by Andy Emery
He eased away from her and released her arms, then hauled her back up to a standing position.
‘Now, let’s be a sensible girl and stop messing about. Keep resisting me, and I’ll have to hurt you. A livid bruise or two might make Cotter think twice about taking those naughty pictures, eh? It would also reduce your earning power.’
Ruby stared at the floor, silent. O’Neill straightened out her coat and blouse, and pushed a forefinger into the hollow at the base of her throat.
‘Perfect skin. I hope Cotter appreciates it. Now get moving.’
Gedge stood on the south bank of the Thames in Rotherhithe, beside the Angel public house, staring back across the water to the wharves of Wapping on the other side. It was one of only a handful of occasions that he’d ventured south of the river since returning to England the previous autumn. His world had been Spitalfields and Whitechapel, and he suspected the man who he’d asked to meet him wanted to avoid those habitual haunts.
He took out his fob watch and, seeing that there were only a few minutes to the agreed time, turned toward the pub’s entrance. A familiar figure stood in the doorway.
‘Lucas Gedge. We meet again.’
‘Major Hugh Garland. Word reaches me that you’ve climbed the greasy pole at the Intelligence Department since we last met.’
‘Ha! Via our mutual friend Inspector Cross, no doubt. Well, it’s not an official secret. Yes, I replaced my old boss Maurice Paxton, just a few weeks ago.’
‘Deputy Director, no less. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you. Maurice departed in a hurry. I wasn’t expecting the elevation, to be honest.’
‘Shall we go in, Major? It is still Major?’
‘Yes, but it might be Colonel in a month’s time. Lead on. I’m getting thirsty.’
Garland bought them both a beer and they retired to a secluded table overlooking the river.
Gedge thought Garland was looking good on the promotion. He seemed taller somehow, and had cultivated a raffish chestnut-brown moustache. His appointment would mark a welcome change from the usual stuffed-shirt types who took on senior jobs to see out the remaining years of their commissions. Garland was the sort of chap who would shake up the organisation.
The two men had developed a respect for each other. Garland had been sent to question Gedge in Afghanistan two years previously, when a scandal involving Gedge’s commanding officer resulted in him being discharged from the army. And then last year, they had met again in connection with the people trafficking ring that had abducted Gedge’s daughter.
Gedge took a sip of beer. ‘So, you know why I asked to see you?’
‘Yes. I received a letter yesterday from my old University tutor, Percy Stark.’
‘I thought you must know him, as you studied in the same faculty. I sent him a telegram and I’ve arranged to see him the day after tomorrow in Oxford. But I thought he was away in France?’
‘The postal service is rather good, even from the continent.’
‘So you’ve stayed in touch.’
Garland nodded. ‘Mostly just by letter, perhaps a couple of times a year. We’ve only met in person half a dozen times since I left Oxford, although the last occasion was only three months ago. He’s a brilliant scholar and researcher, but a bit absent minded when it comes to everyday living. Typical academic, if there is such a thing.
‘But he was intrigued by your enquiries and actually recognised your name. When I last saw him, I recounted the extraordinary tale of the affair at Clerkenwell. He has an excellent memory, and the name Gedge is rather unusual.’
‘And now you’d like some information about my investigation?’
Garland nodded. ‘We both know you attract trouble, Lucas. Care to tell me something about the background?’
‘A modern day cult that worships an Egyptian wolf-god has been trying to get its hands on an ancient tome. They believe they can bring this celestial being into the present day. I know, I know… don’t look at me like that! The point is that they’re willing to go to murderous lengths to get hold of the grimoire. Not only that, but Claude Rondeau was looking into their activities before he died. And it appears that your old tutor has this grimoire, and he’s had it for forty-odd years.’
‘That would mean he purchased it when he was first made a professor. He was only in his twenties then. A real prodigy. And he had money from wealthy parents who died young. So this cult’s violent activities are linked to the death of Claude Rondeau?’
Garland had helped in the mopping-up operations after Clerkenwell, and had witnessed Rondeau’s death in the arms of his daughter.
Gedge sighed. ‘His last words referred to the cult, and two people involved with it were present that night. We think his actual killer was a girl called Sally, who isn’t a cult member as far as we know.’
Garland pondered for a few seconds. ‘The question that comes to mind is, what do you plan to do if Stark has the grimoire? Bring it to London? I don’t think that would be sensible.’
‘Neither do I. You know Oxford. What about asking for it to be kept at the Pitt Rivers Museum?’
‘Good thinking. You’d have to check that their security is a little tighter than the Soane Museum.’
Gedge laughed. ‘Do you think Stark would be willing to give up the object temporarily?’
‘Yes, on the whole I think he would. On my recommendation, anyway. And Percy knows the director of the Pitt Rivers rather well.’
‘Okay. It sounds like you don’t disapprove of my trip to Oxford.’
‘No. I’m sure it will be fine. You’ll like the Professor. He’s a good man who’s inspired many a student over the years. Just be careful not to expose him to any danger. He’s a gentle soul. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Another drink?’
Gedge held up a hand. ‘There’s something else.’ He produced the letter he’d found on the doorstep at White Lion Street.
Garland’s eyes widened as he read out loud in a low voice. ‘Lucas. Do not believe all you hear about me. FB.’ He looked up at Gedge. ‘It’s not necessarily the words themselves, is it? It’s who you believe wrote them.’
‘You can see who wrote them. My old commanding officer, Major Felix Bellhouse. It’s his handwriting. I haven’t heard anything about him since I left Afghanistan early last year. Haven’t wanted to, really, after he deceived me about the Russian invasion plans.’
‘And yet you were close to him, weren’t you? He saved your life on one occasion, I believe?’
Gedge nodded. ‘But why would he contact me now? And what does he mean? “Don’t believe all you hear”? He’s still in jail, presumably, after the court martial.’
Garland sighed as he placed the letter in the envelope and handed it back. ‘He’s dead, Lucas.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I’d been meaning to tell you. A fire at the jail in Simla a month ago. Pretty hideous, apparently. Not much left. But it means that the contents of that letter are now irrelevant.’
36
Maynard Cain ushered the last customers out of the Black Boar. It had been a good night; plenty of ’em in. And with the kickbacks from O’Neill, he was doing very nicely at the moment.
As he went to lock the front door, a shadow obscured the dim view of the gas light filtered through the frosted glass. The door swung open again, and just as Cain was about to disabuse the would-be customer, Seamus Flynn’s whiskered face appeared.
‘Maynard. Just the man I want to see. I know it’s after hours, but we need to have a little chat. I’m sure you won’t mind?’
‘Oh, no. Of course not, Seamus. Any time. Come along in.’
‘Thank you. Oh, I brought a few friends.’
Flynn stood aside to allow three hulking, unsmiling individuals to enter. Cain was a typical East End thug, well able to intimidate drunks in his boozer. But these were Flynn’s toughest enforcers. This wasn’t good. And as Flynn himself entered and locked the door behind him, his black hound Storm followed after, snarl
ing and slavering as it prowled about its master’s legs.
‘You see my problem, Maynard? I need to be sure whether there are some people in my organisation who’d risk everything I’ve built up over twenty years for the allure of a pipe dream. And I think you can help me get at the truth.’
‘Seamus, I told you, I don’t know anything. Sure, Michael comes in here. But these stories about plots? I haven’t heard anything. You’ve got to believe me!’
Flynn smiled. ‘Got to, have I? I’m afraid I’ve heard that phrase a few times. Always uttered by those I definitely should not believe.’
He’d had his back to Cain, studying a Whistler print on the wall of the kitchen, but now turned to face him. The landlord was lying face-up on a broad wooden plank laid on the counter and draining board. His feet were raised several inches by means of a butcher’s block placed below the plank, and his head was suspended over the sink. One of Flynn’s thugs had his feet pinned, another had his chest and upper arms held down against the board.
‘When you were young, Maynard, did you ever go dipping in the river? Trip to the seaside, maybe?’
‘Of course. Why?
‘And did you ever get into difficulties? Get out of your depth?’
‘Maybe. What’s this about?’
‘It’s not a nice feeling, sucking water in through your nose and mouth instead of air. You feel as though you’re about to drown. And of course you would drown if it continued, if nobody intervened.’
As Flynn spoke, Cain looked down at his body: at the board, at the butcher’s block that had caused the blood to flow to his head, at the third thug who was now advancing towards him, carrying a towel. He arched his neck back and gazed up at the tap, transfixed by the slow dripping. His eyes widened and his lips drew back. He seemed to know there was no point screaming, but he tried to struggle free. Futile. He might as well have been lashed down.
‘You asked what this was about, Maynard? You already know. I’m convinced you know a great deal about what’s been going on. Late night meetings, in your back room. Am I right? Nice and private there. And you, Maynard, I imagine your refusal to speak indicates that you yourself have some interest in this double dealing? Promised the earth by Michael, were you? Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.’
He nodded to the man with the towel, and before Cain could speak, his face was covered and the tap turned on, to a slow trickle. One of the thugs pushed the plank back by six inches, so the water splashed onto his face, wetting the towel above his lips. He tried to thrash his head around, anything to get his mouth away from the water, but heavy hands grasped either side of his face, and held his head as securely as the rest of his body.
A few minutes later, Cain lay on his side, his face a ghastly grey pallor, his body limp. There was no need to hold him down now. When they’d deemed he’d had enough, the tap had been turned off, the towel removed, and his chest pumped, forcing water out of every orifice. Flynn’s thugs mopped water and bile from the floor.
Flynn sat in a chair a couple of feet in front of Cain’s face, with Storm at his feet. The dog looked on, not even bothering to snarl.
‘Unpleasant, isn’t it, Maynard? I know. You start to feel the icy water trickling into your nose. It doesn’t stop. You hold your breath for as long as you can, but then you have to exhale, and as night follows day you automatically breathe in. The soaked towel moulds itself onto your face, and then you’re breathing in water. That’s when we stopped. If I didn’t think you could be of some service you’d be dead already. But we’ve been acquaintances for quite some time, and I still think you’ll make the right decision.
‘So, what do you say, Maynard? Can you help me?’
Cain wrenched himself upright and collapsed into a fit of coughing.
Flynn smiled. ‘I’d offer you a glass of water, but—’
The innkeeper held his hand up. ‘I’m sorry, Seamus. You’re right. There were meetings here. One just the other night. And yes, Michael offered me what he called “incentives”.’
Flynn’s expression had been almost amused, but now a cloud passed across his face. He leaned in towards Cain.
‘Give me the details. All you know. Now.’
The roles were reversed from two days ago. This time it was Cotter on the doorstep of White Lion Street, wanting to see Gedge about Ruby. Polly fetched Gedge and he found the photographer scrunching up his cap and rubbing his head, obviously at his wits’ end.
‘Lucas, mate. They’ve got ’er.’
‘Got who? Ruby?’
‘Yes. She was due to sit for me last night. Didn’t turn up. I waited an hour, then got worried. She’s never been more than a few minutes late before. It’s too much of a coincidence.’
‘Slow down a bit. I presume you went round to her rooms?’
‘’Course I did. And the door was left unlocked, a chair knocked over on the floor, and her table all cock-eyed. She likes everything just so. She wouldn’t have left the place lookin’ like that, if she’d had any option.’
Gedge frowned. ‘It certainly sounds like foul play. But we can’t be sure it’s O’Neill.’
‘What? I can! He’s a bloody nutter, I’m tellin’ you. I bet he’s got wind something’s up with his great plan.’
‘Yes. And now he’s thrashing around, trying to find some sort of leverage against his enemies. Sorry, Leo, but it looks as though he’s found some.’
Cotter paced. ‘I’ve got to find Seamus again. I can’t just sit back and wait for him to get his act together. O’Neill needs to be stopped now.’
‘Agreed. Flynn’s the one most likely to know where O’Neill can be found. But how do you contact Flynn?’
Cotter tapped his nose. ‘Various sneaky ways. People who know people, you know. But it always takes a while for a message to filter through. We don’t have that time.’
‘We’ll just have to try some favourite haunts. Any ideas?’
Cotter pondered. ‘A few. At least we’ll be able to feel we’re doin’ something.’
They left the house and headed for an old lunch venue of Flynn’s. As they walked down Commercial Road, past the end of Fashion Street, Cotter’s eyes met those of a man who was standing outside his studio, about thirty yards away.
‘Wait a minute.’ Cotter walked over to speak to the man. They talked for a few seconds, and he ran back to Gedge, eyes wide.
‘Talk about a stroke of luck! Seamus is asking for us. He sent Bill over there to find me. He’s found the proof he wanted. He knows about O’Neill, and he’s found out some other stuff that might interest us. We can tag along when he breaks up that green-hatted bastard’s party, as long as we leave O’Neill to him.’
That day, Polly had most definitely not been herself. Miss Fowler had been aware for some time that her employer was gradually becoming more distracted. But after receiving a mystery caller in the morning, she had gone for a long walk, returning with the same wan expression as when she left.
Questions were no use; Polly politely but firmly deflected them. Miss Fowler desperately wanted to know what was wrong. In some small way she felt she might be able to help. She resolved that the next morning she would grasp the nettle and insist Polly tell her what was on her mind. She’d have to get to White Lion Street early, because Polly, Gedge and Darius were taking the train to Oxford.
Polly went out for another walk at five in the evening and hadn’t returned by the time Miss Fowler had to leave for home. As she prepared to cross the road near her apartment building in Bethnal Green, a butcher’s delivery cart, travelling at what she thought was an indecent speed for the time of day, pulled in front of her and came to a stop, the two horses clattering their hooves on the pavement. She hadn’t time to step around the vehicle before a door opened in the side of it and a smiling, black-bearded man leaned out, scooped her off the pavement and dragged her inside.
Miss Fowler was deposited on a box, faced by the man who’d grabbed her and an ugly-looking accomplice. It was extremely
cold in the back of the cart and they were hemmed in on all sides by crates containing carcasses and joints of meat.
‘What do you mean by this?’
The bearded one, a real bear of a man, spoke with a European accent she couldn’t quite place. ‘Please try not to be alarmed, Miss Fowler. I just need to ask you some questions and you’ll have to forgive me if I didn’t believe you’d have come willingly. Everything will be alright if you’ll just answer truthfully. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to put this blindfold over your eyes. I will be gentle.’
Half an hour later, Miss Fowler sat on a hard wooden chair with the bearded man looming over her. She seemed to be in a warehouse, but that was no clue to where they’d taken her; such premises were dotted all over the East End.
‘I was afraid you might not be very cooperative. I have to admire it in a way. All I need to know is the location of the famous grimoire.’
Miss Fowler’s voice trembled as she spoke. ‘I just told you, I don’t know. Now please let me be!’
Volkov shook his head. ‘That just won’t wash. We’ve been talking to a friend of yours. Mrs Koffler.’
At that, she closed her eyes and shook her head. As well as being someone you could open your heart to, that woman was an incurable gossip; couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Normally there were no secrets, but now she realised they must know exactly what she had told her neighbour.
Volkov leaned in closer. ‘Well, Miss Fowler?’
37
Gedge, Cotter and Flynn sat in the back of a bread delivery cart, peering out of tiny holes cut in the fabric of the side that faced Doherty’s Gaiety Music Hall.
