by Pryor, Mark
ALSO BY MARK PRYOR
The Bookseller
The Crypt Thief
The Blood Promise
Published 2014 by Seventh Street Books ®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Button Man. Copyright © 2014 by Mark Pryor. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © Jim Richardson/Corbis
Cover design by Grace M. Conti-Zilsberger
The characters, organizations, companies, products, and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, or organizations or companies, currently or previously existing, or existing product names is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
Inquiries should be addressed to
Seventh Street Books
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Pryor, Mark, 1967–
The button man : a Hugo Marston novel / Mark Pryor.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-1-61614-994-9 (paperback) — ISBN 978-1-61614-995-6 (ebook)
1. Americans—France —Paris—Fiction. 2. Motion picture actors and actresses—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.R976B88 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014012145
Printed in the United States of America
To Nicola,
with all my heart and love because every day you make me laugh,
every day you remind me to be silly, and because . . .
you’re English, you are!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Back Cover
CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, ENGLAND, 2008
Hugo turned the corner onto Gable Street, the growl of London’s evening traffic fading away behind him. The winter sun had set an hour ago and the damp evening settled itself comfortably over the city, bringing with it one of London’s famous fogs, a slow creeper that followed Hugo from the Whitechapel station, stalking him every step of the way.
By the time he reached the entrance to the alleyway, at the south end of Gable Street, the fog had swallowed up the first of the terraced houses behind him. Hugo looked back at the remaining homes for signs of life; a few windows glowed yellow behind tightly-drawn curtains, but that was all.
He stood at the mouth of the alley, the reason he was here, and peered into its darkness. Under his feet the gray concrete of the sidewalk gave way to ancient cobblestones, worn smooth by the feet of man and beast, now shiny with the damp of the evening. Overhead the night sky was moonless, the stars already snuffed out by the gathering mist. As Hugo peered into the alley, the blackness seeped across the cobblestones toward him.
He raised his shoulders and shivered against a chill that was real, or mostly real. Above his head, a gentle breeze rattled the branches of an old oak tree that reached over from the cemetery next door, sending a soft shower of rain pattering onto his hat.
He put out a hand and brushed his fingers against the rough brick wall. It was damp and his fingertips came away grimy. Two hundred years of London soot, he thought, and Gable Street had changed very little in that time.
He’d read about this place but had never been here. He’d first heard about it from a colleague in the FBI’s behavioral-profiling unit, a man almost as obsessed with unsolved murders as Hugo. And now he was here for the same reason he always visited a crime scene: to make contact with the victim and with the killer. He’d come at dusk on purpose, a time when the senses were keenest. He was no believer in the supernatural, but there had always been something about the death of a day, the hour of the rising of night, that tugged at the part of Hugo that connected most easily with those he hunted.
Or used to hunt. He didn’t do that anymore, have cases. He’d solved his last just two days before quitting the bureau for the State Department and now, as head of security for the US Embassy in London, he had duties and responsibilities, employees, and high-level meetings with the CIA. But no cases.
A hundred-year-old murder in the grimy backstreets of London wouldn’t be his anyway. A good thing, considering it was all but unsolvable. There was no evidence left, of course, nothing to tag and bag, even to see, so the only connection he could make was through those unnamed senses that fed information to the nerves and the mistier corners of the brain. Pretty much all Hugo could do, with no evidence and no jurisdiction, was stand in the dark alley with the fog slinking around him and hope that he could recreate the fear, generate and experience the creeping sense of menace that lived in darkest London, in the places like this, where evil deeds were committed and where time seemed unable to wipe them away.
He started into the alley, the cobbles hard and smooth beneath the soles of his cowboy boots. The light from Gable Street faded and he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. A soft, wet smell reached his nostrils: damp earth and something rotting. Vegetable, not animal. To his right, a twenty-foot brick wall secured the perimeter of a former coal yard, a place now used mostly as a scrap heap for old cars. To his left, another high wall kept vagrants and ne’er-do-wells out of Whitechapel Cemetery. He moved forward, his left hand deep in his coat pocket, fingers wrapped around a flashlight, not switched on because he didn’t want to spoil the mood. Three-quarters of the way down the alley he stopped, took off his hat, and looked down. Here, on the right side of the alley, is where she’d been found, tucked in the lee of the wall, stretched out with her fingers toward Gable Street, her feet pointing toward the iron gates of the foundry that dead-ended the alley.
Nothing more than a drunk and a prostitute, she’d died in December 1905 at the hands of an unknown killer who, the police had insisted, was not Jack the Ripper. Her head had been sliced open, one or two hard blows crushing her skull, and her throat cut down to the spine. Half-naked and not wearing shoes, the police surgeon found no evidence that she had been sexually assaulted. She’d bled to death on the cobbles, found by a fellow prostitute who’d gone into the alley with a customer and come out in shock. The dead woman was Meg Prescott, her body identified by a woman who sometimes shared her tiny groundfloor room on
Dorset Street—a stone’s throw away and described by the Daily Mail at the time as “the worst street in London.” There, the two women spent their days drinking to excess and entertaining men. Or, as the friend told police, they worked as “seamstresses,” a polite fiction the police observed back then, at least until things got really nasty. Oddly, when police searched her house the night she was killed, police found the door unlocked and blood on Meg Prescott’s bed.
Hugo knelt and put his right hand on the cold stones, finally bringing out the flashlight with the other. He switched it on, the light blanching out the cobbles, showing him nothing. Poor Meg, her death unavenged, her murder forgotten. Not even a part of the many Ripper tours that momentarily chilled the spirits of ghoulish visitors to London. He looked back the way he’d come, the way the killer had fled that winter night.
“I’d have caught you,” he said quietly. “Jack or not.”
He stood up and cast the light around him. A trickle of water from the afternoon’s drizzle ran along the gutter and into a drain, but there was nothing else to see. As he looked down at Meg Prescott’s final resting place, another chill settled around his shoulders and he shrugged it off before heading out back toward Gable Street, his footfalls echoing gently in the narrow confines of the alley.
He turned right, walking alongside the low brick wall topped with iron railing that separated the street from the graveyard. Thirty yards along he reached the entranceway, a tall, double gate that someone had forgotten to close. He paused and put a hand on the cold iron but, as he started to pull it shut, he paused. He wasn’t ready to dispel the macabre cloak he’d pulled on, nor to leave the spirit of Meg Prescott entirely. He checked his watch. Not yet six. Plenty of time until his rendezvous at the Coachman pub a mile away. He pushed the gate open and stepped inside. Ahead of him, the path curved away to the left, cutting diagonally through the churchless cemetery whose gravestones tipped and tilted every way but upright, decades, centuries even, of shifting earth and soggy days, vandals that no graveyard custodian could keep out.
The cemetery was large for central London, the size and shape of a football field, but the closeness of the rising fog and the heavy chill shrank it down, making it more intimate and personal. Hugo paused for a moment. He rested one hand on a moss-covered headstone and noticed the lack of traffic, the absence of construction noise; standing here, London was silent. After a moment, he pressed on and followed the gravel path deeper through the uneven rows of markers, stopping occasionally to try and read the older ones, tracing his fingers over the soft, worn stones and the hard, disfiguring lichen. He was able to decipher first or last names, rarely both, and sometimes dates. No catchy epitaphs or sorrowful last words. Just a fading catalog of the dead, filed away in a quiet, tree-lined corner of London, perhaps waiting to be recycled when this patch of land became too valuable and when the descendants of those who lay here had given up all pretense of aftercare. Or, maybe, had left the ranks of the living themselves.
“A good night for ghosts,” Hugo said aloud, smiling at an unexpected knot in his stomach. Despite his skepticism for ephemeral bodies, he had to concede that the wraiths of fog that drifted around him, obscuring the lights of the city and trapping the dark, made for a spectral scene of the first order. He stepped up the pace, returning to the path and making for the far side of the graveyard, where he assumed another gate would release him back into London’s rush-hour traffic, and a little closer to the pub.
He crested a slight rise and saw the gates in front of him, twenty yards away and the twins of those that had let him in. He breathed a sigh of relief and tried to guess which major street would be closest, but stopped short when he saw a movement to his right.
He peered into the dark but saw nothing except the last rows of markers and, beyond them, a line of oak trees as old and twisted as the stones. The fog shifted as a slight breeze rattled the upper branches of the oaks, and he saw movement again, conspicuous not because of how much it moved, but because of the way it moved. A long, narrow object dangling in the middle branches, a gentle sway, back and forth.
Hugo dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets, feeling the reassuring weight of his flashlight. He moved forward, his jaw clenched. The wind rose again, and a few last leaves floated past his face as the branches above clattered more loudly. He lost sight of the object for a second, but as he drew nearer he heard the faint creak of a rope above him. He looked up, his gaze trapped by a silhouette that slowly rotated in front of him, a figure that swayed in the breeze. Like a kaleidoscope image, the black limbs of the oak sank into the background and the clear outline of a human form took shape, a human being hanging from a rope that looped around its neck.
He quick-drew his flashlight and the beam arrowed up, a weak light in the thick, pressing, cemetery dark. As he watched, the body rotated toward him and Hugo steeled himself to see the dead man’s face, to see the sunken pits of his eyes and the sagging look that Death painted on all His victims. But as it turned toward him, the body remained faceless, the beam of Hugo’s flashlight ending in a blank and empty pool where the face should have been. Hugo looked harder, not understanding what he was seeing until a momentary shift in the wind gave him a clearer view of the light-colored cloth covering the dead man’s head.
CHAPTER TWO
Hugo removed his hat, an automatic display of respect. He looked around quickly, though not for anything or anyone in particular, then stepped closer to the dangling figure. For a split second he contemplated grabbing the legs, lifting the body high in case its owner wasn’t yet dead, in case there was a chance that breath and life might yet be restored. He resisted the urge and instead pressed his fingers against bare skin by the ankle, and the cold skin told him that the artery he was looking for no longer pulsed. In truth, Hugo had known from the figure’s stillness that Death had come and gone, His heart cold and without remorse, caring only that this empty shell, whoever it was, remained in His graveyard as lifeless as its other residents. The indignity of how this person had died would be addressed later, the sacred rites of the living imposed on this corpse by family and friends. For now, though, nothing could be disturbed, because for Hugo the only thing more sacred than death was a crime scene.
A fresh spatter of rain fell about him, and he started to worry about preserving evidence. His mind took him away from the macabre scene, switching off his emotional senses and firing up his physical ones, letting him rely on careful observation to detach him from the horror of a human being hanging from a tree and to put him into the protective zone in which he’d lived as an FBI agent. He looked around, eyes scanning the ground, not sure what to look for other than something that shouldn’t be there. But the ground gave nothing away, dusted with dead leaves, littered with broken twigs and the occasional branch. He couldn’t even see his own footprints in the damp earth, but he knew which way he’d come and moved slowly backward in that direction. He stopped ten yards away, took another look at the dangling figure, and pulled out his cell phone. Slowly and calmly, he identified himself to the emergency operator and explained what he’d found. As he spoke, the wind rose again, turning the body slowly and setting the limbs of the oak trees chattering with excitement.
He followed an elderly couple into the pub, holding the door for them as they wiped their feet on the mat outside. As he waited, a patient smile on his face, he looked into the room for the man who had brought him to London six months ago, Ambassador John Delaney Cooper. He saw him, perched at a small table beside the fireplace talking with the landlord, Al Grafton. The old publican knelt by the hearth, striking matches at scrunched-up balls of faintly damp newspaper, which he swore were harder to get going but burned hotter once lit. The room already glowed golden from its yellow lamps, and Hugo felt the warmth drift over to meet him.
The elderly woman finally finished wiping her feet and reached for her husband’s arm, giving Hugo an apologetic smile and a nod of thanks. Inside the room they stopped again, this time to help each
other out of their coats, but they stood to one side of the door, letting Hugo pass.
Hugo approached his boss. “Mr. Ambassador,” he said, offering a hand.
“I’ve told you before, it’s John,” the seated man corrected. It was their routine; Cooper was “Mr. Ambassador” at the embassy, but insisted on “John” after hours. A willowy figure, Cooper had large, sad eyes and a drooping mustache to match, though his personality was far from forlorn. In fact, before they met, Hugo had been warned of a playboy diplomat, and there was no doubt that Ambassador Cooper had a penchant for life’s pleasures. These included an ever-roving eye and frequent, late-night visits to the ambassadorial residence from a string of different ladies, providing endless gossip to his staff. Informal in dress and manner, his preference was for backstreet pubs over whitelinen restaurants, and Hugo had found him more of a harmless epicurean than a cavalier libertine. Good company on cold nights like this.
“Beer?” Cooper asked.
“I’ll get it. You need a refill?”
“You know I do. I have a tab running, stick ’em on that.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Ambassador,” Hugo smiled.
He dropped his hat and coat on the third chair at the table and headed for the bar. They came here once a week, sometimes more, for the booze, the food, and the two pretty barmaids. Cooper’s generous tips had been instantly welcome, and the Americans were soon on first-name terms with Lucy and Jen. President George W. Bush was on the television behind the bar, near the end of his second presidency and looking tired, Hugo thought. Politics touched his own job often enough, and Hugo couldn’t fathom the pressures heaped on the world’s most powerful man.
“Hi, Hugo. The usual?” Jen asked, barely looking up.
“Please.” Hugo looked around as he waited. Ambassador Cooper stretched back languidly in his seat, feet stretched toward the fire. Al, father to Lucy, had managed to get it going and the flames were devouring the last of the newspaper and kindling, crackling and popping the way a young fire should. The other fifteen or so tables were filling slowly, city types grabbing a quick pint before heading home and early diners who knew that the cottage pie would be gone by eight, maybe before. In the far corner of the room a man sat by himself, broad-shouldered and watchful, a newspaper and a glass of water on the table in front of him. Hugo caught his eye and nodded. The man nodded back, folded his newspaper, and stood. Hugo waited as he brought his glass to the bar.
