone and hurled it. It missed Polly and Rondeau, but the sound of shattering glass suggested it had passed through one of the panes cleaned only a few hours earlier. Gedge hurtled down the stairs several at a time.
He reached the ground floor just as Polly and Rondeau were being let in through the front door by Frank. He slammed the door shut behind them, locked it and slid across two bolts. Several stones cracked against the outside of the door.
Hoyte pulled up a chair for Rondeau, who was short of breath.
‘What happened, for god’s sake?’ said Gedge. ‘Who are they?’
The boys crowed and whooped outside.
‘They appeared out of a side street,’ said Polly, fetching a tot of brandy from the inn kitchen. ‘There was one lad hanging around near the house when we left. I think they first gathered their forces, and then made this little demonstration in another attempt to warn us off.’
‘They’ll be under Ackerman’s orders. Presumably among them are the three who waylaid the hansom when I first arrived.’
‘That may be,’ said Rondeau. ‘But we are fortunate that they did not attack us with more than stones. Six against two.’
‘This would have more than levelled the odds,’ said Polly, revealing her small revolver with a flourish.
Gedge nodded, and peered through a crack in the shutters. He saw the group standing in the road, still hurling abuse. One boy brought his arm back and another stone flew towards the inn, this time hitting the wall with a thud. Just as it did so, a shrill whistle pierced the evening air. The gang’s attention was lifted from the inn, and after a few seconds of discussion, they took to their heels and left the way they had come.
‘They’ve gone, like a pack of dogs being called off,’ said Gedge. ‘It looks like someone is controlling our juvenile delinquents. But that’s no surprise.’
Polly looked at the time. ‘Oh dear. It’s just after six. I hope the commotion hasn’t scared off our friend Mr Frowde. If he’s terribly fearful, it might have done.’
Hoyte popped his head around the door to the kitchen. ‘He’s here. Slipped in the back way like we planned. All that fuss out the front gave him a bit of cover, if anything.’
Frowde was sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of coffee. He looked, as Gedge expected, like a man in fear of his life: black-shadowed eyes flitting this way and that; hair unkempt; cradling himself as if freezing cold, despite the warmth of the kitchen.
Rondeau introduced Polly and Gedge, and reassured Frowde as to their intentions. He asked what had prompted him to go to ground.
‘I’d had a couple of anonymous letters, warning me to stop looking into those girls. I ignored them. Could have been sent by any crank. But then a bloke approached me in a bar one night. Seemed very friendly, bought me a drink. We got talking. Seemed to have a lot in common. To cut a long story short, we rolled out of the inn at closing time, both half cut, or so I thought. Soon as we got to a deserted stretch of road, he sobered up pretty quick and thumped me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. While I was lying on the cobbles he told me in no uncertain terms to stop writing about the disappearances or it would be the worse for me.
‘Threw me into a panic, I don’t mind telling you. I ran back to my flat, but as I got to the building, I looked up and saw the light was on. Not only that, I could see people moving about in there. Then I saw something being thrown about. That was it. I’ve never
been back there. I suppose I could have gone to the other place I’ve got, over a coffee shop. But I didn’t dare.’
‘I’ve been there,’ said Gedge. ‘So has one of Ackerman’s men. But I beat him to your notebook and a couple of other items of interest. There didn’t seem to be much there, though. Considering the story you were working on.’
Frowde looked at Rondeau. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have as much information on the story as I made out to you, Mr Rondeau. I was getting my money’s worth from what little I did have. I’ve come to the conclusion that the best chance anyone’s got of getting the inside track on what’s going on is to talk to a person who, frankly, doesn’t seem a reliable witness.’
‘You mean the drunk, Musgrave?’ said Gedge.
‘Yes, that’s him. How did you… Oh, the notebook.’
‘We’ve heard about his background, from the police. But how can we find him?’
‘His obsession with conspiracies means he’s hard to pin down. I communicate with him in an unusual way. In Christ Church, there’s a particular pew, three back on the left-hand side looking from the front. At the back of it, there’s a knot in the wood that’s dropped out, leaving a nice little hole about an inch and a half across. It’s hard to see if you don’t know it’s there. I leave messages for him in that hole, on a well-folded piece of paper.’
‘Mr Frowde,’ said Gedge. ‘We’d like you to do us a favour. Frank, can we borrow pen and paper please?’
25
At about the time Frowde was talking to Gedge and the others at The Admiral Jervis, Roland Ackerman was sitting in his office, waiting for a visitor. He hated waiting. In the army he’d had to put up with his superiors taking their sweet time to decide on their orders, which often ended up being stupid. Usually, the delay cost them in dead bodies. Since leaving the military and setting up on his own, Ackerman had been able to take action by himself—hard and swift—when and where needed. With this latest job though, he was again having to work with others; others he didn’t altogether trust. But it would be worth it in the end. Not long now until the biggest payday of his life.
He glared at the stain on the carpet; he hadn’t been able to fully remove Joe’s blood. Not that it mattered. He would soon be abandoning this shoddy dump, and anyway, there would be more blood spilt soon.
He heard the door being answered downstairs; his visitor must have arrived. He stretched his limbs, got up and went to the grimy window. He heard two men ascending the stairs, and smiled as he noted the irregularity in the footfalls of one of the pair. He was back behind his desk when the knock on the door came.
‘Come in.’
His deputy Conn poked his head round the door. ‘He’s here, boss.’
‘Well, show him in, for god’s sake.’
The man who entered the room had the sort of face that looked doleful in repose, although a sardonic smile broke out as he spoke, in a soft brogue.
‘Hello, Ackerman.’
He limped over to the other chair and sat down, placing his bowler on the desk.
‘By rights we’re natural enemies, Inspector Naseby. How strange that we’re working together.’
‘I didn’t have you down for a philosopher,’ said Naseby. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t find it surprising at all. The world doesn’t work in the simplistic way most people imagine. Everyone wants absolutes. Hero or villain. Policeman or evil-doer. The reality is… shades of grey. That’s the world I operate in.’
‘You’re telling me. I reckon you’re a turncoat several times over. Love the secrecy, don’t you? All that cloak and dagger malarkey?’
‘It’s necessary.’
‘Fine. You just leave it to us rough boys to handle the dirty work. Fancy a snifter?’ He proffered a whisky bottle, pouring a glass for himself.
Naseby held out his hand for a shot. ‘You just remember I’m the one smoothing things over with the nobs, the one closest to the purse strings. I’m the one who’s making sure we’ve got the clientele to earn ourselves a nice little pension from this circus.’
‘And remember you’ve got the most to lose. If this goes wrong and we’re discovered, you’ll be for the high jump. I’ll just fade away again, back into the so-called “underworld” where I belong.’
Naseby sipped his whisky. ‘So, you’re thinking there might be a problem? Worried about Gedge and his little friends? I told you taking his daughter could backfire. Someone like him will try to get her back. He won’t just meekly sit back and hope. He’s already dispatched one of your dunces, at that reporter’s flat. We should have just kept watching him and his pal Rondeau.’
‘Never mind that. How’s he going to find out where she is? He won’t stop us. And our little gang of hooligans have been giving old Rondeau and his pretty daughter a bit of a fright this very evening. No. Everything’s set. A couple more days and it’ll all be wrapped up.’
‘As if to reassure you of that, and demonstrate the value of surveillance, here’s an address you might be interested in.’ Naseby produced a slip of paper and passed it across the table.
‘What’s this? Leman Street. The address of the police station?’
‘Almost. Two doors away. A middling sort of guest house. And the current residence of one Harold Frowde, journalist.’
‘Jesus! How did you find him?’
‘One of my boys was smoking on the steps of the station. Saw the snivelling little hack creeping out of his front door. Couldn’t believe it. He must think he’s got it made, being right on the coppers’ doorstep.’
‘In that case, I need to go and see him. Compliment him on his journalism, if you get my drift. I’ll have to be careful though, obviously.’
‘Fortunately for you, my man had a poke about round the back. There’s a lane with a dead end at the rear of the police station. The fence at the back of the guest house is decidedly rickety. Already a few holes in it. And he also got talking to a Mrs Selway, the owner. He’s pretty certain Frowde’s room is on the ground floor, at the back. He’s got the use of a kitchen overlooking the yard.’
‘That all sounds hunky-dory, inspector. Very good work indeed. I expect Mr Frowde would like a visitor this evening, what with keeping to himself so much the last couple of days. By the way, you haven’t mentioned the police. Presumably they’re not giving you any cause for concern?’
‘Hardly. Leman Street won’t pose a problem unless someone makes a stupid mistake. It’s been an education, fiddling the posting there. No wonder crime’s rife. Now, all our assets are stored away safely, I take it? You dealt with that unfortunate leakage the other week?’
‘Yes, that issue no longer exists. The girls are all present and correct. They’re all quality as requested, none of your toms or street urchins.’
‘All within the required age range?’
‘Of course. We’ve checked.’
‘Because as you know, the clients are very particular. More so with our grand finale coming up.’
‘How are the arrangements for that coming along?’
‘Very well. It’s a unique location. I can’t tell you where until the day, of course. And the clients that will be coming include some of our most respected society figures. If only their wives knew what they get up to. Depraved bastards!’
‘The toffs are the worst. It’s a little known fact. Too much time on their hands, you see. They need something to stave off the boredom.’
They both laughed, and Ackerman poured another two glasses of whisky.
26
At 10pm that night, Ackerman walked along Tenter Street, which was parallel to Leman Street, and, checking there was nobody about, slipped into the alley which ran past the back of Frowde’s guest house. The bulk of the police station loomed over the passage to his right. He stopped at the fence that Naseby had mentioned. It was indeed in a poor state of repair. He remained still and listened for a minute, hearing nothing except the sound of late traffic on the surrounding streets.
He gripped one of the narr
ow rotting laths and pulled it back towards him. It came away with a slight popping noise. He waited again, then repeated the process with another lath, then another, carefully placing them at the base of the fence. Within a few minutes he had created an opening a foot wide, easily enough to get through.
He eased himself into the yard. Soft light filtered down from several of the windows in the building above him; just enough to see where he was moving. He paused and scanned around again, seeing nothing moving except a cat, prowling along the top of a fence several houses over. It stopped, turned and stared at him.
The back door was locked, so he tried the sash window next to it. It moved, and he eased one pane up. Inside was a small kitchen; the window was above a sink. There was a light issuing from further inside the flat. Ackerman manoeuvred inside, perching on the edge of the sink before lowering himself. As his left foot reached the floor and started to bear his weight, something slid away and rolled across the floor, before spinning to a halt against the wall.
He stopped dead.
A male voice from inside. ‘What was that? Damned cat! Wait until I get my hands on you.’
A slim figure appeared at the doorway, carrying a candle. It started violently at the human form silhouetted in front of the window.
‘Oh god, who are you? What do you want?’
Ackerman stepped forward, bringing himself within the glow of Frowde’s candle.
‘My name’s Ackerman, Mr Frowde. Forgive my furtive entrance, but in my line of work… I’m sure you understand.’
Frowde’s face was stricken and rigid. The knuckles on the hand gripping the candle-holder were white.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just a little chat, Mr Frowde. You obviously appreciate that the articles you’ve been writing in your weekly rag are not very welcome to me and my associates. I thought we could have a chat about that. See if I could convince you to cease and desist, as it were. Some of my colleagues thought it would be necessary to do you harm. But I told them, I’m sure Mr Frowde will respond to reason. How about a drink while we talk about it?’ Ackerman nodded towards the room beyond the kitchen.
