‘You cut around and go to the other end,’ Harper said softly. ‘Which one do you want?’
‘Oh, the boxer I think, sir,’ Ash said with an eager smile. ‘You can have the titch.’
‘Right, let’s catch them before they vanish again.’
He waited, giving the constable time to weave his way around the alleys, feeling the muscles in his face and arms tense. Then Ash was at the far end, blowing his whistle, and Harper began to run.
The boxer and his friend turned, looking for an escape, then back again as they saw the inspector. There was a quick word between them and the boxer ran straight at Ash while the other man darted away, around the corner.
Harper ran hard, skidding around into Lands Lane and spotting the man twenty yards ahead. The few folk out shopping quickly moved aside, staring as he passed. He could catch this man.
The man dashed into the road, crossing the Headrow towards Woodhouse Lane. The inspector started to follow, just as a cart came hurtling along, the driver whipping his horse. He pulled hard on the reins and the animal slowed and reared, sending the load tumbling. Harper tried to duck around, but one of the falling sacks caught him full on the legs and sent him sprawling to the pavement, pinning him down. Harper tried to push it off and wriggle out, but it was too heavy.
‘Ee, lad, I’m sorry,’ the carter said, hefting the sack on to his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. ‘We were late, that’s all.’ He reached out a thick hand to help the inspector stand.
His ankle hurt as he tried to put weight on it. He bit his lip as the pain shot up his leg. Never mind chasing, he’d be lucky if he could limp back to Millgarth.
The driver tossed the sack back on to the cart and climbed up to his seat, leaving with just a quick backwards glance. Harper leaned against a building, catching his breath, feeling the roughness of the stone against his palm. The boxer’s friend was long gone. There’d be no catching him now.
After a minute or two he believed he could hobble. He moved gingerly down the Headrow; the first few steps were agony, as if someone was hitting his leg each time his foot touched the ground. With each one he thought he was going to fall, the effort and the pain leaving sweat pouring down his face. Slowly, as he moved, it eased up a little. He was still limping badly and he felt the ankle swelling inside his boot. But at least he could move.
It still took almost half an hour by his watch to reach the station. By the time he arrived there he was drenched in sweat. Every bone in his leg and foot throbbed. His throat felt coated with the dust from the pavement. At the desk, Tollman raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he took in the dirt on the inspector’s suit.
‘He’s in the cells, sir. Ash brought him in. Big bugger, in’t he?’
‘I didn’t get much chance to look at him. Do we have a walking stick in here?’
‘Probably, sir. I’ll take a look.’
‘And a cup of tea?’
Tollman laughed. ‘I’ll have one of the constables brew up and bring it down to you.’
‘Send someone to the town hall to tell Superintendent Kendall we have one of those men.’
The cells were miserable, ripe with the heat of the day, the smell of piss and fear embedded in their walls. He glanced through the open slot in the door. The boxer was seated on a chair, looking straight ahead. His jacket, braces, tie and shoelaces had been taken. It was for safety, to stop men hanging themselves in prison, but it did more. It left them feeling vulnerable.
‘Was there anything in his pockets?’ Harper asked the jailer.
‘A little money, that’s all, sir. Nothing to show his name.’
The inspector gazed again. The boxer’s face was impassive. His eyes were as empty and cold as everyone had said. Scar tissue discoloured his face, his nose misshapen after being broken and reset many times, one ear puffy and large from his bouts in the ring. He was a big man, just the way people had described him, with wide shoulders that stretched against his shirt and large fists, the knuckles turned into thick lumps of gristle.
‘Let me in. Then don’t come back until you hear me calling.’
TWELVE
Ash stood in the corner, towering over the man in the chair. He exchanged a quick glance with Harper, seeing the awkward limp, and gave a small nod.
‘You can leave if you want,’ Harper said. Ash shook his head.
‘No, sir,’ the constable answered firmly. ‘He knows where Martha is. I want to make sure he tells us.’ He unbuttoned his jacket, folding it and placing it carefully on the floor. A single window was set high in the wall, covered in dust and grime, giving a shadowed, grainy light. The constable rolled up his shirtsleeves to show thick, hairy forearms. ‘I’m ready whenever you are, sir.’
‘What’s your name?’ the inspector asked the boxer.
The man stared straight ahead, as if he hadn’t heard a word. Harper moved in front of him, taking him by the chin and raising his head so the boxer was staring directly at him.
‘I asked your name.’
There was nothing. His eyes remained blank, lips never moving. The inspector turned away then heard a sharp crack as Ash slapped the man’s face.
‘When the inspector asks you a question, you’d better answer.’
The boxer just rode the blow.
Harper spoke quietly, then shouted and roared again, threatening and cajoling, trying everything for a full half hour. He asked about Martha, Col, why the boxer had been on the Town Hall steps, but the man never gave an answer. He didn’t even acknowledge their presence, never flinched at the blows to his face or belly.
The inspector heard the viewing slot in the door slide back; Reed had returned.
‘Did he tell you anything?’ the sergeant asked and Harper shook his head in frustration.
‘Let me have a go at him.’
‘Billy …’ Harper warned. He knew what could happen if the sergeant’s temper rose; there was already a reprimand on his record to show it. But he hadn’t managed to get a single word from the boxer.
‘An hour and he’ll be telling us everything we want to know,’ Reed promised.
The inspector glanced at Ash. The constable was sensible enough to look away; he wanted no part of this decision. Harper could see Reed’s eyes glistening and eager.
‘Jailer,’ he called.
‘An hour,’ Harper told him as he entered the cell. ‘And remember, he has to look presentable in court when we charge him with the blackleg’s murder.’
‘I won’t forget.’
Reed waited until the door closed, the heavy sound so final. Then he walked around the prisoner, watching the man stare straight ahead as if he was alone and lost in a world of his own. He’d seen it before, in Afghanistan. They’d bring a tribesman in and he’d ignore them, taking himself away to another place in his mind.
There were ways to make a man scream, to make him eager to say anything and everything. He’d known men who were expert at it. They relished the challenge, inventive in their tortures and always trying to outdo each other. And if the tribesman died, that didn’t matter. It was one less to kill later.
What would move the boxer, Reed wondered? Not broken bones; he’d have experienced that before. Without even thinking, he reached out and grabbed the man’s ear, twisting it hard, his eyes on the man’s face for any reaction. A slight flinch at the start, then he’d controlled himself to show nothing more. But he knew he had the man’s attention.
He leaned over, directly in front of the boxer, taking the man by the chin and raising his head. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, down over his chin. The boxer tried to avert his eyes, but the sergeant jabbed one lightly with his thumb.
‘You’re going to talk to me,’ he said softly. The man’s eye was watering. ‘You’re going to be happy to talk to me.’
Reed loosened his tie, slid it up over the stiffness of the wing collar then knotted it around the boxer’s neck. He began to tighten it, little by little until it cut into the man’s throat,
his neck and face reddening as the air was cut off. The sergeant kept pushing, gradually increasing the pressure until the boxer’s skin was almost purple. He eased off just enough to let the man breathe.
‘That was how you killed Henry Bell, wasn’t it? Used your hands until he died. And you looked him in the face the whole time.’
He tightened the knot once more, leaving it a little longer, forcing the boxer to gasp for air. Then he did it again. But however close to the edge he took the prisoner, the man didn’t say a word. No begging, no explanation, nothing. When he looked at the sergeant there was nothing but contempt in his gaze. He wouldn’t be broken.
Reed felt the heat on his skin and the blur of anger rising inside. Almost without thinking, he flexed a fist then pulled back and hit the boxer, all his strength behind the blow, hearing the bone in the nose break and watching as blood flowed sharply over the man’s mouth and across his shirt. A second blow caught the man full in the mouth. The boxer spat out teeth.
‘Who do you work for?’
The man glanced at him for a moment before looking straight ahead.
Reed stood back, pushing his lips together. He was breathing heavily; he could feel every bristle of his beard against his cheeks. Very slowly he extended his arm into the man’s crotch, cupping his balls and squeezing slowly.
‘Tell me.’
Blood was still dribbling from the boxer’s mouth. The sergeant tightened his grip. The man should be screaming. But there was nothing at all. It was as if he couldn’t feel pain. Staring into the man’s eyes, Reed slowly brought his fingers together and twisted. Still there was nothing. Finally, he let go.
Jesus, he thought. Any normal man would have given in by now. This one barely seemed to notice.
He needed to think but he couldn’t. Everything was swirling in his mind, one picture slipping into another so they slid around, just beyond his reach. He’d never failed before. He’d always made them talk. Always. In the army, when the professionals weren’t around he’d been the one they turned to. He found answers. And he would this time. This was too important. They needed to know. With a roar he hit out, short, hard jabs to the face and neck, a storm of blows, trying to pound out every frustration in his heart.
It felt like no more than a few seconds. But when he finished, when he found himself standing there, fists tight at his sides, all the scars on the boxer’s face had reopened into a bloody mess and his head lolled against his chest.
Reed was breathing hard as he saw the damage. He had no memory of causing it. But the red stains on his shirt, his grazed, painful knuckles and his growing horror gave him away. Fearfully, he placed a finger against the man’s neck, praying there was a pulse. At first there was nothing and panic rose in his throat. Then it was there, slow but regular.
Christ, what had he done?
He banged on the door, shouting for someone to open up.
An old walking stick was propped by his chair in the office, a cup of tea on the desk, cold now. He drank it down anyway, the liquid like balm on his tongue. He pulled out the watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time.
Desperation gnawed hard in his belly. In his years on the force he’d never yet come across someone who wouldn’t even say a single word. Some were eager to talk, some had to be coaxed and prodded, even pushed and hit. Some said little. This was the very first time he’d wondered if they’d be able to loosen someone’s tongue. The boxer seemed to have put up a wall. It was as if they couldn’t reach him, that he couldn’t feel any of it, couldn’t even hear it. But they needed names. They needed anything Reed could pry out of the man.
He looked at the watch again. Reed was good with the stubborn ones. He’d learned things that opened mouths and minds. But he knew well enough that the sergeant could go too far. The year before they’d caught a rapist. Everyone knew he was guilty, but the man wouldn’t confess. After a session with Reed he’d admitted everything and needed two broken fingers and a cracked rib set. It had all been explained away as an accident, but the superintendent had been forced to give the sergeant a warning. Leaving him with the boxer was a risk. But he had no choice, not if they wanted to find Martha; Billy was their best chance of discovering information.
He rubbed his ankle. The flesh was tender and swollen under his fingertips. He could move around awkwardly with the stick. But it’d be several days before he’d manage anything more than a graceful hobble. Harper sighed. He’d been so close to the boxer’s partner. Another minute and he’d have caught him, but wishes weren’t horses, and he wasn’t about to ride. The man was off somewhere now. And the fighter was all they had.
Harper wrote up the report, the scratch of the pen on paper the only sound in the office. He glanced at the watch again, willing the minutes away. Finally he sat back in the chair and lit a Woodbine, blowing out the smoke and watching it rise.
The door opened with a slow creak and Reed stood there. His face was pale and sober. There was blood on his knuckles, red spots flecked across the front of his shirt.
‘Tom …’ he began.
‘For God’s sake, Billy, what the hell have you done?’
He grabbed the stick and hurried down the stairs, trying to ignore the pain as he landed on each step. The door to the cell was open. The boxer sat on his chair, head slumped forward. His face was ruined, teeth broken, nose squashed, blood covering his mouth and down his shirt.
Warily, Harper reached out and touched the man’s wrist lightly. The pulse was there, not too strong but regular. He turned to the jailer, out in the corridor.
‘Send for an ambulance, now.’
The station had one of the new telephones. He’d never used it himself, but Tollman would be able to ring the Infirmary.
Reed stood by the door, hands pushed deep into his trouser pockets, his face pale.
‘He wouldn’t answer,’ he said shakily. ‘It didn’t matter what I did to him.’
‘He’ll live. Better be grateful for that.’
‘Tom …’
Harper cut him off. ‘We need to go and talk to the superintendent, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was nothing more he could do. The staff in the station would look after the boxer until the ambulance arrived. He straightened. The man still hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.
‘Come on,’ he ordered, making his way to the front desk. ‘I want Ash to go to the hospital with the man and stay with him. Keep him handcuffed to the bed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tollman said, carefully not looking at Reed.
He set off along the Headrow, the sergeant close behind. For once, they didn’t talk. Harper was tangled in his thoughts, fury and frustration roaring through his blood. He was angry at Reed for going too far, angry at himself for giving him free rein. And angry at the boxer for his blind, silent stubbornness. Every step was an effort. He was already breathing hard, his back damp with sweat, but the pain in his ankle kept his fury boiling.
At least the boxer hadn’t died. Injuries could be buried in reports, as long as they lived. If he died, though, Reed could go down for murder. He’d be an accessory himself, sacked from the force if he didn’t end up in jail. And it had all been for nothing.
‘Billy, what the hell were you thinking?’ Harper asked in exasperation.
Reed took out a cigarette and lit it. His hands were still shaking, his face sickly grey.
‘I just kept trying to make him talk,’ he answered slowly, his voice bleak. He blew out smoke. ‘He didn’t even seem to notice anything. He wouldn’t say a word. I hurt him, Tom, I know I did.’
‘You nearly bloody killed him,’ the inspector turned and shouted. One or two people walking along the street stopped to stare. Harper lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘We’re both lucky he’s alive. You do know that, don’t you?’
The sergeant nodded and lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. He …’ He searched for the words he needed. ‘I just wanted answers. You know I can make them t
alk.’
Harper knew that much of the blame was his. He was the one who’d let the man loose. And he knew that Reed used the things he’d learned in the army.
‘Come on,’ he said, letting his breath out in a long sigh. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Kendall sat in the chair, gazing at the desk as the inspector talked. Reed stood at attention. He stayed silent for a long time after the explanation had finished before looking up.
‘Get out,’ he told the sergeant coldly. After the door closed he gazed at Harper.
‘You were stupid,’ he said slowly, enunciating each word slowly, barely keeping his anger in check. ‘For God’s sake, Tom, you know what he’s like and you gave him a man who wouldn’t say a word. You didn’t even stay in the room?’ His voice rose as he spoke until the last words came out as a yell, spittle flying from his mouth. Tiredness showed on his face. His eyes looked sunk deep, almost hidden. He shook his head. ‘He’ll live?’
‘It looks like it, sir.’
‘You’d better hope so.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we’ll be able to charge him for killing the replacement worker.’
‘Harry Gordon.’ The superintendent looked up quickly as Harper spoke. ‘That was the dead man’s name, sir.’
Kendall began to pace around the office. ‘If this strike wasn’t going on I’d suspend you both.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Inside, he could feel the relief grow. They were going to be let off lightly, not even a suspension.
‘Instead, you’ll both receive a warning.’ He rubbed at the ache in his neck.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you’d better keep Reed close in future, Tom.’
‘I will, sir.’ He stood, leaning heavily on the stick.
‘I’d rest that tonight, if I were you,’ he advised.
‘Yes, sir.’
The sergeant stood, looking over the marble bannister at the floor, forty feet below.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘We’re both going to receive a warning.’
‘That’s all?’ Reed asked, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Gods of Gold Page 12
