Blood on the Line irc-8

by Edward Marston

  Tallis waved a hand. ‘Allow me to introduce Constable Peebles.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Leeming, struggling to smile.

  ‘It will be a privilege to work with you, Sergeant,’ said Peebles with a light Scots accent. ‘You and Inspector Colbeck have been my exemplars for much more than a wee while.’

  Leeming’s heart sank. At a time when they needed expert help, they were being saddled with an immature and wholly inexperienced detective. Blinded by hero worship, Peebles was far more likely to hinder the investigation than provide any useful assistance. They would have to teach him his trade as they went along and that would be fatal. It was like trying to build a locomotive while it was actually speeding along the track. Because of Peebles’ army background, Tallis might favour him, but Leeming could see no advantage coming from his addition to the team. Catching someone as elusive as Jeremy Oxley was a huge challenge for even the best detectives. Leeming now felt that he and Colbeck would be doing it with their hands tied behind their backs. The only beneficiary of the arrival of the new detective was the man they were actually pursuing.

  Peebles was a walking guarantee of Oxley’s continued freedom.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Manchester was a vast, sprawling, densely populated city forever shrouded in an industrial haze. Its factory chimneys belched out smoke and its mills poured effluent into rivers and canals. The stink of manufacture was everywhere. Colbeck had visited the city before and knew that its criminal underworld was every bit as vibrant and dangerous as that in London. One advantage that Manchester had over Wolverhampton was that it could offer a cordial welcome to a senior detective from Scotland Yard.

  ‘Robert!’ exclaimed Zachary Boone, pumping his hand. ‘How good it is to see you again! What brings you to this den of iniquity?’

  ‘What else but the pleasure of seeing you again?’

  Boone laughed. ‘You always did have a smooth tongue.’

  ‘It comes in useful when dealing with superior officers who try to blame me for everything.’

  ‘I’ve got people like that on my back as well.’

  ‘Soothe them with words. Talk them into a better mood.’

  ‘You might be able to do that but I can’t and I’m not mad enough to try. I’m a rough-and-ready man. It’s the only way to survive in this police force.’

  Colbeck was pleased to see Inspector Zachary Boone again. They had first met when Boone had been an enterprising young sergeant in pursuit of a man who’d murdered his wife and children in a drunken rage. The killer had fled to London and – with Colbeck’s help – Boone had caught and arrested him. He’d been a detective then but, at his own request, Boone had gone back into uniform and risen to the rank of inspector. He was a stout man in his forties with a florid face half-hidden beneath a greying beard. There was a merry twinkle in his eye that even a close acquaintance with the dregs of Manchester society had failed to remove.

  They were in Boone’s office, a small, stuffy, cluttered room that made Colbeck grateful for the amount of space he enjoyed at Scotland Yard. While the Railway Detective’s office was scrupulously tidy, his friend’s was in a state of mild chaos, the desk and shelves piled high with multifarious papers and documents. Boone indicated a seat.

  ‘Take a pew, Robert,’ he invited, sitting down, ‘and before you ask, yes, I do know where everything is. It may look disorganised in here but I know exactly where to put my hand on what I want.’

  ‘I’d expect no less of you, Zachary,’ said Colbeck, settling into a creaky chair. ‘But it’s not your paperwork I’ve come to inspect. I need some help from that famous brain of yours.’

  Boone guffawed. ‘I didn’t know I had one.’

  ‘You’ve got an encyclopaedic memory for criminals on your patch. I noticed it the first time we had a discussion together. You had instant recall of all the people you’d arrested.’

  ‘Not to mention the ones I failed to arrest – I remember those as well. They slipped through my fingers. It’s very easy to do in a city like Manchester. Villains commit a crime then vanish into the rookeries. It’s like trying to catch a single fish in a shoal of thousands. There’s simply no way that we can search all the lodging houses here, and the sight of a police uniform in some districts is like a red rag to a bull, especially among the Irish.’

  ‘I thought that several of your constables were Irish.’

  ‘They are, Robert, but they tend to be Protestants and that only inflames the Roman Catholic communities. Religion causes us so many problems here. Talking of which,’ he continued with barely concealed derision, ‘do you know what the city’s Watch Committee decided last year? In its supposed wisdom, it brought in a rule that all constables should attend church or chapel regularly.’

  ‘How can they do that when they work most Sundays?’

  ‘That was my argument. Police are police, not saints-in-waiting. Some of my best men have never seen the inside of a church. It doesn’t make them less effective at their job. Anyway,’ said Boone, raising an apologetic palm, ‘you didn’t come here to listen to my complaints. It was the escape of Jeremy Oxley that brought you, wasn’t it?’

  Colbeck was surprised. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘We do get the London papers here. Besides, the story was picked up in the Manchester Guardian. I read that less often because it’s always attacking us for one thing or another. Read The Guardian and you’d think that Manchester was awash with prostitutes, thugs and thieves. It’s a city without any law enforcement, apparently.’ He became serious. ‘I always take a close interest in any case where policemen are killed, Robert. I saw that you’d been put in charge of the investigation. Have you picked up Oxley’s scent yet?’

  ‘Actually, it’s his accomplice who interests me at the moment.’

  Colbeck explained that the woman might well have links to Manchester and he told his friend about his earlier encounter with Jeremy Oxley and how there was unfinished business between them. After listening to him with care, Boone went through a number of names in his head. He needed clarification.

  ‘You say that this young woman is beautiful.’

  ‘At the very least, she’s appealing,’ said Colbeck. ‘Oxley has high standards where his female accomplices are concerned. And he has sufficient money to be able to maintain those standards.’

  ‘Then I think we’re looking at one of three possible suspects,’ said Boone, scratching his beard. ‘Annie Pardoe is the first who comes to mind. Any man would find her appealing on sight, though less so when she gives him a mouthful of abuse. Annie was brought in here once. She might look like a lady but she had the foul tongue of a fishwife. Then again, it could be Nell Underwood. She comes from a good family but it didn’t stop her from getting drawn into the wrong company. Even a spell in prison hasn’t had any effect on her. We’re still looking for Nell in connection with the theft of some items from a haberdasher’s shop. She’s very light-fingered.’

  ‘Do either of these women have a local accent?’

  ‘Nell does but Annie Pardoe tries to hide hers. She’s fond of putting on airs and graces – until she’s behind bars, that is. Then she snarls like a caged tiger.’

  ‘You said that there were three possible suspects.’

  ‘Yes, Robert, but the third one has never been in custody so we’ve never actually seen her. Her name is Irene Adnam. All that we have to go on are the descriptions of her victims. She’s not a high-class prostitute like Annie or a common criminal like Nell. This lady has some style about her. She wins people’s confidence, robs them blind then vanishes for long periods. Reports of her crimes in the city are six months or more apart. But she’s a Manchester girl,’ said Boone, ‘and I’m told she has more than a trace of a local accent.’

  ‘That sounds promising.’

  ‘I can put you in touch with one of her victims, if you like,’ offered Boone, delving into a pile of papers. ‘He can give you as exact a description of her as you’re likely to g
et.’ Pulling out a sheet of paper, he gave a smile of satisfaction. ‘What did I tell you? I found it first time.’ He handed it over. ‘Make a note of that name and address.’

  ‘Thank you, Zachary.’

  ‘And if you do find her, hand her over to us. I’m very anxious to make the acquaintance of Irene Adnam. She’s a cut above the women I normally see in here.’ His voice darkened. ‘She’s a menace. I want her off the streets of Manchester, Robert.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘Do you need details of the whereabouts of Annie Pardoe and Nell Underwood?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ said Colbeck. ‘Something tells me that Irene Adnam is the woman I’m after. I can feel it in my bones.’

  Boone grinned. ‘Is that sciatica or policeman’s instinct?’

  ‘A little of both, I fancy,’ said Colbeck with a grin.

  Irene had changed before she visited her father. Going to Deansgate in the smart clothing she usually wore would make her incongruous. It was the poorest part of the city, an ugly, squalid, malodorous place that was the haunt of criminals and the refuge of beggars. That her father had been reduced to living there was a source of regret and embarrassment to Irene. When she was born, her parents had owned a house in a more salubrious part of Manchester. Those days seemed a lifetime away. She now had to venture into more perilous territory. In sober apparel, and in a hat that covered much of her face, she could easily pass for a servant. That was her disguise.

  Though she met with unpleasantness at every turn, Irene had no qualms for her own safety. She had learnt to look after herself and built up a protective shield. She therefore ignored the army of beggars, pushed aside the ragged children who tried to harass her and repelled any lustful men who lurched at her out of the shadows. The streets were narrow, filthy and teeming with low life. The rookeries resounded to the din of violent argument. When she got to the tenement she sought, Irene knocked hard on the door with her knuckles. It was an age before anyone answered and she had to rap on the timber another three times before her father finally appeared. He was short, scrawny and whiskered. Half-asleep and with a surly wariness, he peered at her through one eye.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s me, Father,’ she said. ‘It’s Irene.’

  ‘You don’t look like my daughter.’

  ‘I told you that I’d come back when I could.’

  As he came fully awake, he stared at her with a mixture of shame and gratitude, hurt that she should see him living in such degradation yet anticipating some financial help from her. Silas Adnam stepped back so that she could go into the ground-floor room that was his home. It was cramped, gloomy and sparsely furnished, with an abiding stench of beer that assaulted Irene’s nostrils. Closing the door, her father limped in after her. His clothes were tattered and his wispy hair unkempt. He stood back to appraise her properly.

  ‘Thank God!’ he said with a toothless smile. ‘It is you.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t come earlier.’

  ‘It’s been months and months, Irene.’

  ‘I’ve been very busy, Father.’

  ‘Are you still with the same family?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I work as governess elsewhere now.’

  His eyes kindled. ‘Is it well paid?’

  ‘I’ve saved up enough to help you.’

  When she handed over the money, he let out a cry of thanks then embraced her warmly. She could smell the beer on his breath.

  ‘Buy some better clothes,’ she advised.

  He shook his head. ‘They won’t belong here.’

  It was painful to see the depths to which he’d sunk. Silas Adnam had once worked as an assistant manager in a cotton mill. He’d had status, respect and a decent income. But the untimely death of his wife had driven Adnam close to despair. He’d become distracted and unreliable. Sacked from his job and unable to find another of equivalent merit, he’d been forced to sell the house. He’d then drifted from one badly paid job to another until an injury to his foot had left him with a permanent limp. Having turned to drink for consolation, he found a number of new friends ready to help him spend his way through his meagre savings. When they disappeared, the so-called friends did so as well. As a last resort, Adnam drifted into Deansgate and made a few pennies each day as a street musician. All that he now had in life was a rented room and an outside privy that he shared with over two dozen other tenants.

  Irene was shocked to see how much he’d deteriorated.

  ‘How have you been keeping?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not well, Irene. My chest is worse than ever.’

  ‘What about your foot?’

  ‘I can’t stand on it for long,’ he said, collapsing onto a stool by way of demonstration. ‘When I play my pipe in the streets, I have to beg a chair from someone.’ He looked up pleadingly. ‘I live in the hope that you’ll take me away from here one day.’

  ‘That’s not possible at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be with your old father?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she lied, ‘but I have a position with a family in London. I can’t leave that. They’re kind to me.’

  ‘Couldn’t they find something for me to do?’ he asked. ‘I’m not proud. It doesn’t matter how menial it is.’ He sat up and put out his chest. ‘I used to have an important job in a mill, you know. People looked up to me. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘It should,’ she agreed.

  ‘I was born for better things.’

  Irene felt desperately sorry for him but her sympathies were tempered by some harsher childhood memories. While her father had worked at the mill, he’d neglected his wife badly and treated her with something akin to contempt. It was only when she died of smallpox that he discovered he’d loved her all along. Without her to support him at home and to look after Irene, he was helpless. His anguish was genuine but, in his daughter’s mind, it didn’t wash away the years of misery to which he’d subjected his wife. In one sense, she was horrified at the way his life had decayed around him. In another, Irene felt that it was a due reward. She would help him with money from time to time but she would never try to rescue him. Her life was elsewhere now. There was no room in it for an inebriated father.

  ‘How long can you stay?’ he wondered.

  ‘Not for long,’ she replied. ‘I have to catch a train to London.’

  He was nostalgic. ‘I haven’t been on a train for years. I used to travel to work by rail every morning in the old days. Do you remember that, Irene?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  She also remembered the number of times she and her mother had sat up late, waiting for him to come home. Disregarding his wife, Adnam at least had enough interest in his daughter to pay for her education. It was the one thing she had to thank him for, though he would be scandalised if he realised to what use she’d later put that education. Irene looked around. The place was dirtier and more disordered than ever. Empty flagons of beer stood near the bed. The heel of a loaf was the only food in sight. She was glad that she had not brought Oxley with her and let him view the pitiful condition into which her father had fallen.

  Adnam made a pathetic gesture towards hospitality.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, Irene?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What time is your train?’

  ‘It’s just after two o’clock.’

  ‘I can walk to the station with you.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said, sharply.

  ‘But I can look after you. Deansgate is a jungle. You need a father to protect you.’

  Irene was about to reply that the time she needed protection was when she was much younger and when he had gone into decline. But she saw no point in dredging up the horrors of the past. Her father was a sick man. He might not survive another bad winter. She would not have long to wait. Once he’d died, she would be free to pursue her n
ew life without any vestigial family ties. Meanwhile, she still had sufficient family loyalty to keep an occasional eye on her father. Her gift had been generous but it would not last long. It would soon be wasted on drink and a few sordid nights with some of the whores who infested the area. Irene was disgusted at the thought, yet it did not stop her giving him the money in the first place. She’d salved her conscience and that was why she came.

  ‘Why don’t you write to me anymore?’ he asked.

  ‘I never have the time, Father.’

  ‘Well, I have plenty of time. Let me have your address and I can write to you instead.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to have letters.’

  He was indignant. ‘Not even from your father? What sort of hard-hearted employers do you work for, Irene? They’ve no right to stop you having letters.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she said, planting a token kiss on his cheek. ‘I don’t want to miss my train.’

  ‘But you’ve only been here a few minutes,’ he complained.

  ‘I’ll stay longer next time.’

  And before he could stop her, she let herself out and hurried off down the street. Crime had helped her to escape from Manchester and to give her a surface respectability. Yet a visit to her father plunged her back into the city’s most notorious area of vice, lawlessness and grinding poverty. Irene did not belong there. She was destined for a better life with the man she loved. While she was still disturbed by the thought of shooting someone, she was quick to see its benefit. It had earned her Oxley’s respect and love. In pulling the trigger, she had passed a kind of test. They were kindred spirits now.

  The quality that most irritated Leeming about their new recruit was his willingness. Ian Peebles was like a dog, eager to do anything that might please his owner. Had the sergeant thrown a stick, he was sure that the Scotsman would fetch it for him.

  ‘What can I do, Sergeant Leeming?’ asked Peebles.