He walked to the gate and shook it. He could have broken the lock but he could afford the time to be subtle. Arthur crouched down and jumped up, he almost seemed to float.
On the other side he landed without a sound and made his way to the house. He forced the front door and stepped inside.
It was cold, a house that had been empty for most of the day. The door closed behind him and he walked on. There were pictures on the wall, oil painting of biblical scenes, not a single picture of family. Arthur walked up the stairs to where he knew the man’s office was. The floorboards creaked but there was no one to hear the sound.
He forced open the office door and walked inside. It was a small room, piles of paper and folders covering every surface. The walls were lined with bookshelves but there were so many books that they had spilled off and stood in piles on every available surface. The man who lived here was a great reader but he had little else in his life. Arthur felt it was about what he deserved.
None of the desk drawers were locked. He sat down in the high backed leather seat and opened the top one, pulled out piles of paper covered in spidery thin writing. He leaned back and started to read.
An hour passed, maybe more. The contents of the documents were fascinating but it wasn’t what he was looking for. He put the last of the papers back in the drawer and stood. Perhaps he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for here after all. It had been a long shot but he was sure Arlington was involved in the business somehow.
Arthur stood and walked to the door. He heard the floorboards squeak. Someone else was in the house. He could hear a beating heart and blood running through old veins. He could smell cocoa and whiskey. When he looked down he saw the yellow glow of a lamp beneath the door and stepped back.
The door burst open and there he stood. Twenty-years older than when they had last met, his hair pure white and patchy, his body thin and weak. His mouth a vicious scar across his withered old face. “You!” Father Arlington said. “What are you doing here? I didn’t invite you inside.”
“You know that it doesn’t work like that,” Arthur said.
“You killed my daughter.”
“Your daughter isn’t dead.”
“As good as.”
Arthur could have fought the old man or run away, he would have no trouble doing either and that would be the end of it. But he was here now and he had enough at stake to want answers. He stepped forwards, drawing himself to full height and towering over the small man. “What have they done with her Arlington,” he said.
The old man blustered, shook his head. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“The girl, where is she?”
“Who?” he said, displaying some of the anger that Arthur was used to seeing in him. “What girl? Is this another one of your harlots Park?”
“You know who I’m talking about: Bridget Kable.”
He shook his head before Arthur had even finished speaking. “I’ve never heard the name.”
“She’s eight years old.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Get out of my house.”
He didn’t watch the other man closely enough, he didn’t see his hand reach into his jacket. “You’re not going to get away with this.”
“We already have,” Arlington said.
Arthur took a step towards him, opened his mouth and bared sharp fangs, a set at either corner of his mouth. He opened his mouth and hissed like a snake.
“Stay back,” Father Arlington said. He withdrew his hand from a pocket. He held a wooden crucifix the size of a small book.
Arthur stepped back and looked at the man with raw hatred. This was the man who had the information he needed and he was also the man who hurt her. Arthur would have liked to kill him for what he had done to Elizabeth but he also needed information. If the thought of touching his grey old flesh didn’t disgust Arthur so much he might have considered turning him into the thing he hated most of all.
Arlington walked towards him, holding the cross out in front of him. “You aren’t welcome here,” he said.
Arthur took another step away from him and turned towards the desk. There was a window behind it. “You won’t get away with this,” he said. “I will be back.”
“And I will be ready for you.”
Arthur hissed at him again but there was no more he could do now. He took another step back, another around the desk and then he was at the window. “Your daughter sends her love,” he said.
“I have no daughter,” said the old vicar.
Arthur jumped. It was only a single floor to the ground but he landed with uncharacteristic heaviness. He looked up at the window and saw the old man looking down at him, the cross still in his hand. Casually he pulled the window closed and turned away. Arthur waited for a moment. It seemed as if something else was going to happen but after a minute the world was still quiet and he too turned and left.
CHAPTER 12
MRS WHITE STOOD IN THE KITCHEN BY THE back door, blocking his way. He had woken an hour ago, still on the chair, still fully dressed and with absolutely no desire to stay there while his wife was in hospital and his daughter was
(dead)
“You need to rest detective,” said Mrs White. The kitchen table was set for breakfast but none of the other residents had arrived yet. Mrs White was holding a black frying pan, which looked heavy, but she swung it around casually, despite her diminutive size. Graham had no doubt that she could do a lot of damage with it.
He wished he’d told her he was going to visit Agnes, or that he just needed a walk to get some fresh air. She was dead set against him going to work. “I need to speak to the Commissioner,” he said.
“Whatever for? He’s a very busy man, I’m sure. I don’t imagine he will have time to speak to you.”
Graham realised that she was probably right but he didn’t know who else to go to. He didn’t think that Hayes had the authority to put him on the case of his daughter. He would need to speak to someone who he could convince that he was capable of doing the job. “I need to find my daughter,” he said.
She seemed to think for a moment, her dark eyes studying him. Then she lowered the frying pan. “Of course detective. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“That’s quite alright Mrs White,” he said, straightening his back and standing at full height. “Now, if you will excuse me?”
She stepped away from the door. “Good luck detective.”
Lunden was noisy. He could only see a few people on the street but he could hear shouting from the market and people talking loudly. He could hear the hammering and sawing of nearby construction. The ground seemed to shake beneath him and he wondered if he could feel the Underground Network being built.
An hour later he climbed out of a cab and paid the driver. Scotland Yard stood a couple of hundred feet in front of him. A great stone building that looked as if it had been carved out of the earth. Despite the nature of his business that morning he was in awe of the place. It was what he had dreamed about his whole life, it was what he was supposed to be doing.
He walked towards the building with a spring in his step that he could barely disguise. A number of men rushed past him and through the door up ahead but he didn’t hurry. This was a moment, in all the terrible things that had happened recently, that he wanted to remember. He wanted to take in every detail; from the purple lavender that grew in the bushes along the path and filled the air with their fragrance, to the chipped stones of the path itself. From the way the sun cast his shadow in front of him, a solid block of darkness that said he wasn’t to be messed with, to the cool breeze that swirled around the back of his neck.
He stopped at the door and held it open while three people walked out, so deep in conversation that they didn’t even stop to thank him. They didn’t even appear to notice he was there at all. But that was alright, they were doing important work and soon he would be too. They weren’t subject to the same rules of politeness as the rest of the world.
>
When the coast was clear he went inside. The building was warm and solid. It was like being underground, encased in the earth. It was reassuring. A police crest that had been polished to a blinding shine hung from the wall directly opposite the entrance. The reception was large, high ceilinged and open. A young man in uniform looked up as Graham approached his desk.
“May I help you?” he said. He was a scrawny thing who didn’t even look like he was shaving yet.
“I am Detective Kable,” he said. The thick carpet and heavy furniture ate any echo that might have been generated in such a wide open space. Graham was aware that there were people sitting behind him but he didn’t turn to look at them.
“And how can I help you detective?” said the boy who, Graham realised, didn’t recognise the name nor take his title very seriously. He tried to ignore the slight against him but it appeared in his tone as condescension.
“I have been transferred here,” he said. “Will you inform Detective Hayes that I have arrived?”
“Hayes?” the boy said. “You want to speak to Detective Hayes?”
“That’s right,” Graham said.
The boy shrugged and Graham wanted to tell him he was a disgrace to the uniform he was wearing. He was about the same age as Charlie but Charlie knew how to treat his elders with respect, Charlie never would have behaved in the manner of this boy. “What’s your name boy,” Graham said.
“I’m Constable Wheeler.”
Graham nodded. “Well Constable Wheeler, I am Detective Kable and I would like you to either bring Detective Hayes here or point me in the right direction to find him. Do you think you can manage that?”
The boy nodded and Graham realised that this was how he was used to being spoken at by his superiors. It was a cultural difference, nothing more. In Odamere he had treated everyone with respect but here it was apparently something that had to be earned. He would adjust. “I’m afraid I can’t leave the desk sir,” the boy said, his tone completely subservient now. “But if you follow the corridor along to the stairs at the back and then go up to the third floor you should find him. Or someone who can help.”
Graham nodded. “Thank you Constable Wheeler.”
Graham walked past the desk and along the corridor. There were paintings all along the walls, ancient pictures of lawmen through the ages. The corridor was so long he didn’t even see the stairs until he had been walking for several minutes. He followed them up to the third floor as he had been instructed.
Another boy, this one with better manners, directed Graham to Hayes’s office. There was a small frosted window in the door and he could see the shape of Hayes sitting at his desk. He knocked and Hayes called him in.
It was a small office, not much bigger than the desk and three chairs it contained. A single letterbox sized window high up on the wall provided enough daylight to see by and an oil lamp on the corner of the desk waited to be pressed into service. The walls were unremarkably bare.
Hayes stood as he entered. “Kable, I didn’t expect to see you today.” Graham shook his hand. “Please, have a seat.” He indicated one of the two chairs facing him opposite the desk. Graham closed the door and sat down.
“Thank you sir,” he said.
Hayes waved his hand to dismiss the term. “Please, we’re friends. Call me William.”
“Thank you,” he said but couldn’t bring himself to speak so informally.
“You should be at home, resting. There really was no need for you to come in today.”
“I needed to speak to you sir,” he said.
“I see,” said Hayes. He steepled his fingers in front of him and pursed his lips. “And what is it you need to speak to me about.”
On the journey over Graham had reconsidered his plan to go directly to the Commissioner. He had decided that it would be more respectful to speak to Hayes first. Even though he didn’t think Hayes would have the authority to grant what he wanted it would be useful to have him on his side.
Graham told him what he wanted. It didn’t take long. When he was through Hayes leaned back in his seat. “I understand Kable. If it was my daughter I would feel the same way I’m sure. I also appreciate you coming to me with this. You must know that I don’t have the authority to grant your wishes but perhaps I can save you the humiliation of taking it any further.”
“You mean I won’t be allowed to investigate?” Graham said.
“Think of it from the laws perspective,” said Hayes. “What if, and I’m not saying it is the case, but what if you were responsible for your daughters disappearance?”
“I’m not responsible...” said Graham but Hayes held up a hand to stop him.
“I’m not saying that you are Kable but just suppose. Plenty of fathers do commit such crimes do they not?”
Graham nodded. He knew that they did and generally for reasons too terrible to think about.
“Now suppose those fathers worked for the police. The police are just men after all and not above committing crime.”
Graham scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days and he was suddenly ashamed to have come into work looking as he did. It was no wonder the boy had treated him so disrespectfully.
“What do you think would happen if we allowed those fathers to investigate crimes they themselves has committed? Could we expect justice to be served?”
Graham shook his head.
“So it is an officially policy, as good as law, that we are not permitted to investigate cases involving family members. Do you follow?”
“I understand,” Graham said.
“Please rest assured that we take the matter of your daughters disappearance extremely seriously and we have our best men on the case.”
“Thank you,” Graham said. He no longer wanted to be there but manners dictated that he stay until Hayes dismissed him. “What will I be working on?”
“When you come to work, and I strongly advise that you wait at least a few more days, you will be shadowing Detective Poleman. He’s one of our most experienced men and a personal friend. Currently he is investigating a series of murders in Whitechapel.”
Graham nodded. It would take his mind off Agnes and Bridget if he was busy doing something else but perhaps Hayes was right and he should take a few more days to think through everything. There were things that he needed to do and it wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time familiarising himself with the geography of Lunden.
“Thank you. A few more days is just what I need.”
“Good. Let Mrs White know when you feel up to returning and I will send a cab. Try to take it easy, your wife needs you Graham.”
Although the discussion of his private life made him feel profoundly uncomfortable Graham thanked Hayes again and received his dismissal. He walked like he was in a dream, back through the building and out the front. When he turned around to look back he was saddened to see that the place had already lost some of its shine. He found a cab and went home.
CHAPTER 13
TWO DAYS LATER HE ARRIVED AT THE HOSPITAL and asked the cab man to wait for him because he wouldn’t be long. He went inside and found Agnes already waiting for him in the reception.
She looked like a ghost. Her skin was sallow and paper thin. Her eyes sunken and too big for her head. He looked hard but could see no sign of the great beauty that had broken hearts in her youth. She was a damaged woman now and it was writ large on every bone, every joint and in her vacant stare.
“Agnes,” he said as he approached her, forcing himself to smile. It was a happy day, he reminded himself, she was coming home.
She looked up at the sound of her name and seemed to look straight through him. “Graham?” Her voice was weak.
“Good morning dear,” he said. “Are you ready to come home?” She clearly wasn’t but there didn’t seem to be anything more the nurses and doctors could do for her.
“Have you found her? Do you know what happened?”
He shook his head. “Let’s not get into it here,” he
said. “Let’s get you home and I will tell you everything.” And he fully intended to do so. Right up until he saw the look of hope spread across her face and the beautiful woman hidden beneath her distress.
They travelled in silence. She took his hand in hers and placed it on her lap. He looked at her and she smiled, he knew that he didn’t have it in him to break her heart.
Mrs White was waiting for them in the front garden when the carriage pulled up in front of the house. The small woman, who might easily have been mistaken for a child from a distance, was just that. Unfortunately Agnes had yet to meet their land lady.
Graham tried to stop Agnes but she wouldn’t listen to him. “It’s not what you think dear,” he said when he saw her look out the window and relief spread across her face.
She didn’t hear him, or she didn’t want to. She was already out the door and running towards the little old lady who, from a distance, she had mistaken for her eight year old daughter.
He followed her out but he was too slow. A few feet ahead he saw Agnes falter when she saw who was really standing in the garden. It must have been, he realised, like losing Bridget all over again. Her knees gave way, she reached out to try and steady herself, but there was nothing to hold onto. She crumpled to the ground with an almighty cry that shook the birds from the trees.
Graham was beside her a moment later and Mrs White came as quickly as she could.
They lifted her gently. She was sobbing but Graham didn’t think it was from the fall.
“Come on dear, let’s get you inside,” Mrs White said.
They carried Agnes in a lopsided manner to the back door and into the kitchen where they helped her into a seat.
“There now,” Mrs White said, “that’s better isn’t it.”
Agnes nodded dumbly but didn’t seem at all aware or interested in her new surroundings. Mrs White sat down in her chair. She leaned across the table towards Agnes and examined her like a specimen in a glass jar.
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