‘Extremely. There was no sign of powder burns. I suspect the projectile was delivered mechanically. Compressed air or a very strong spring. The point itself is made from tungsten steel. Difficult to acquire these days, I’d think.’
‘That should narrow things down a bit.’
‘The weapon was hand-tooled and machined. Whoever created it has a near-genius mechanical aptitude and ability. Machinist, technician, engineer. Highly skilled at any rate.’
‘I didn’t see any nicks or scratches. I would have thought there’d be some evidence of it striking bone.’
‘It didn’t,’ said Spilsbury, sitting back on his stool. He dropped the miniature arrowhead into a petri dish beside the microscope. ‘Your man is either very shrewd or very lucky. The neck was bent when the weapon was used, opening a space between the vertebrae. When he was laid out in the shroud, his neck straightened, closing the space and hiding the weapon within the grey matter.’
‘The same for the second victim.’
‘Quite so.’ Spilsbury nodded. ‘Without an obvious wound, there would be no reason to look for a severing of the cord and neither victim showed any evidence of spinal trauma. Even a gross dissection of the spine wouldn’t have revealed it.’
Black nodded. Spilsbury wasn’t making excuses for himself; he was simply stating a fact.
‘Would the killer need some special medical knowledge?’ Black refused to use Capstick’s nickname. The associations with Jack the Ripper were too obvious. He winced inwardly, thinking again about what would happen if news of this leaked to the press.
‘Not necessarily. Some basic anatomy perhaps. Nothing you couldn’t get out of a copy of Gray’s. It’s the mechanical knowledge that sets him apart.’
Black thought about that for a moment, wondering how many members of the Royal Society of Engineers were presently in England and how many of them had access to an ounce or two of tungsten steel. Thousands. And that wasn’t counting thousands more technicians and machinists in scores of laboratories and factories around the country.
‘Anything else you can tell me about the man?’
‘Yes.’ Spilsbury’s voice was emphatic, almost respectful. ‘He’s a perfectionist. The edges on that device are sharp as razors. You could drive it through your palm and never even notice.’ The pathologist frowned. ‘And from the workmanship I’d wager that he has small hands. Long fingered and very strong, like a pianist, or like a surgeon.’ He held up his own hand, pale in the light from the lamp. ‘Like mine.’
Leaving Spilsbury’s laboratory, Black spent the rest of the morning canvassing likely haunts where Rudelski and the unidentified second victim might have come into contact with the killer. Third on his list was the Mandrake, an afternoon drinking club on Meard Street, just around the corner from Gennaro’s, the restaurant where he’d eaten with Capstick the night before.
Soho before noon displayed none of the slightly sinister romance offered up to its patrons during the evening. In daylight, Meard Street was a flyblown narrow byway connecting Dean Street to Wardour Street, dustbins overflowing, shops shuttered, pavement cracked, the street itself deserted.
Black knew the Mandrake by reputation. It was owned by ‘Overcoat’ Charlie Waters, a notorious trafficker in stolen goods, and managed by a Russian émigré named Boris, who’d previously operated a sordid little cafe in St Giles High Street called the Coffee An’.
As a private drinking club, the Mandrake was able to bend its way around the regular licensing hours and also provide a convenient rallying point for the prostitutes, impoverished sailors and Guardsmen seeking likely prospects of an evening. The Mandrake, like most of its brethren, was located in a basement. Black took a deep breath before going down the steps, closing his eyes briefly. Half the art of interrogation was acting a part, assuming a role depending on whom you were interrogating. Boris Watson and the Mandrake would need a little of the street copper combined with a darker dose of Reggie Perrin. Unlike Capstick, Morris Black took no particular pleasure from the playacting but long experience had made him very good at it.
Skirting a pile of refuse, Black went down the rickety staircase and pushed open the low, heavy door at the foot of the steps. The inside of the club was dark. Black had only barely managed to pass the Metropolitan Police height requirements but even so he found he had to duck his head to avoid smacking into the wooden ceiling rafters.
The main room was small, no more than twenty feet on a side. Half a dozen round tables were pushed tightly together, a roughly made bar along the right-hand wall and a doorway at the end of the room. Behind the bar bottles were stacked three deep on several shelves. A dartboard hung on the near wall and the table beside it was inlaid with a chequerboard pattern; so much for ‘club’ amenities.
A tall man in shirtsleeves was reading a newspaper spread out on the bar near the rear door, lit from above by a single dangling bulb. The man was thin to the point of emaciation with narrow shoulders and thick, snow-white hair. He looked up as Black stepped into the room.
‘Closed,’ he said then went back to his paper. Black walked to the end of the bar.
‘Boris Watson?’
‘Closed.’
‘I don’t want a drink.’
‘I wasn’t offering you one.’ He looked up again, scowling.
Black took out his warrant card and placed it on the scarred surface of the bar. ‘CID.’
‘So?’
‘I’d like you to answer a few questions.’
‘Why should I?’
‘You’re Boris Watson?’
‘Yes. Not that it is any of your business.’ The Russian’s English was good but there was a slight stiffness to it. ‘I pay my drink to Stillman, it should be enough.’ That was interesting. Ronald Stillman was a detective sergeant with the Vice Crimes division. Bent. A useful bit of information under the proper circumstances.
‘I hear you’ve been poncing.’ A fair assumption if he was bribing Stillman on a regular basis, not to mention the fact that Boris looked like a procurer.
‘You hear wrong. I don’t let prossies in here.’ That was a lie. Even under the best of circumstances it would have been impossible to keep them out. Black ignored the comment. People like Boris Watson lied on principle.
‘I also hear you’ve been purchasing illicit supplies of liquor.’ Black glanced at the shelves behind Boris. Another good guess. Scotch was almost unavailable these days but the Mandrake appeared to be knee-deep in Dewar’s and Pinch Bottle.
‘Why don’t you just ask your questions?’ Boris sighed and closed his newspaper, giving in to the inevitable. Black took out his photographs and laid them on the bar.
‘Know them?’
‘No.’
‘Do us a favour, Boris. You haven’t even looked.’
‘Don’t need to. I don’t know anybody. I see a hundred, two hundred people every day. All kinds. Young, old, rich, poor. I sell them drinks, Inspector, I do not ask them for references.’
‘Look anyway.’
The Russian spread his fingers over the photographs and spun them around. He bent down, examining them carefully.
‘This one,’ he said, tapping the photograph of the second victim.
‘You know him?’
‘He looks dead.’
‘He is.’
‘Accident?’ The Russian smirked.
‘Murder.’
‘I do not know him.’
‘But you’ve seen him?’
‘Perhaps. I think…’ Boris was weighing the benefit of truth against another lie.
‘What?’ Black pressed.
‘Upton.’
‘His name is Upton?’
‘No. No.’ Boris Watson shook his head firmly. ‘Upton helps here sometimes. In the evenings.’
‘What about him?’
‘I think I have seen them talking, Upton and this dead man of yours.’
‘Talking?’
Boris raised an eyebrow. ‘Ok, perhaps more than talking…�
��
‘He is gay?’
‘Maybe, I have not asked him. But I think so, yes.’
‘And…?’ Black let it hang.
The Russian shrugged. ‘They talked.’
‘No more?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few nights ago. After the big raid. We were not so busy.’
‘Sunday?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What time?’
‘Late. One, maybe two o’clock in the morning.’
‘They left together?’
‘I did not see.’
‘Can you remember anything about him?’
‘He was pretty. Too pretty for Upton.’ His lip curled. ‘Upton is a pig.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He was in uniform.’
Black felt his pulse quicken. Rudelski was a flier and now a second uniform.
‘What branch of the service?’
‘How should I know?’ Boris lifted a hand. ‘It is dark in here.’
‘RAF?’
‘Perhaps. It is possible. All I know is that he was in a uniform.’
‘Colour?’
‘Grey, blue, stripes?’ Boris made a snorting sound. ‘I told you. I did not notice.’
‘All right. Tell me about Upton then.’
‘He works here sometimes. Helps with the tables.’
‘Do you know his first name?’
‘Henry.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Will he be coming in here today?’
‘Perhaps. Late in the afternoon. After his work.’
‘He has another job?’
‘Yes. In a bookshop on Charing Cross Road.’
‘Do you know the name of the shop?’ There were scores of second-hand bookshops on Charing Cross Road, from Tottenham Court Road down to Foyles at Leicester Square.
‘No. Only that it begins with Q.’ Boris made a face. ‘I hire him to wash dishes and clean tables. I do not socialise with him, Detective.’
‘Quaritch’s?’ Black pressed. Quaritch’s was probably the oldest and most revered antiquarian book dealer in London.
‘No.’ The Russian shook his head again. ‘Odd like that, but no.’ He frowned, his mouth drawing down. ‘I can’t remember. Sorry.’
‘What about Quilleran’s?’ There weren’t that many antiquarian shops beginning with the letter Q. Boris nodded eagerly, relieved.
‘Yes. That’s it. The place is called Quilleran’s.’
Black took a taxi to the Vine Street Police Station on the far side of Regent Street. He placed a call to the Yard and waited while a clerk in Criminal Records checked through the index for any information on Henry Upton. A few minutes later he had what he needed.
According to his card, Henry Upton was twenty-three years old, lived in rooms on Little Earl Street in Seven Dials and was exempt from National Service due to extremely poor eyesight and a serious asthmatic condition. He also had two convictions with fines for indecent behaviour in the public toilets at Kew Gardens. A third conviction and he’d go down.
Black made a few notes in his logbook, checked the address for Quilleran’s in the directory then begged a ride across to Charing Cross Road with the Vine Street traffic sergeant.
By then it was noon. The streets were clogged with vehicles of every description and the pavement was equally thick with pedestrians. Except for the whitewashed strips along the curbs and the rings around the lamp posts for the blackout, there was no sign that the city was effectively under siege. It was an illusion of course; darkness and the bombers would bring reality home with a vengeance. The streets would be empty except for the racing fire engines and the only people on foot would be roving ARP wardens and tin-hatted policemen.
The bookshop was located just off the Charing Cross Road on Denmark Street. Most of the other shops appeared to be dealing in musical instruments of one kind or another and the offices above were all music publishers.
Like every other second-hand bookseller in the district, Quilleran’s had several narrow tables laden with books outside its door and more books stacked in the dusty windows. It was narrow-fronted and dimly lit with stoutly built, dark-varnished bookcases set up in rows of aisles running the length of the shop.
Just inside the door to the left there was a long, glass-fronted bookcase that also served as a sales counter. Behind it, seated on a low stool, was a small, round-faced man with thinning brown hair and thick, tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. He was wearing a baggy tweed suit that looked badly in need of cleaning and sat with his back against shelves loaded down with parcels wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied up with string.
He was reading a book, held close to his face. Black read the title off the spine: Guilty Men, a simpering, pompous bit of twaddle published by the Gollancz Left Book Club just after Dunkirk, blaming every British ill on Chamberlain and his cabinet.
The distinctly stated message in the book was ‘Never again’ but after browsing through it himself a month or so ago, Black had found himself wondering just how the authors of the book would have stopped Herr Hitler in his tracks. Not by producing slim little tracts like Guilty Men, that was certain.
‘Henry Upton?’
The man lowered his book and stared owlishly up at Black. He blinked, then smiled, showing two rows of small grey teeth. A careful look, wary, like a rabbit. Upton was a man who lived in moral twilight, ready to bolt at any moment. Familiar turf to Morris Black.
‘Yes?’
Black showed his warrant card and watched the blood flush into Upton’s cheeks. Guilty men indeed; more than one MP had been arrested in a public toilet.
He reached into his pocket, took out the pair of photographs and placed them on the counter in front of Upton, watching carefully for a reaction. Huge behind the thick lenses, Upton’s eyes flicked over Rudelski’s photograph then touched on the other, widening for an instant, then fluttering away, trying to settle anywhere else, finding only Black’s face.
‘You knew him.’ A fact.
‘I…’
‘You met him at the Mandrake club. You work there. For Boris Watson. He saw you talking.’
‘I don’t…’
‘He’s dead. Murdered.’
‘Oh God.’ A whisper. Black put his forefinger on the photograph and pushed it closer to Upton. The frightened man stood up, the stool scraping on the wood floor. There was nowhere to go. From rabbit look to cornered rat.
‘Tell me.’ Black said it softly, praying that no customer came into the shop to break the fragile moment. The confessional instant between a sinner and his priest. Upton sat down again. He swallowed – sharp, stubbed Adam’s apple bobbing – then plucked off the glasses. He pulled up his tie and wiped the lenses furiously. Black knew the habit. Remove your spectacles and the world recedes. The universe blurs. Upton was escaping the only way he knew how, the only way left to him.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The relief of confession hadn’t been enough; fear of the penance he’d receive still outweighed it. Only threats remained. Black assumed the Reggie Perrin mantle once again, this time mixed with some of Dick Capstick’s blunt edge.
‘Two convictions for indecency.’ Black smiled as wickedly as he was able. ‘I can cobble up another, you know that, Henry. You’re a wretched little curb crawler and I’ll have you unless you give it up. That’s a promise. I’ll see you in Dartmoor with all those old lags on you, slobbering in the dark. Five years? You won’t last five days, Henry. You’ll have a bunghole you could drive a lorry through. They’ll put springs in your jawbones and felt pads on your knees. No chatting up the lads in the local, no bill and coo between silk sheets for you, Henry my boy. Rough and tumble, that’s where you’re headed.’
It was enough. Upton looked as though he was going to be sick. When he spoke, his voice was weak and hoarse. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘The truth.�
�
‘I only met him once.’
‘When?’
‘That night.’
‘Sunday?’
‘Yes. He’d just come down for the day. He had to get back.’
‘Come down from where?’
‘Cambridge.’
‘He was a student?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was his name?’
‘David.’
‘David what?’
‘He never said.’ A pause. ‘They never do.’
‘You went home with him?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Henry.’
‘I’m not. I wanted to but he said he had a previous engagement. A match.’
‘What sort of match?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Boris said he was in uniform.’
‘Yes.’
‘What uniform?’
‘I didn’t notice… I was looking at his eyes.’ Upton looked down at the photograph and then away.
‘Spare me.’
‘It’s true. I didn’t notice.’
‘Close your eyes. Think. Think about the uniform.’ Upton did as he was told. Black could see sweat forming in tiny beads in the hairs of his short sideburns. A slick of it was on his upper lip. The flush in his cheeks had vanished, the blood drained away. His face looked like damp chalk.
Henry Upton was no killer, or at least not the kind of killer he was looking for, Black was sure of that. If Upton ever committed murder, it would be in the lukewarm heat of some small passion, a killing of the moment, meaningless and without thought. Queer, but not Queer Jack.
Henry Upton would snivel on the dock and cry when the executioner slipped the bag over his head. Catch Queer Jack and he’d laugh out loud when the trap was sprung, all the way down to the hard last snap of the rope as it cracked his neck and sent him dancing and twitching off to hell. Upton opened his eyes wide, tears pooling on the rims of the lower lids.
‘I remember something.’
‘What?’ Softly now.
‘The uniform was tailored, expensive.’
‘You can do better than that, Henry.’
‘Yes. Something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘A patch. On his shoulder.’
A Gathering of Saints Page 7
